This weeks blind item is a 32 year old actress and guess what– My Hollywood insider is reporting that our blind item is a straight up freak. Don’t believe me.. Ask Jamie Kennedy.

Here’s what my insider had to say about this weeks blind item:

“She can get a man but she can’t keep one. She’s cute, talented with money but she’s insecure.

Her goal in every relationship is to get the dude to put a ring on her finger. Most of her men do, until they find out how much of a nymphomaniac she is.

She smashes a lot dudes and she contracted herpes from a popular Reggae singer. Don’t believe me? Ask Joey Lawrence.

When she was dating Seth Green, we all took a trip to Vegas and went to a nightclub. I remember Seth wanted to punch her in the mouth because while in the club she was texting him the whole time. Seth ended up cussing her out and he took another chic back to his room to smash.

She’s a white girl with a black girls body and she thinks black chics are jealous of her. She tried dating black dudes, but all they do is hit from the back and keep it moving. Jacky, Don’t believe me? Ask Shaggy.

She messes with girls too, her first chic was her brothers girlfriend. She was a child star so she grew up fast. She likes to hook up with individuals on a regular, but her mother really wants her to settle down.”

Our blind item is from Waco, Texas. Can you guess who I’m talking about?

http://diaryofahollywoodstreetking.com/whos-jacky-talking-about-january-17-2012/#more-41017

http://youtu.be/n1Kh0QWiinI

Monday, 09 February 2009 05:45
By Jose Raul Gallego, student of Journalism

Jose Marti is a symbol for all Cubans. Considered the apostle of this Island nation, the architect of the Cuba’s War of Independence (1895-1898) and ultimately the mastermind of the attack on the Moncada garrison in 1953, Marti was the most lucid thinker of his time. However, this Marti is simply a small portion of an unbreakable whole.

The greatness of some men sometimes is misinterpreted by others, and often people commit a naïve mistake which is idolizing them and believing they are mythical, beyond any mortal.

Discovering Marti has been one of the most amazing experiences of my life. For years I recited the Versos Sencillos, learnt by heart his chronology, his aphorisms – useful enough to support my essays at school-, however, I didn’t know the man. I knew that he had been born in Havana, that had wrote much, that had founded the Cuban Revolutionary Party, that had fought for the freedom of this country, and something else. That was the Marti of my childhood, someone resembling a statue or a drawing hanging on the wall of my first school. Among so many historic dates, fragments of his literary work and busts, I had forgotten the man.

Marti was only that, nothing else. Unconsciously, I was missing the best of the greatest Cuban. But time set people and experiences on my way and little by little they opened my eyes. So, after hours of reading, the cold marble that I had in my mind began to take shape. I started to envisage him, skin-headed in a prison, and with his ankle bleeding because of a blister, caused by a thigh and heavy shackle. I discovered him courageous, facing those who branded him a coward, wearing a black tie and an iron ring with an inscription on it that read: “Cuba”. Or I imagined him walking down the streets of New York or Tampa, thinking how to be a good provider for his only child, but without touching the funds of the Revolutionary cause.

That man was somebody new, different, and unknown. He was human like me. A student full of love and ideas, wandering around the city of Aragon, in Spain, far from his family, his beloved mother and without the hope of seeing the palm trees again. Banished to a foreign country, but with the Island beating in his chest. He lived scorned by some who didn’t want an educated urban fellow to lead the insurrection.

Embracing his son, Marti wrote letters to the generals of the previous warfare and collaborated with several publications in the continent to support his family. An in the evenings he awaited his verses, endless companions that followed him like ghosts and obliged him to leave his soul on the paper, to suffer his anguish, his infatuations, his long-held desires, to lay the foundations of one of the greatest literary movements in America: El Modernismo.

This is the Marti I admire. The one, who was mistaken with the impressionist painters, but knew to rectify on time. The one, who could overcome the initial glare produced by a society that appeared like a model of freedom for the eyes of the world, and looked even further the horizon to discover its hatreds and contradictions. The one, who admired Abraham Lincoln and revered Karl Marx.

The one who showed refined manners in the ballroom and appraised the good wine, but also took the wheel under the storm and faced the bullets of the enemy when it came down to it. The gallant man who once wrote that his teeth hurt because of “the cups of flesh”.

The father, who knew synthesized, in the genial verses called Ismaelillo, the tenderest images of love. The one, who left aside his delicate writing and turned his pen into a knife to vindicate Cuba from the offences the US daily The Manufacturer had published. That flesh and bone man who elaborated an ethical time-proof project, based on dignity, on the respect to the human being, on love. A program that does not grow old because everlasting are the ideals of justice.

And Marti became my Teacher. He taught me to think by myself, he showed me the need to fight for what one believes, regardless the price one has to pay, he taught me about politics, about economy, philosophy and arts…And also about life. I learnt from his poetry that “of woman, you may die of her bite, but don’t tarnish your life defaming a woman” and men are not “measured by the times they fall, but for the times they stand up.” And that distant Marti became an example, a goal, a patter to follow.

And the thing is that the greatness of some men lies in what they are capable to demand from themselves, of living a life of sacrifices and going forth when others receded. No one tries to imitate the impossible, but the heroes are there – like the Sun, with spots and lights- by one side of the road, telling us that we can, that we carry what is essential inside us. And that above doctrines, isolations, material and ideological borders lays the human will, the love that creates wonders. (Translation Gualveris Rosales Sánchez)
http://www.cadenagramonte.cu/english/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=58&Itemid=14

By David R Arnott, msnbc.com
For Sofiah and her classmates, the journey to school just got a whole lot harder. The Indonesian schoolgirl lives on one side of the Ciberang River but her school in the village of Sanghiang Tanjung is on the other – and the river has been flooding.
On Monday, the rising waters broke a pillar supporting a suspension bridge that crosses it, the head of the village told Reuters.
Faced with an extra 30 minutes’ walk to cross via an alternate bridge, Sofiah and her friends have chosen to undertake the precarious crossing of the collapsed bridge instead.

As word has spread, the media gathered to film a feat worthy of Indiana Jones. But the children don’t appear to be perturbed, safely making it across and continuing to school.
At least they have something to say when their parents ask, “What happened at school today?”