Word: paled
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...Police searched for three males who exposed themselves and yelled obscenities, near the Loeb Drama Center. One male was described as heavy-set, 17 years of age, with a gray puffy jacket, and knit blue hat; another was described as 17 years old, with a thin build, a thin pale face, dark haired, wearing olive drab jacket and baggy pants...
...sight. He often seemed as hyper and needy as a ninth-grader on a first date. But at least voters realized that he was truly, madly, deeply committed to winning, and they liked that about him. Bradley's cool, take-it-or-leave-it approach to politicking began to pale by comparison...
...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...
...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...