The Jenna Jameson Calendar
Porn goes legit and looks beautiful. Also the only calendar in your dad’s workshop that’s got a model you KNOW has done an all anal gang bang.
Tony Hawk’s 900
To the uninitiated, that’s 900 degrees of rotation in open air on a skateboard some 11 feet off the ground. This move put skateboarding on the map and made more than a few people realize that watching 300 lb. men slam into each other while groping for balls wasn’t gonna cut it as “sport” anymore.
Britney Spears’ New Boobs
Just when you thought she wasn’t gunning for Ms. Human Pin Cushion 2000 comes the phattest rack medical science has ever bolted on a high-school senior. Her dad says they were a good investment. So did Vaseline as pubescent boys dropped their Buffy the Va mpire Slayer trading cards and ran for the bathroom with visions of Britney dancing in their heads. Also vindicated pedophiles for a few brief moments.
The Death of Spin Magazine
Guccione (Penthouse)-owned Spin used to offer up edgy music reviews and useful stuff like “AIDS Watch.” They cared about hip-hop when Rolling Stone was still trying to tell you that the David Nash solo album would change the future of music. Now they review raves and tell you what tracks the DJ played. Also fired everyone on staff who could actually write in order to get that wacky ‘90s ‘zine feel.
Rock and stupidity have always gone hand in hand. Thanks to Limp Bizkit, they’re now the same thing.
Not since the original laser disc tanked in the ‘80s has there been so much pissing and whining about a storage medium. Computer geeks haven’t experienced such masturbatory rapture since phone phreaking and War Games. Always vigilant to assaults on our consumer rights, the music industry is ready to haul everyone with a mohawk and a hard drive off to the digital Hague for crimes against cash flow. Reality? MP3s are about as important as VCR Plus.
Posterboy for the anti-PC backlash. He’s putting a lot of stock in that “funny guys get laid even if they’re ugly” idea. Why is he important? Loveline is huge and teen-agers across the country are awaiting his blessing before having their first manage-a -trois. Plus, he hosted the Billboard Awards and you didn’t.
It’s starting to look a lot like Rome out there. 1999 was the year of the multiple partner. Ice-T said that every woman is two drinks away from a threesome. AIDS be damned, everyone wants a little slice of the porn life.
The skinny Thurston Moore doppelganger is a musical Cuisinart and the Jesus of Rock (read: Savior). There is hope. Two turn tables and a microphone. He is the antidote to Korn and Limp Bizkit. Look for Beck to be kickin’ out the jams when Durst is facing date-rape charges and a 265 cholesterol rating.
Star Wars, Episode One
The Star Wars Trilogy was the Bible for the latch-key generation, the one dose of spirituality and real hope we could find in our cynical and confounding age. George Lucas killed the soul of that generation on Memorial Day, 1999. People pillaged their t hesauruses to find a synonym for “fucking sucks beyond all fucking belief.” The Phantom Menace didn’t just fail to meet expectations, it pissed on the faithful and mocked true believers with a story so convoluted and backwards that even Larry King thought about walking out. The year 2000 will find Star Wars fans sulking across the cultural landscape looking for a new reason to live. Not since Jerry Garcia took the dirt nap have so many people blinked in unison and said, “Shit. I shoulda moved out of m y parents’ house.” The day they saw Star Wars I was the day the movies died.
So, as the 1999 Zeitgeist swirls down the toilet like a big Wookie turd, I look forward to the new millennium with only Britney Spears’ tits to guide me and a firm knowledge that Jar Jar Binks is just another name for Satan.
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