An elegant woman takes the seat in front of me to talk to a man. She is sharply dressed, the dark combination of her clothing offset by a perfectly coiled blonde bun, red lipstick, light skin and the sharpness of her cheekbones.
“Why are you sitting all the way back here?” the man asks her.
“I am just here until I dance,” she answers.
Let’s all stop for a moment, and take a break from our busy lives to ruminate on the importance of Chick-Flick TV. Since the sad passing of Sex & the City, us mourners have been forced to don black Manolos while we search for something else to fill our sexless void. We left no remote unturned, no TV screen unlit. Dedicated in our quest, we traveled painstakingly from one estrogen saturated show to the next.
I’ve seen enough florescant-tinged signs over the past few weeks, announcing the imminent arrival of Howie Mandel, that news of the comedian’s scheduled appearance had been seared into my brain. So effective were the highlighter-colored posters, reading “HOWIE IS COMING,” my subconscious had begun to anticipate the return of the Messiah. All I knew was that I didn’t know who this “Howie” character was, but he was coming, and he must be a big freaking deal, because not even Obama advertises with neon paper.
[img_assist|nid=33048|title=Deal!|desc=Comedian and gameshow host Howie Mandel left the crowd at Barton Hall in stitches last Friday night.|link=node|align=left|width=|height=0]
One rather sarcastic movie goer commented to a friend: “Vicky Cristina Barcelona — why are there no commas? I do not know.” Although the film as a whole was slightly better than mediocre — but not quite up to par — the title is certainly justifiable, and representative of the movie’s most distinctive characteristics.
Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) play best friends who fall in love with the same local Spanish artist, a sensual and spontaneous character named Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem). Propelled by unexplainable passion, each woman embarks on a romantic journey with the artist.
“Carrie fever” is not an affliction experienced solely by Beyonce in Jay-Z’s “’03 Bonnie and Clyde.” Racing to get to an 8:01 p.m. showing of Sex and the City, I ransacked my room searching for something worthy to wear in the presence of The Sex. There was no dress code printed on prepaid tickets, or any memo passed on by the media, but any loyal Bradshaw fan knows that Sex and the City is synonymous with “Sex and Manolos.” Alas, my pragmatic self proved too strong and I chose jeans and a sweatshirt instead, but upon entering the theater I quickly found out that I was severely underdressed for the occasion.
If Whitney Houston, Céline Dion and Mariah Carey had a love child, it would be Leona Lewis. This comparison isn’t a new one, but her debut album, Spirit, verifies the pop lineage with powerful ballads and vocals.
Unfortunately, it seems that Leona has fallen victim to the same narrow vision of her label that most rising pop stars face. Although most of the songs showcase her vocal range and talent beautifully, the tracks are, for the most part, indistinguishable. This is probably indicative of Arista Record’s desire to market her specifically as a “ballad-ess,” if you will.
Once upon a time, there stood a tree in the Garden of Eden from which God forbade Adam. Tempted by a serpent, Eve ate from the tree and soon followed Adam. They were banished from their paradise forever ….
Although without Biggie there would be no Diddy, there could have been Danity Kane without Puffy (not to mention MTV’s Making the Band). This sophomore release, Welcome to the Dollhouse, shows that despite the mistakes Diddy’s made with the album’s basics, these girls may actually be talented enough to have made it without him.
Unfortunately, Diddy’s producers drenched the album in excessively “original” beats, making it difficult to distinguish the songs from one another. The album is also marred by several waste-of-space interludes, which make no contribution other than to infuriate the listener. I’d have much preferred another complete track.