Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Johnny Depp New Free Wallpapers

Johnny Depp New Free WallpaperJohnny Depp New Free Wallpaper

Name : Johnny Depp

Birth Date : June 9, 1963

Birth Place : Owensboro, Kentucky, USA

Birth Name : John Christopher Depp II

Height : 5' 9''

Johnny Depp Desktop WallpaperJohnny Depp Desktop Wallpaper

Education : High scool (dropped out); Loft Studio in Los Angeles, California(studied with Peggy Feury)

Nationality : American

Occupation : Actor, director, musician

Claim to fame : as Officer Tom Hanson on TV Series: 21 Jump Street (1987)

Nicknames : Mr. Stench, Colonel

Johnny Depp Free WallpaperJohnny Depp Free Wallpaper

Biography
John Christopher Depp III was born June 9, 1963, in Owensboro, Kentucky. The son of John Christopher, a city engineer and Betty Sue Palmer, a waitress and homemaker (Johnny Depp has a tattoo of his mother's name on his left arm), young Johnny relocated to Florida with his three older siblings. The family moved to Florida shortly after the death of his grandfather, with whom the future actor was very close.

Johnny DeppJohnny Depp

Never the studious teenager and even more distraught by the divorce of his parents, Johnny Depp delved into the world of experimental drugs and picked up a whole new passion: the guitar. The high-school dropout spent his days playing guitar in a garage band after he taught himself how to play with the instrument his mother bought him.

Johnny Depp Computer WallpaperJohnny Depp Computer Wallpaper

Personal Quotes:

"The only gossip I'm interested in is things from the Weekly World News -- 'Woman's bra bursts, 11 injured'. That kind of thing."
- Johnny Depp

Friday, September 5, 2008

When my father fought my friend



Boxing is crooked. Boxing is fixed. Boxing is a cesspool for the lowest form of human traffickers, those who extract money from athletes who put their very physical health and future on the line for our entertainment.

But it is also the most honest form of sport. A fighter is worth exactly what they sign for. Unlike basketball, football, or baseball there is no salary cap or luxury tax to limit his share of the market. Though wrong decisions are epidemic, the fighters know who won, and so do the fans. The belts are comedies of political favoritism and network pressure, but their very debasement means that we do not even have to pretend they exert meaning. Boxers are entertainers, they are the most aggressive form of capitalists, and as such I find it difficult to ever quibble with their matchmaking decisions. If they choose to go for the big money over fights that will build legacy and respect that is their prerogative.

So it is not without some self-conflict that I admit my deep despair over the upcoming mega fight between Oscar de la Hoya and Manny Pacquiao. When initial reports claimed that Pacquiao had balked over the 30% share of the fight’s revenue I was relieved, despite the knowledge that he had declined the largest windfall of his brief but spectacular career. Since he inevitably signed on for the fight my dissapointment has only grown.



It is not that De La Hoya is a bad man, and he has certainly proven himself to be an elite fighter over the course of his career. But at this point he has moved past the point of relevance. He is like Robert Deniro, or Jack Nicholson, someone still capable of giving a fine performance, but for whom there are no longer any stakes, where the embarrassment of a flop or the accolades of success don’t really reflect upon their careers.


And again, there is really nothing wrong with this in a global sense. I don’t think a fighter should be forced to retire unless absolutely medically necessary. Even a somewhat sad case like the final chapters of the heroic Holyfield’s career don’t bother me, as he plies his trade in the equivalent of the heavyweight minor leagues, taking fights against marginal Euros and no-hopers there is no pretense of meaning or jeopardy.

No, the problem comes when one of these vestiges of the elite thrust themselves back onto the main stage. Manny Pacquiao is now the top pound for pound fighter in the world, he has plunged himself through five divisions and the Mexican trio of Barrera, Morales, and Marquez with shocking violence and willpower. He is at the prime of his career, a fighting machine whose craft has finally caught up to his physical gifts. There is virtually nothing that it is not possible to imagine him doing.

It hurts to see him, at this point, his absolute apex, taking a freak fight, a toughman competition. Pacquiao, who only moved up from 130 pounds this year, will now be taking on a genuine 154-pound fighter. It is not merely the weight difference that is so daunting, weight is one thing, but the human frame is something else. Pacquiao and De La Hoya are not only in different weight classes, but truly in different zones of human body type. Their fist size, chest size, calves, are simply not comparable.

