As far as the rest of the show and the obvious sexual inuendos in his performance, well I find it hard to believe that all of those were impervised. The network saw his rehersal and if those actions were in the rehersal then they should have complained at that time. If they were not and were added just for the actual stage show, then maybe they need to make their performers adhere to stricter guidelines on what they can and cannot do and fine them a huge sum if they do not adhere.

Also I think that GMA had every right to cancel his performance.  The producers and network make the decision on what they want to show and what types of views they want to convey to their audience and if they do not think it will appeal to their audience then they do not show it.

My one fault with Lambert, was his “I am not a babysitter” comment.  I realize he is not a babysitter, but I think it was rude.  During his interview it almost seems like he is anti-childern.  Perhaps all of the networks need to make clear, that there may be questionable material during live performances, so that families are full warned and parents can decide to allow their childern to watch or not.

- City of Angels

A heart can be broken; but it keeps beating just the same.

-Fried Green Tomatoes

You’re not perfect sport, and let me save you the suspense, this girl you met, she isn’t perfect either. But the question is whether or not you’re perfect for each other.

- Good Will Hunting

Love is passion, obsession, someone you can’t live without. If you don’t start with that, what are you going to end up with? Fall head over heels. I say find someone you can love like crazy and who’ll love you the same way back. And how do you find him? Forget your head and listen to your heart. I’m not hearing any heart. Run the risk, if you get hurt, you’ll come back. Because, the truth is there is no sense living your life without this. To make the journey and not fall deeply in love – well, you haven’t lived a life at all. You have to try. Because if you haven’t tried, you haven’t lived.

-Meet Joe Black

Summer romances begin for all kinds of reasons, but when all is said and done, they have one thing in common. They’re shooting stars, a spectacular moment of light in the heavens, fleeting glimpse of eternity, and in a flash they’re gone.

- The Notebook

I’ve kissed a guy… I’ve kissed guys. I just haven’t felt that thing…. That thing… that moment when you kiss someone and everything around you becomes hazy, and the only thing in focus is you and this person. And you realize that that person is the only person you’re supposed to kiss for the rest of your life. And for one moment you get this amazing gift. And you wanna laugh and you wanna cry, ‘cause you feel so lucky that you’ve found it, and so scared that it’ll go away all at the same time.

-Never Been Kissed

I really appreciated the change in director. Chris Weitz did a wonderful job. The scenes were much more artistic than Hardwicke’s Twilight. I also liked the gold hue to the movie better than Twilight’s blue hue.  Makeup and costume also improved greatly in this movie compared to Twilight.

While I enjoyed the idea of Bella actually seeing Edward when she was acting recklessly in the movie, compared to only hearing Edward in the book, I could have done without the emails to Alice.  I felt like it was way too much speaking. I would have liked to see a more of Bella and Jacob’s relationship. It is important for the audience to understand just how depressed Bella was in Edward’s absence, but I think the complexity of the connection that she and Jacob share is very important at this stage.  A few lines of dialogue from her human friends at school could have replaced the emails to Alice very easily and clued us in on Bella’s depression.

I wanted more of the wolf boys. And I don’t just mean seeing them shirtless (although that would definitely be a plus), I mean more of their dynamic and chasing Victoria. 

I definitely loved it, but I will always prefer the book to the movie!

“The sky was gold. It was rose. I was

taking sips of it through my nose.”

“Semi-Charmed Life” -Third Eye Blind

A carefree junkie. Always holding.

Wild and spontaneous. Spun into control.

Filling the space. An intense stimulant.

Crystal Meth needs. Dreams fulfilled.

From friends to between the sheets.

Losing room keys in the sand.

Sex in the fitting room, crazy.

Adrenaline relationship.

Late night phone calls and last minute

decisions. Trips to North Carolina.

I-95 at midnight. Dipping dollars in the bag,

coating their rims with white gold.

Takes the hit he was given.

And he bumped up.

A huge rush. Euphoria. Endless dreams.

Never-beginning sleep. Hallucinations.

Blending clouds of colors. Pink and blue

make purple. Obsessively horny.

Sudden slip into paranoia. Giggle attacks

and tickle matches. Avoiding invisible cops.

Pretending it’s just a game. Hiding

from his girlfriend. Falling asleep in closets.

Gliding on a high. Heavenly addiction.

Closer to a wonderful disease.

Outstanding physical condition.

Only 25 a day for half a gram.

Hydro or glass?

Laundry detergent and lighter fluid.

Precise explosive mixture resulting

in green poodles and weight loss.

Methamphetamine induced feelings

lift him up until he breaks.

Exhilarating decline onto the other side.

Snort. Smoke. Inject. Swallow.

Another hit.

He bumps up.

A flip, then a cascade away from

himself. He says he’s in love

and wants to be a better man. Stories

of rehab redeeming success clouds

his mind and pushes him into a sober

statue with winter white walls.

He forgets wild mood swings.

Tina, Krank, Tweak, and Ice

disappear from his once unpredictable

life. A good job and clean haircut

takes center stage, and new act begins.

His potential blooms,

and my heart sinks.

Your glass tips over.

Malibu floods the carpet

forming yellow stains.

