Word: plasticity
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Even rookie criminalists are beginning to rely on snazzy science first and street smarts second. Fischer reports that when he is interviewing job applicants for the L.A. sheriff's lab, one question he asks is what they would do if they came upon a murder victim clutching a plastic bag containing a blue powder. Typically, the applicants tick off the string of high-tech tests they would conduct on the substance. What they never ask is where the body was found. "If it was in a Laundromat, he probably had detergent in the bag," says Fischer...
...darling Wombat." The bric-a-brac of the dead is always sad. That Diana's was picked through in a courtroom full of tabloid reporters taking shorthand was doubly so, but also powerfully reminiscent of her life, both tawdry and irresistible: little bits of the goddess preserved in plastic bags, relics of a media saint. Prosecutor William Boyce said Diana's mother and sister will testify during the six-week trial that Burrell, 44, had no right to these things. But he did have access: he lived in Kensington Palace for 10 months after her death and helped compile...
...Dancing," for instance, tells of Barry's childhood enthusiasm for hula dancing. With fantastic powers of memory (or perhaps imagination) Barry recreates the near-hallucinatory, intensely-observed world of childhood. The hula teacher is a "middle-aged white lady who was obsessed with Hawaii. She always had a plastic orchid in her hair..." You could read "One Hundred Demons" just for the pleasure of remembering playing kickball in the street, or the way other people's houses smelled, or clutching your favorite teddy bear...
...stand on their stoop on some weekend nights, calling out to women who sauntered past, trying to convince a few perfumed bodies to spend time in their club. Those who walked down the dark wood staircase at the A.D. during parties peered down on a sea of women clutching plastic cups in their hands, their numbers dwarfing the number of A.D. men. Even at clubs like the Fly and Phoenix, a well-orchestrated beg and a carefully-crafted name drop could earn most dolled-up females an entrance at the door, even when the guest list didn?...
Enter, after a short intermission, one of contemporary rock music’s most soulful and intelligent singer/songwriters. Adams’ posture was delicate as he skirted the stage, fingering his newly-cut hair. He lit a cigarette, drew slowly and deliberately, sipped wine from a plastic cup and finally sat, guitar in hand, to sketch the opening measures of “Oh My Sweet Carolina.” The crowd responded, grateful, but Adams abridged the song: “Don’t do that,” he gestured at the applause, “that...