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Category Archives: entertainment

Barista Bellows: “ONE DECAF QUAD ESPRESSO …

Barista Bellows:  “ONE DECAF QUAD ESPRESSO …

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…FOR Zal,” “Sowl,” “Sagi,” “Shi”—

Barista, please get it right (write)!

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The Name on My Coffee Cup

By Saïd Sayrafiezadeh

Photographs courtesy Saïd Sayrafiezadeh

Starbucks announced earlier this week that, in the hope of sparking impromptu and much needed discussion concerning race relations in the United States, it will begin encouraging baristas to write the phrase “race together” on its coffee cups. As a frequent consumer of Starbucks, I have yet to encounter the slogan or the ensuing exchange of views, but the most contentious aspect for me when ordering coffee—until now, anyway—has been the perpetual misspelling of my name on the side of the cup. The mutations have been many, and they have often been egregious—“Zal,” “Sowl,” “Sagi,” “Shi”—and then once, incredibly, three years ago, at a branch in the financial district, “Saïd,” diaeresis added, prompting me to seek out the barista, whose hand I grasped with deep feeling but who, frankly, seemed perplexed that anyone would have difficulty spelling my name. He was Latino, I think, and he told me that he had a best friend named Saïd, spelled identically, which would explain his astuteness. Never mind the backstory, I was delighted by the outcome. I photographed the cup for posterity, and then, for good measure, tweeted it for the world to see.

Until that moment, I had always recoiled when asked for my name by a barista—an innocent question for a simple transaction, but one that harkens back to traumatic days growing up in Pittsburgh, where my name caused controversy and consternation for people who, if they were not black, were mostly descendants of Germany, Italy, and Ireland. When I was in sixth grade, there happened to be one other boy in my school of Middle Eastern extraction, whose name was Hassin but whom everyone called Hi-C, and who had the further misfortune of having an accent. The boy wanted to be friends with me, but I avoided him at all costs, lest his foreignness reflect back. My own apparent foreignness was misleading, considering that I had been born in Brooklyn, and I did my best to mitigate it when I could—that is to say, always—but there was no getting around the fact of my name, which, during school, was occasionally brought into the spotlight by substitute teachers, who mangled it aloud to the amusement of my white classmates, reminding them that there was someone of abnormal ancestry sitting in their midst. Thirty-five years later, I might have been able to endure the painful and momentary mispronunciations of my name shouted in Starbucks, but it was the misspellings, perhaps because they were written in harsh black ink, that seemed as if they would last forever.

But, after that wondrous occurrence at the Starbucks in the financial district, a profound shift took place inside of me, revelatory and liberating, and I began to openly acknowledge misspellings of my name, even to look forward to them, so that I could photograph and tweet the results—in essence, preserving them forever. For the record, there are several acceptable ways to spell Saïd—“Saeed,” “Sayid,” “Saeid”—but I accept only one, with the diaeresis included. A high standard, I suppose, but we should each have high standards when it comes to our name. As a rule, I never offer the barista assistance with the spelling unless it is requested, which it seldom is. There have been a few instances when my instructions for “two dots over the ‘i’ ” have been transcribed as three dots over the “i,” which is cute but wrong. When I was four years old, I would draw pictures where the “i” had three dots, and those three dots then became parts of a smiley face. That was back when my name was a playful thing for me and I marvelled at its unusualness, but that playfulness is long gone.

Several months ago, a Twitter follower, perhaps growing weary of seeing Starbucks misspellings from all over the United States, suggested that I could easily resolve the dilemma by providing the baristas with a different name. Bob, for instance. Strangely, this had not occurred to me. Nor had it occurred to me that even American names might be undergoing problematic interpretations at Starbucks. Henry, I have heard, becomes Avery. Amy becomes Jenny. The advice struck me as sound, but I had not hung onto my name all these years in order to now become someone named Bob, even for the sake of a momentary convenience. The time for being Bob was 1979, during the Iran hostage crisis, when having a name like mine was a badge of shame and criminality. But the name had been the single constant connection to my Iranian father, who had abandoned me when I was nine months old, leaving me alone with my Jewish-American mother, Martha Harris. If there was a time for transformation—or obfuscation—it was then.

