Word: skull
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...story begins early last fall, when Lynch, 43, scoured the Internet. Lean and almost six foot tall, with hair cut nearly to her skull, Lynch lived alone in Tulsa, Oklahoma, sustained by Social Security benefits granted early due to a mental illness. She landed on the website of the Sons of Dixie, a group that had been founded by Raymond "Chuck" Foster. (See pictures of the Civil Rights movement from Emmett Till to Barack Obama...
...shoe-banging at the United Nations. Good manners were the creamy lie the great powers poured on the toxic gruel of their realpolitik. The only counteroffensive was to write plays in which people misbehaved, tortured each other; for the postwar generation, writing what the Cambridge Review called his "skull-beneath-the-skin" plays, he was the Pinter of Our Discontent. Back then, his works were taken as murky dramas; now they look like snarky, superior comedies of bad manners. (Pinter half-acknowledged this reading of his works, saying that The Caretaker was "funny, up to a point...
...predawn hours of Sunday morning, a ringing phone in the Red Cross base in this violence-torn Mexican city is a warning of impending tragedy. The first responders on call on this particular night had already seen plenty of action: a man with a bullet embedded in his skull; a beaten corpse dumped on a street corner; a blood-soaked drunk who tried to pull a policeman's gun from his holster. But the worst had been waiting until last. Someone was calling in from the middle of a firefight raging in a rough neighborhood on the outskirts of town...
...Saudi Princes or Skull and Bones or the Daughters of the American Revolution, ranks as the most traditional among us; that distinction belongs to our kids, who if they organized into a guild or a club or a denomination would have more cherished rituals than the Mormon Church or Mardi Gras...
...horsemen of the apocalypse. What we expected were the sounds of angels giving birth to devils and devouring one another. What we expected were the sounds of the Aztec city that, after all these years, we were certain was built somewhere in the catacombs of Axl’s skull. What we expected was the sound of Siddhartha playing a solo conceived from the empyrean bliss of the all-being. What we got was an exceptionally slick, exceptionally boring chunk of self-indulgence that GNR could’ve spit out in 1993 and saved itself the effort...