Word: daiquiris
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...Bourbon Street in the French Quarter, the neon lights are flashing, the booze is flowing, and the demon demolition men of Hurricane Katrina are ogling a showgirl performing in a thong. The Bourbon House is shucking local oysters again, Daiquiri's is churning out its signature alcoholic slushies, and Mardi Gras masks are once again on sale. But drive north toward the hurricane-ravaged housing subdivisions off Lake Pontchartrain and the masks you see aren't made for Carnival. They are industrial-strength respirators, stark and white, the only things capable of stopping a stench that turns the stomach...
John Kennedy probably best described the realizations that come from such a moment. He was back home in Palm Beach, Fla., resting after the 1961 summit in Vienna, a daiquiri in hand, Frank Sinatra records filling the night air. He remembered Nikita Khrushchev as seeming, well, so different when the two first sat down alone. "I looked him over pretty good," Kennedy chortled. He became fascinated with his adversary's hands. They were always thumping, fiddling. They were blunt, ungraceful hands, Kennedy recalled, but strong, so quick. "You're an old country, we're a young country," blurted Khrushchev. "Look...
Spector arrived at the club after a late dinner-and-Daiquiri date with another woman. The first superstar record producer and a millionaire at 21, Spector, now 62, was the mad genius who perfected the pop single with his lavishly textured "wall of sound" studio technique, crafting hits for the Ronettes, the Beatles, Ike and Tina Turner and the Righteous Brothers, among others. But drugs, booze and paranoia ended the chart-topping reign of the man Tom Wolfe called the "first tycoon of teen." Spector went into seclusion for years and took to running around his hilltop mansion...
...trek to DeWolfe pays off, especially with field hockey vet Elizabeth A. Whitman ’05 manning the blender. “What would you like?” she asks the posse, “Juice? Soda? Daiquiris?” Hesitant to choose door number three—either out of respect for their athletic regimen or fear of the omnipresent eye of FM—the girls glance nervously at one another. FM selflessly volunteers to sample the goods, thereby putting the newbies at ease. A daiquiri or five later, the first-years are embroiled...
...reach Howard Camp, where Fairchild draws water from the same Howard Creek that Lewis and Clark did. The sun and the altitude are making us light-headed. By late afternoon we have descended to Saddle Camp at 5,300 ft., where the snow is as mushy as a daiquiri. An old logging road runs across the ridge, reminding us that remote as we think we are, the loggers have been here before us. Every so often we see the scar of an old clear-cut a couple of ridges from the trail...