"More than 10 million copies of Adele's "21" album have been sold in the United States in less than two years, Columbia Records announced Wednesday."
After suffering psychic trauma because I can't get Carly Rae Jepsen's "Call Me Maybe" out of my mind, and enduring mental torture seeing Justin Bieber's mug everywhere, it's nice to learn than a true musical artist has sold 10 million copies of her latest CD in America.
Adele's "21" is a masterpiece in an aural landscape of auto-tuned cacophony, bubble gum rhymes, and hip hop misogyny and homophobia.
If only I could get Adele hooked on meth so she would release albums on a more regular basis. Oh well, I will continue to play Adel's two albums until I wear them out.
The setting for the story was an old Spanish-stylized house in Lake Worth, Florida. We moved there in 1964, when my father was sent by his denominational headquarters to plant a new church. I don't know exactly how old the house was, but suspect it
Pratima refused to finalize the marriage of her son till her husband agreed to construct a toilet in their house located in a Kanpur slum. She did not want her daughter-in-law to suffer the same fate of open defecation as she did.