Word: crossing
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...someone who is obsessed with preparation, Elizabeth Dole had the worst possible training for a presidential candidate. However handy her Harvard law degree, her serial Cabinet posts, her frequent-flyer miles as president of the American Red Cross, none of those can make up for the four campaigns she endured as the candidate's wife, in which the first commandment is "Thou shalt commit no news and give no offense." Those campaigns bequeathed her the high name recognition and favorable ratings that position her solidly in second place in polls of Republican presidential contenders. So what happens now, when...
...Cross a mist-shrouded mountain pasture pitted with craters, past four dead horses eviscerated by scavengers, over a trampled barbed wire fence and you are in Kosovo. A thin trail leads down through light green scrub oak to a rutted dirt road, which in turn winds deeper into the cleft of a narrow valley. The mighty crash of 110-mm mortar rounds resounds from the hillsides, interspersed with the delicate crack of Kalashnikov rifles. Wisps of munitions smoke mix with the low mountain clouds spreading over the Dukadjin plains in the distance. About a mile and a half in stands...
Ruby, oh Ruby. She sits cross-legged on a rug in her room and watches the wallpaper slide. In her mind are the sorts of things dreamt by sea creatures. But the things she hears! Music that hasn't been made with such an air of vintage and heartfelt wist since America came down from the frantic high of the '60s and the outrageous trip of the '70s. No more Lucies in the skies, no more fields of strawberries; only Ruby walking alone through her wallpaper tracks with the ghosts of a faded age, shaking hands with Kinks, Beatles...
...from the appalling filth, unspeakable hatred and frightening prescriptions for homicidal mayhem that the Littleton massacre evoked. If you listened to the conversations at PTA meetings and around Little League diamonds last week, it was as if we'd already forgotten that the Internet brings us vital medical information, cross-cultural dialogue, vast stores of learning and beauty and virtue. Yet what comfort is that to a parent who came across a website last week in which the index included the following entries: "Counterfeit Money," "Hot-Wiring Cars," "Breaking into Houses," "Thermite Bombs," "Tennis Ball Bomb"? Such is the power...
Could it be Greer herself: a woman who has, in many ways, devoted herself to the life of the mind, unhindered by family? She teaches at Warwick University and produces scholarly studies on obscure women poets, whose work she publishes with her own Stump Cross Press. But Greer says the whole woman does not exist, and is not she. There's that little matter of waiting by the phone, for starters. "I still, ah, I make myself sick," she admits. "I will flirt, I will--bleccccch--do all of that s__, it's amazing...