Nothing like a throwback slow jam to prove that musically (and otherwise), the 90’s was the best decade to grow up in. Everyone was either in love, making love or wanting to be in love and not afraid to embrace the cheesemax. Represent, Bruno Mars!
I own a grand total of two Vanity Fair magazines, August 2000 and April 2014. Today, the universe is telling me it’s time to add another VF to the pile. The universe, in the form of a shirtless Star-Lord riveting us all with sultry bedroom eyes, inviting us all to test his chesticles the water. You win, Vanity Fair – you evil, conniving, effective sonofabitch. You win.
I really should be working on next week’s column and not causing my editrix to pull her hair out because once again I’m going to squeak past my deadline, but this is way too distracting. Yes, I know the Backstreet Boys and their brand spanking new Vegas residency is stale news (and so is this James Corden clip), but my motto is, has been and always will be: better late than never. So I just watched this and am listening to what the universe is telling me: my arse needs to be in Vegas next year. I will finally, finally indulge the young teenage girl I was. The one who had bootleg posters and all the cassette (cassette!) tapes of their albums. I’m old and I want to be happy. Leave me alone.
So now I’m sucked into the black hole that is Ticketmaster and gunpowder, treason and plot plot plotting my way into how to make this happen.
ps. If I didn’t already love James Corden enough, as of today I am absolutely TEAM CORDEN all the way. That’s right. ALL CAPS. TEAM CORDEN. TEAM CORDEN!
pps. With this and other upcoming trips, I may need to peddle some organs I can live without. Will someone teach me how to get on the dark web and do this Bitcoiny thing? I don’t want to wake up in a bathtub in some godforsaken motel room with an icepack pressed to my belly and no memory of the last 24 hours. Thanks.
The union between Brad Pitt, winner of People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive (1995 and 2000, thankyouverymuch) and Angelina Jolie, Esquire Magazine’s Sexiest Woman Alive (2004) was a match made in Hollywood heaven. Two devastatingly good-looking, influential, A-list movie stars with talent to spare and money to burn meet on a movie set and sparks fly. They were the reincarnation of Liz Taylor and Richard Burton, jet-setting around the world with their brood of children, living in a fabulous chateau in southern France. It was a union so combustibly irresistible, it spawned a ridiculous nickname, commanded the front page of the tabloids for ten years running. And then it ended. If the Sexiest Couple Alive couldn’t manage to keep the fire burning, is there hope for the rest of us? The short answer: nope. Cue sackcloth and ashes.
Lady Gaga writhes in the desert as the union of the world’s sexiest man and woman comes crashing down around all our ears. Is this the lead single in the OST of the Brangelina break-up? Because this release feels like perfect illusion timing.
Proving that nothing really lasts forever, Yahoo has been sold and yet another internet OG has come crashing down. Everyone form a prayer circle and have a moment of silence, because 2016 is hellbent on taking everything we once held dear. Things will never be the same again.
Yes, this was a long time coming. The writing’s been on the wall for years. It’s been a slow slide downhill for poor, purple Yahoo since Google, that precocious little upstart, burst on the scene and started gaining ground in the early aughts. I barely use my account anymore and probably check my Yahoo e-mail twice a year, but once upon a time Yahoo was the first site I would go to whenever I got online.
I haven’t thought about Pokémon in years. It’s never been a thing for me, probably because I couldn’t summon the energy to really delve deep into the kind of lore that gave its characters names like Squirtle or Charmander. (Look at me, fronting like I’m all highbrow and shit.) Besides, kids back then had already been playing with real pocket monsters for years; it was common to catch spiders (damang), keep them in matchboxes and, at recess, unleash them to lip sync for their life battle for supremacy. It was like American Gladiators, but with bloodthirsty arachnids. What could possibly compare to that?