Word: pickup
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...played not on the football team but in the band at half time. Even though he ran for virtually every class office (not generally a sign of hipness), he emulated Elvis Presley, the king of bad-boy coolness, and drove around in a pickup truck with AstroTurf in the back to cushion his real or imagined assignations...
...maybe a better one too. Already the vocabulary of popular culture has been immeasurably enlarged. In the fuddy-duddy New York Times, it has become acceptable to see oral sex on the front page--the words, I mean. Barroom rakes can be grateful for half a dozen new pickup lines, each with presidential cachet. "You make my knees knock." "I like your curves"--or, alternatively, "I like the way the hair falls down your back." And when all else fails: "Kiss it." Lawyers of the future will know to reach at once for the trademark wordplay of Robert Bennett, growling...
Gender-blind shuttle service. The free, after-hours pickup service the University provides responds far more quickly when women telephone than men, students report. Because the T closes earlier than most dance clubs, male students are often left with no easy way to return to campus. Gay men in particular are at high risk for gay-bashing, assault and hate crimes during the night. The shuttle service needs to be expanded to all students equally...
...pounded the bus and slashed its tires. As usual, local police had a gentleman's agreement with the Ku Klux Klan and stayed away. The bus limped five miles out of town, escorted by a caravan of pickup trucks, and stopped. Someone threw a fire bomb inside, and the crowd yelled, "Roast them! Burn them alive!" The Freedom Riders staggered off the smoking bus, and as one, Hank Thomas, hit the ground, reeling from fumes, a white man asked solicitously, "Are you O.K.?" And then took a baseball bat and swung at Thomas as hard as he could...
...take much credit for the victory, except that I did occasionally force the first team to work up a sweat in practice, and I did absorb my fair share of the coaches' abuse. But the real curse of a Princeton basketball education is that it renders you unfit for pickup games for the rest of your life. No one looks for the open man. No one sees you when you go backdoor. Guys hog the ball and force shots from 30 feet. My inner coach wants to bench all these Michael Jordan wannabes. But it's a lost cause...