This week, Billy Corgan released a new song from his forthcoming album, whose name I cannot be bothered going to the mental effort of remembering. This is not important. What is important is that this week, it was announced that Billy Corgan and Jessica Simpson are dating.
Basically people stopped having time for Billy Corgan around the time he broke up with that nameless faceless Asian woman who stood by him while he made Gish, Siamese Dream and Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness (henceforth to be referred to as the The Quality Trilogy). This certainly didn't seem to be due to any sort of encouragement on the part of Kit(?), because that always seemed like some sort of mail order thing-of-convenience anyway. But once Billy Corgan was free to have loads of sex out in the open, his music really suffered.
The early possibility that he might shack up with Marilyn Manson brought promise: Eye and The End is the Beginning is the End were exciting extensions on previous Pumpkins themes. But the blue skies of his time with Yelena Yemchuk brought tears to the eyes of fans: an album produced in long, happy hours in the studio away from Kim(?) might yield (for instance) Here is No Why, Muzzle, Porcelina of the Vast Oceans, Galapogos, Love, Thru the Eyes of Ruby and 1979. But a record cranked out as a way of filling the time until Billy could go home and bask in Yemchuk's far greater knowledge of b/w photography and how to get half-hearted bassists to flash their nipples for a liner booklet would yield a Tear, if you were lucky.
The problem was inspiration: too much inspiration by half. Billy's time with a jetsetting, model-schmoozing, beret-epitomising muse like Yemchuk convinced him that the artful undercurrents of The Quality Trilogy could be placed front and center of future projects: because proggy anti-grunge with strains of artistic flourish is good, so it follows that a record that was nothing but artistic flourish ought to be better! And so, Adore. To round off this chapter, then: if Kay(?) was the stable, stultifyingly pedestrian rock on which Billy Corgan built his church, Yelena Yemchuk was the silver-retained, high-contrast tempest that swept it up and spread it to the four winds.
The Zeitgeist era was marked by philandering, gadaboutery, Corgan as misogynist playboy, thinking he was being enlightened by only calling American women whores. Corgan consorted with Paris Hilton, proclaiming her the world's most famous person or some such nonsense; people uncomfortable with the notion that Billy Corgan and Paris Hilton might have anything to talk about became further uncomfortable with the notion that Billy Corgan might like to see himself as a photographer and Paris Hilton might agree to be photographed. Meanwhile the first track of the record Hilton's image had launched debuted in the end credits of a Michael Bay film about giant toys who piss on each other, and nobody really minded.
To make sure we knew that Zeitgeist was a commentary on fame-culture in the 21st Century, Corgan turned his life into performance art: being seen about the place with Tila Tequila, going so far as allowing her to go on the Internet and say he might have impregnated her. It would have been a bit ingenious, had it been auxiliary to the promotion of a piece of media more substantial than Zeitgeist; as it was, his attempts at sex-life-as-metacommentary were misinterpreted as postmodern folderol as a means to getting laid. Billy Corgan didn't care at the time: Billy Corgan was fucking Tila Tequila.
And so now Billy Corgan is dating Jessica Simpson, and they are "taking it slow", so anything that comes out about them is somewhat sparse and unsatisfying, and it feels like we've been here before, and we say we're nominally interested in what happens next, but really, it's just going through the motions until we can stop pretending to be emotionally invested. And also he released Song for a Son, about which I couldn't possibly say a thing.
 If this sounds harsh, bear in mind that I didn't have the energy to consistently intentionally misspell the title of Quentin Tarantino's latest film until sometime during the scene where the girl's face is projected in the smoke, so apparently it just takes a while for me to get on board when people I loved when I was fourteen insist they're going to stop being self-referential fuckbadgers any day now.
 She ordered the catalog, sent away the page with the guy she wanted, and Married An Alternative Rock Impresario. What, that's where you knew I was going with this? Don't lie. Racialist.
 This Happened.
 Well, because Billy Corgan had not had an interesting thought since 1997, it was actually a commentary on fame in the 1990s, but this is how it was packaged, so.