I mean, technically, a happy little kid leaving handprints on his parents’ new wallpaper is a painter. And since I take women to untold heights of ecstasy, you could probably call me an astronaut.
What? Me? Compete? No! I suck!
How did an Anglo-Italo-Swiss over-aged rock chick living in a sleepy village in the canton of Vaud meet a gorgeous young rock star from Kansas City?
Madonna’s music makes me try to figure out the best way to messily destroy myself as a nonverbal form of protest.
I have spent the past weeks trying to find Joe Six-Pack, AKA Joe Average, AKA the real American, a political heavyweight with more aliases than the average Wu Tang Clan member.
With Google calling the shots, you won’t send that tear-soaked, 4 a.m. email that unintentionally pushes your ex into the arms of some broad-shouldered European guy who’s probably better in bed than you are.
It’s hard not to picture a future full of warming one’s hands over oil drum fires, sleeping in tree houses, and eating old tennis shoes while desperately trying to convince myself it’s roast beef.
There is a vast conspiracy controlling the U.S. government, and it is comprised of vampires, Templars, and rich people.
Celebrities have a deep and innate understanding of the concerns of the working class: in fact, sometimes they have to pretend to be working class in their films!
Given the years between the infraction and the truth, my wife and I can look back on it and laugh … sort of.