"Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter." - the parting words to world leaders at his final G-8 summit, punching the air and grinning widely at those who looked on in shock, Rusutsu, Japan, July 10, 2008
- George W. Bush
"You work three jobs?....Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that."
- George W. Bush to a divorced mother of three, Omaha, Nebraska, Feb. 4, 2005
"You know, one of the hardest parts of my job is to connect Iraq to the war on terror."
- George W. Bush's interview with CBS News' Katie Couric, Sep. 6, 2006
I have sat there and seen the winter days finish their short-spanned lives; and all the globes of light crimson, emerald, and pallid yellow start, one by one, out of the russet fog that creeps up the river. But i like the place best on these hot summer nights, when the sky hangs thick with stifled colour, and the stars shine small and shyly. Then the pulse of the city is hushed, and the scales of the water flicker golden and oily under the watching regiment of lamps.
The bridge clasps its gaunt arms tight from bank to bank, and the shuffle of a retreating figure sounds loud and alone in the quiet. There, if you wait long enough, you will hear the long wail of the siren, that seems to tell of the anguish of London till a train hurries to throttle its dying note, roaring and rushing, thundering and blazing through the night, tossing its white crests of smoke, charging across the bridge into the dark country beyond.
In the wan, lingering light of the winter afternoon, the parks stood all deserted, sluggishly drowsing, so it seemed, with their spacious distances muffled in greyness: colourless, fabulous, blurred. One by one, through the damp misty air, looked the tall, stark, lifeless elms. Overhead there lowered a turbid sky, heavy-charged with an unclean yellow, and amid their ugly patches of dank and rotting bracken, a little mare picked her way noiselessly. The rumour of life seemed hushed. There was only the vague listless rhythm of the creaking saddle.
The daylight faded. A shroud of ghostly mist enveloped the earth, and up from the vaporous distance crept slowly the evening darkness. A sullen glow throbs overhead: golden will-o'-the wisps are threading their shadowy ribbons above golden trees, and the dull, distant rumour of feverish London waits on the still night air. The lights of Hyde Park Corner blaze like some monster, gilded constellation, shaming the dingy stars. And across the east, there flares a sky-sign, a gaudy crimson arabesque. And all the air draped in the mysterious sumptuous splendour of a murky London night.
- Hubert Montague Crackanthorpe
from 'Vignettes: A Miniature Journal of Whim and Sentiment'.
"...this one time, we shot up a sleeping hobo full of novocaine, then we'd yell, "Pie on the windowsill!" And they'd wake up all numb and poor and we'd laugh. But that's just the kind of stuff you do when your growing up in Midland, when you're a young, precocious little thirty-year-old."
- George W. Bush
Dang! Weir sharing the stage with Kimock and Wasserman?! That's a line-up to die for. No west coast shows? :(
...to all the ladies, and especially those who twirl. Let's hope there will be more Furthur to see and meet up at.
I agree with Mike there. As for the Dead Covers project my favorites so far have been China Doll and Eyes of the World, followed by Valerie and Franklins Tower. kudos to all.
It's nice to see someone producing original work here. For the most part, this place seems to have acquired the stench of Rhino. Nice work, slo...