A Tribe Called Quest, The Academy Is..., Adam Ant, Aimee Mann, Akron/Family, Amos Lee, Athlete, Bell Biv Devoe, Ben Lee, Better Than Ezra, Bill Withers, Blue Oyster Cult, Cartel, Cary Brothers, Chris Brown, The Clash, Coheed and Cambria, Coldplay, Counting Crows, Crowded House, Des'ree, Dishwalla, Draco and the Malfoys, The Faders, Feist, Fiona Apple, Foo Fighters, Franz Ferdinand, The Fray, Gin Blossoms, Guns N Roses, Hellogoodbye, Herbie Hancock, Hootie, Incubus, Jack's Mannequin, Jamie Cullum, Jem, John Mayer, Joshua Radin, Justin Timberlake, The Killers, Lita Ford, Lupe Fiasco, Maria Mena, Mat Kearney, Matchbox Twenty, Maximo Park, Musiq, Neve, NKOTB, New Radicals, Nickel Creek, OAR, Otis Redding, Outkast, PANIC!, Paramore, Phantom Planet, The Police, Queen, Rachael Yamagata, The Raconteurs, RHCP, Remy Zero, Rolling Stones, Rooney, Rufio, Rufus Wainwright, Ryan Adams, Scissor Sisters, Snow Patrol, Something Corporate, Sondre Lerche, The Subways, Teitur, Third Eye Blind, Toad the Wet Sprocket, The Verve, The Vines, Violet Femmes, We Are Scientists, The Who, Yellowcard
Empire Records
Better Off Dead
Shopgirl
Serendipity
Sixteen Candles
Pretty in Pink
Ferris Bueller's Day Off
Heathers
Garden State
Sleepless in Seattle
Welcome to the Dollhouse
Big
That Things You Do!
American Idol
Arrested Development
Celebrity Poker Showdown
Entourage
The Food Network
The Golden Girls
The Office
Project Runway
Scrubs
Unsolved Mysteries
"Real isn't how you are made," Said the Skin Horse, "It's a thing that happens to you when a child loves you for a long time, not just to play with but really loves you, then you become real."
"Does it hurt?" Asked the rabbit.
"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, "when you are real you don't mind being hurt...It doesn't happen all at once...you Become. It takes a long time, thats why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily or have sharp edges...but these things don't matter at all, because once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
-The Velveteen Rabbit, Margery Williams.
My mother can make flowers bloom with the slightest touch of her hand. Her garden burgeons -- irises glitter as if embedded with silver, roses turn colors no one can match. Rose breeders come to find out her secrets but she only smiles mysteriously. They try to analyze the clippings she gives them but it is useless -- the magic ingredient is her touch. Her birds of paradise are almost as tall as she is, her ranunculus look like peonies, her fruit trees bear lemons that taste like oranges and oranges the size of grapefruits. She can grow star-gazer lilies whose pollen is as thick soft hot pink powdered as expensive blush, and abundant peonies that people say only bloom in cooler climates. No jasmine ever smelled so sweet, bathing the insides of my nostrils and mouth with its twinkling white-and-lavender fragrance. My mother wanders around the garden in the hills of Hollywood putting her ear to the cup of the petals or to the ground and, smiling mysteriously, proceeds to trim or water or fertilize each plant according to its own personal instructions. Sometimes I wake in the night and I swear I can hear the flowers in the garden singing my mother's name through the open window.