There's so much to talk about today, it's been difficult to pick one topic that stands out as deserving my sole attention; for example, I could talk about how Method Man (of the Wu-Tang Clan) said recently that Britney Spears' head-shaving was a sign of the coming Apocalypse (other signs include breakdancers with backwards feet and talking toilet paper rolls). Or I could discuss which present I'm more anxiously salivating over this holiday season---a Hanukkah ham, or a $500 framed rhino turd. I suppose I could even chat about the geopolitical ramifications of actress Eva Mendes's controversial statement this week that "Boobs are good!" (For future discussion: are they?) But instead, I think I'd like to set those issues (important though they may be) aside, and take this time to share something with you, something that transcends the day-to-day inanity of the blogosphere, and speaks directly to the heart---something with a power so piercing and pure that mere words cannot hope to describe its significance. My friends, the incredible thing I'm speaking of is this picture of Ray Liotta:
... you just think about that.
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
How did these hyper-specific tropes spread so quickly?
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.