2. 

Pyramid of cans

stand tall intoxicating

well into the night.

 3.

Southern comfort stains

the carpet, engraving last

night into memories.

South Carolina strangles the past

for the both of us. Years spent

in this house have faded

into one another. Forgetting

the fun which once made its home

inside these walls. You ask me

where I want to live

and I say San Diego.

That’s far enough away,

don’t you think?

Just a smile and a nod

that’s all I’ll get.

You pack making sure

we have everything

on your list. I find myself

left out of this whole process.

I toss an old copy of David Copperfield

into my only box, marked ‘stuff.’

You pace the floors and talk

in sentences that never

seem to end. How can you talk

so much and listen so little?

I watch you go down your list

one last time. I don’t really care

anymore. Only one thing matters.

His ring that I took from the desk

the morning after we went out.

It’s silver and the stones

have long escaped the band

leaving only empty

spaces. You’ll never understand

why I jump in. He and I did things alike.

I turn the bottle of Jack up.

Perhaps he can comfort me.

You don’t seem to notice or even

ask why. Silence questions more.

Tomorrow we’ll leave. Tonight

we’ll sleep back to back

in this empty house. I’ll reach up

to turn the light off and hope

I dream of not waking up with you

or him, just of not waking up at all.

Born and raised by hypocrites,

Our hearts recycled but never saved.

Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me,

check my vital signs to know I’m still alive.

Our hearts recycled but never saved,

Like a needle in the vein of the establishment.

Check my vital signs to know I’m still alive,

a product of war and fear that we’ve been victimized.

Like a needle in the vein of establishment,

a vigilante, missing link on the brink of destruction,

a product of war and fear that we’ve been victimized,

she’s holding on my heart like a hand grenade.

A vigilante, missing link on the brink of destruction

to fall in love and fall in debt,

she’s holding to my heart like a hand grenade,

coming down like an Armageddon flame.

Fall in love and fall in debt

to keep me insane and doing someone else’s cocaine,

coming down like an Armageddon flame.

Bombs away is your punishment.

Keep me insane and doing someone else’s cocaine

to a hymn called faith and misery.

Bombs away is your punishment.

I read the graffiti in the bathroom stall

to a hymn called faith and misery

on a steady diet of soda pop and Ritalin.

I read graffiti in the bathroom stall.

She said “I can’t take this place, I’m leaving it behind,”

on a steady diet of soda pop and Ritalin.

Summer has come and past. The innocent can never last.

She said “I can’t take this place, I’m leaving it behind.”

She said “I can’t take this town, I’m leaving you tonight.”

This poem is composed entirely of lyrics from “Letterbomb,” “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” “Boulevard of Broken Dreams,” “St. Jimmy,” “She’s a Rebel,” “Jesus of Suburbia,” and “Holiday,” which are all songs from the album “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Brad Land compares it to a bottle rocket in his memoir

as it crashes Into the black pavement, his lit cigarette.

Marlboro Reds taste like harsh and stiff as the smoke burns

the cowboy’s eye while the ashes fall from the tip of the cigarette.

Blue lights appear in the rear view mirror, the car pulls

off the road. He writes a ticket for releasing the cigarette.

French tip nails look glossy as they form a V around the filter

directing it to lips that crave the nicotine of a cigarette.

Beth, are you smoking in the girl’s room? I watch as it cyclones

down into the sewer, remorseful of my drowning cigarette.

Leather lines of black

piping outline the truck’s

insides as I hurry down

to Augusta. It’s a secret

that my fear builds

with every mile that I drive

towards Georgia. Driving

the interstate, black

asphalt and rock build

distance between the truck

and home. I hope secretly

that the studio will be shut down.

After I have finally made it down

to Augusta, the artist will drive

the needle hard, enjoying it secretly.

He’ll drill a line, blacker

than the pupils of a drunk trucker’s

eyes where sleep has been building

in for days. The building’s

door is open. I sit down

in the chair and the artist trucks

through the sterilization, driving

needles into place, filling them with black

ink, which seems to know all the secrets

of his trade. We whisper secretly

about what he’s about to build

inside my skin with black

liquid bricks, riveting them down

harshly, heavy handed, as if driving

nails into the panel of a truck’s

door, without disturbing the trucker’s

sleep. It won’t hurt, but that’s a secret

he saves until he’s well into the driving.

He says he likes to watch as the fear builds

inside his clients as he bears down,

his gun loaded with bullets of black.

Back in the truck, I bear down

on the black wheel, my secret scar

building on my hip as I drive.

Sunlight breaks through white blinds

bouncing from wall to wall

warming the aquamarine sheets

illuminating the stubble on your face.

Your arm wraps around my waist

releasing your fingers into the cold

steel curves of my belly ring

as it circles the concave dimple.

The alarm beckons from across

the room forcing rock music

to echo off the stark walls.

You’ll be up, shaving soon.

Icey linoleum floors will rush

me into the shower anticipating

hot streams from my shower head

cleansing all reminders of you from my skin.

My roommate’s coffee poisons

the air. I watch as you acknowledge

the deadly morning smell. Already

I can feel the empty space beside me.