Angie Day grew up in the Braeswood area of Houston and graduated in 1990 from St. Agnes Academy, the sister school to Strake Jesuit. She put her hometown to good use in her debut novel, The Way to Somewhere, published by Simon & Schuster this year. Day's 18-year-old tomboy antagonist wants mightily to get out of Houston and away from the uninspiring men she meets; meanwhile she spends her time watching bands at Fitzgerald's, cruising through River Oaks's opulence, and having an affair with a University of Houston professor who lives in West U. The book garnered solid reviews from publications like Newsday and People magazine and marks a promising beginning for Day, who now lives in New York.
Angie Day grew up in the Braeswood area of Houston and graduated in 1990 from St. Agnes Academy, the sister school to Strake Jesuit. She put her hometown to good use in her debut novel, The Way to Somewhere, published by Simon & Schuster this year. Day's 18-year-old tomboy antagonist wants mightily to get out of Houston and away from the uninspiring men she meets; meanwhile she spends her time watching bands at Fitzgerald's, cruising through River Oaks's opulence, and having an affair with a University of Houston professor who lives in West U. The book garnered solid reviews from publications like Newsday and People magazine and marks a promising beginning for Day, who now lives in New York.
DJs come and go in this town. Sometimes they pack it in and move on to greener pastures. Or occasionally they just give up the life altogether. Just recently, Sista Stroke (or Oktober Davila, or whatever alias you might know her by) said farewell to Houston and fled to the more progressive streets of Chicago. She will surely be missed by her loyal following -- and yes, Sista Stroke did have a loyal following. As one of the handful of local female DJs (Soul Free and Rocky B, to name a couple others) who get their groove on at various clubs, she was the most visible, the most versatile and the most respected female turntablist this beat-droppin' town has come up with. Whether she was dropping heavy, soulful house sounds ("strokin' beats," she called them) at spots like Hyperia or joining forces with the music collective GrooveMatters as their resident decknician, Stroke was an integral component to the local dance scene. Plus, it didn't hurt that she had the dark, exotic looks and magnetic charisma that would make any dude wish he had an active interest in collecting vinyl records. Sista Stroke was a DJ who could save your life from a broken heart.
DJs come and go in this town. Sometimes they pack it in and move on to greener pastures. Or occasionally they just give up the life altogether. Just recently, Sista Stroke (or Oktober Davila, or whatever alias you might know her by) said farewell to Houston and fled to the more progressive streets of Chicago. She will surely be missed by her loyal following -- and yes, Sista Stroke did have a loyal following. As one of the handful of local female DJs (Soul Free and Rocky B, to name a couple others) who get their groove on at various clubs, she was the most visible, the most versatile and the most respected female turntablist this beat-droppin' town has come up with. Whether she was dropping heavy, soulful house sounds ("strokin' beats," she called them) at spots like Hyperia or joining forces with the music collective GrooveMatters as their resident decknician, Stroke was an integral component to the local dance scene. Plus, it didn't hurt that she had the dark, exotic looks and magnetic charisma that would make any dude wish he had an active interest in collecting vinyl records. Sista Stroke was a DJ who could save your life from a broken heart.
Swanky, cool and utterly gorgeous, Andrew Jackness's set for the Alley Theatre's fall production of Yasmina Reza's Tony-winning Art was an example of visual minimalism at its two-toned best. The large elegantly blank rooms of the set were framed with towering cream-colored walls topped with enormous curving crown moldings. Furnished with three simple gray chairs, the rooms epitomized New York chic, the kind that comes with wads of dough and a wonderfully pompous desire to be hip, even if it means living life as though it could be ordered from a J. Crew catalog. Visually arresting and wonderfully clever in the way it captured all our modern-day anxieties about what is beautiful, Jackness's set made cool both appealing and absurd all at once.
Swanky, cool and utterly gorgeous, Andrew Jackness's set for the Alley Theatre's fall production of Yasmina Reza's Tony-winning Art was an example of visual minimalism at its two-toned best. The large elegantly blank rooms of the set were framed with towering cream-colored walls topped with enormous curving crown moldings. Furnished with three simple gray chairs, the rooms epitomized New York chic, the kind that comes with wads of dough and a wonderfully pompous desire to be hip, even if it means living life as though it could be ordered from a J. Crew catalog. Visually arresting and wonderfully clever in the way it captured all our modern-day anxieties about what is beautiful, Jackness's set made cool both appealing and absurd all at once.
When the dispiriting present is too much with you, set your Packard's radio dial to Star 790, KBME. That's AM, of course. KBME ("BME" stands for best music ever) exists in a time warp before FM ruled the airwaves, in the American past somewhere between the Great War and the Beatles. Here Eydie Gorme still blames it on the bossa nova, Russ Morgan dances with a dolly with a hole in her stocking, and Ella Fitzgerald cries over you. Between songs, the folksy DJs discuss the personal lives of celebrities who passed on years ago, then pitch financial-planning services and organ lessons to the Greatest Generation. "That old black magic has me in its spell," sings Frank Sinatra, and you think he's lucky: Old magic is often the most powerful kind.
When the dispiriting present is too much with you, set your Packard's radio dial to Star 790, KBME. That's AM, of course. KBME ("BME" stands for best music ever) exists in a time warp before FM ruled the airwaves, in the American past somewhere between the Great War and the Beatles. Here Eydie Gorme still blames it on the bossa nova, Russ Morgan dances with a dolly with a hole in her stocking, and Ella Fitzgerald cries over you. Between songs, the folksy DJs discuss the personal lives of celebrities who passed on years ago, then pitch financial-planning services and organ lessons to the Greatest Generation. "That old black magic has me in its spell," sings Frank Sinatra, and you think he's lucky: Old magic is often the most powerful kind.
In the Alley Theatre's production of August Wilson's Jitney this past winter, Wayne DeHart played the drunk Fielding with the scene-stealing grace of a truly great character actor. Before succumbing to the ravages of drink, Fielding was a fine tailor to such rich and famous jazzmen as Count Basie. But once he reaches Wilson's story, he's reduced to driving a taxi and not doing very well at that. DeHart's heartbreaking performance captured the depth of one ordinary man's fall from relative grace, making us think about the common sadness that has undone so many people's lives.
In the Alley Theatre's production of August Wilson's Jitney this past winter, Wayne DeHart played the drunk Fielding with the scene-stealing grace of a truly great character actor. Before succumbing to the ravages of drink, Fielding was a fine tailor to such rich and famous jazzmen as Count Basie. But once he reaches Wilson's story, he's reduced to driving a taxi and not doing very well at that. DeHart's heartbreaking performance captured the depth of one ordinary man's fall from relative grace, making us think about the common sadness that has undone so many people's lives.

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