Word: paled
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...success was in large part due to the consistency of Bridget's character and voice. Whether Bridget is a postfeminist heroine or an antifeminist throwback seems secondary to that fact. At first glance merely flighty and airy, the actual brilliance of that comic voice can be seen by the pale attempts by other authors in the intervening years to replicate that light tone successfully. While Bridget is too detailed at points to read like a diary ("7.32 a.m. Except do not have any mushrooms or sausages. 7.33 a.m. Or eggs."), as interior monologue it's genius. The punning title...
Richards, a noted poet and lecturer at Tufts University, is having his first exhibit at the Gallery Bershad. Richards's companion for the show is artist Karen Boutelle, whose mixed-media wall-hangings are more visceral than Richards's pale metal sculptures. Boutelle's "Ambivalent Passages" looks like an open gash with blood pouring forward in hues of petrified amber. But her most spectacular piece, "Ambivalent Passages III," seems to defy this straight sanguine categorization. The layers of cheesecloth, beeswax, shellac, oil bar, paint and rice paper that Boutelle uses in her art are here transformed into a composition reminiscent...
Interstate 10, bound east to west, is a nonstop train of dreamers. Barreling through the desert, they come in search of the cheap thrill, the easy score, the fast women, the sugar daddies. On their final approach, they can already begin to make out the pale halo of the city's lights--lights that can be seen from outer orbit, against the dark face of a planet couched in the shadow of night. They make their way down to the strip and all around the city. They're greeted by a madman's dreamscape: castles made of sand, built with...
...Vegas. I'm in Connecticut--heading toward Uncasville, home of the Mohegan Tribal Nation, to be exact. The pale halo I see is the reflection of my own headlights in the enveloping fog. It is 12:45 a.m. on Sunday morning. I have been driving since 10:30 p.m. Saturday. I turn off of I-95, onto Route 2A, southeastern Connecticut's very own boulevard of broken dreams, and then onto Mohegan Sun Boulevard, pipeline to the gaming phenomenon known as Mohegan Sun. After three tries driving up and down the strip, I finally find where I should...
...laughter. The camerawoman kept zooming in on Jordana Lewis' '02 quintessential academic look and then panning over to Franklin's studied determination. At every commercial, we could watch ourselves on the monitor to the left and comment about who got the most airtime. Noah's face continued to pale as his fifteen seconds of fame loomed over him. But the patrons swilled locally brewed Shipyard Ale and hooted uproariously as the floor manager grabbed her microphone and told us all to keep quiet. And then, after countless cracks at Bush, diatribes from Cellucci, praise from Simpson, analysis from Capital Hill...