How To Get Rid Of Wine Stains
Category: 1990s
Girl In Wallpaper Overalls Preps Face For Koi Tattoo
Thighmaster: Level Tree Bark
Egyptians Hopeful As They Enter Red Sea
All I Want For Christmas Is For Mariah To Dial It Down
We don’t need to rehash the Rockefeller Christmas Tree incident. Singers age and so, too, their vocal chords. I’ve winced recently when both James Taylor and Amy Grant tried to reach those old high notes. God bless them for trying but sometimes old goats can’t do young goat tricks.
Time catches up with the best and richest of us. And enough already with the 44-year-old decolletage. This is not a vision of love.
You’re a married mommy, remember? Yes, technically still married. You are better than this.
I wish you could stay the lithe, curlyheaded racially questionable five-octave pre-diva chanteuse that you were my freshman year of college, but it’s not possible. You remember her? The one who married the cadaver from Tales From The Crypt?
Ick. I could have told you marrying Smarmy Much-Older Tommy Mottola was a bad choice.
But nearly a quarter century has passed since my buddies and I would pass college bars where drag queens belted out “Love Takes Time” in strapless sequined dresses. Time has been taken, my dear. It has been took.
So just be 44. Use a little more material. Cover it up. Stop trying to splash around in a bikini in the fountain of youth. You’ll just drown. Or worse, flail about pitiably while your middle-aged orbs spill out. From one 40-something to another: honey, just run for dry land. Let the fountain alone.
Mercy, even the trash man is trying to scoop you into a recycling bin. At least let him take the dress. Or the duct tape Borderline gloves.
You still get to be Mariah. You just can’t be Forever 21. So sit back and collect royalties and obsess over glittery butterflies and Marilyn Monroe and raise dem babies. And don’t kick Nick to the curb. He seems like such a nice boy, such nice manners. I’d introduce him to my Nana. Why, I saw him help Lara Spencer on with her pink coat this morning on Good Morning America. With or without his ruby slippers and velveteen jackets, he’s the best thing to ever hit America’s Got Talent. Give him a second chance. You knew he was young when you married him. You knew you’d have to raise him up.
And if you’re feeling perimenopausal and hormonal, feel free to throw shade all over Nicki Minaj. I don’t care if it is her birthday today. Do what you do best.
Look on the bright side: you can still be beautiful with clothes on. You’re not dead like Whitney. You can sing better than all of us poor peons who don’t have a Morrocan-style hookah lounge; you just can’t sang like in days of yore. But that’s First World Problems, girl. While your peers are busy misplacing car keys, you can chuckle in your rainstorm of Benjamins. Who needs car keys when you have a driver?
You can still be the mistress of condescension. Time hasn’t slowed that down.
And look, I’ll go one better. I won’t tag this post “vintage” like I usually do.
Fifty Years Old
Happy 50th birthday to Molly Shannon, who really does turn 50 years old today! She used to crack me up in her Saturday Night Live (SNL) Sally O’Malley sketches, as a limber 50-year-old woman kicking and stretching, proud of her age and agility. She would hike her pants up to her ribcage without shame.
That’s Molly Shannon in a nutshell. Shameless. Fearless. You remember her jumping backwards into folding chairs when she played Mary Catherine Gallagher?
Please don’t be one of those people who said they stopped watching SNL in the 80s. There are always funny skits; you just have to wait it out during the 3 total shows they do each year and the 49 reruns they show. If there wasn’t any talent, it wouldn’t have lasted since 1975. There wouldn’t be a Portlandia today. No Bill Murray, pointing his finger at me, telling me I’m awesome. And I, for one, don’t want to imagine a world without Will Ferrell.
So happy birthday, Molly Shannon. I hope you and your husband of a decade, Fritz Chestnut (oh, that’s a good one for the Blog of Funny Names), have a lovely day! You are a SUPERSTAR!
