Word: ernest
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...Phoenix showed me how to make a home out of cardboard boxes. Not a home, exactly, but something like a backyard playhouse built by an ingenious child. The cardboard boxes interlocked, and the shelter, secret and cozy, kept out the cold of the Arizona night. The man, named Ernest, had once been an engineer at the Boeing...
...Ernest, I came to understand, was a sort of brilliant grown-up orphan: he had an air that was both distinguished and tattered. Something in his mind had broken years before. He survived on technique. Ernest taught me how to forage for an all-American diet: wait politely behind a fast-food place at closing time and accept the unsold hamburgers and fries. A third problem, keeping clean, was difficult but manageable: a cold-water spigot in the morning...
...this is a matter of record -- indeed, of rock mythology -- and needs some freshening up for contemporary consumption. A.E. Hotchner, whose previous forays into biography have included volumes about Ernest Hemingway, Doris Day and Sophia Loren, is clearly no rock fan. He dismisses Jagger as "a ruler with no queen, no jester, no kingdom, just an egocentric bitch king with a neon scepter sitting on a hollow throne." But Hotchner does display a certain amount of commercial calculation, no doubt having sized up the sales receipts of rock butcher Albert Goldman's biographies of Elvis and John Lennon...
Their work closely paralleled the discovery of atomic nuclei. In 1910, Ernest Rutherford fired alpha particles (fragments of helium atoms) at targets of gold foil. Most passed through, but some bounced back, making it clear that there were dense concentrations of matter within the foil. In the Stanford experiments, electrons were fired at protons and neutrons. The way the electrons bounced off these particles showed that the latter were not uniformly dense but made up of tiny concentrations of matter -- the quarks...
...rich "are different from you and me," wrote F. Scott Fitzgerald. "Yes," Ernest Hemingway appended, "they have more money." But Claus and Sunny von Bulow, at least as represented in this marvelously sad and funny docucomedy, really were different. She, the depressive Newport heiress, with a frail hauteur in her demeanor and a well-stocked pharmacy in her purse. He, Danish-born and smartly foppish, living off her wealth and at her whim. Not Eurotrash exactly -- aristotrash. When in 1981 Claus was accused of attempting to murder Sunny with insulin injections, leaving her in a coma from which...