But I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge that there have been a few occasions when I did, in fact, change my name for the purposes of obfuscation—or obliteration. The first was when I was about thirteen, and had to deliver the afternoon paper to an elderly woman who lived behind one house in another, smaller house that resembled a shack. She had signed up for the paper as a new customer, but something kept going wrong with the correct address being conveyed to me —perhaps because it was a 1/2—so my dispatcher finally demanded that I make a special delivery and hand her the paper in person. It turned out that she was nice but lonely, and wanted to spend time talking with me, but I was frightened of her because of her age and the condition of her home, so when she asked me my name I told her it was Steve. I was amazed that she could not tell I was lying. After that, I was always Steve with her, which felt to me like a terrible betrayal of everyone involved, including my father—but there was, of course, no going back. When I collected the weekly payment, she would pay me with a handful of coins since she was poor, and she never tipped but she would always say, “Thank you, Steve.”

The second time I gave a false name was about fifteen years later, when I was living in New York City, hoping to become a professional actor and having no success. Apart from an occasional call to audition for the role of a taxi-driver or a deli owner, the phone never rang. At some point, I managed to arrange a meeting with a casting agent, and the first thing she asked me was whether I had ever considered changing my name. It was a fair question, I guess, but I felt insulted. “You’re sitting directly across from me,” I said, “and can see that I could easily pass for Italian American.” I was basing this on a moderately ambiguous ethnic quality in my face, which people had speculated over the years could be Italian or Greek or “anywhere in the Mediterranean.” But I had not formulated this concept as tactfully as I could have, and now it was the casting agent’s turn to be insulted. “Why would I call you for an Italian-American role,” she demanded, “when there are a hundred thousand Italian American actors?” To this, I had no response. “If I send you out for an Italian-American role,” she said, “that’s trouble . . . and I don’t want trouble.” She was earnest and annoyed. It was also clear that she had lost any interest in helping me. “Change your name to Joe Kelly,” she suggested, “and I can get you work.” And then she concluded with the powerhouse line: “Until then, I’ll call you when I need a terrorist.” At that, the meeting was effectively over.

She never did call me in need of a terrorist, a role that I most likely would have accepted. And after a few years had passed and my career had continued to stagnate, I finally took her advice and had five hundred head shots made with my face and the name Anthony March Harris, a clever amalgamation of names belonging to my mother, my cousin, and a childhood friend. I thought it had a nice ring to it, but unfortunately it also put me in competition with every other white American male actor, an even more daunting subset. The one audition I landed, a shaving-cream commercial, seemed exceptionally promising when the young female assistant director, before turning on the camera, remarked, “You look like my ex-boyfriend.” I had never heard this before at an audition, and I took it to mean that she found me mildly attractive, and that my odds were good. With the paranoia of my ethnic psyche running in the background, I assumed that my commonplace name was partly why she had managed to see a resemblance. Either way, I did not get the part. Not too long after that I gave up acting for good and threw away my several hundred head shots. Among other things, I had become dimly aware that much of my desire for stardom was fuelled by a wish for revenge, and the prospect of becoming famous on, say, a sitcom, even if that were remotely possible, did not hold much appeal if the classmates who had mocked me so vigorously years earlier would never know that it was I who had succeeded.

Lately, I have begun spending almost all of my afternoons—and sometimes evenings—reading in my favorite Starbucks, situated on the New York University campus. It’s by far the busiest Starbucks I’ve ever been in, with waits up to twenty minutes long, but I’m such a regular that the baristas frequently make my coffee before I’m even in line: decaf quad espresso ($3.21). They know me so well, in fact, that my name is always spelled correctly, which means, unfortunately, that I no longer tweet photos of the sides of coffee cups—but so be it. With its enormous windows facing Washington Square Park and its chestnut-brown armchairs, I sit there with my noise-cancelling headphones on, undisturbed. The other day, the eternal line of college students notwithstanding, one of the baristas took the time to deliver my cup of coffee to me. It was such a lovely gesture. The type of small-town fellowship that people lament the modern age for having eradicated.

