New Year’s 2020 will surely go down as a bleak harbinger of ill fortune. Back then, a short lifetime ago from today, the collective consensus was one of relief, of putting 2019 behind us and looking ahead to 2020 with refurbished optimism. Read more
My wife recently forced me to visit an AMC theater so that I could have the pleasure of paying $19 a ticket to watch Black Panther in a theater filled with American theatergoers who use film only as a backdrop to loudly consume a Hefty-bag’s worth of popcorn slathered in fake butter and washed down with enough Coke-a-cola to drown a small village of pygmies.
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Azealia Banks may not have many defenders these days. Since arriving onto the scene at age 17, she’s burnt a few, many, most bridges in her young but incendiary career.
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2016 has been a difficult year, in particular for music. This year witnessed the loss of David Bowie, Leonard Cohen, Maurice White, Sharon Jones, and Prince, to name a few. It sort of begs the question: God does realize that Justin Bieber, Chris Brown, and Kanye West are still down here, right? More proof that God wants to see us all suffer—Drake still has a flourishing music career, too.
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While perhaps not as impactful upon my impressionable young mind as Fruit Islands cereal, Dinersaurs remains another top-tier, long-lost breakfast cereal from that heyday of the mid- to late-80s when Reaganomics made anything possible and America’s food industry was hard at work achieving unimaginable heights of processed food euphoria.
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Fruit Islands is my Rosebud. It represents a lost childhood innocence that I shall likely never reclaim, and I have a Proustian relationship with this cereal such that as I write this, I can actually taste, ever so faintly, these Cookie Crisp-shaped pieces, hear the satisfying crunch as each “island” succumbs to the force of my clenching teeth and feel the resulting shrapnel tearing through the tender flesh along the roof of my mouth.
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I recently sold my car to CarMax, and while the experience was slightly better than being sexually assaulted by a stranger on Craigslist, I still take umbrage with a few of the details.
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I love Netflix, and so do you.
The reason we all love Netflix so much is because we all, Americans in particular, collectively hate to read.
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I like dogs. I have a dog. Dogs are wonderful animals and great companions.
They are not, however, replacements for or equal in importance to people, and they are neither a lifestyle choice nor a political cause.
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It’s that time of year again: Burning Man.
For those of you who may not be familiar with the concept, allow me to explain that this is that special time of year when today’s newest breed of pretentious hipster ravers flock to the Black Rock City Nevada desert to celebrate all things craft beer, EDM, and anti-establishment platitudes while engorged on copious amounts of designer drugs that allow for meaningless and altogether joyless sex with multiple unwashed and relatively unconscious partners.
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