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Ann Althouse always has the capacity to completely and utterly astound me. There is dme fee schedule lways another layer of just plain nuts. The pictures of Jose Padilla being led to the dentist in leg shackles and blackout goggles have provoked outrage and disgust and bafflement . Why the goggles? What's the point? Althouse has an answer : Perhaps there is a fear that he will communicate in code by blinking. And upon being informed that this is, in fact, completely absurd, she becomes characteristically petulant : I'm not saying Padilla deserves to be treated the way he has over the years, but I am responding to the assertion that there is absolutely no conceivable reason for blindfolding him. Plainly, I have refuted that. Plainly. She was blinking when she typed it. I fear there is not snark enough in all the world for Althouse. UPDATE: Altmouse weighs in .

Ann Althouse always has the capacity to completely and utterly astound me. There is always another layer of just plain nuts. The pictures of Jose Padilla being led to the dentist in leg shackles and blackout goggles have provoked outrage and disgust and bafflement . Why the goggles? What's the point? Althouse has an answer : Perhaps there is a fear that he will communicate in code by blinking. And upon being informed that this is, in fact, completely absurd, she becomes characteristically petulant : I'm not saying Padilla deserves to be treated american express business credit he way he has over the years, but I am responding to the assertion that there is absolutely no conceivable reason for blindfolding him. Plainly, I have refuted that. Plainly. She was blinking when she typed it. I fear there is not snark enough in all the world for Althouse. UPDATE: Altmouse weighs in .

Many years ago, when I still called New York City home, my pal Ann and I used to hang out in a funky East Village bar called Normal's. ( Note bene : This is before the East Village got all polite and gentrified, and greedy bastards developers brought luxury condos and a Chipotle's to St. Mark's Place.) emergency call button he bar was owned and operated by a colorful character known to its patrons only as "Normal," who could frequently be found strolling about the place wearing nothing but silver lame thigh-high space boots and a giant white diaper that glowed in the dark. The entire place was lit with black light. A whimsical little cartoon "story" on the menu told of Normal's supposed extra-terrestrial origins and subsequent space-age adventures, although rumor had it that for all his long-haired bohemian weirdness, Normal was heir to a substantial fortune and had used his trust fund to open the bar. We couldn't care less either way. We just loved the 1950s sci-fi theme of the place; the tasty cold sesame noodles on the menu; and the large ginger cat that made its rounds to every table, aggressively begging for just the tiniest smidgen of one's grilled Jamaican Jerk Chicken, ere it perished from starvation. We especially loved Normal's signature glow-in-the-dark "radioactive gin and tonics." At least we thought they were signature drinks at the time.

Many years ago, when I still called New York City home, my pal Ann and I used to hang out in a funky East Village bar called Normal's. ( Note bene detective This is before the East Village got all polite and gentrified, and greedy bastards developers brought luxury condos and a Chipotle's to St. Mark's Place.) The bar was owned and operated by a colorful character known to its patrons only as "Normal," who could frequently be found strolling about the place wearing nothing but silver lame thigh-high space boots and a giant white diaper that glowed in the dark. The entire place was lit with black light. A whimsical little cartoon "story" on the menu told of Normal's supposed extra-terrestrial origins and subsequent space-age adventures, although rumor had it that for all his long-haired bohemian weirdness, Normal was heir to a substantial fortune and had used his trust fund to open the bar. We couldn't care less either way. We just loved the 1950s sci-fi theme of the place; the tasty cold sesame noodles on the menu; and the large ginger cat that made its rounds to every table, aggressively begging for just the tiniest smidgen of one's grilled Jamaican Jerk Chicken, ere it perished from starvation. We especially loved Normal's signature glow-in-the-dark "radioactive gin and tonics." At least we thought they were signature drinks at the time.

I haven't been to DC in fifteen years. That time I arrived in the rear-facing jump-seat of a periwinkle 1987 Pontiac Sunbird Station Wagon . Yesterday I accomplished a more stylish entrance, disembarking from an Original Boeing 737 only to find myself in a terminal built in 1958 and obviously remodeled to look "modern" sometime around 1976. My new memories feel older than my old ones. From the airport I taxi to the Marriott Wardman Park Hotel and Convention Center, which was built in 1916 by Harry Wardman , renovated in 1928 to feel "futuristic" and again 1999 to look like an unfuturistic 1928. The cumulative effect of all these renovations resembles something designed in 1974 to look contemporary. The style of this city declares its love for that cold corporate style of the 70s. Everything which should be white has a hint of grey-flannel. The slight patina on the film stock of the decade's defining films hangs in the air here. (I keeping looking for Gene Hackman and measuring my words.) I'm not sure how to define the feel of DC without writing a predictable post about American auteur cinema in the 1970s . . . so I'll gently segue to the fact that I spent the night in Maryland. Not because I couldn't stomach sleeping in a city, mind you, but because I missed the last train back disney cruse line nto it. Where was I that I required the Metro to return to DC? Dining and chatting with John & Belle . What did we discuss? Academic blogging. Our future publishing empire.

