Word: mudding
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Roberto Clemente Park, where the march is assembling, is where Boston curbs its dogs and under the glumping sky it's schlepping back into the harbour. As the morning wears on, the dog shit, the mud, and the rain get churned into a fine mess by 5,000 pairs of feet. Globe's estimate. The "Fred Hampton contingent, one of the many groups reaching today, is huddled about some low concrete stands on the far side of a baseball diamond. Murdered in 1969 by the F.B.I. and the Chicago police Fred Hampton, a Black Panther leader advocated a class...
...grandson of Haile Selassie. Also executed were Prince Asrate Kassa, 56, who once ranked second in power (after the Emperor), and Ras Mesfin Sileshi, probably the country's second richest man (after the Emperor). Haile Selassie, who had spent two months this year confined to a mud hut at Fourth Army Division headquarters in Addis Ababa, remained under house arrest last week at the Grand Palace...
...inwardly craves all the things to which he has tried to close his heart: love and loyalty, and a purpose that will root him to the land his forebears lost. Near the book's end, he tries to rescue a cow that is in danger of drowning in mud. The task is mock-heroic, emblematic of the best he can expect from existence. But he struggles furiously, engaged in the grubbiness of life through an inertia of commitment that is stronger than protective cynicism...
...track. The source, however, is the bog. Stranded in the middle of the mob is the charred hulk of a 40-seat Greyhound bus, bursting like popcorn as the children stone it. The burning continues through the Oldtimers' Race, a special side event this afternoon. Spinning clods of mud in the waning light, the motorcycles continue their catatonic sorties through the now near-solid crowd...
Glistening sweat in the violet sunset, they hoist the bus onto its back. The horde swarms over its body, urinating from on top. A '72 Dodge Challenger, stuck in the mud, is sucked up by the crowd. Before the driver can climb out the windows are bashed in. Out of the crowd arch Molotov cocktails, their path flickered across 8,000 forms, the fire mirrored on their foreheads. Lurching into the warm at top speed comes a bog car to the tune of I'm the King of Rock and Roll. It runs head on into the bus. The night...