Of course I'm bummed about my Bulls losing to the awful, horrible Heat in the playoffs. But, blasphemy aside, I am amused/distracted by how much D. Rose looks like Christ on the cross in this Tribune photo.
Auto-correct on the iPhone is actually pretty great. It's based on what letters are near the letter you (in error, perhaps) actually typed, and it's a nice time saver. Except when it's wrong. Like, say you're trying to express the extreme cuteness of something you've read on twitter. And you really want to make a statement.
The progression of Sweet Valley Diaries through its chronological examination of Sweet Valley and the Wakefield Twins has come to a screeching halt. Our very timeline has been turned on its head. The ‘80s are long past, the ‘90s (or was it the ‘00s?) have been virtually skipped over, and we’ve been launched into the present, face to face with our young heroines as not-quite-as-young adults. In adult situations.
There is a lot to say about this new book, written by Francine Pascal herself for an audience of now-adult Sweet Valley fans. It’s not an adult novel, per say, though there is a little forbidden fruit hidden within, but it is certainly grown-up, mostly freed from the idyllic mise-en-scene of flawless California girlhood. In fact, it starts far away from sunny Sweet Valley, on the other coast, in a worn and lonely New York City apartment that belongs to Elizabeth. Jessica, the ersatz “runaway,” is thousands of miles away, still at home in Sweet Valley. And Liz has no interest in being any closer. She is really, really pissed. And, finally, it’s at Jessica.