Word: pops
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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Since then, I have become thoroughly entrenched in Internet pop culture. (I'm pretty sure that half my workday is spent exchanging YouTube videos with co-workers, but don't tell anyone.) There was the Star Wars Kid (2002); Homestar Runner (which I saw in 2003-04); and Tom Cruise's Scientology video (2008). When a friend refused to stop singing "Peanut Butter Jelly Time," I didn't speak to her for three days because whenever I did she would sing it, and the song would get stuck in my head. But that was in 2002, and I haven...
...finally euthanized the show and filled the remaining airtime with a sports documentary on pistol shooting. Until Nixon's 18-1/2, Lewis's 20 were the minutes that lived in pop-culture infamy. Catastrophe would be one way to describe it. Another would be great live television - the spectacle of tuxedoed Hollywood pratfalling into humiliation, and handing the banana peel of blame to the one man who tried to keep the viewers entertained. But Jer must have done something right: it was the second-highest rated show in Oscar history...
...sounds too good to be true. Now, for a limited time - the year of St. Paul, to be specific, which ends in June - say a prayer, pop by a designated church and qualify for an indulgence that deducts time from your scorching sojourn in the cleansing fires of purgatory...
...Ward plays the kind of folk music that you could expect from a musician writing and performing out in Portland, Oregon, interspersing his songs with neat guitar licks and elegant pop melodies that bring to mind a cultured city. On the singer-songwriter’s new album “Hold Time,” the bucolic passion that imbues the most moving of folk albums makes a strong presence. On the edge of the soundscape are Beach Boys-esque surf-rock melodies and guitar arpeggios that tumble in like the Pacific surf. “Hold Time?...
...pitcher of milk. It seems he’s too busy scowling to put any effort into his vengeance. The violent sounds of this tempestuous break up—glass shattering, shrieks of rage, car alarms—are drowned out by the tepid tune of a rather weak pop ballad. Everything happens in slow motion; the events taking place within the dim interior of Ciara and Enrique’s fictive home seem as though they were transpiring underwater. Objects don’t fall, they float through the air and shatter delicately against the floor. You begin...