The comparisons were inevitable. One is a sexually provocative, envelope-pushing, hit-churning, fashion-risk-taking, controversy-thriving, gay pop icon. And the other is....well, the same thing. While Gaga is clearly much newer to the fame game and has yet to demonstrate the enormous staying power of Queen Madge, they have both developed their own unique brands of cultural hysteria and fiercely loyal fanbases. Allow Chicktellectual to break it down for you.

Arielle with her Electric Guitar
Photo by Rebecca Weiss Photography

        If you haven't had the pleasure of hearing Arielle perform in one of her numerous gigs throughout the Village club circuit, I can tell you first-hand you are missing out. Arielle is one of those rare breed of musicians who can draw you in without fancy synth beats, overwhelming noise, exotic instrumental backup, or gimmickry of any kind. When you listen to her play, regardless of venue, it feels as though you are being treated to an intimate performance in your living room. It is precisely this raw, vulnerable "just a girl and her guitar" quality that distinguishes Arielle from many of her acoustic folk/pop peers and keeps her fans coming back for more. Her voice, breathy and ethereal, is a stand-out, and her lyrics about inner conflict, love, and loss, are universally relateable.

       I recently contacted Arielle to discuss her music and her upcoming gig at Recoup Lounge in the Lower East Side on October 24th. I was given the scoop on everything from her musical inspirations to her thoughts on Kanye *cough*douche*cough* West.

Eat your heart out, Mrs Lavigne

      A few nights ago, I ended the procrastination, threw out the excuses, and took steps towards the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. While it's usually not easy to cross over that threshold--you know the one--the divider between one's wishes and goals, and tangible action geared toward the attainment of those goals, I suppose my time had come. I decided that life's too short to just let it fritter away without exploring the depths of my potential....yes folks, I *FINALLY* bought a skateboard.

     It's always around this time that my head is the clearest--when the rest of the world is out cold. "3:16 a.m." flashes ominously on my bedside alarm clock, but I pay it no mind and light my spliff. Let me paint a picture for you. A dumptruck on the corner of Mulberry and Houston. A black homeless guy with dreads singing a not entirely off-key rendition of "I Got You Babe" on the steps of Nolita House. The mood is light, the air is playful, and you can feel the approach of Spring. Even the gutter rats seem to be regrouping.

Artist Justine Bassani

    I distinctly remember the first time I glimpsed Ms. Justine Marie Bassani's paintings in her artfully cluttered downtown apartment. That she was abundantly talented was obvious, but perhaps less obvious were the emotions she was trying to convey through her work -- or rather the emotions they evoked in me. Most of Justine's paintings were marginally distorted portraits of women often appearing lost in thought, on the brink of revelation, or embroiled in some sort of inner turmoil. I remember feeling vaguely disturbed when I studied her paintings closely; almost as though I was intruding on the subjects' most vulnerable, intimate moments. However, I also felt empowered by the strength and defiance the characters seemed to exude.

        I was watching Sesame Street videos with my adorable 15-month-old neice, Ava, when she started calling out for "mama." Nothing unusual there. Except that on closer listen, her excited and even borderline agitated cries sounded more along the lines of "O-mama." In case my suspicions needed confirming, my brother-in-law explained that Ava was calling out for Mr. Barack Obama, 44th President of the United States, and apparent baby rock star on par with the likes of Elmo. It turns out my niece had seen snippets of Mr. Obama's first televised press conference the previous day, and was so moved by his speech that she was demanding a Youtube replay. Precocious little tyke. My brother-in-law, being the dutiful father, complied with her request, and the high-pitched furry red muppet who had been singing the wonders of going potty was abruptly replaced by our cool-demeanored President discussing the significance of bipartisanship.

[Editors note: In honor of International Free Hugs Day, February 13, 2009, Chicktellectual.com is proud to promote the hugging of Lawyers by publishing this article.]

Like lawyers, killer whales (orcas) are often misunderstood, but are, in fact, quite huggable.

   Now I am not defending all lawyers or claiming that there are no slimeball, money-hungry attorneys out there, true to stereotype. But most of the lawyers I know are well-intentioned, albeit socially awkward, folk who made the unfortunate decision of going to law school. A lot of my fellow newly admitted attorneys were idealistic at the outset of law school and even motivated by the opportunity to help people and participate in the process of justice. Seriously. Others, probably the majority, graduated college with fabulous GPAs and the horrifying prospect that they had absolutely no idea what to do with their lives. These directionless overachievers proved easy prey for overbearing parents and societal forces of "practicality" (ugh!). Still other students craved the excitement of Law & Order-esque courtroom drama, and hoped their future careers in law would be chock-full of these scenarios.