It reminds me of nothing so much as the early days of mixed martial arts, when they would match fighters for the freakish disparity of their bodies just to see what the hell would happen. Like a living test of a drunken barroom debate between friends. Who would win, Gandalf or Spiderman? But in those MMA events there was the element of the unknown, the integration of different forms of combat and skill level. As that sport has matured it has moved away from that macabre roman excess of violence and cruelty.



In this fight we have the worst of that instinct without much of the mitigating element of uncertainty. While de La Hoya has clearly deteriorated he is still a genuine fighter. I fully expect him to batter a noble Pacquiao around the ring, pushing him back and damaging him even when landing on the Philipino’s gloves until his corner is forced to spare him. Oscar will get his career-capping win, a sort of valediction for all he has done for the sport, but I will find it empty and sad. A win over relics like Vargas or Trinidad, while lacking any pretension of combat at the highest level, would at least have the weight of a match between equals. Oscar has stood astride the sport like a money printing colossus, but he will exit as a mere pile of excess bills.

And though this is Pacquiao’s prerogative, and his blood will be repaid with gold, it will be an empty feeling for all who watch. Even if Pacquiao is somehow able to do the unthinkable and actually win, my only reaction will be to marvel at how thoroughly Oscar’s gifts have faded to allow this to happen.


So what are we left with? A freak show, an interspecies fight, a paralyzed rhinoceros versus a jackal, who will win? It really doesn’t matter. Boxing is capitalism masquerading as sport, it always has been. When the two intersect as with Pacquiao’s last fight with Marquez, the results are both terrible and beautiful to behold. When they don’t we’re left with, this.

And yet… what does it say about me? Despite it all, I won’t be able to keep from watching.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

My cancer is my friend

I would say that the most obvious reasons one watches and enjoys boxing are:

1. Ethnic pride.
2. The possibility of blood and, potentially, death.
3. The narrative of specific fighters.
4. The application of the sweet science as an expression of human athleticism and mental discipline.

I list those in what I would guess to be descending order of their commonness, and what I would like to think of as ascending order for my personal fandom.



Why do you watch boxing is a far more common question than for any other sport, asked in a credulous and somewhat prosecutorial tone. (It’s the third most likely conversation point when boxing is broached, closely behind anything related to Mike Tyson, and, strangely to me, the questioner’s admission that they enjoyed professional wrestling when they were younger.)

I bring this up because I went to a live fight on Friday. As everyone who has ever been to a live fight knows, the immediacy of the event, the sound of the punches, the physicality of the bruising is extraordinarily different than that of watching on television. Roughly the difference one imagines between the experience of a war zone and the reportage of an event. But strangely this time it left me somewhat lifeless and confused, as though the physical act of bone on bone were the equivalent of high school field hockey.



This was certainly influenced by the fact that the fight card was less than stellar. I had seen one fighter before, Fernando Beltran Jr., but despite being an honest pro and a world title challenger he was not the sort to inspire poetry or even car ornamentation. Combine the lack of household names with the event taking place in a cavernous hockey stadium that I would guess was roughly filled to an eighteenth of capacity, and you get the least rousing fight I’ve ever been to.

I’ve been to live fights in six different cities now, several of which had crowds as small or smaller, if none with such echoing emptiness at this one. But at those there was an underlying nationalism that sweetened the event, even if the stakes were similarly low.

I find college basketball unwatchable, but can understand the passion when the stakes are based on school pride and tradition, but like televised minor league baseball, being at a mid-level prize fight without the benefit of jingoism turns rooting interests into something more like trying to enjoy a funeral you’ve not been invited to.



It’s strange being in an event where the crowd doesn’t know whom to root for. Normally it’s a Mexican themed night, or a Polish card, but here the main event was between a Mexican and an African fighter, and while I always root for the African fighter because no one else does, I felt the largely white, voyeuristic crowd of mostly non fight-fans was torn between their distaste for illegal immigrants and the natural inclination to root against even a 126 pound black man.

The only clear rooting interest the crowd took was in favor of a fighter from Pennsylvania who came in to his own rap song. But this was not so much based on his style or demeanor, but the fact that his opponent, though actually from Maine, had a name that began with a Le, and as such, being seen as vaguely French, was easy to root against.

