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 Post subject: chanel clutch bag
PostPosted: Mon Apr 07, 2014 12:04 pm 
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Her talk show is of the Jerry Spring variety: young girls who became pregnant at 15, who strip for a living, who have eating disorders, suffer from obesity, have strong parental issues. It's a fascinating show to watch: if the guest has managed to compose herself for much of the interview, Banks goes for the jugular, asking incredibly personal, pointed statements that would bring anyone to the brink, especially adolescents writhing in the Tyra hot seat under bright lights. When this happens, Tyra puts on her 'concerned' face, which consists of pursing her lips and furrowing her brow. (Considering how much Botox and lifts that Banks has had, it's pretty much a miracle that she can move any facial features at all.) Banks will probe and probe, and probe an interviewee until someone is literally in tears. Often I've thought that included audience members and those watching the show, those of us who have been particularly surprised by Bank's cheap shots: how low will she go to break a guest?) Watching her shows is like watching a car wreck: you're so fascinated that, as much as you know you shouldn't, you can't help but watch. What is most amazing and always a given, a constant is that Tyra will bring the conversation whether it's an unwed pregnancy, drug use, body image issues, obesity, incest, whatever back to herself. She always, always finds a way to interject a personal experience or anecdote, literally ripping the spotlight from a sobbing woman right back to herself. If a guest is hesitant, shy or uncomfortable with Banks' probing questions, Banks' disgust with that guest is clearly visible.
But most disturbing is her conduct on her talk shows. No matter how much genuine pain, suffering and humiliation her guests were undergoing live, in front of a television audience, Banks always manages to bring the focus of attention back on herself. She is shameless when it comes to eliciting audience ooooh's and ahhh's from audience members, whether she's showing off how toned she's recently become, how much weight she's lost, what 'beauty tips' have worked for her. In the end, everything always comes back to Tyra. It's too bad that Mother Theresa is no longer with us; I would have loved to have seen Tyra make a saintly old nun cry because of her lack of sexual prowess, her dowdy old nun's habit, Banks' not so subtle suggestion that Theresa consider dental implants, and why she feels it is SO damned important to be on the streets helping the less fortunate in India, when there are starving children in Burbank? Did Mother's parents treat her so badly as a child that she felt this subconscious, hidden need to ignore perky beauty tricks and hang out with beggars and orphans?
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After some confusion over routes (has anyone ever actually seen a B train?) we found ourselves seated at Billie's Black ( 271 West 119th Street), a newish restaurant lounge on a spruce block off St. Nicholas Avenue. The stately proprietress, Harlem born Adriane Ferguson, has made her establishment for her beloved mother, Billie comfy haven for locals gay, straight and non disclosed; the d is casual and funkily elegant, the food soulful and abundant (the unsweetened corn bread is sublime), and drinks range from affordable well and call brands to pricey, sugary potions such as the Sexy Mexican (Gran Centenario Tequila and Sprite), the Billie's Clickkeyword[KISS+(Band)]" >Kiss (gin, peach schnapps, pineapple and cranberry juice), and other exotica. D and I lingered at our monogrammed table, casually eavesdropping on a neighborhood Sybil doing the astral charts of another young woman at the table next to ours, while almost inaudible jazz and dance classics oozed around us. Billie's has a good dinner crowd most nights, and a festive late night weekend throng at the bar.Shooting further north, we emerged from the subway and ambled into the garish netherworld of No Parking bar (4168 Broadway), a smallish space tricked out with a retro 90s luxe minimalist d sporting a glowing horseshoe bar, faux Chanel accessories, and a chrome mobile twirling dangerously over the lone bartender, who seemed to ignore our inquiry into drink specials. Perhaps he simply couldn't hear over the distressingly loud, generic reggaet and Latin radio pop booming from the speakers. The vibe was cruisy, a little wired and not terribly erotic, as the patrons tended toward the self consciously young, showily attired (label laden sportswear is still very popular) and the overly groomed. Save for the music, D likened it to a Jersey sports bar, what with all the threaded eyebrows and gelled, upswept coifs in evidence. One overpriced weak drink was enough for us; we clasped our hands over our bleeding ears and southward we fled.Infinitely more salubrious were the kitschy, relatively benign comforts of Suite (992 Amsterdam Avenue), which felt like a rec room for Clickkeyword[The+Juilliard+School]" >Juilliard students, Broadway gypsies and other showtune queens. The perfectly mixed (gay/straight, black/white/brown, uptown/downtown, male/female/other) crowd all seemed to know (and like) one another, and gleefully joined in the karaoke fun, which happens several times a week and is hosted by fierce vocal stylist, Clickkeyword[Jackie+Dupree]" >Miss Jackie Dupree. I offered my companion a double sawbuck to sing "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," but he graciously declined. cheap and strong) V down into the subway D and I went, homeward bound.Though the much lauded new Harlem (with luxury condos starting at $500K plus) seems a million conceptual aesthetic miles away from Paris is Burning or even Clickkeyword[Showtime+at+the+Apollo]" >Showtime at the Apollo, there's something to be said about gentrification. What that is, exactly than new sidewalks escapes me: I live in Clickkeyword[Bushwick]" >Bushwick.
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