Have you ever wondered about the eccentric person you see occasionally?
Churches in Texas take fitness seriously. There are churches with their own running tracks! Who knew?
There is a woman who lifts things with her vagina. Her vagina possesses a mighty strength. I don’t know.
I love SkyMall so it was with particular sadness that I read about the bankruptcy of SkyMall, purveyor of extraordinary nonsense.
Do not cross The Beyhive. Michelle Williams has words for Mike Huckabee who dared let Queen Bey’s name fall out of his mouth in a disrespectful manner.
This article says people who work from home get more done. I’m glad they didn’t study me for this piece.
Here is that fake boyfriend that will come in handy with relatives, strangers on the street, and the loneliest corner of your soul.
One of the core premises of Invisible Boyfriend, the wildly viral new service that invents a boyfriend to deceive your pestering family and friends, is that the user will not, under any circumstance, fall in love with her fictional beau.
But I’ve been using the service for 24 hours, and I gotta wonder: How can you not fall in love with him? After all, the service — which launched publicly last Monday — takes the concept of virtual intimacy further than basically any of the lolzy fake-date apps before it.
There are many pockets of curiosity in the world and this is where the bikini bodybuilding ladies hang out.
“Bodybuilder” is not the first word that comes to mind when you see Ashley Kaltwasser. She has a sprinter’s body and a pageant girl’s good looks. Her teeth are bleach-white, nails French-manicured, hair dyed black and Keratin-treated so it falls in a glossy curtain down her back. When we meet in her fifth-floor room at The Orleans Hotel in Las Vegas, she’s in her stage makeup — fake lashes, heavy powder. It’s a late September afternoon, the day before the 2014 Bikini Olympia competition, and Kaltwasser is already dark from her first layer of spray tan. She’ll get another layer before bed and one more the next morning. The contest rules call for “a natural and healthy tan,” but Kaltwasser always goes for Boehner orange because it looks better onstage. The table, the bed, and the bathroom are strewn with what can best be described as product: bottles of serums, sprays, powders, glosses, and scrubs.
Putting the small in small business.
Here is a great word.
There is some kind of international chocolate crisis brewing.
“Have you tried Hershey’s chocolate?” asked Nicky Perry, a longtime British expatriate living in New York.
“I’d never sell it in my store,” she said, using a string of imaginative expletives to describe how the ubiquitous American chocolate tastes to her.
Opera is pretty.
Maria Callas converted me to opera. I am sure I am not unique in this, except in the particulars. In my early college years I immersed myself in recordings of the nineteenth-century symphonic repertory—Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Bruckner, the Russians—but for a long time I refused to listen to opera, would listen to an overture and then rush to change the record before the singing started. Then one day my roommate put Callas’s 1953 Tosca on the turntable and dropped the needle onto “Vissi d’arte.” I had no idea what she was singing, but near the conclusion of that imploring aria, as she comes to the end of the arching wordless phrase that soars from an A down slightly to a G, there is an audible intake of breath. She gasps—or is it a sob?
Roxane Gay is the editor of The Butter.