With jingoism and personal narrative ruled out we were left with blood, and while the madding crowd obliged with their familiar catcalls for violence, it wasn’t to be, and the place turned into a weird conglomeration of insignificance and personal triumph.

All of which is to say that though on some level the overt nationalism and xenophobia which are in many ways the worst part of all sports are, in boxing, the coda by which the liberated fan must react. The vitriol and bitter shouts that seem to be rote at fights more than any other sporting event: Polack, nigger, cracker, fairy, and cantaloupe, far from being a degradation of the event are the background upon which the noble fan has to trace his journey from mere sporting contest, to prizefight, from bruising to science. Boxing is one of the last honest refuges of racial relations through spite and blood, and lets hope it remains that way.

While De La Hoya and Hopkins may now have meaning beyond their respective ethnicities, if they did not start with one how would we ever find the other?

Friday, August 22, 2008

Be imitators



One need look no further than the trite but true boxing axiom that “Styles make fights,” to know that boxing is more than mere athletic contest, it is beauty and sweet science intermingled. It is showmanship and pain. It is drama and farce. The history of boxing is littered with champions that mixed performance with personality, body with mind, that no other sport can match; Ali, Foreman, Robinson, Duran, Tyson, Jack Johnson, men who’s names conjure not merely athletic achievement, but a sort of living communion between muscle and man that those of us still coming to terms with the flesh which carries us around will never hope to achieve.

It is no coincidence that the majority of great sporting dramas in both literature and film take place in the squared circle. Boxing is all too human and the shedding of the robes, the baring of the chest, the near nakedness and vulnerability of the participants strip them to their essence in a way impossible in other endeavors. In the same way one never gets to know a person until spending an ungodly amount of consecutive hours with them; a road trip, a shared vacation, a prison cell, when all their defenses are removed, one cannot but know what a man is made of after twelve rounds of hit or be hit. There is no quarter in boxing, no timeout, it is elemental. In the championship rounds when the body weakens and the brain is exhausted all that one is left with is the base, the fundamentals, the instincts, the MAN.

There’s a certain moment in round twelve of Marco Antonio Barrera vs. Naseem “the prince” Hamed that has always stayed with me in just that way, not so much for the violence or tactical mastery, but for the humanity of the moment.

You probably remember Hamed. The flamboyant Brit born of Yemeni parents would enter the ring with the word "Islam" emblazoned on the back of his trunks. A radiant and grating personality from a country starving for a champion (Lennox Lewis just never stuck) Hamed changed the economic environment for fighters in the featherweight division. He was a southpaw and built like a fire hydrant, with short, thick, muscular legs and an almost cartoonishly tiny head that looked like nothing so much as Mr. Peanut. I’ve often wondered why, during one of his numerous and drawn out ring walks he never once dressed in formal wear with a top hat, monocle, and cane.



In the ring Hamed was the ultimate stylist. He carried his hands low, clowned, and basically did everything that even an amateur would know to avoid. Instead of craft he relied on incredible agility, quickness, and power. The power was the thing. At the lower weight classes knockouts, when they come, are normally the result or consistent and repetitive domination by one opponent. Hamed, on the other hand, had an impossible, preternatural destructive power that seemed to come from nowhere. He would throw punches at weird angles, and when they landed the fight usually ended.

Both loved and hated during his prime, his importance is hard to overstate. During the late 90’s every weight class below 130 lbs. was the rough equivalent of the NBDL. You might occasionally see them on TV, the first undercard fight on a PPV, but never a main event, and never for much money. Hamed changed all that with stadiums filled with loyal fans and those eager to see him fail.

Hamed was making a million bucks a fight, but doubts remained. He had won titles in several weight classes, defeating good, but not great opposition. After repeatedly avoiding the top Mexican fighters in his division Hamed was finally matched with someone who would test his vaunted power.

Marco Antonio Barrera was born in Mexico City and turned pro at the age of 16. Nicknamed “the baby-faced assassin,” not so much for his youth, but for the implacable, almost disturbingly fixed expression of concentration on his face when he fought. A serious man, his most flamboyant ring entrance has been following two compatriots bearing a sign in opposition to the Republican Congress’s punitive immigration legislation.



Barrera was picked from an early age as the potential successor to Julio Caesar Chavez for his boxing crazed countryman. (Chavez holds roughly the same significance for the Mexican that Koufax holds for the Jew. That is, just slightly below the Virgin and Moses respectively.)

