Word: nose
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...clone would not be a photocopy of him but talks about the traits the boy might possess: "He will like the color blue, Middle Eastern food and romantic Spanish music that's out of fashion." And then he hints at the heart of his motive. "I can thumb my nose at Mr. Death and say, 'You might get me, but you're not going to get all of me,'" he says. "The special formula that is me will live on into another lifetime. It's a partial triumph over death. I would leave my imprint not in sand...
...Sunday, Disney CEO Michael Eisner directed a visitor's gaze up to the park's central icon: Grizzly Peak, a concrete mountain in the shape of a roaring bear. When the visitor noted that the bear probably cost more than the entire Disneyland park in 1955, Eisner replied, "The nose cost more...
Beat slumps in his chair. He picks his nose. He languorously runs a woman's comb through his hair. At times he appears defeated by the turgid subject and the mediocrity of assembled talent. Gradually, the teal and purple hibiscuses on his Hawaiian aloha shirt descend lower behind his gargantuan desk. The show is a bore, and Beat's not afraid to admit it. Who do you think the TV audience identifies with: the kimono-clad manga artist tendentiously making a point about how Japan isn't ready to host the World Cup, or Beat and his flagrant disdain...
...local victim now left in Lockerbie. For the dead, there are discreet memorials all around. In the cemetery, a plain slab of gray Aberdeen granite bears all the victims' names. In Tundergarth churchyard, 5 km away and opposite the field where the plane's blue-and-white nose fell, a tiny stone building houses two memorial books. One lists the dead in flowing script, another records their personal histories. Pilgrims who come to this silent, haunting place have also left signed photographs behind, mostly of children, or notes in the visitors' book. "John Michael Ahern. rip. Always in our hearts...
Case no. 309 in the Tugela Ferry home-care program shivers violently on the wooden planks someone has knocked into a bed, a frayed blanket pulled right up to his nose. He has the flushed skin, overbright eyes and careful breathing of the tubercular. He is alone, and it is chilly within the crumbling mud walls of his hut at Msinga Top, a windswept outcrop high above the Tugela River in South Africa's KwaZulu-Natal province. The spectacular view of hills and veld would gladden a well man, but the 22-year-old we will call Fundisi Khumalo, though...