Source: www thenewyorker.com

 
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Posted by on SunAmerica/Los_Angeles2018-12-09T10:06:57+00:00America/Los_Angeles12bAmerica/Los_AngelesSun, 09 Dec 2018 10:06:57 +0000 31, in coffee, morning drama

 

“You Light Up My Life” BY DEBBY BOONE (1970s)

“You Light Up My Life” BY DEBBY BOONE (1970s)

“You Light Up My Life” is a ballad written by Joseph Brooks, and originally recorded by Kasey Cisyk for the soundtrack to the film of the same name. The song was lip synched in the film by its lead, Didi Conn. Background Cisyk’s original soundtrack recording was released as a single to bolster sales of the soundtrack, after Debby Boone included her version on her first solo album also entitled You Light Up My Life. (Although the soundtrack was certified gold, peaking at No. 17 on the Billboard 200 albums chart, it never included Boone’s version of the song.) Cisyk’s single was credited to “Original Cast”, not to Cisyk herself, and only reached No. 80 on the Billboard Hot 100. Brooks also released an instrumental version of the song from the soundtrack as a single, but his version failed to chart. Boone’s success resulted in Grammy nominations for Best Pop Vocal Performance Female and Record of the Year and won her the 1977 Grammy for Best New Artist and the 1977 American Music Award for Favorite Pop Single. The song earned Brooks the 1977 Best Original Song awards Golden Globe and Academy Awards. The song ranks #7 on Billboard’s All Time Top 100.

en.m.Wikipedia.org

 
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Posted by on SunAmerica/Los_Angeles2018-12-09T10:03:38+00:00America/Los_Angeles12bAmerica/Los_AngelesSun, 09 Dec 2018 10:03:38 +0000 31, in American music artists, coffee, entertainment, female vocalist, music

 

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The “Cozy Up” Dinner Date Plan

The Simplest Dinner Menu That Will Still Blow Your Date Away

BY PAULA FORBES

Hello, lovers. Now that you’ve mastered the basic rules for date-night cooking, it’s time to put those skills to use on the ultimate romantic menu: steak for two. You should not be daunted by steak. Steakhouses have fancy dining rooms and fancy wine lists and fancy menu prices, but cooking meat for your beloved is about as primal as you can get. If it got the early humans laid, who’s to say it won’t work for you?

Once you’ve successfully cooked your hunk of meat, all you have to do is put something nice next to it and you’ve got a meal. Want to keep things light? Make a salad. Want to go all out? Mash the hell out of some potatoes. It’s all pretty simple. So break out the sharp knives and take the batteries out of the smoke alarm: It’s time to get your steak on.

First things first: You need some meat. Unless you know one of you likes it burnt and one of you likes it bloody, get a big steak to split. It’s more romantic that way, and more fun. Something in the 18-ounce range if it has a bone; 14 ounces if not. Don’t sweat the cut too much: Rib eyes are probably your best bet, but anything that’s about an inch thick and nicely marbled with fat will do the trick. Go to a good butcher, since they will have more options for you to choose from. (This is not the time to get the cling-wrapped stuff in a styrofoam container.) Spring for an aged steak if you like—it’ll have a super beefy, almost blue cheese-y funk to it—but if not, buy the best you can afford and move on.

Once you get it home, put that hunk of meat in the refrigerator until about an hour before you’re going to cook it—you want it to come up to room temperature.

Add Some Sides
You will need a potato, most likely. Mashed potatoes will do the trick if you’re into them, or if you want something ultra-easy, go for baked potatoes. (Gussy them up with crumbled bacon and sour cream and chopped herbs when they’re done.) If you trust your cooking skills, go ahead and make a classic (read: fancy) potato like Potatoes Anna or a gratin.

You also need a vegetable. Ideally something green. If you’re feeling spunky, swing by the farmers’ market and check out what’s in season. Right now, you might try snap peas or asparagus, quickly cooked in well-salted boiling water for a minute and then tossed with a bit of butter, salt, and pepper. Or make a simple salad: Buy the most beautiful lettuce you can find and toss it with a bit of oil, vinegar, salt, and pepper before serving. Boom, done.

Get Some Wine
Red wine. The specific red wine is your call, but it has to be red, and again the best you can afford. This is date night: You’re looking to impress. If you have no idea what you’re doing, go to a good wine shop and ask for help. Put a bit of a chill on the wine, but don’t get it totally cold: Put it in the refrigerator about 20 minutes before your date shows up. Serve it in wine glasses if at all possible, but short glass tumblers will do in a pinch.

Get a Pan Really, Really, Really Hot
Ideally, you should use a cast-iron pan. If you don’t have one, use the most heavy-duty pan you own that will fit the big steak. While the pan is heating up, season the steak with salt and pepper generously on both sides. When the pan is really ridiculously hot—almost smoking—open the closest window to the stove and add a swish of vegetable oil to the pan. Add the steak. It will smoke and spit like crazy. (Aren’t you glad you opened a window?) This is, perhaps, the one drawback to making steak for date night, but it is also dramatic and exciting, so maybe it depends on what kind of person your date is.