A straight ahead brawler with a mean streak, Barrera did not have Hamed’s otherworldly power, but he had the type of left hook to the body that only a Mexican fighter can be born with. Barrera was destined for greatness until running into Poison Jones, a slickster from New York with a wicked straight right.

After losing two fights Barrera rebuilt his career till the first and most epic of his three fights versus arch rival Eric Morales. Though he lost that fight by decision it made little difference to the public. Considered without dispute one of the ten or so greatest bouts in the history of the sport it was the sort of violent confrontation that is most comparable to cockfighting, with each man trading blows long passed the limits of endurance.

While perhaps not the true heir to Chavez, Barrera was without a doubt the finest opponent Hamed had ever fought. Even so, as the fight neared Hamed was a 3 to 1 favorite, astonishing for a fighter of Barrera’s achievements. The match up seemed all wrong for Barrera. Barrera loved contact, loved mixing it up, and claimed he was going to take the fight straight to Hamed, knock out the arrogant showman whose pre-fight comments had infuriated him. The thinking was that all Barrera could do was punch, and no one could outpunch Hamed.



As Barrera paced in the ring waiting for Hamed to enter his face was impassive as always. He was from a culture of fighters, a hard man and ten year professional. He waited nearly an hour while Hamed retaped his gloves multiple times before finally being carried into the ring on an apparatus rigged to look like a magic carpet.

And then something completely unexpected happened. Marco Antonio Barrera boxed. The ultimate banger, Barrera reinvented himself as a conservative boxer-puncher. He let Hamed unleash his leaping left hand leads and responded with accurate counter punching and carefully controlled aggression. He used his jab to bounce Hamed’s head around, unleashing his perfect left hook only when he was certain Hamed would be unable to counter.

After the first few rounds it was clear Hamed was outclassed. The tactics that had worked against weaker opponents were useless against the reborn classicist Barrera. Hamed, desperate, began clowning continuously hoping to land his one fight changing punch. The crowd, half full of Mexicans roared in orgiastic ecstasy as the off-balance Hamed was repeatedly hurt by sharp punches. The few times Hamed landed clean Barrera took them and came back with something even better.

By the twelfth round Hamed was hopelessly behind on points and seemed more intent on taking the fight the distance than taking chances that would open himself up to Barrera’s excellent counterpunching. But rather than take his defeat Hamed wanted to spoil it. He began to hold, to punch in the clinches, and to trip Barrera. Though Barrera retained his stoicism you could hear the mounting bloodlust in the crowd, the feeling that the humiliation wouldn’t be complete with a mere lopsided decision.



It wasn’t so much the particularly egregious late punch by Hamed (long after the ref had stopped the action), during the middle of the twelfth and final round that made you know something would happen. It was the odds, and the prefight press conferences, and the hour waiting in the middle of the ring – it was the whole thing. And it is a moment that has stuck with me not only as the example of what it means to be an elite level boxer, but what allows any man of will to exercise his mastery over another.

Barrera waited a few moments, until the Prince leapt in, off balance, and then grabbed Hamed’s right arm, put his hand around his neck in the closest approximation to a head-lock one could manage while wearing boxing gloves, and marched Hamed halfway across the ring before he slammed his face into the ring post. The crowd, seemingly at its apex roared even louder in their glory.

Though one point was deducted it was well worth it for the raging Barrera. He had reinvented himself, become a new and different fighter, but the force of will and greatness in him had remained intact. It was the kind of moment only seen in elite level prize-fighting, the ultimate exhibition of machismo and competitive greatness. He very well might have been disqualified, but that thing which made him a champion would never allow him to accept either a punch, or a show of disrespect without an answer. There was no possible other way Barrera could have responded – his identity as a Mexican and a champion precluded it. As much about national pride and the sacred codes of masculinity as it was about the fighters, it is the moment that captures what boxing means to Mexican fans.



Hamed had a different notion of what boxing means as an institution. Fighting more for flash and fortune, Hamed never recovered from his loss, the blow to his ego and his lack of fighting spirit making it easier to fade into retirement than to work for the sort of redemption and resurrection that have come to mark the storied and glorious career of Barrera, whom, long past all expectation, remains a champion.

And though it has never been definitively established, I like to believe certain ringside reports that said as Hamed offered to touch gloves after returning to the middle of the ring Barrera, notably refusing any show of sportsmanship or comity, asked the Prince, “quien es su padre?”

