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(04/24/03 4:00am)
Here's a test: listen to the title track of Madonna's new album, American Life, and if you don't wince when she starts rapping, you're a true fan. Because as evocative as Madonna is known to be, there's something inherently lame about a 44-year-old mommy rapping, "I do yoga and pilates and the room is full of hotties." All you wincers may want to skip this one.
On American Life, Madonna tries to squeeze personal song lyrics in between jerky techno beats and acoustic guitar. It is a jarring disappointment, especially after the variety and funk that she showed on her last album, Music. The album does have some highlights, however, in its ballads. "Intervention" is melancholic and a little cheesy, but hits your sweet tooth just right. Followed by "X-Static Process," a beautiful folk-type song, this is the strongest section of the album.
(04/17/03 4:00am)
"It's like Allen Iverson playing basketball," explained a fellow food critic about a $200 bottle of wine. His descriptions of the power of fine wine and mind-tickling aromas that could take your senses on week-long voyages was by far the most exciting aspect of dining at Savannah. Unless anyone is there to entertain you with the breadth of his tasting knowledge, Savannah is just another restaurant drowning in Stephen Starr's trendy dust. And why, exactly, is the SOUL . FOOD . BAR necessary at the end of the restaurant's title? "This," he said of the red he sipped, "is like junior high." The rest of the evening at Savannah echoed this sentiment.
An intimate setting with willowy drapes masking the windows behind the bar, Savannah feels like an upscale speakeasy. It has a cozy, candlelit dinner-for-two feel, a romantic getaway in the middle of vacant-looking warehouses. The location isn't great, but if you're looking for a change from Center City, Savannah provides a nice alternative. The staff is friendly and polite, but perhaps over trained, with a "pardon my reach" whether they are refilling your water or just looking in your direction. Put a little pressure on Savannah and its employees, and the strain begins to show, in discomforting and unappetizing ways. On a busy night, lipstick still lingers on forks and glasses, and paper wrapping finds its way into the collared greens. If you're gonna run with the big boys, "pardon my reach" and a little jazz music just ain't gonna cut it in an upscale market.
(04/10/03 4:00am)
Richard Marx is haunting me. An insomniac, it sometimes takes me hours to fall asleep. Better yet, I often awake in the middle of the night -- five, six o'clock -- still tired and wanting to fall into a heavy sleep cycle, and always -- well not always, but unnervingly often -- with Richard Marx, anguished and melancholy in my skull. Hold on to the night. Hold on to the memory, he pleads. Richard Marx. Why? Why won't you just leave me alone?
The more important question, really, is: why do I have trouble sleeping? My dentist suggests stress. At my last appointment he hovered over me in my reclined chair, his hair so much more gray than it had been upon my last visit, "You clench your teeth when you sleep." A mouth guard, he recommended, at the mere price of $125 U.S. dollars would prevent any further damage from chippage, wear-down, or TMJ, whatever that may be. And, though this plastic marvel of dentistry could mold to fit my exact jaw, it could not thwart my irresistible urge to clench. Only when I was completely stress free, I was informed, would this teeth-clenching cease. "And we all know that's impossible," he laughed. Bastard.
But the idea of the mouth guard only challenged my neurosis. Yes, my teeth would be safer from my own personal jaws of death, but the price was too much to bear. I imagined rolling over in bed to a new lover, amazed that we had finally found each other, only to find him disturbed and distracted from my glowing eyes, edging out of bed, still staring at my orthodontically enhanced smile. My future son, age four, with nightmares of Oompah Loompahs growing in his head, would come to me for comfort only to find an equally terrifying mouth full of plastic goop, eating his mother. This mouth guard was not the solution. In fact, it was only adding stress to my life and I had not even purchased it yet. And, truth be told, I probably wouldn't have worn the thing. It was a lose-lose situation and I would still be full of stress, waking up to Richard Marx in my head.
I wish that I could give you more. Ooohhh. Richard Marx. He of feathered mullet and 80's love ballads: why, why, WHY? It is true, I do own the CD with "Now and Forever" on it, and somewhere in my dense collection of mp3s, "Hold On to the Night" probably does exist. But I haven't listened to either in years. I have moved on to better music, music that reflects my complex intellect and lifestyle. Music not on MTV, but MTV2. Furthermore, "Hold on..." was not even my favorite of his songs. "Now and Forever" was clearly better written, more meaningful, dedicated to his children. Whenever I'm weary, from the battles that rage in my head. You make sense of madness, when my sanity hangs by a thread. The use of metaphors, head battles and hanging sanity, if any Richard Marx song should haunt me "Now and Forever' is it. I barely know any lyrics to "Hold on..." or for that matter, whether the actual song title is "Hold on to the Night" or just "Hold on." It just doesn't make sense.
So you know what? Fuck you Richard Marx. Fuck you Dr. Teramoto and your dental hygienist Hilda with the fake green eyes. Fuck you all. And let me get some goddamn sleep.
(02/21/03 5:00am)
It's the first meeting of church fitness group Body Building God's Way, and God is working against them. A light winter storm has fallen over Philadelphia, and residents of West Oak Lane can't be bothered to attend the Saturday morning information session. The meeting appears to be a failure, but within the red velvet-washed Christ Center Church of God, smiles and roaring laughter abound. So only four people have shown up -- the meeting can be rescheduled. The motivation of the participants is low at this starting point, but motivation can be improved throughout the course of the program. Program leader Nisha Botchwey has nothing but faith in her fellow church members.
(11/29/01 5:00am)
She awakens at 5:40 in the morning, nauseous and hung over from the night
before. She can't even sleep. Her first thought is to force herself to throw up. A
light turns on and shines through the crack beneath her bedroom door. Her
father is awake, musing around the house. She cannot puke while her father is
musing. He will know she was drunk and will beat her with sticks and Twizzlers
and such. She waits and waits and waits until he leaves for work. Finally at 7:45,
an hour later than usual, he leaves. Just then, her mother, who is playing hooky
from work, awakens. Damnation. She lies in bed, yearning to clutch onto that
cold, white, porcelain toilet. While her mother is making her morning coffee, the
poor girl, who has never been this hungover in her life, sneaks into the
bathroom and silently and quickly, like a bunny, a gazelle, a humless
hummingbird, forces the poisons out of her body. Ahhh, the relief. She brushes
her teeth. She feels so fresh and so clean.
(11/01/01 5:00am)
Fels Planetarium