There are good things and then there are execrable things. Good thing: The Spice Girls staging a lucrative reunion nearly a decade after one of them splintered off to ghost-write a crappy memoir and record a little-seen TV spot or two about the horrors of breast cancer. Execrable thing: The Spice Girls mulling a second, Posh-less reunion only a year-and-a-half after prematurely aborting the first. And then you have things that fall squarely in between good and execrable, such as the idea of a Spice Girls musical, which looks poised to bow on London's West End.

We could dwell on the low lows of NYFW and declare the fashion industry dead and ask who would dream of making available such uninspired wearables! But let's not. Let's instead turn our boozy gaze towards Vivienne Westwood and her Red Label collection, which was on display at the Red Bull Fashion Factory. Such campy glitterati as Boy George, ex-Spice Girl Geri Halliwell, and two of five members of Girls Aloud already have. But maybe you're not the type to buy into celebrity endorsements. Fair enough.

Sex and the City is a piece of Austentatious chick-flickery that never hinged on how well its starlets could act. Because if it did, god forbid, the series would've tripped up, broken its Manolo Blahnik heels, and fallen face-down like many of the copycats it'd later inspire. Or failing that, around season two, Charlotte York would've been run over by a Fresh Direct truck and replaced by someone who could do more than just bug her eyes out in order to convey emotion. Which is why it's an enigma that Victoria Beckham has started taking acting lessons to prep for a cameo in the SATC sequel.

Tori Spelling, for all her time on this sinking planet, has done very little good. So before we tie her to rafters and gather to heckle her with beets for her ruinous contributions to the already-crumbling world of children's literature, let's fondly recall the good times. As few as they were. Like when she guested on Smallville as a non-journalist with a vicious mean streak. Or when she gave us a woefully short-lived, camptastic comedy in the vein of Curb Your Enthusiasm.

While you were drunk bedridden this weekend: Pigluenza wreaks impossibly more havoc, cats fight on Candy Girls, the Taliban rises back up, and most devastatingly of all, Nas and Kelis hightail it to Splitsville. But there's no need to be so despondent in the wake of such horrors. With tragedies also come tales of heartwarming familial fulfillment -- those that tend to elicit sympathetic "awws" from the house audience of 1990s-era sitcoms, like that one time DJ confessed to having an eating disorder on Full House and then Bob Saget reassured her that she wasn't fat at all and needn't join any pro-ana cults. Set to make your heart swell with feelings of mushy warmth this particular morning: Adoption!

Today marks that precious day of the year when mothers and fathers all over the world are expected to strap the nicest leash they can find onto their daughters' rhinestone chokers and drag them along to their places of employ. Once there, daughters can learn about the magical wonders of the working world, hopefully picking up a few effective expletives as well. Although today, little Helvetica might find herself accompanying daddy to a dim dive instead, where she'll sip on Shirley Temples while thumbing through that last Harry Potter book as daddy gets flushed on whiskey gingers and rails about loyalty, integrity, and the general bullshittery of being laid off. But Hollywood isn't beleaguered with boring unemployeds! Celebrities, unlike bland regular people, are still making money. Regardless, here are a few who I implore to call a sitter (Lindsay still needs a job!) before heading into the studio, the lot, or even the bar for a hard day's work.