When I was young, I loved award shows. I’d make a whole night of it: popcorn, blanket, glued to the TV, stupidly excited when my favorites won and appalled when they didn’t.

Especially music awards.

In the days before algorithms, most of us heard pretty much the same songs. We didn't agree on politics, religion, or whether Coke was better than Pepsi (it definitely is).

But the right song would have us all with our hands in the air, like we just didn't care (except for those complaining that it wasn't real music).

I recently watched the Grammys with my family, and my biggest thrill came from recognizing half the artists without the kids having to tell me.

I get the same rush when I find my reading glasses by myself.

I’m not old-old, but I can see it from here. I watched the show through my very middle-aged eyes, fully aware that I'm no longer the target audience and trying very hard not to judge the outfits, the dancing, or whatever the hell some of that was.

Which means I'm dangerously close to becoming one of those people, and that's frustratingly inconvenient, since my entire schtick is about not ending up like that.

There were some interesting outfits, and even more interesting dance moves that night. Felt like a lot of ass and cheeks all over my TV. Several men were shirtless, and Bieber performed just in socks and underpants.

Just too many nipples for a music awards show.

Which, okay, it's performance; I get shock value is part of it. JLo walked so Chappell Roan could run, although running in that dress seemed an excellent way to lose a nipple.

The Balkan Storm asked if Sabrina Carpenter was singing live. “Yeah”, I said. “You can see the microphone pack on her back.”

“I don’t see it.”

“Look up, dear."

I’m not a hater. If I had Sabrina Carpenter’s ass, I would be absolutely insufferable.

But there are some things you just don't want to see with your family, nipples and cheeks among them.

Later, the Ozzy tribute with Post Malone, Slash, Duff McKagan, and Chad Smith warmed and broke my metalhead heart. Sharon and the kids crying in the front row were rough to watch; whatever else was true, he was still their whole world.

Not the emotional ambush I expected from a show displaying that many exposed buttocks.

My Gen Z daughter saw the same show very differently, of course. She gets wildly excited about artists that I watch with her, and think, seriously? This is what’s cool now?

In all fairness, I'm sure my mother thought the same when I was listening to Alice in Chains.

My daughter and I don’t agree on everything: trends, social issues, what “five minutes” means. But we usually agree on great music.

(Except for most K-pop. I said what I said.)

Thanks to Stranger Things, her love of '80s rock has deepened to the point that she is convinced she was born in the wrong decade and blames me for such unfortunate timing.

I constantly remind her that I was eight years old in 1983. I was playing with Cabbage Patch dolls and watching He-Man, not hanging out backstage with Megadeth.

One of her prized possessions is a reproduction Mötley Crüe 1987 tour shirt, which she wears like she was there.

Honestly, I love that.

When I was young, hard rock and heavy metal were frowned upon in my neck of the woods. The Satanic Panic was real, and our parents thought Ozzy Osbourne and Judas Priest were leading us all straight to hell.

Looking back, most of the "danger" was too much hairspray, eyeliner, and weird scarves.

Some rebellion; I see the same issue at PTA meetings.

For me, it was Bon Jovi and Def Leppard blasting from boomboxes in school hallways. It was Guns N’Roses feeling dark and dangerous to a teenager who thought Axl Rose was sex on a stick.

It was Metallica and Motörhead, and definitely Ozzy.

Now, my daughter does the dinner dishes with her AirPods in, headbanging to the same songs that were already getting old when I was young.

It makes me feel old yet paradoxically young again.

When she plays me newer songs, I ask things like, “But why gnarly? That used to mean something bad. Why the hell are they singing about boba tea and fried chicken?"

She gives me the same look I used to give to my mother.

At the Grammys, Yungblud accepted his first award by declaring that "rock music's fucking coming back."

I like him, but kiddo, rock never fucking left.

Every generation thinks they created the pinnacle of music. Mine does. My daughter's does, and my mother's absolutely did.

So my daughter pretends to listen to my lectures on what ‘real music’ is, and I humor her when she shows me TikToks of artists with names like Lil' Nebula Pajamas.

Someday she'll be sitting on a couch complaining that the Grammys don't make sense anymore. I hope I'm there to see it.

Preferably without seeing Lil' Nebula Pajamas' nipples.

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