One year ago today I was sitting in a terrible college summer dinner theater performance, killing my iPhone battery from relentless under-the-table Googling and scrolling through a deluge of "Michael Jackson is dead" updates on Tweetie.
My mind was blown. It was a weird day. Farrah died. Michael died. Scroll scroll scroll.
Hey, I'm not trying to jock up the joint over here. This is a pop culture website, not a sports blog. So I'll spare you the details about why you should be watching the World Cup even if you're not a sports fan (sanctioned daytime drinking and several shirtless menfolk, for starters). But I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't show you this pop culture/sports crossover moment of glory, surprisingly courtesy of a star of film and television. Seriously, in terms of sports, this is, like, better than Rudy.
It is week two of Top Chef DC and our chefs are back in the kitchen - and this week they are pissy.
Who wants to see if I am physically capable of doing a three minute "Top Chef" recap?
You guys. This is it. This is our big chance. Last night, DinoShark appeared before me, awash in heavenly light, and said, "Raaaahhh!" And because I operate on a higher plane of existence, one where DinoShark and I dish, I knew that that meant, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their made-for-TV cinema!"
You may know you're getting up in years when the music that had a major impact on your generation and your own little life is deemed historically significant.
That's what the Library of Congress is saying about Tupac and R.E.M. So thanks, Library of Congress. Because you know this is really all about my mortality.
When Hollywood produced the movie version of the musical version of the Mel Brooks classic The Producers (a movie about a failed Broadway musical, to make things even more meta), it sounded to me like something from The Onion reflecting on the lack of original ideas in recent years, both on stage and on film. But it was for real, and was then followed by the film adaptation of the musical adaptation of the John Waters film Hairspray. And now Hollywood is doing it again, with Footloose, slated for a 2011 release. With no end in sight to the phenomenon, I have to wonder—what will be the next blockbuster film adaptation of a musical ripped off from Hollywood?
The first concert I ever saw live was Bon Jovi and Cinderella at the Bayfront Center in St. Petersburg, Florida in 1987. At that point in my life it was by far the coolest thing I had ever seen. When my 15 year old self saw Jon Bon Jovi strut out in the same jacket he wore in the "Livin' on a Prayer" video I thought I was going to pass out. I screamed like it was the Beatles. I knew then that I could die happy.
No doubt you've read the gossip about the recent goings-on with Jeremy London. Homegirl has gotten himself into a hot mess of an intricate situation that seems to have been devised by the writers of Six Feet Under, a four year old and a Choose Your Own Adventure book with half the pages missing.
So, Jeremy London. Aside from him being in the center of a riveting bad-accident-scene-type story, who the eff is Jeremy London?
Remember when you had that friend in high school that you really adored, so you spent every waking second together? Eventually, you spent so much with her that you got sick of each other and, before you knew it, you had the uncontrollable urge to throw your best friend in the whole world through a plate glass window, am I right? Well, I'm starting to feel that way about Lady Gaga.
Did you know that Silly Bandz were a thing? Because I've been wearing them in my hair for a couple of months now and I had no idea.
Of course you did, didn't you?
Is a five-year old going to cut me for my pig?
That sounds all kinds of wrong.
Last night's finale of the three-part Real Housewives of New York reunion again addressed the mental stability (or lack thereof) of castmember Kelly Killoren Bensimon. Bensimon spurred many a Twitter "OMGWTF" with her erratic, emotional behavior throughout this season of RHoNY, culminating in a full-on meltdown during a weekend getaway with other castmates, where she accused fellow Housewife Alex McCord of being a "vampire", claimed Housewife Bethenny Frankel was trying to kill her, and verbally spouted a lengthy barrage of incoherent thoughts that even confused Lost fans. I don't know about you guys, but that type of incident generally harshes the buzz of a beachfront vacay.
TOP CHEF D.C.! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Yes, I am excited. Of course the first episode is always a cluster you-know-what with 17 chefs to introduce us to and trying to get as many shots with the Capitol in the background as humanly possible.
Shut up. I can be cynical about Washington D.C. landmarks if I feel like it. I live here.
*spoiler alert*
Do you want to be the modern day, virtual equivalent of Martha Quinn?
Do you know who Martha Quinn is?
Never mind. Proving that it is solidly on the social media tip, MTV is holding a competition to choose a Twitter Jockey - a TJ, if you will.
I've been watching a lot of Twilight lately. I've forbidden my husband from deleting it off the DVR and I've put a secret lock code on it because I don't trust him. The thing is, I don't really like Twilight that much. I think it's an extremely so-so movie with poor acting, laughable dialogue, and a distracting blue wash over the film that does a terrible job convincing me that sunny Oregon is actually rainy Forks. Why do I watch it then? I'm obsessed with the slo-mo walk.
So, there I was. It was a hot Thursday night in the good old Midwest and I was bored something fierce. The summertime television schedule had already smacked my face like a pimp looking for his money. I had an unconscious, drooling baby affixed to my chest and the remote was nowhere in sight. Panicked, I instantly yelled for my four year old to find the remote and neatly place it in my hand. Not tonight. He was already fast asleep in his bunkbed. My last option was the wifey. Nope. No help there either. "I'm in the shower!", she screamed back.
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