Not everyone can wake up feeling like P. Diddy the morning after a Sun God binge. For everyone else — you know, those of us who wake up with a pounding headache, overwhelming nausea and cotton mouth — How-to Guru can provide some much-needed tips on hangover prevention and cures.
Due to my friend’s incessant reminders, I am well aware of the fact that Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival is this weekend. And no, I’m not going.
Talking about the insignificance of the Grammy Awards is kind of like making fun of Nicolas Cage; its awfulness is so universally acknowledged that there’s really no point to it at all. Nonetheless, it’s still strange that a once-respected music industry institution has fallen so far. A Grammy used to be the greatest honor in music; now it’s standard "Cribs" décor.
There’s a scene in the 1999 tree-kissing SNL movie “Superstar” in which socially awkward Catholic school girl Mary Katherine Gallagher (Molly Shannon) is approached at lunch by popular guy Sky Corrigan (Will Ferrell, the quintessential hot teenager, of course). Sky tells Mary that he saw her doing the robot outside. “You have some nice moves!” he says. It’s then repeated in slow motion: “Niiiiiiice mooooooooooves . . . oooooooves.”
At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to admit that I don’t pay for my music. I can’t remember the last time I bought a CD, and the lowly vinyl collection I began my sophomore year of high school is mostly comprised of my parents’ old records. It now sits in my room, collecting dust.
Like most girls, when I was 10 years old I wanted to be a star. After dragging my parents to *NSYNC and Christina Aguilera concerts, and wearing out my copies of Spice World and the “Footloose” soundtrack (don’t ask), I decided it was my turn to own the spotlight.