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Tara Reid Biography, Wallpapers, Pictures, Photos.




Why Is She Famous?


Tara Reid is one of Hollywood's hot young actresses, having appeared in American Pie, Urban Legend and Van Wilder. In addition to her nightclub antics, she made headlines in November 2004 when pictures of her exposed nipple (surprise, surprise) were posted on the Internet.


Tara ReidTara Reid


Name
Tara Reid

Birth date
November 8, 1975

Birth place
Wyckoff, New Jersey, USA

Birth Name
Tara D. Reid



Tara Reid PhotoTara Reid Photo


Education
Professional Children's School in New York City; Barnstable Academy

Height
5' 5(1.65 m)

Nationality
American

Profession
Actress

Claim to fame
as Victoria 'Vicky' Lathum in American Pie (1999)




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Filmography

Alone in the Dark ( 2005 )
My Boss's Daughter ( 2003 )
Devil's Pond ( 2003 )
National Lampoon's Van Wilder ( 2002 )
American Pie 2 ( 2001 )
Just Visiting ( 2001 )
Josie and the Pussycats ( 2001 )
Dr. T and the Women ( 2000 )
Around the Fire ( 2000 )
Cruel Intentions ( 1999 )
Girl ( 1999 )
Body Shots ( 1999 )
American Pie ( 1999 )
Around the Fire ( 1998 )
The Big Lebowski ( 1998 )
Urban Legend ( 1998 )


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Mailin Address

Tara Reid
c/o BMR Public Relations
9100 Wilshire Blvd., Sixth Floor, West Tower
Beverly Hills, CA 90212



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Biography

Tara Reid was born on November 8, 1975, in Wyckoff, New Jersey. The daughter of Tom and Donna, teachers who run a pair of day care centers, Tara was immersed into acting early on. Of Irish, Italian, French, Hungarian, and English descent, Tara may have an All-American look, but her look has always been unique enough to get her acting roles, even as a child.



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She made her debut in a children's television game show, Child's Play, in 1982, and then appeared in commercials for products like Crayola, Jell-O and McDonald's. Joining a class consisting of fellow child actors such as Macaulay Culkin, Jerry O'Connell, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and Holly Marie Combs, Tara attended the Professional Children's School in New York, New York.



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Tara reid is no urban legend

Tara Reid's earlier work includes a bit part in Saved by the Bell: The New Class in 1994 and a guest spot on California Dreams in 1996.

But in 1998 she scored her first high-profile role as Bunny Lebowski, the much younger wife of The Big Lebowski, in the movie of the same name. That same year, she appeared in I Woke Up Early the Day I Died, and had a larger role as a college campus DJ in the teen thriller Urban Legend, sharing the screen with Alicia Witt and Rebecca Gayheart.

1999 was Tara's breakthrough year. She appeared in the made-for-TV movie What We Did That Night and had a small role in Cruel Intentions, a teen-oriented version of Dangerous Liaisons.



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Tara reid in american pie

After Around the Fire, Tara starred as Vicki in the surprise gross-out hit of the year, American Pie, along with sexy Shannon Elizabeth and Mena Suvari.

Now more of a recognizable star, Tara was seen in Body Shots (1999) and in the star-studded flop, Dr. T & the Women (2000); not even Helen Hunt or Kate Hudson could save that disaster.

But while 2000 was a quieter year career-wise, it was nowhere near boring for Tara, as she met former MTV VJ (and now NBC Last Call host) Carson Daly during Spring Break in March and he proposed that October. Tara and Carson called it quits in 2001, and the breakup allegedly led to Tara's brief bout with anorexia. By late 2001, she was healthy again.



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Tara reid parties in van wilder

2001 was a big movie year for Tara, with roles in Just Visiting and Josie and the Pussycats, co-starring Rachael Leigh Cook and Rosario Dawson.

She also reprised her role in American Pie 2, and took on another "college girl" gig as a high school paper reporter in the comedy National Lampoon's Van Wilder.

In 2003, Tara starred in Devil's Pond and played Ashton Kutcher's love interest in My Boss's Daughter.