Sear, Baby, Sear
Leave the steak to cook on one side for a few minutes, then flip. You’re looking for that good brown sear to form on both sides, and once you’ve got that, you only want to cook it to just how you like it. There are all kinds of ways to test how done a steak is, but in general, find the part of the steak that is farthest from the edge or a bone and poke it with your finger. You want it to be tougher than it was when it was raw, but still have a good amount of give. If you have a meat thermometer, 130°F will get you a medium-rare steak, while 150 will get you a more well-done but still rosy steak.

Dinner Is Served
Your steak will need some time to rest when it’s finished. Set it on a plate with a piece of butter on top, and finish your sides. (Also, pour some wine for your date who just got smoked out by the steak situation. Make a little joke about it. It’s fine.) Once it’s rested, slice it into thin strips. If you really want to get fancy, dot it with a sauce like chimichurri or Béarnaise. But honestly? The steak, a glass of wine, and your smile should do the trick. Now go get ’em.

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Posted by on SunAmerica/Los_Angeles2018-12-09T10:01:08+00:00America/Los_Angeles12bAmerica/Los_AngelesSun, 09 Dec 2018 10:01:08 +0000 31, in Dating/Blind Dating, entertainment

 

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“The Amusing Annals of Coffee Enthusiasts”…

In the Land of the Coffee Nerds

By Matt Buchanan

Illustration by Eric Palmo.
“This is what coffee tasted like in nineteenth century!” Peter Giuliano exclaimed, holding a cup of Bard coffee’s Sumatra Wahana Natural as we talked at a small stand near the entrance of the Boston Convention and Exhibition Center, where the Specialty Coffee Association of America was holding its twenty-fifth annual exposition this past weekend. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

This statement may sound absurd, but Giuliano’s enthusiasm is powered by a remarkable backstory: the coffee he was drinking was grown in the northern Sumatra region of Indonesia, where most of the coffee in the world came from in the mid-nineteenth century, and it was processed using the natural (or dry) method, in which the whole coffee cherries are left out to dry before the bean is removed—this how all coffee was processed before the invention of wet processing. (Most Sumatran coffee is now wet processed, which means that the coffee bean is stripped out of the cherry before it’s dried.) When I tried the Bard coffee, I noted that it indeed possessed the signature slightly sweet funk of coffee that had been dry processed.

Giuliano, who, dressed in a light, crisp suit, stands out in the expo’s sea of baristas, coffee buyers, shop owners, and equipment-manufacturer representatives, is the director of the Specialty Coffee Association of America’s Symposium, and one of the specialty-coffee industry’s biggest boosters. Much of S.C.A.A.’s outward-facing work is about ensuring that people increasingly think of coffee like wine—less a bitter drug-delivery system than an object of immense aesthetic value, imbued with a sense of terroir, seasonality, and craft. (Kelefa Sanneh’s article about the famed coffee grower Aida Batlle is a beautiful portrait of the specialty-coffee industry and its evolution.) The comparison with wine can border on contentious; at the United States Barista Championship, happening concurrently at the back of the exhibition hall, one barista noted, with subtlest hint of aggression in his voice, that “there are more flavor compounds in coffee than in wine.”

Barista competitions at the highest level are strange, highly scripted rituals—part “Iron Chef,” part ted talk, part dog show. A barista has fifteen minutes to produce a series of espresso-based drinks for a panel of judges while delivering a vivid, ebullient speech about the coffee, in which he or she generally relates in excruciating detail where it came from, the farmers who produced it, and what the judges should be experiencing and contemplating as they sip each beverage. (All while an entirely separate set of judges grade how gracefully the barista moves and performs behind the bar—this is the dog show part.) I watched Trevor Corlett, from Madcap Coffee, a roaster that started in Grand Rapids, Michigan, compete with a routine that focussed on seasonality, a concept that’s come to the forefront of specialty coffee, much like restaurants that only serve seasonal produce. Corlett used an older July harvest in a cappuccino, citing its softness, and, for an espresso, a fresher December harvest that was “fruity.” He then combined the two in a pair of signature drinks—essentially coffee cocktails—featuring maple syrup and torched grapefruit. He finished with four seconds to spare and came in third out of six finalists.

