Helloooo,
Much to discuss today. Coca Cola. Glen Powell. Insects. Incoherent ramblings. Let’s do it.
🥤SWEETIE RATES 🥤
COKE BOYS
Today, after months of abstention, I had a cold can of classic Coke. The experience was transcendental. Much like my 2022-2023 tax return, I have been avoiding Coke like the plague. In its place I’ve favoured Diet Coke, which I started drinking for health reasons (contrast principle) and also to see what all the fuss was about. After giving in and drinking a real Coke, I fear it's going to be difficult to go back to the Diet Coke lifestyle.
A good Diet Coke can make my afternoon, but it has nothing on the original, and I’m tired of pretending otherwise. When I say, “I could really go for a DC right now”, I know I’m being just a little bit fraudulent. What I really, really want is a Coke. A red Coke. A “Fat Coke.” A Coke packed with more grams of sugar than doctors recommend per day. I want a crisp Coke in a sweaty glass filled with four chunky ice cubes and a squeeze of lime, and I want it now. The thought of it gives me goosebumps.
Instead, lately, I settle for its redheaded stepchild, the facsimile of its goodness. A Diet Coke, in its chic silver can, is both a compromise and a denial of desire. I’m not convinced anyone who is being truly honest with themselves prefers Diet Coke—much like I sincerely doubt that non-vegans actually prefer oat milk over regular milk, or that anyone thinks that Calum Scott’s Dancing On My Own cover even touches the sides of the original.
I don’t doubt people’s adoration for Diet Coke. I just think it’s something you learn to love and adhere to, a sparkly, bubbly Stockholm Syndrome. But Diet Coke is not the real thing, and it never will be. I will be drinking one tomorrow at about 1pm BST time.
The girls are fighting
Kim Cattrall is allegedly picking her iconique role of Samantha back up for the horrible SATC reboot And Just Like That. BUT, she REFUSES to shoot with her sworn nemesis, Sarah Jessica Parker. Yep, they still hate each other.
To put it in pop terms: they’re Olivia Rodrigo and Taylor Swift. Or Katy Perry and good sense.
To put it in Real Housewives terms: They’re Bethenny Frankel and Countess Luann. Or Mary Cosby and hospital smell.
To put it in male terms: They’re like McCauly and Hanna. Or bench pressing with inadequate protein sources.
I would give my left pinky toe to have the full ins and outs of this feud. I’m talking receipts, proof, timelines and screenshots. On one hand, Kim Cattrall is a SWEETIE fave, but Sarah Jessica Parker is amazing in LA Story… Idk! I’m Team Everyone! I won’t be watching anyway! But I will be enjoying the fake filming notices someone has been leaving up around New York (the fifth SATC character, don’t you know).
Tyra Mail
I find Tyra Banks to be one of the most curious pop culture fixtures. Aside from her extensive and successful modelling career, here’s a non-exhaustive list of her achievements:
Wore a fat suit for a segment on her talk show to ‘understand obesity’
Spent years utterly brutalising would-be models (paywalled, use your discretion on how to access it)
Pretended to get a Harvard degree
Appeared in my favourite music video of all time
Tried to rebrand to ‘BanX’
Has now opened an ice cream pop up shop in DC called Smize and Dreams (get it?) which was visited by US Vice President and noted giggler Kamala Harris for some reason
Tear George Washington OFF of Mount Rushmore. We need Tyra up there ASAP. Can someone please buy me a return ticket to DC so I can get there before the pop up closes? I’ve spent all of my expendable income on Diet Coke. Business class tickets should be fine.
👎🏻 SWEETIE HATES 👎🏻
The rise of Glen Powell
To me, there’s something strange, even slightly off, about Glen Powell and his ascension to superstardom. It’s certainly not that he’s untalented, he did a valiant job in Anyone But You, which one can imagine was not an easy feat. In fact, I find myself dismayed by his stunts to become a household name because he’s talented, not the other way around.
It’s the sheen of artifice that’s hard to look past. He is a star borne from market research, with a natural charisma that’s been enhanced by careful, prolonged study. One can imagine Glen Powell at home, alone, long past his bedtime, watching Gene Kelly in Singin’ In the Rain and mouthing along to every line of dialogue, mimicking every physical quirk, memorising every beat. Glen Powell knows what he wants—love, fame, adoration—and he’s not backing down until he gets it.
The problem is that he wants It so badly that you can see the cogs turning. He is proving highly skilled at carving out his ‘likeable movie star’ niche. He and his team have noted the current gaps in Hollywood’s leading man department, especially for Americans who have been replaced by British and Australian actors, and he is coming for the crown that Armie Hammer fumbled.
To help him along, Glen Powell makes curated use of his assets. Take his parents, who have featured in eight of his movies and who he keeps wheeling out as props for publicity. Notice that they have done this sign gag twice now. He wields his beautiful rescue dog Brisket, who must be on the same, serene doggy prozac that Lisa Vanderpump gave Giggy, at every turn. In a masterful stroke, he continues to lean in to the famed capybara meme of which he is the subject, pleasing Buzzfeed-ified netizens. If acting is his first craft, persona creation is his second.
I don’t wish Glen Powell ill. I just wish his brand didn’t feel, well, kinda desperate. After years of trying to make it big, he’s now performing to a full house. Hopefully after the Twisters feverish press run is over, he and his team can chill out a little bit. If Anne Hathaway tried to pull the sign gag during her Oscar campaign for Les Misérables, her house would’ve been burned down. But that’s a conversation for another day.
Flying ant day
This tweet spoke not only to my soul, but also to a chilling moment I experienced on Thursday. I asked some colleagues if we should take advantage of the rare sun and enjoy a few Morrettis in the park across the road from the office. What happened next will SHOCK you.
“No, we can’t go out there,” a colleague said with grave seriousness, “It’s flying ant day.” I stared blankly. “Is that a joke?” I asked, assuming this was their cultural equivalent of drop bears. No. No it wasn’t a joke. Flying ant day is not only real, it’s very fraught.
Flying ant day? Like I don’t have enough on my plate? Now I have to keep the one day a year that a bunch of disgusting insects are flying wildly around for no reason on my radar? Take the piss.
Here’s the thing, too, I was outside all night and I never saw one flying ant! Not ONE. Flying ant day is a government psyop and I will prove it next year. If I remember. Watch this space.
KB
The thought of someone being mean to legend Kathy Bates makes me feel like Method Man in the Bring the Pain outro. God, pleeeeeease, take all the suffering Kathy Bates has faced and give it to Miles Teller.
Sayonara 🙂