It’s fine, it’s cool, we’re entering the final hawk tuah of 2024. Was it good? Was it bad? 2024 was a chop suey of mega-lols and strife; of rodent men, “Apple” dances, holding space for trad wives, and finding out cocaine apparently comes in pink.
The year was so packed, Nara Smith barely had time to make Dr. Pepper from scratch, so it’s okay to be confused by the chronology (especially if you’ve taken the Substance). When did Baby Reindeer come out? When did I put my hand in the Dune: Part Two popcorn bucket? When was “he in the Amazon with my mom when she was researching spiders right before she died”?
I see this past year as a lumpy pillow; if you pounded it the right way, you could rest and relax, but most of the time there was a nagging discomfort. Throughout, we tortured poets gathered on the internet, mindfully and demurely matching each other’s freaks. Let us reflect on 365 days of extreme online-ness.
Mike Feist wore a radish to the Met Gala. Hundreds of timorous Timothée Chalamet lookalikes congregated in Washington Square Park. But if you like Roman noses and short shorts, this was undoubtedly the year of Paul Mescal, who dominated the internet with his Sweetgreen runs and cheeky cigs with Natalie Portman. Special thirst-mention to that mischievous twink Jonny Bailey, and that French Olympic pole vaulter’s, well…ample pole. Also, we’ll always have the Beyoncé-in-a-ballgown-and-Ed-Sheeran-in-a-trakkie juxtaposition of Olympic shooters Kim Yeji and Yusuf Dikec. Oh, and Raygun—we will always, always have Raygun.
Kamala Harris technically fell out of the coconut tree in 2023, but her presidential memes rallied the troops after that Biden debate, existing in the context of all in which we lived and what came before us. And while Donald Trump getting earshot gave us one of 2024’s biggest conspiracy theories, Kate Middleton became embroiled in her own media scandal.
We couldn’t be friends in 2024—love bloomed. Bennifer did the are-they-aren’t-they cha-cha-cha; we all fell in love with a pygmy hippo; Billie’s sapphism slid us into summer; and burned into my retinas was the mortifying pink “o” of that chap’s mouth during the Love Is Blind UK proposal.
At other points, the Wicked press tour defied gravity (I don’t know how widespread it is, but you know I am in queer media), and it was game, sex, and match as Challengers gave us a love triangle for the ages (and Josh O’Connor’s thighs in a towel). Zendeya sat courtside at Wimbledon dressed as a divorce lawyer (complimentary), but the best hair of the year belonged to a contemptuous meth-lab Oompa Loompa at the Willy Wonka immersive experience.
Popstars were popping and cowboys Carter-ed: Dua was busker-ed backstage at Glasto; Lady Gaga traipsed about the Louvre smiling like a psychopath; and we witnessed the end of an Eras. Justin Timberlake’s Hamptons DWI arrest had me in pieces. (“This is going to ruin the tour.” “What tour?”) Everything turned green for Brat, and while I got sick of the peripheral noise, I still loved the source material. Charli XCX did the thing in 2024; she doesn’t need my notes.
2025 will be a banger, I’m sure, equidistant between capers and chaos—hopefully with less depression-inducing Bridgerton-themed balls in Detroit, and literally everyone thinking they discovered Marseille. I can’t tell you what the next year will bring, but…Big is moving to Paris.