Collaborating And Listening
Kay and Peter enjoy drinks at Babe’s on Sixth Street in Austin, back when ashtrays denoted that smoking was allowed.
The next pic is “collaborating but not listening” because the bold houndstooth print jacket is too loud for anyone to hear anything. Let’s keep in mind this was the 90s, not Melanie Griffith in the 80s.
And no, that is not Jennifer from Family Ties, all grown up. Speaking of LOUD…
Actress Tina Yothers has black hair now. Go figure.
Verve Pipe
Yes, It’s Cheesey
My favorite pie chart of all time (in honor of Pi Day):
Half A World Ago
He must have stood there with that bag of white bread for nearly twenty minutes, hoping the rain would pass, wishing the ducks would come. But they never did. They never did.
One More For The Road
It doesn’t seem like it’s been 22 years since I watched Bette Midler sing adieu to Johnny Carson. It still chokes me up each time. Carson was 66 years old then, and appeared very much an old man to me. Leno is only three years younger than that, and yet seems much younger, still on his A game, going out on top–not that it was his choice to make. It doesn’t make sense to leave us wanting more, but it’s better than waiting for the show to jump the shark.
Jay Leno was 42 (just three years older than Jimmy Fallon will be when he takes the reigns) when he began hosting The Tonight Show. His first show included Billy Crystal, who will be on tonight as well, bringing some levity to the show. I imagine Garth Brooks will later bring a tear to our eyes, as Midler did on Carson’s farewell show.
After the stresses of the day, I look forward to watching Leno’s jovial monologue, to hearing timely jokes that are relevant today, in this moment. I don’t DVR or TIVO or record any shows; I enjoy the feeling of experiencing them in the now. That’s why I enjoy late night television. I like to feel a part of what is happening now. Not yesterday. Not a week ago. I don’t Netflix, I don’t watch entire seasons of shows back-to-back. I am a fan of real time.
I like Leno. I like his kindness, his joy, the way he respects his guests. And no matter what the media wants us to believe, these past few weeks of celebrity testimony to his kindness reveals more than any rag mag headline. I’ll take him any day to Letterman, who may not be the grumpy old man he once once, but still seems confused and less than alert half of the time.
Speaking of relics, did you catch Mickey Rooney in the Leno audience last night? He’s 93 years old, folks. Wow.
Anyway, I’m sure Leno will find a way to spend his free time; on one hobby in particular.
Yep, the omnipresent denim. Evidently, it’s a not a recent predilection. He’s liked denim for years.
Yes, it’s the end of another Tonight Show era. People will cite the Hugh Grant episode as the go-to nostalgia moment, in the way that they always cite the Drew Barrymore episode on Letterman, flashing her pre-pregnancy boobs. But I remember watching the drunken cast of Cheers after their final show. Now that was a memorable night.
So goodbye to Headlines, to Jaywalking, to those awesome convenience store magician skits, to the witty lady in the photo booth, to every visit by animal expert Jarod Miller and his endless stream of animals, none of which ever frightened or intimidated Leno. (I like you, Fallon, but mercy, you are a wuss when it comes to animals…) I can’t count how many times I’ve watched Leno stroke a baby tiger or lion into submission.
Tonight we say farewell to the grace and charm of an unforgettable host. Best of luck in your new endeavors, Mr. Leno. And thanks for all the laughs.
Hoop Dreams
Nobody could rock a hoop earring like Jody (“Lookin’ For A New Love) Watley. Rumor has it that she hasn’t shrugged since the mid-80s. Many people tried to copy her style. Some went so far as to marry it with a quilted jacket and hat. Oh, no, you di’n’t…
Even modern-day Watley can’t rock a hoop like 1987 Watley. Sometimes you just need to let the style go gently into that good night. These earrings look about as silly as the albino Unibomber behind them.
And as for quilted jackets, these two guys are doing it right–though they don’t appear too thrilled about it.
Maybe they’re upset because they’re using a generic toilet paper, and their bums are all bristly. They should try this:
I Don't Get It 