Beyond tragedy. One of the finest actors of the 21st century… gone at 54.
I’ll have to come back to this later, because this one’s a Prince-level gut-punch.
The cheese stands alone. Goddammit.
Film, Television, Radio, and Gaming
Beyond tragedy. One of the finest actors of the 21st century… gone at 54.
I’ll have to come back to this later, because this one’s a Prince-level gut-punch.
The cheese stands alone. Goddammit.
As if I have only one. Here’s a pile of them.
A group of young teen girls are having a slumber party. They’re each holding what appear to be reasonably-sized sandwiches, and are poised to take their first bites.
But Mom strides into the room brandishing a copy of People Magazine. She orders the girls to wait before they eat, then opens the magazine and exhorts them to first read an article “about what it means for a woman to grow up fat in America”. The not-even-vaguely-fat girls all reluctantly lower their sandwiches to their laps. To comfort them, Mom continues, “And when you’re done, you can read this cover story about The Who!”
“The Who!” and “Roger Daltrey!” the girls scream, as they explode in squeals and giggles.
…
I don’t know if any decade hated girls more than the ‘80s.
ADDENDUM: Scrub to the 33 minute mark.
Burning Love (2012) — S01E01
I kinda got into The Stones back around the time they released Steel Wheels, but to be honest, I was always more of a Beatles kid. (Or to be even more honest, I was an Eagles kid.) I appreciated both, but their heydays were a little before my time, so I never developed incredibly strong opinions about their discographies or their musicianship.
But all things considered, why’d Charlie have to go while we’re still stuck with asshole septuagenarians like Clapton and Ted Nugent?
Someone please seal Mick, Keith, Paul, and Ringo in a comfy panic room for the next few years.
This really shouldn’t work. But it does.
It is strangely jarring listening to the girls on Love Island sing the ABC song.
“…cue are ess, tee you vee, double-you ecks, why and ZED” is like a slap to the ears. It’s like getting to the end of a novel and finding the last chapter has been swapped out with a recipe for Spam fritters.
Thank you, Love Island, for exposing me to this Kanye cover by Dermot Kennedy.