The term “specialty coffee” increasingly invokes “Portlandia” sketches with snotty baristas and Brooklyn-famous roasters like Stumptown, but the designation is mostly centered on attention to a coffee’s origin. For instance, Green Mountain Coffee Roasters is considered a specialty-coffee company, even though it roasts tens of millions of pounds of coffee a year, and people are most familiar with its automated Keurig K-cup machines that utilize pre-ground coffee. The exhibition hall is packed with booths hawking everything from soy-based gelato to flavored syrups—at one booth, I drank seltzer water with a splash of bacon syrup, which I had to pour myself because the company representative was afraid that the plastic, smoky smell would never dissipate if he spilled it on himself. And at another booth, I was given a square of “chocolate” that in fact contained no cocoa; it was made with ground coffee and vegetable oil and tasted like chocolate laxatives.

I’ve written in the past about the specialty-coffee industry’s vexed relationship with technology, but, at the show, it was a piece of technology that generated the most excitement among the coffee [specialty class]. Called Modbar, it promises to radically transform the shape of the modern coffee bar for the first time in decades. With Modbar, all customers see is an exceptionally clean and airy counter with a tap that produces espresso, a chrome stand that looks like laboratory equipment with a pen-like device that spits water for pour-over coffee, and a thin, bent wand that steams milk. The boilers and messy guts are stuffed into a pair of boxes that look like stereo receivers hidden below the counter. The result is incredibly modern and beautiful. For baristas, the system is state of the art—customizable and modular, allowing complete control over the coffee-brewing process. The setup demonstrated at the show cost fifteen thousand dollars, in line with other high-end espresso machines. Corey Waldron, Modbar’s founder, said that the company has set official expectations of selling fifty to sixty systems by the end of year, but he suspects that it will sell more.

While the most delicious espresso I had at the show came out of Modbar, a Kenyan coffee from the North Carolina-based Counter Culture Coffee—one of the big three high-end specialty roasters, along with Chicago’s Intelligentsia and Portland’s Stumptown—offered the most profound experience. I was finally tasting Esmeralda Especial, a highly renowned coffee from Panama’s Hacienda la Esmeralda, which holds the distinction of the highest price ever paid for coffee at auction—in 2010, the auction price of the highest-grade lot reached a hundred seventy dollars per pound. It is both the pinnacle and logical conclusion of how the specialty-coffee industry wants to transform coffee itself. Giuliano, formerly the director of coffee at Counter Culture, once recounted asking himself, “Are we rewarding this coffee because it’s excellent, or are we rewarding it because it’s weird?” In the end, he concluded that “it’s justly celebrated.”

Counter Culture served a limited quantity of this coffee at its booth. It was extremely delicate and floral, like jasmine tea, and vastly unlike what most people think coffee tastes like. I was a little too eager, however, and slurped too greedily, sending some of the precious Esmeralda down my windpipe. I choked and coughed up a hearty swallow, spritzing the booth with the regurgitated remnants of one of the world’s best coffees. Jesse Kahn, a Counter Culture wholesale representative, calculated that, had I purchased the drink at a coffee shop, I would have just coughed up two dollars’ worth of coffee.

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Posted by on SunAmerica/Los_Angeles2018-12-09T09:12:55+00:00America/Los_Angeles12bAmerica/Los_AngelesSun, 09 Dec 2018 09:12:55 +0000 31, in coffee, entertainment

 

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Best Friend, Look-Alike, Or An Alter Ego?

Best Friend, Look-Alike, Or An Alter Ego?

The Dognosis:

Your dog does behave like you, scientists prove

For years dog owners have sworn that their pets come to look like them
Picture: REUTERS

By Stephen Adams

For years dog owners have sworn that their pets come to look like them.

Now scientists have discovered the first hard evidence that the animals actually behave like their masters too.

Just like children, they adopt a ‘look and learn’ approach which means they cannot help but mimic humans’ actions when going about canine tasks.

The results have been seized upon by dog trainers as proof that owners can “positively influence the behaviour of our pets”.

So hard-wired is ‘man’s best friend’ to learn in such a manner, said the academics, that this could have had a greater effect on how they behave, than their selective breeding by humans over at least 10,000 years of domestication.

Biologists and psychologists at the universities of Vienna and Oxford collaborated to design an experiment to test the theory that dogs do have a “social” capacity to copy what they see, using a simple wooden box.

In the study, 10 owners showed their dogs how to open the wooden box, sometimes using their heads to push a handle and sometimes using their hands.

In the first part of the test, five dogs were rewarded with a piece of sausage for copying their owners’ actions.

The other five were rewarded with food for not copying, and using the alternative method.

