Him: What are you reading?
Me: Um, Plato.
Him: What the hell are you reading that for?
Me: The same reason everyone reads the Greeks--the pussy. Get your head out of your ass.
At just over nine feet high, the 7300 CXT, which went on sale in September, weighs about seven tons unloaded, more than twice the weight of the Hummer H2 and equivalent to about five MINI Coopers. The CXT can tow a 20-ton boat and carry another six tons of cargo in the truck bed. Because it rides at the height of an 18-wheeler, drivers will spend most of their time looking at the tops of cars.
The price starts at about $90,000, but fully equipped - with, as Maxim magazine recently put it, "more leather than Mick Jagger's closet"- it can cost as much as $120,000. Options include an automatically tiltable truck bed, DVD and satellite-radio players and walnut trim.
Fuel mileage of the CXT? From 7 to 10 miles to the gallon, despite its diesel engine, which uses less fuel than a regular gas engine. International is not required to report a specific mileage figure because under the United States' fuel economy regulations, the heaviest sport utility vehicles and pickup trucks are exempt from mileage requirements, although they are still subject to emissions rules.
Me "Thats $2.00 thanks"
Him "Swee hu 15 blah pave some teen minutes?"
Him "Did I just scrape over 15 minutes?"
Me "No, its $2.00 for 15 minutes."
Ms Sgro had been under fire since November, when it was revealed that she had issued a permit to a Romanian woman who had worked on her election campaign. To the prurient delight of the opposition, the woman was a stripper who had come to Canada in 2003 (along with 552 other Romanian women) under a special programme to fill a shortage of labour in the “exotic-dancing” business.
[A restuarant owner] claimed that Ms Sgro had promised him a permit if he provided free pizzas and volunteer staff to her office during the election campaign.
This record was made to be loved, to be obsessed over by some but remembered by everybody, to get scratched and worn out through constant rotation in a sorority living room or your first studio apartment or your mom's old radio, to capture Conor Oberst for the first time with more polish than spit, but still getting him deeply under your skin.
Stripped of the careening, dramatic, meandering arrangements of Lifted, Oberst's music seems not simpler, but simplistic, the plodding music acting as a bed for monochromatic melodies that merely serve as a delivery mechanism for all those words he's poured out on the page. Far from being the second coming of Dylan, Oberst is as precious as Paul Simon, but without any sense of rhyme or meter or gift for imagery, puking out lines filled with cheap metaphors and clumsy words that don't scan. Supporters excuse this as soul-searching, but the heavy-handed pretension in the words and the affectedness in his delivery -- not to mention the quavering bleat that's halfway between Feargal Sharkey and the Dead Milkmen's Rodney Anonymous -- give the whole enterprise a sense of phoniness that's only enhanced by its unadorned production. When Oberst was swallowed in the deliberate grandeur of Lifted, his drama queen theatrics fit the music, but here, they expose him for the shallow poseur he is.
I think they stole Ohio," contended Darrell Anderson. "I think Kerry should have won," the Marylander added. "I think he did win. I think he absolutely won. I think he got enough electoral votes to win, counting Ohio." Anderson believes that the Republican party rigged voting machines in the Buckeye state. "I think the exit polls were correct. They were outside the margin of error. I don't care what they say, it falls outside the mathematical possibility that there would have been a six-point swing — Kerry being six points ahead to a three-point win for Bush, it's outside mathematical possibility."
Leftists have invested so much in discrediting George W. Bush that their fervor has inhibited their abilities to think rationally. Pre-election taunts of "accidental president" and "re-defeat Bush" allowed the Bush haters to benefit from the illusion that they represented majority opinion. November 2, one might think, would have shattered that illusion. It didn’t.
Becoming a writer is not a "career decision" like becoming a doctor or a policeman. You don't choose it so much as get chosen, and once you accept the fact that you're not fit for anything else, you have to be prepared to walk a long, hard road for the rest of your days. Unless you turn out to be a favorite of the gods (and woe to the man who banks on that), your work will never bring in enough to support you, and if you mean to have a roof over your head and not starve to death, you must resign yourself to doing other work to pay the bills... Most writers lead double lives. They earn good money at legitimate professions and carve out time for their writing as best they can: early in the morning, late at night, weekends, vacations.
My problem was that I had no interest in leading a double life. It's not that I wasn't willing to work, but the idea of punching a clock at some nine-to-five job left me cold, utterly devoid of enthusiasm... As far as finances went, I just wanted to get by.
Karaoke seems to be a great divider when it comes to people who like to go out and have a good time. Some people view it as totally ridiculous and nerdy, and some people recognize it as potential for a funky good time with friends. It only sucks is when people do it with only half of their ass. People frequently site "embarassment" or "not drunk enough" as the reasons for not going up on stage, but only thing that a person should be embarassed about doing when performing is standing there with their hand in their pocket, singing Chris DeBurgh's "Lady in Red" (which they dedicated to their girlfriend, who is in the corner sipping a rum and coke and wearing a red blouse) to the floor, trying their best to make everyone not look at them, which they are usually successful at doing (with the exception of the girlfriend who looks pained but in love).