R. Kelly’s youngest son, Jay, came out as transgender this week via a post on his ask.fm page. Born Jaya, Jay says his news was welcomed by his mother, but his father, who he describes as a “deadbeat,” is unaware. More from Queerty:
Sinead, is that really you? Yesterday, Irish songbird Sinead O’Connor had the Internet buzzing when she released her new album cover showing the singer trading in her Irish hipster look for slick rock-and-roll dominatrix getup — and she’s never looked better. Gone is Sinead’s trademark buzzcut; in its place is a black skin tight leather dress topped with a sexy cropped wig. The “Nothing Compares 2U” chanteuse’s 10th studio album, I’m Not Bossy, I’m The Boss is due for release on August 12th.
Besides branding a fierce new look, O’Connor is also very passionate about the album’s title. On her official website she posted: “Originally, I had a different title, The Vishnu Room, but a few months back when I saw the phrase “I’m Not Bossy, I’m The Boss” and became aware of the Ban Bossy campaign, I wished I could re-name the album, since indeed it can be tricky being a female boss, and I think Sheryl’s campaign is a terribly important one. ”
Last week, talk show queen Wendy Williams touched down in Philadelphia on the first stop of her “How You Doin, America” tour. While here, she co-hosted Good Day, took a tour of some of our sights, and sat down with me at the Fox 29 studios for a one-on-one interview.
We dished about the gay (and local!) roots of her most famous catch phrase and why she loves our fair city before finishing up with a rapid-fire Q&A that let her open up about everyone from Nicki Minaj to Drake to Kim and Kanye. See how Ms. Williams is doin’ in the video below.
Unless you were under a pop culture rock yesterday, you most likely saw or heard about the now viral TMZ video of Beyonce’s sister, Solange Knowles, beating the living daylight out of Mr. Carter himself, Jay Z. Of course, the Internet couldn’t let that go, so I’ve rounded up some of the best memes that came out of the epic brawl.
This week marks the tenth anniversary of the Friends finale, which I remember watching on the night I moved back on with my parents after a failed attempt at dormitory living. Surrounded by a mini-fridge, garbage bags full of West Chester University gear and a crate of Early Childhood Education textbooks that I would later sell on eBay, I bid adieu to Ross, Monica, Rachel, Joey, Chandler and Phoebe.
I wept when Chandler and Monica had their twins. I wept when Ross and Rachel reunited (SPOILER ALERT: She got off the plane), and I wept when Joey and Phoebe bought a chick and a duck for Monica and Chandler. It sounds silly but I was so sad to be losing these characters who I’d come to think of as, well, friends.
Throughout my life — and thanks to the glorious world of syndicated television — these six characters had been constants through high school break-ups, fights with my best girl friends and the beginning of college. They gave me glimpse at what adulthood had to offer — and made me excited about my future (which I presumed would include enormous apartments, endless coffee shop hangs and a lot of baby Ts). I grew up watching them grow up and Friends remains one of the most comforting shows to me. (Thank goodness for the seemingly endless loop of reruns playing on TBS every day.)
The older I get, the more relatable I find Friends. Unlike other zeitgeisty shows like Sex and the City and Dawson’s Creek, which feel dated and immature, Friends is a show that only becomes more relevant to me as I grow older and find myself in situations similar to the characters. Of course, the only problem is that the gang is in New York while I squander my days away in Philadelphia.
What would my beloved friends do in Philadelphia? I have a few thoughts …
I’ll be the first to admit that the probably-expired yogurt in my fridge has more culture than I do. I barely made it out of Art History 101 alive, the first thing that comes to mind when I hear the word “symphony” is the candy bar, and most of my exposure to opera has come in the form of commercials for canned ravioli. That’s not to say that I don’t consume massive amounts of culture on the daily — it’s just not the classy, smart-people-at-an-erudite-cocktail-party kind. It’s more the kind with Jason Statham.
I felt a little out of my league during a recent visit to the Barnes Foundation, which is approaching its second anniversary in its controversial new space on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway. Not having visited the original Merion location prior to its relocation, I was wowed by the intricacies of the idiosyncratic layout of each room, to say nothing of the tremendous work itself.
Of course, since I know very little about any of the incredibly important artists represented in the collection, I felt my brain turning the reins over to the neurons responsible for rotting it. I began noting every portrait that bore even the slightest resemblance to a dumb celebrity or personality, writing the names of the pieces down in my notebook with a pen, until security flexed on me and insisted I use a tiny golf pencil instead. The results are laid out for you after the jump.
I was having fun, but I felt like a total moron — but then I overheard a tourist telling his wife that the dark, disturbing work of morose expressionist Chaim Soutine reminded him of Rod Serling’s Night Gallery. We immediately became best friends, forever, in my head.
I’m sorry Dr. Barnes.