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Showing content with the highest reputation on 02/10/2019 in all areas

  1. 5 points

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    Madonna's nipple coming through in your timeline to soothe the nerves.
  2. 3 points

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    Living for that David Bowie clip she posted. 100% on the money.
  3. 3 points
    - Corey Haim never accused MJ of rape or any inappropriate behaviour. That is a lie. - Corey Feldman never accused MJ of showing him pornography. He allegedly showed him a book about venereal disease at a time in Corey’s life when he was living on the edge. He wasn’t a prepubescent boy at that time either. Feldman said as recently as last year that MJ was innocent and never did anything to him. Find the video. - MJ has never been found in possession of any child porn. He would have been charged if they had found anything and found guilty of this crime. All they found were legal, adult magazines. - “Unconventional” behaviour is not criminal. MJ was different, and many adults who spent time with MJ as children consistently state he never acted inappropriately with them, including Wade and Jimmy who subsequently changed their stories and filed lawsuits against the Estate looking for money. - His real friends have not turned their backs on him. Out of he three men who testified for his defence in 2005, 2 of them stand by that today, and the other (Wade Robson) only changed his story 4 years after MJ’s death. After continuing to praise Jackson effusively after he died. The bottom line is MJ was investigated intensively during his life, was on trial and was acquitted. This film is based on posthumous accusations from two men who have changed their stories, have tried to get money and have lied repeatedly in the process. They don’t have any credibility. I've had to edit on word document so excuse me if the text is somewhat disjointed.
  4. 3 points

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    #newalbum #tomorrow
  5. 2 points
    I'm so surprised no one snatched this username before I could do it lol.
  6. 2 points
    Araby (a short story from Dubliners) James Joyce North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the Christian Brothers’ School set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours in a square ground. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces. The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which I found the late tenant’s rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions and the furniture of his house to his sister. When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan’s sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to Mangan’s steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of her hair tossed from side to side. Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood. Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs’ cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O’Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires. One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: “O love! O love!” many times. At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid bazaar, she said; she would love to go. “And why can’t you?” I asked. While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she stood at ease. “It’s well for you,” she said. “If I go,” I said, “I will bring you something.” What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few questions in class. I watched my master’s face pass from amiability to sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed to me child’s play, ugly monotonous child’s play. On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the hat-brush, and answered me curtly: “Yes, boy, I know.” As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me. When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress. When I came downstairs again I found Mrs Mercer sitting at the fire. She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker’s widow, who collected used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did not come. Mrs Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn’t wait any longer, but it was after eight o’clock and she did not like to be out late as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said: “I’m afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.” At nine o’clock I heard my uncle’s latchkey in the halldoor. I heard him talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the bazaar. He had forgotten. “The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,” he said. I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically: “Can’t you give him the money and let him go? You’ve kept him late enough as it is.” My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in the old saying: “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” He asked me where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked me did I know The Arab’s Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt. I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among ruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me was a large building which displayed the magical name. I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled at half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silence like that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Café Chantant were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. I listened to the fall of the coins. Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to their conversation. “O, I never said such a thing!” “O, but you did!” “O, but I didn’t!” “Didn’t she say that?” “Yes. I heard her.” “O, there’s a ... fib!” Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to the stall and murmured: “No, thank you.” The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder. I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall was now completely dark. Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
  7. 2 points

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    Wow what a revelation! Madonnas flawed like anybody else.. Who would have thought? i mean ok her names Madonna but that doesnt make her perfect. People need to stop analysing everything as if shes due for a court hearing charged with murder. You guys need to join the police or become detectives or something. Its so annoying to go through this forum and every now and then we read comments thats got little to do with M but more with blindsided opinions or personal interpretations. By all means i dont want anybody to be barred for expressing themselves here but id love for these peeps to be real and tell us what their problem really is.
  8. 2 points
    The incomparable miss Grace Jones...
  9. 2 points
    Sneaker Pimps doing Bowie live and it's simply awesome...
  10. 2 points

    Fastest To Hit #1

    Love her too, just wish I could understand her. She sang with more articulation when she first came out.
  11. 2 points
    That FUN song... A well-intentioned effort, I believe, but a bit of a confused mess. Let's get over it and focus on the new album. Music is supposed to make us come together, remember?
  12. 2 points
    Jackson was innocent! And there’s a wealth of proof out there to prove it. Robson and Safechuck change their story every day. I’m not going to bother getting into a back and forth with people who simply hate Jackson because the media have told them how to think and what to believe. With Jackson it seems no proof is necessary in the eyes of the media and with those who have an agenda to take him down. Robson and Safechuck will be exposed for the lying scumbags they truly are. Why is nobody talking about the Harvey Weinstein documentary that played at the film festival? This Jackson “documentary” is nothing more than a set of allegations and a character assassination to deflect from Weinstein and yet another move for both the scumbags to attempt yet again to get hundreds of millions of dollars via trial by media. Here is the estates letter to HBO. https://assets.documentcloud.org/documents/5733176/Letter-to-R-Plepler-Re-Michael-Jackson.pdf Read THAT and come back to me! Research this 5 year litigation attempt and then come back to me! Besides the wealth of proof from the court documents of the 05 trial the proves Jackson’s innocence there is a wealth of info online. The man is innocent. He’s also dead ten years. Let him rest in peace and educate yourselves to the truth and not media spin for clicks and views.
  13. 2 points

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    Somehow those unauthorised expired condoms needed to be promotion.
  14. 2 points
    Because she's the best. Because she's still standing after 4 decades. Because she's ALIVE AND KICKING @ 60. Because no one tours like her. Because when u think of a female pop star, u just can think about HER as the perfect example of resiliance and stardom. That's why.
  15. 2 points

    Welcome / Introduce Yourself

    Hello, everyone. Greetings from USA. I'm 28...I've been 'lurking' on here forever and I've been a fan since I graduated high school in '08. My favorite album(s) have to be Ray of Light and Rebel Heart. I also think MDNA didn't get enough credit. I know it's probably something a lot of you can relate to, but some of my favorite moments in life were soundtracked by Madonna. From breakups to partyin' like a rockstar and everything in between. I went to Miami with a friend for the RHT and ended up figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. You get the point--I think Madonna is an amazing artist. I'm beyond excited for this new era.
  16. 1 point

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    #justicefordrivebitch :-)
  17. 1 point
  18. 1 point

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    It's the rose, baby.
  19. 1 point
  20. 1 point
  21. 1 point
    not trying to sound like a victim but remember maybe one day it will happen for us that are still alone never give up!!!
  22. 1 point
  23. 1 point

    What are you reading right now?

    Do not go gentle into that good night Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
  24. 1 point

    The New Album 2019 - Part 2

    i mean "Issac" on paper sounds way left field. House music with staccato strings, a dude singing a hebrew poem from the 17th century while Madonna sings about angels. but that shit came together and even blends with the rest of the album.
  25. 1 point
    [Hidden Content]
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