Word: darkeness
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...million listens. "Obviously I'm really grateful for MySpace and what it's done for me," says Allen, "but at the same time MySpace is just a website; it's the music that people are attracted to, not the Internet." So what is her draw? Allen's cutting, sometimes dark, tales of London life, breakup and revenge, unwanted suitors and mortgages, drenched with wit and wrapped around the unlikeliest pop hooks and a reggae brass backing, a bit like Blondie's forays into a Caribbean sound. Allen's blog is a big hit too, as she humorously details...
...Michael Mann (who also wrote the screenplay), is in a grittier mood than he was in the days when Vice was a sensational TV presence. And he does not have a taste here for the muted tones that made Collateral so seductive in 2004. He's more in the dark-of-night Heat mode. He uses high-definition (HD) digital cameras, since HD imparts more visual information than film stock, especially in low light. In terms of cinematography, Mann may embody the future of large-scale commercial movies...
...Mike can appreciate female beauty, especially when it's coming on to him. "With her head tilted back like that she gave me the full view of her breasts. They were as alive as she was." (They shouldn't be less so.) "A statue with dark, blazing eyes and jaunty breasts that spoke of the passion that lay within." (Hmmm: jaunty and chatty.) Everyone's favorite Spillane "babe" line is this one: "She walked toward me, her hips waving a happy hello...
Zaged Melhem, 36, a Lebanese civilian, was walking from his home in southern Beirut early Friday morning. It was still dark outside as he made his way across a bridge in his neighborhood and at once became the nearly 700th victim of an Israeli air strike. He told me he barely heard a thing before he was thrown more than 30 feet through the air with shrapnel piercing his feet and hands, and straight through his abdominal wall into his intestine. Luckily, he lived to tell about it. His best friend, who walking with...
...Even the Christian quarter at the tip of Tyre's promontory that juts into the dark blue Mediterranean has emptied. The small stone Maronite and Catholic churches have closed. Families lugged heavy suitcases along the quarter's narrow alleyways to their cars, arguing about what to take and leave. Those elderly residents who refuse to leave sat on their doorsteps sipping tiny cups of coffee and glumly watching their neighbors flee. For them, and anyone else who chooses to stay, the future looks especially grim; even if they can escape the attacks, they face the prospect of being...