With each dog the experiment was repeated hundreds of times, and the time taken for a dog to get it ‘right’ on 85 per cent of attempts (17 goes out of 20) was recorded.

The dogs encouraged to mirror their owners reached this point almost three times sooner, on average, than those rewarded for not copying them.

In the second part of the test, all the dogs were only rewarded for copying the method their owner used.

The five dogs previously rewarded for copying their owners reached the 85 per cent mark more than twice as quickly as the other five.

Writing in a paper published today in Proceedings of the Royal Society, they concluded: “This suggests that, like humans, dogs are subject to ‘automatic imitation’.”

Like humans, dogs cannot help imitating actions they see.

The dogs break down what they see into an “order of elements in a novel sequence of body movements”, they explained.

Critically, “observation of each element automatically activates a corresponding motor programme”.

Going further, they said the results “suggest that the imitative behaviour of dogs is shaped more by their developmental interactions with humans than by their evolutionary history of domestication”.

Caroline Kisko, from The Kennel Club, commented: “The findings confirm what many owners and people involved with dogs have known for years.

“A dog’s behaviour is influenced much like that of a child; through socialisation, learning right from wrong and adopting similar patterns of behaviour.

“We hope that owners understand the importance of their actions and use this knowledge to set good examples and therefore positively influence the behaviour of their pets.”

However, she was less convinced that copying behaviour could lead to animals mirroring their owners in appearance too.

Stock

“Regarding dogs looking like their owners, we have thought that people choose dogs to suit them and may inadvertently choose a dog with a similar look to themselves,” she said.

Source: http://www.telegraph.co.uk

 
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Posted by on SatAmerica/Los_Angeles2018-12-08T09:27:42+00:00America/Los_Angeles12bAmerica/Los_AngelesSat, 08 Dec 2018 09:27:42 +0000 31, in entertainment

 

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The Terrifying Slingshot!

The Terrifying Slingshot!

“Jordan and Chase”

“Dimetrius & KaSandra”

The Terrifying Moment The Cable Snaps On A Slingshot Ride

Two passengers were trapped for an hour before being rescued

By Ed Mazza

A woman was injured in an accident on a slingshot-style ride at a French amusement park when the cable snapped.

Two people were inside the ride capsule during the accident, which took place last week at Luna Park in Cap d’Agde, southern France.

The young woman suffered a broken leg, according to The Independent, while UPI reports that the other rider was bruised.

A slingshot ride, also known as a reverse bungee, features a capsule attached to two poles by bungee-style cables. The capsule is launched into the air, with the cables controlling the height and descent.

However, in this case, one cord snapped as the capsule was coming down. The capsule then swung to the side and hit one of the poles, knocking out some of the lights that run along its side.

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Posted by on FriAmerica/Los_Angeles2018-12-07T10:25:05+00:00America/Los_Angeles12bAmerica/Los_AngelesFri, 07 Dec 2018 10:25:05 +0000 31, in entertainment, reflections

 

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“This Christmas – Macy Gray.”

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Macy Gray was born in Canton, Ohio, to Laura McIntyre, a math teacher, and Otis Jones. While studying scriptwriting at the University of Southern California, she agreed to write songs for a friend, and a demo session was scheduled for the songs to be recorded by another singer. When the vocalist failed to turn up, Gray recorded them herself. She then met writer/producer Joe Solo while working as a cashier in Beverly Hills. Together, they wrote a large collection of songs and recorded them in Solo’s studio. The demo tape landed Gray the opportunity to sing at jazz cafés in Los Angeles. Despite Gray’s dislike of her own voice, Atlantic Records signed her. She began recording her debut record but was dropped from the label upon the departure of her A&R man Tom Carolan, who signed her to the label. Macy returned to Ohio but in 1997 Los Angeles based Zomba Publishing Sr. VP A&R man Jeff Blue, convinced her to return to music and signed her to a development deal, recording new songs based on her life experiences, with a new sound, and began shopping her to record labels. In 1998, she landed a record deal with Epic Records. She was on one of the songs from the Black Eyed Peas’ debut album, “Love Won’t Wait”.

en.m.wikipedia.org

 
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Posted by on FriAmerica/Los_Angeles2018-12-07T10:08:18+00:00America/Los_Angeles12bAmerica/Los_AngelesFri, 07 Dec 2018 10:08:18 +0000 31, in American music artists, black music artists, entertainment, female vocal group, music, smooth jazz

 

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