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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 20, 2018 - 01:37pm PT
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Pig out!
[Click to View YouTube Video]
The Burning Of the Animals In America
The sacrificial smoke lies thick in the skies above the suburbs
As the sun begins to set and the smells of spices and herbs
And cooking meat all contend for our attention,
making my stomach rumble.
At this end of the block we have three grills devoted solely to burgers.
Down at the other end is a large fire with twenty chickens broiling.
And interspersed here and there, some fine steaks are grilling,
alongside various ribs, brats, roasts and fillets.
Not to mention all the corn, baking potatoes, beans and salads.
And in due course the fireworks will begin, celebrating the deaths of these animals,
congratulating ourselves on how well we eat in this country.
How’s dessert coming? Need a hand? 'nother beer?
--MFM
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neebee
Social climber
calif/texas
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Mar 20, 2018 - 06:56pm PT
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hey there say, mouse... ... we , yes, ... us locals down there,
DO stay away from cactus... that, i must admit...
:)
be, we love our music... :))
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 20, 2018 - 11:32pm PT
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Down in Despair Town
Down in Despair Town
I’m riding again
Can’t stay in the saddle
Or hold up my chin
Ridin’ back from a shootout
Just shot my best friend
Don’t care ‘bout no lynch mob
In this life made from sin
I’m down in despair town
Almost wish I was dead
But then I wouldn’t feel all
The pain in my head
Way down in despair now
There’s no hope to be had
I could never be saved Lord
When I’ve been so damn bad
-had it coming to him
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Mar 21, 2018 - 08:54am PT
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Turns out my mom had one of these. Has a music box, but I can't figure out what song she was listening to, right then.
Still works. No porcupines were harmed in the making of this video.
[Click to View YouTube Video]
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2018 - 02:40pm PT
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Venice, Italy.
Brunetti walked down to the San Zaccaria stop and caught the number 5 boat, which would take him to the cemetery island of San Michele, cutting through the Arsenale and along the back side of the island. He seldom visited the cemetery, somehow not having acquired the cult of the dead so common among Italians.
He had come here in the past; in fact, one of his first memories was of being taken here as a child to help tend the grave of his grandmother, killed in Treviso during the Allied bombing of that city during the war. He remembered how colorful the graves were, blanketed with flowers, and how neat, each precise rectangle separated from the others by razor-edged patches of green. And, in the midst of this, how grim the people, almost all women, who came carrying those armloads of flowers. How drab and shabby they were, as if all their love for color and neatness was exhausted by the need to care for those spirits in the ground, leaving none left over for themselves.
And now, some thirty-five years later, the graves were just as neat, the flowers still explosive with color, but the people who passed among the graves looked as if they belonged to the world of the living, were no longer those wraiths of the postwar years. His father’s grave was easily found, not too far from Stravinsky. The Russian was safe; he would remain there, untouched, for as long as the cemetery remained or people remembered his music. His father’s tenancy was far more precarious, for the time was arriving when his grave would be opened and his bones taken to be put in an ossuary in one of the long, crowded walls of the cemetery.
The plot, however, was neatly tended; his brother was more conscientious than he. The carnations that stood in the glass vase set in the earth of the grave were new; the frost of three nights earlier would have killed any that had been placed here before. He bent down and brushed aside a few leaves that the wind had blown up against the vase. He straightened up, then stooped to pick up a cigarette butt that lay beside the headstone. He stood again and looked at the picture displayed upon the front of the stone. He saw his own eyes, his own jaw, and the too-big ears that had skipped over him and his brother and gone, instead, to their sons.
“Ciao, Papa,” he said, but then he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He walked down to the end of the row of graves and dropped the cigarette butt into a large metal can set in the earth.
--Death At La Fenice/Donna Leon
It's just too weird that my thoughts since the Robbins memorial have been so concerned with death. And now, following on the heels of the loss of Jim Bridwell (RIP), comes the tragic news that Tom Higgins has made his exit from this play, which has about run its course, to the next stage.
"Sweet Lady of Death wants you to die
So she can sit by your bedside and cry..."
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zBrown
Ice climber
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Mar 21, 2018 - 02:53pm PT
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Thx F*F
The vid is just the first one that popped up
My mom's is in the process of being rebuilt and is all dis-assembled
It has a different music mix
These things are advertised for about $30-50. I wonder what they went for in the eighties when it seems they first appeared
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feralfae
Boulder climber
Almost solving the metaphysical mystery
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Mar 21, 2018 - 03:22pm PT
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I don't remember these lamps from my younger days, but it is a pretty nifty little construction, with all those light fibers.
F*F
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 21, 2018 - 04:33pm PT
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 22, 2018 - 12:20am PT
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Mr. John Diss.
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hooblie
climber
from out where the anecdotes roam
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Mar 22, 2018 - 04:41am PT
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The Flares
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Bushman
climber
The state of quantum flux
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Mar 22, 2018 - 05:17am PT
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Several Chinese astronauts walk the face of Mars on the first historic manned mission to the planet’s surface. One of the astronauts looks down at his smart phone and cries out, “Ooh, Kim Jong Un just friended me!”
I do hope Facebook will be a thing of the past some day. I signed up five or six years ago and deleted my account after about two months of that nonsense.
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mouse from merced
Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
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Topic Author's Reply - Mar 22, 2018 - 06:47am PT
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Chinese astronaut was Un-friended, eh? It happens.
And it all began in the Stone Age when men began drawing on walls what they'd killed and eaten for dinner.
Have a good day, bushman!
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