In 2005, Reid can add Alone in the Dark (a thriller based on the video game), Wicked Prayer and Land of Canaan to her resume.tara reid in the news




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Although Tara has not been in a memorable film since Van Wilder, she continues to make headlines. Known for her heavy drinking and party-girl lifestyle, Tara counts fellow partier Paris Hilton among her circle of close friends. One person she is not good friends with is Internet babe Cindy Margolis, whom she physically fought with. Margolis is married to Reid's ex-boyfriend, restaurateur Guy Starkman.

In addition to Carson Daly and Guy Starkman, Tara has been romantically linked to New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, Baltimore Ravens starting quarterback Kyle Boller and financial analyst Jason Ader.



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While the paparazzi always seem to get shots of Tara Reid stumbling out of bars drunk, the most famous image of her is another "Nipplegate," which shows her left breast popping out of her dress as she arrived at hip-hop artist P. Diddy's birthday party in New York.

When she's not partying it up or acting, she also serves as a fashion consultant for her brother Patrick's clothing store, called Patrick Reid.



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Personal Quotes

"If Carson was an actor, he'd understand why I have to be away on sets and that if I have to kiss another guy in a movie, I do it. He'd read the tabloids that I was with Ashton Kutcher, but that was a bunch of bull. Then, I started reading he was with a stripper, and that wasn't true. You start tripping on each other for no reason. It makes you crazy." - about part of why she and ex-fiancéé MTV VJ Carson Daly split up.



Sexy Tara Reid Hot PictureSexy Tara Reid Hot Picture


Slasher movies are fun. You watch yourself get chopped to pieces, yet you're still alive. You see the blood on the ax and think, Holy **it, this is sick, but you kind of get over your fear of death.

It would be the ultimate dream for me to win an Academy Award, be in love and have kids. Then I would say, 'Life is great! I have done everything I wanted.' I keep trying to get closer to that. I also think when that happens, people will finally leave me alone.



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Once you get to know me, you would know in a second that I am an East Coast girl. You can tell because I'm not flaky, and I will tell you how it is. I also walk faster than they walk in L.A.

People think I am America's party girl, which is just stupid. I have done 24 movies and I am creating my own TV show.


Sexy Tara Reid Beautiful ImageSexy Tara Reid Beautiful Image


I think the reason I never ended up in as much trouble as Paris or Lindsay seem to is that I'm not stupid, so I'd never do a lot of the things those girls do, and I've always had good friends around me. They need to straighten up a little bit and make better investments. And they should surround themselves with better people who don't let them get themselves in trouble. You'll never read a story about me going out and partying when I'm supposed to be working. Nor would I show up on a set drunk or miss a day's work - never.



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I wish all the mean people, if you want to be mean to each other, just buy a country together and blow each other up. Then we'd have no terrorists left. Like, don't kill innocent people for no reason. It's not fair. We love everybody. We'd even like them if they said they're sorry. It's not fair that innocent people are getting hurt. It makes me sad."



Sexy Tara Reid Desktop Free WallpapersSexy Tara Reid Desktop Wallpapers


I like when a guy makes me feel like a woman and a little girl at the same time.

I like a guy who uses his hips when he's dancing. You know you're in for good sex if a guy uses those on the dance floor.

---Tara Reid.

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Michelle Branch Biography, Wallpapers, Pictures, Photos.




Why Is She Famous?

Her album The Spirit Room went platinum, and her singles "Everywhere" and "All You Wanted" were Billboard Top 20 hits. She is also known for her folksy pop sound that takes advantage of her considerable guitar skills.


Michelle BranchMichelle Branch


Date of Birth
2 July 1983, Phoenix, Arizona, USA

Birth Name
Michelle Jacquet DeSevren Branch

Nickname
Meech, Chelle

Height
5' 5" (1.65 m)

Education
Northern Arizona University




Michelle Branch PhotoMichelle Branch Photo


Nationality
American

Profession
musician

Filmography
The Hot Chick ( 2002 )

