Word: slings
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...long we can stay in the saddle of this bucking bronco called Slam. "We" are the Los Angeles team--Thea Iberall, Poetri (yes, his name is Poetri), Jerry Quickley and I--four poets, linked by a love of words and a passion for competition. We are in Austin to sling verse and reap scores in the ninth--and largest--National Poetry Slam in history. Forty-five teams and 14 individuals are here from 26 states, the District of Columbia and Canada, all vying for cash prizes of up to $2,000 and yearlong bragging rights...
...Davis ad whacks Checchi for failing to vote in four recent California elections, but Harman has so far refused to sling mud with the boys. "Mr. Checchi can waste his money attacking me," she told the camera in one commercial. "I'll spend my time on real problems." It might have worked--if she had been ready with a coherent plan for the state. But she wasn't. A former political aide, lawyer and lobbyist, Harman has spent most of her adult life in Washington. She entered the race late because she saw an opening after Feinstein decided...
...Odeca Li's tried to make a name for themselves by hosting the fashionistas. But while Dr. K enjoyed checking out the virile new stock, the old stand-by's couldn't be ignored. Weary from her shopping trip to Europe, Dr. K could hardly rest her Manolo Blahnik sling-back clad feet. After all, Indochine, 147, The Four Seasons, Life and the Soho Grand were calling. Oy stress! While Dr. K certainly made the rounds, she skipped over the get together at Flamingo East. Good thing too because rumor has it that the Visionaire event hosted by Gucci goon...
...mile, 45-min. trip by truck from Sea World to dockside. Once aboard the Conifer, J.J. was carried through gentle swells to a position 2.1 nautical miles off Point Loma, Calif., a scenic finger of land near San Diego. There, amid a noisy flotilla of 12 boats, the sling was lowered, and chief boatswain's mate Thomas Young barked the words never before heard: "Release the whale...
...motion. When her tiny, beautiful head touches the mattress, her eyes fly open and tears well up in them. She cries, she keens, she wails and howls. She has no middle range; she is louder than anyone else whom I know personally. She cannot be ignored. And so I sling the spit rag over my shoulder and resume walking the floor, a foot soldier in the old campaign, exhausted, milk stained, borderline paranoid, poorly informed, a man nobody would ever hire to look after a six-week-old infant...