They tried to make me go to rehab...

Britney Spears has shaved her head. Really. it looks like someone drank an industrial-sized bottle of crazy, no? I'm actually interested to see if this career can be saved - we're heading into Michael Jackson territory here, and that's certainly not a good thing.

But at least now we know that the carpet matches the drapes.

In Her Language

If you're one of the few who haven't seen this, here's Amanada Baggs' film "In My Language". Ms. Baggs is autistic, and has made a short film (with the help of a text-to-speech program that makes her sound like a gentler version of the Radiohead song "Fitter, Happier") about her "language," as it were. This is amazing.



I traffic in language for a living: not just in the job that I do, but basic communication built around words, and around speaking, especially, is how I live my life. I need to be able to speak to people; I need to be able to make jokes; sometimes I just need to be heard and understood. But I've also had thoughts around where I could and could not live or work, for instance, based on my facility with language and I remember meeting a great looking girl, once, who my sister thought I should ask out, and thinking that it would never work, because she didn't speak English too well and would therefore never get me. Oh, as if that would have been the greatest of our problems. But I don't feel good about myself - I don't feel like I can be myself, even, without language, without a commonality of language that connects me to other people.

So what if you "speak" - see, even that word seems wrong - in a language that no one else really understands? This video is - in spite of the filmaker's declaration that it isn't - a window into the way that the autistic mind works (and there is real value in that). But more to the point, it's an argument for communication, an argument against specificity in the definition of personal and inter-personal cognitive connections, and an indication that there is just so much, so much of everything, in other people but we're limitied in our own abilites to see that.

As the director says: "The first part is in my "native language," and then the second part provides a translation, or at least an explanation. This is not a look-at-the-autie gawking freakshow as much as it is a statement about what gets considered thought, intelligence, personhood, language, and communication, and what does not."

Grammy Thoughts

It's the five hundredth Grammy awards, or whatever. Already, it looks like the music industry is apologising as best as it can to the Dixie Chicks. A couple of awards, and the night is just over half done.

But here are some thoughts:

Justin Timberlake will rule the world. Eventually, I think, we'll do nothing but spend time on Google and listen to Justin Timberlake albums. We'll eventually forget to take bathroom breaks or eat or wash ourselves, and future civilisations or aliens will discover us slumped over our keyboards listening to "My Love" or watching "Dick in a Box" with a Google news feed giving us constant updates on Justin and Scarlett and Cameron.

Smokey Robinson can no longer blink. He just performed before Lionel Richie ("Hello," which is so far at the edges of the "terrible song/great video" intersection graph that scientists can't actually measure it) and Chris Brown. The three of them took a bow together with Brown in the middle of an awful plastic surgery sandwich. That poor kid: he did a back flip; he had six year old dancers; he slid down a massive slide in a weird mask - and still he winds up being surrounded by the ghosts of R & B past. It's as if the picture of Dorian Gray was standing to his left and his right.

John Mayer performed with Corrine Bailey Rae and John Legend. Dude needs a haircut, but more to the point, I wish I liked any of his music at all, because he seems genuinely funny and self-deprecating and seems to understand that he's pretty much won the lottery. That being said, when he plays blues guitar he makes one of those scrunched-up white boy faces that makes me think that I know what he looks like when he's having sex. Or passing a stone. As if Jessica Simpson can tell the difference.

Oh, and then the deathroll. My favourite part, because there is an endless supply of country and blues legends that I've never heard of and a couple dozen of them die every year. And the applause is polite, until someone people have actually heard about flashes on screen. Then the place goes crazy, because there's a lot of pent-up mourning there. And then someone leaves James Brown's cape on a mic stand and the thing fades to black, and no one watching who is under 30 understands what the hell just went on. JB is in a better place, though: I guess he's beating his wife and fining band members $50 for not keeping time at the great big Apollo theatre in the sky.

But Keith Urban managed to avoid being a part of this list by getting himself to rehab. And here he is, performing, with a warmth that threatens to melt even Nicole Kidman.

Mary J. Blige is performing with Ludacris and one of the guys from Earth Wind and Fire who clearly ate the rest of the band. Mary is always a fashion disaster - her choices sound like they might work in theory, but in practice, she looks like someone who is styled by Beyonce's mom after a horrendous bender. Oh, wait, that's Beyonce. Anyway, Mary J. is singing in a red haltered-catsuit that she had altered with a camel toe implant. It's classy. Luda, on the other hand, looks great in a fantastic dinner jacket and white vest combination. On his arm, Mary J. looks like an escort. Still, she's fierce and fabulous and other things that gay men say about women they will never get with.

Some girl named Robin Troup just won a competition to sing with Justin Timberlake and after a quick run through of "Ain't No Sunshine When She's Gone" designed to show the world that Justin can play guitar, they launch into "My Love". The girl is doing a good job of not wetting herself, I'll give her that, and she wisely steps out of the way when TI comes in to rap. Why do I not think this is the last time she'll find herself between those two guys this evening?

Tony Bennett and Quentin Tarantino are now out to present together. My television is going to explode. Bennett just did the Bat Dance, I think, and asked QT for work, meaning he'll play an aging hitman's assistant with a predilection for light S&M and a Vicodin addiction in his next movie. Tarantino feels the need to editorialize as he announces each nominee, saying cute things like "Three Nice Girls From Texas" as he announces the Dixie Chicks are nominated. What does he think this adds to the proceedings? Does anyone need context like this? If Quentin likes the sound of his own voice so much, he should just rent Pulp Fiction like the rest of us, except he wouldn't fast forward over all of his scenes.

Oh, look, as the Red Hot Chili Peppers finish their song, reams and reams of treated, shiny ticker tape are dropped on the audience. How wasteful. And here to introduce the next award, it's Al Gore, Mister Environment himself. Ain't that ironic.

But here is the nut of it: The Most Beleaguered Industry in the World (tm) did something right tonight, by giving Carrie Underwood and Justin Timberlake as much airtime as they wanted. These are two legitimate crossover artists with enough star power to draw in viewers, and will at least give the industry a couple more seconds on life support. Which is no to say that the industry is in trouble or out of touch or anything - what can you say about a group that calls one of the prestige awards of the evening "Record of the Year"? Listen up, N.A.R.A.S - it hasn't been records for a long, long time. But congrats to the Dixie Chicks for winning MP3 of the year. Not too bad for Three Nice Girls from Texas.