Collecting cassettes is like adopting a bunch of tiny plastic pets that constantly remind you how old you’re getting, yet somehow make you feel impossibly cool—like a time-traveling DJ who refuses to update their Spotify. There’s the thrill of rewinding with a pencil (the original fidget spinner), the satisfying clunk when one slots into your Walkman like a key to a nostalgia portal, and the mysterious joy of finding that one mixtape labeled “Road Trip ’94” that turns out to be three Enya songs and your cousin whispering into the mic. It’s impractical, it’s fragile, it hisses at you—but hey, so do most of our best relationships.

It all started innocently enough — just trying to find a Discman to play that one scratched-up mix CD from high school labeled “Ultimate Feels Vol. 2.” But one late-night eBay scroll turned into a rabbit hole of vintage Sony Discman models, anti-skip bragging rights, and forums full of middle-aged warriors debating whether the ESP Max on a 2001 Panasonic was better than the Mega Bass on a ’98 Aiwa. Suddenly, I wasn’t just reliving my youth — I was negotiating shipping rates with a guy in Slovakia for a translucent blue Sanyo with “futuristic” top-loading action. My family hasn’t made eye contact with me since the “Unboxing of the JVC XL-PG5,” which I filmed in full 4K and narrated like it was a nature documentary.

Now I judge people not by their music taste, but by whether they know that a lid-lock mechanism was the true sign of luxury in 2003. My bookshelf used to hold novels and framed photos — now it’s a shrine to circular plastic marvels that came with belt clips nobody used and headphone jacks engineered to break under a stiff breeze. I listen to CDs like it’s a sacred ritual, holding the player level with two hands like a pizza so the laser doesn’t skip during Track 4 (bonus acoustic version). Sure, Spotify’s easier, but where’s the thrill in that? If your music doesn’t come with the constant threat of sudden silence and AA battery bankruptcy, are you even really listening?

Sharon Osbourne is what happens when you mix rock ‘n’ roll chaos with British wit and a handbag that might double as a weapon. As the wife and manager of Ozzy Osbourne, she’s spent decades juggling business deals, reality TV, and the occasional need to remind her husband where he left his sunglasses (probably on his head). But don’t let the posh accent fool you—Sharon is a force of nature, capable of tearing down industry titans, launching biting one-liners sharper than a guitar riff, and still finding time to lavish attention on her beloved dogs.

Whether she’s throwing ham at a neighbor she despises (yes, that happened), calling out nonsense on live TV, or effortlessly roasting anyone who dares cross her, Sharon operates with the energy of a rock concert in human form. She’s been a reality TV icon, a no-nonsense judge on talent shows, and the mastermind behind much of Ozzy’s enduring success—all while maintaining a level of sass that could power the entire city of London. Love her or fear her, one thing’s for sure: Sharon Osbourne is never, ever boring.

Billy Corgan (Smashing Pumpkin) sits down with the one and only Gene Simmons to probe beyond the kabuki makeup and monster riffs that made KISS a household name.

KISS is the ultimate proof that sometimes, more is more. Why settle for just a rock band when you can have a pyro-loaded, face-painted, fire-breathing, blood-spitting spectacle? These guys didn’t just play music—they turned every concert into a full-throttle, leather-clad, platform-boot-stomping explosion of pure rock ‘n’ roll excess. With Gene Simmons’ tongue doing more work than most lead singers’ entire vocal range and Paul Stanley treating the crowd like his personal stadium-sized therapy session, KISS made sure you felt every moment. And let’s be real—no other band has ever looked at a standard drum solo and thought, “Yeah, but what if the drummer also levitated?”

But beyond the explosions, the face paint, and the fact that they somehow turned their logo into a billion-dollar merchandising empire (seriously, there’s probably a KISS-branded toaster out there), the band delivered exactly what rock fans craved: ridiculously catchy anthems. “Detroit Rock City,” “I Was Made for Lovin’ You,” and “Rock and Roll All Nite” weren’t just songs—they were battle cries for anyone who ever wanted to trade in their 9-to-5 for a night of unapologetic mayhem. KISS mastered the art of giving the people what they didn’t even know they needed: a perfect mix of camp, chaos, and chugging guitar riffs that made you feel invincible. Because at the end of the day, if you can sell out stadiums for 50 years while wearing bat wings and breathing fire, you’ve officially won rock ‘n’ roll.

Ah, the glorious resurgence of vinyl records and cassettes—because apparently, nothing screams “I love music” like spinning a 12-inch frisbee or painstakingly rewinding a tape with a pencil! It’s as if music fans collectively woke up one day and thought, “Streaming? Too easy. Let’s make this complicated again!”

Vinyl is the heavyweight champion of nostalgia, weighing in at a solid couple of pounds per album. Fans lovingly call it “warm,” which is a kind way of saying it pops, crackles, and occasionally sounds like it’s been recorded underwater. But there’s something undeniably magical about the ritual—gently placing the needle, holding your breath to avoid skipping a groove, and flipping the record every 20 minutes. Nothing builds intimacy with an album quite like getting up mid-lounge session to tend to it like a needy toddler.

And then there’s the cassette tape—a bold choice for anyone nostalgic for the time when Walkmans ruled and fast-forwarding meant guessing. These little plastic time machines are like the music format equivalent of a ’90s rom-com: temperamental, prone to tangling, and utterly endearing. Millennials and Gen Z have embraced them as if they discovered the secret to teleporting to 1987. Want to impress your friends? Show off your mixtape skills by carefully curating 12 songs, only to find that Side B starts halfway through a chorus.

In an era of instant access, the resurgence of vinyl and cassettes is a delightful rebellion against convenience. It’s a love letter to the past wrapped in hisses and hums. Sure, your streaming app won’t demand you dust it or threaten to warp if left in the sun, but it also doesn’t make you feel like you’re handling a tiny piece of history every time you press play. And honestly, who can resist the joy of a good thunk as the needle hits the groove?