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The Grammys were, well, the Grammys. Allowing yourself to become frustrated by the absurdity of the event is like bringing your toddler to the doctor every time he fills his diaper, demanding to know why he's broken. And so once you make the unfortunate choice to tune in, there's nothing to do but sink a little deeper into the couch each time brain-damaged Grammy producers facilitate the unholy onstage pairing of Madonna and Gorillaz, Mary J. Blige and U2, and Sir Paul McCartney, The Only Living Beatle, Even Though Ringo Continues To Draw Breath Somewhere, We Think and Linkin. Fucking. Park., suspecting that the music in an eternally stopped elevator in Hell is less insanity-provoking.

The only thing nearly worth discussing was Sly Stone stealing Grace Jones' circa 1986 look (or as Johnny Hong Kong pointed out to us, proving to the world that someone fed him after midnight), abandoning the secret Funk Cave where he's been hiding for the last 20 or so years, and showing up to pound out a few verses of "I Want to Take You Higher" before disappearing again, perhaps to eat the liver of Maroon 5's Adam Levine for daring to cover one of his songs at the show. Which, we assume, will make for a good story the next time Levine is trying to lay a waitress at the Chateau Marmont (as in: "Dude—The guy from Sylvester and the Family Stallones totally tried to kill me at the Grammys!").

So, um, yeah. That was the Grammys. At least the one part we watched in between flipping between Project Runway and American Idol.