Word: starring
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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Harvard writes to my grandmother pretty regularly. She isn't a star academic, although she did attend Temple University and managed to raise seven daughters who all hold University degrees. She's not a celebrity, although when she points out the history of her house in Roxborough, a house my great-grandparents built, it feels like a monument. But it isn't, because Grammy is not a millionaire. Neither is my grandfather, although for some reason Harvard pursues them both with enough vigor for her to remark to me about how sorry she is she can't give. Then...
...wrong kind of guy. They are what has kept Nashville pulsing through decades of shifting fashion. But the town didn't suit Kelly Willis. After a few albums in the early '90s, she split for Austin, Texas. Her new CD, What I Deserve (Rykodisc), puts a sultry Lone Star spin on the country sound. This cowgirl can sing the blues as if she'd grown up inside them...
...Monica Lewinsky scandal is over. Which means that the TV pundits are having to get reacquainted with issues like school vouchers, and the all-news channels are discovering once again that--except for the times when we're unraveling a President's sex life, watching a former NFL star beat a murder rap or bombing Iraq--not all that many people want to watch news...
...that three-year old Ben is gone. Search efforts are futile, except for forging the unlikely friendship between sweet Beth and the tough, hysterical head investigator, Whoopie Goldberg. Goldberg is realistic and tactless, introducing herself to Beth as, "Hi my name is Candy, Candy Bliss. Sounds like a porn-star....What can I say, presents can be so cruel to kids." Naturally this ironic remark drives Beth to tears, and for the next nine years, angst-ridden, she tries to cope, unsuccessfully, with her guilt over Ben's loss...
...generation of mom-approved modern rock, Lang is still a mere pupa in terms of his musical maturation. Case in point: his live show at the Orpheum last Saturday night. From the last row of the balcony, I was not afforded a proper view of the rising star. The best I could make out was a gel-spiked head which bobbed furiously to the beat of the manic drummer. Clad in a black tank top which accentuated his spindly silhouette, Lang affected and effected the look of a rock star, a proto-Mick. He casually sauntered to and fro between...