Spouse
Teddy Landau (23 May 2004 - present) 1 child




Michelle Branch Lovely WallpapersMichelle Branch Lovely Wallpapers



Biography

Michelle Jaquet DeSevren Branch was born in Phoenix, Arizona on July 2nd 1983. Michelle was born seven weeks early weighing only 3lbs 11oz, and says she was eager to get into the world. Her whole life she has loved music, listening to The Beatles since she was in the womb. At the time of her birth, her family were living in Flagstaff, Arizona but as it was 4th of July weekend, there were no places at the hospital and her mum, Peggy had to be flown to Phoenix with her dad, David following in the car. When Michelle was just three years old she recorded herself singing Beatles covers on her parents karaoke machine and sent them off to her grandma. She remembers her version of "Ticket To Ride" clearly, "She's got a chicken to ride, but she don't care!". At eight years old she took up singing lessons, but had to give them up when at eleven years old along with her parents, her older brother David (b. March 11th 1979) and younger sister, Nicole (b. 1987) she moved to Sedona, Arizona. From then on Michelle took up singing lessons with Gina Bettum, and a year after picking up the guitar by herself, at age 15 she started lessons with Ms. Bettums husband, Gary, but quickly stopped having lessons with him after she found herself constantly being technical instead of going with the flow. Also at age 15, Michelle left school and was home tutored by her mum, with a clear warning that if her grades dropped, she must return to school but luckily that never happened and she was able to focus on her music more.



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Her first break into the music industry happened when she was at home, looking after her younger sister Nicole. A family friend called her up and told her that a music manager named Jeff Rabhan was taking a time share tour at her company and to get down to her office with a demo tape. Unable to leave Nicole alone and with no drivers licence or parents in the house, Michelle stole her neighbours golf cart and made her way down to the resort with Nicole. Michelle says that when they got there, he wasn't interested but after forcing her tape on him, he listened to it on his way home in the car. A few months later, Michelle unexpectedly received a phone call from him, asking to sign her. He is still her manager to this day.



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After signing with Jeff Rabhan's company, Michelle went into the studio to record an indy album named Broken Bracelet and planned to give it away at local shows. Then in Summer 2000, Michelle received another phone call - this time from Hanson s reps, asking Michelle to play for them on some of their upcoming shows. Michelle happily accepted, packed her bags and flew to California where she would be spotted by a rep at Maverick Records and offered a record deal. In December 2000, Michelle eventually signed with Madonna's label and was halfway through finishing her first major album, later titled "The Spirit Room".



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The summer hit of 2001 turned out to be "Everywhere", the first single off Michelle's album. It shot into the #12 spot on the Billboard Hot 100 and made Michelle an established upcomer, with everyone wanting to work with her including Lifehouse, Jude, The Calling, Sheryl Crow and most recently The Dixie Chicks bringing her on tour with them. Then in January 2002, "All You Wanted" - Michelle's favourite off the album - stormed in at #6 and reached #1 on the TRL top 10. As summer 2002 came around, not even a year after her debut, and just a few weeks after the release of her third and final single off TSR, "Goodbye To You" (which reached #21), Carlos Santana requested Michelle's services for his comeback album, Shaman. The song was "Game Of Love" and hit the top 5, gaining Michelle worldwide recognition. Even Michelle admits that the duet made her, especially after being nominated for "Best New Artist" and winning "Best Pop Collaboration with Vocals" at the Grammy Awards in February 2003.



Michelle Branch Cool Wallpapers


In April 2003, Michelle finished recording her album, named Hotel Paper, after years of writing. The first single to be taken off HP was "Are You Happy Now?", which charted. Since then, she has gone on to perform at the Superbowl, Latin VMAs, headlining the Pepsi Smash, Humanitarian of the Year, MMVAs and was the first person to perform on top of the Madison Square Garden marquee.



Michelle Branch Cute Wallpapers


Personal Quotes

"Music has always been in me. When I sing, I have a sense of peace, I feel like my brain turns off, and I become the core person of who I am - the essence of me. I feel connected to whatever is out there. It's almost like I leave my body and get to watch."




Michelle Branch Sexy WallpaperMichelle Branch Sexy Wallpaper



"We got married on May 23 on top of a remote island off Mexico. I arrived by speedboat in a Morgane LeFay gown I bought for $300. We were there for about a week after - like a honeymoon!" - On her nuptuals to 40 year old boyfriend/bassist Teddy Landau.

"I secretly want to replace Meg White (of The White Stripes). I want to be a chick drummer!"


Michelle Branch PicturesMichelle Branch Pictures


"When I'm having a bad day, I pick up my guitar. Music is my release."

"I have a pirate fetish - I just always thought eye patches were sexy. If you want to get my attention, wear a pirate outfit."

"I always tell people that I'll sound exactly like Alanis Morissette after I've had more boyfriends. I'll be just as anguished-sounding."

-Michelle Branch