By now you’ve heard about or seen Miley Cyrus’s performance at last Sunday’s 2013 MTV Video Music Awards. She has been maligned for a laundry list of transgressions, but most intensely for her grindy-grindy on poor Robin Thicke, who Miley critics note is a married father for heaven’s sake! (Those same critics have been pretty quiet about family man Thicke’s grindy-grindy “Blurred Lines” video, which features dancers with less clothing than Miley Cyrus wore at the VMAs. You probably shouldn’t watch that at work.) For her part, Miley was tilted from the start, jumping out of a Cylon Bear and prancing around sticking her tongue out like an epileptic 12-year-old on Pixy Stix.
Mirus–like a virus, she is small and infectious and found wherever there is genital-to-genital contact–then started to sing “We Can’t Stop” an octave lower than advisable. That song, if you haven’t heard it, is yet another paean to those who like to partEE so much that they simply can’t stop, not even to construct a lyric that would stress the right syllable. Robin Thicke then emerges in a suit that says he committed a white-collar crime in 1912, and launches into the “Blurred Lines” part of the medley. This is where Miley Succubus backs that thang up on Thicke, who inside is probably dying because of the disgusting prurience of it all but doesn’t protest because the show must go on, right?
So yeah, it was a salacious, terrible performance of crappy music that got a bunch of granny panties in a wad. Question, though: if you are one of said panty-pinchers, why on Earth did you watch the VMAs? You probably aren’t under 18, so maybe you tuned in for the first time, out of curiosity. If so, now you know, kind of like if you and your dance partner went to a “swing club” you found online and discovered that there was no dancing (sort of). On the other hand, if you knew anything about the VMAs, you’d know that this is exactly the schtick you should have expected. If you watched it and got the “Well, I nevers!”, it’s your fault, not MTV’s, not Miley Cyrus’s, not Robin Thicke’s. At that point, you’re watching just so you can get mad and rant, which is the same reason I still read The Family Circus.
But the interesting(?) coda to all this is that the evening’s collapsed star missed her own VMA after-party to hit the studio with…Kanye West. Yes. Who “tapped” her (nice phrasing, Huffington Post) to do a remix of his song “Black Skinhead.” Whaaa? The slightest, whitest pop star currently on the market with the permanently pissed West? Hell yes. Oh, I couldn’t care less about what type of music comes out of this. If you took Miley at her best and Kanye at his worst, the average would probably be something musically passable, perhaps even memorable. No, I want to see what happens when two steaming hot messes combine into a churning, bubbling maelstrom of hot mess. Add the inevitable infidelity rumors and tabloid-worthy reaction of Kanye’s baby-mama Kim Kardashian, and we’re gonna have a Voltron of hot mess not seen since Jon Gosselin and Octo-Mom thought about hooking up. Yeezus, this should be fun to watch.