I haven't been to DC in fifteen years. That time I arrived in the rear-facing jump-seat of a periwinkle 1987 Pontiac Sunbird Station Wagon . Yesterday I accomplished a more stylish entrance, disembarking from an Original Boeing 737 only to find myself in a terminal built in 1958 and obviously remodeled to look "modern" sometime around 1976. My new memories feel older than my old ones. From the airport I taxi to the Marriott Wardman Park Hotel and Convention Center, which was built in 1916 by Harry Wardman , renovated in 1928 to feel "futuristic" and again 1999 to look like an unfuturistic 1928. The cumulative effect of all these renovations resembles something designed in 1974 to look contemporary. The style of this city declares its love for that cold corporate style of the 70s. Everything which should be white has a hint of grey-flannel. The slight patina on the film stock of the decade's defining films hangs in emergency data recovery he air here. (I keeping looking for Gene Hackman and measuring my words.) I'm not sure how to define the feel of DC without writing a predictable post about American auteur cinema in the 1970s . . . so I'll gently segue to the fact that I spent the night in Maryland. Not because I couldn't stomach sleeping in a city, mind you, but because I missed the last train back into it. Where was I that I required the Metro to return to DC? Dining and chatting with John & Belle . What did we discuss? Academic blogging. Our future publishing empire.

Many years ago, when I still called New York City home, my pal Ann and I used to hang out in a funky East Village bar called Normal's. ( Note bene : This is before the East Village got all hooters girls olite and gentrified, and greedy bastards developers brought luxury condos and a Chipotle's to St. Mark's Place.) The bar was owned and operated by a colorful character known to its patrons only as "Normal," who could frequently be found strolling about the place wearing nothing but silver lame thigh-high space boots and a giant white diaper that glowed in the dark. The entire place was lit with black light. A whimsical little cartoon "story" on the menu told of Normal's supposed extra-terrestrial origins and subsequent space-age adventures, although rumor had it that for all his long-haired bohemian weirdness, Normal was heir to a substantial fortune and had used his trust fund to open the bar. We couldn't care less either way. We just loved the 1950s sci-fi theme of the place; the tasty cold sesame noodles on the menu; and the large ginger cat that made its rounds to every table, aggressively begging for just the tiniest smidgen of one's grilled Jamaican Jerk Chicken, ere it perished from starvation. We especially loved Normal's signature glow-in-the-dark "radioactive gin and tonics." At least we thought they were signature drinks at the time.

From Tricities.com: Instead of taxidermy and other signs of tradition, the vibe inside [fly fishing outfitter] Trails Crossing includes photos of reggae culture icon Bob Marley, soothing music with a message and videos promoting the next wave of hardcore outdoors adventure. Then there kinkos orlando s the Espresso bar managed by Richard’s wife, Liz. "I want my shop to be hip and cool,’’ Rominger said. "I witnessed the youth-driven growth of the snowboard industry, and the I think fly fishing is heading that way. I don’t want folks coming in and hearing the sound of crickets.’’ Click here for more...

Many years ago, when I still called New York City home, my pal Ann and I used to hang out in a funky East Village bar called Normal's. ( Note bene : This is before the East Village got all polite and gentrified, and greedy bastards developers brought luxury condos and a Chipotle's to St. Mark's Place.) The bar was owned and operated by a colorful character known to its patrons only as "Normal," who could frequently be found strolling rate your professor bout the place wearing nothing but silver lame thigh-high space boots and a giant white diaper that glowed in the dark. The entire place was lit with black light. A whimsical little cartoon "story" on the menu told of Normal's supposed extra-terrestrial origins and subsequent space-age adventures, although rumor had it that for all his long-haired bohemian weirdness, Normal was heir to a substantial fortune and had used his trust fund to open the bar. We couldn't care less either way. We just loved the 1950s sci-fi theme of the place; the tasty cold sesame noodles on the menu; and the large ginger cat that made its rounds to every table, aggressively begging for just the tiniest smidgen of one's grilled Jamaican Jerk Chicken, ere it perished from starvation. We especially loved Normal's signature glow-in-the-dark "radioactive gin and tonics." At least we thought they were signature drinks at the time.

suc·cu·bus (s k y -b s) also suc·cu·ba (-b ) n. pl. dirt bike ramp uc·cu·bus·es or suc·cu·bi (-b , -b ) also suc·cu·bae (-b , -b ) 1. A female demon supposed to descend upon and have sexual intercourse with a man while he sleeps. 2. An evil spirit; a demon. The boy who "loves" me called me a succubus tonight. No wonder I won't date him!

suc·cu·bus (s k y -b s) also suc·cu·ba (-b ) n. pl. suc·cu·bus·es or suc·cu·bi (-b , -b ) also suc·cu·bae (-b , -b ) 1. A female demon supposed to descend upon and have sexual intercourse with a man while he sleeps. 2. An evil spirit; kodak easy share demon. The boy who "loves" me called me a succubus tonight. No wonder I won't date him!

From Tricities.com: Instead of taxidermy and other signs of tradition, the vibe inside [fly fishing outfitter] Trails Crossing includes photos of reggae culture icon Bob Marley, soothing music with a message and videos promoting the next wave of hardcore outdoors adventure. Then there is the Espresso bar managed by Richard’s wife, Liz. "I want my shop to be hip and cool,’’ Rominger said. "I witnessed the youth-driven growth of the snowboard industry, and the I think fly fishing is heading that way. I don’t want folks coming in and hearing the sound of crickets.’’ spyware removal free download lick here for more...