Word: waft
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...album's songs are all variations on the theme of East-West collision, which, as rendered by Parks, sounds like a rush-hour pileup on the Golden State Freeway. Not that the music is jarring; far from it. Melodies waft about like tropical breezes, blowing a little irony in all directions. Tokyo Rose begins with a typically peppy but odd Parks arrangement of America -- jukebox Charles Ives -- and ends with a tune about baseball (One Home Run) sung in English and Japanese. In between is a chronicle of misunderstanding. Manzanar is about the internment camps of World War II; White...
Moynahan said he hopes the money will send a message to the politicians who find it; otherwise, he speculates, the balloons may hit the jet stream and waft down to Central America...
...people have the chance to see two comedies that waft like zephyrs through a movie summer humid with macho derring-do. In their world, romance is bruised but blooming; and the characters are so fully drawn that the moviegoer can become possessive of them, even judgmental, as he would with a friend. Would Sally have faked a fortissimo orgasm in a crowded restaurant? Would footloose Graham come back to Baton Rouge to find a love he lost nine years before? Of course they are not real people, and the difference is crucial in this talk-as-sex era. Real people...
...turn off to a ramshackle pig farm in the next ravine. Finally a Cadillac with four men inside bumps along the track. The presence of guards at a pig farm, waving visitors through, confirms the group's suspicion that a batch was brewing, its odor lost in the waft from the barns. "Don't ask me; it's not mine," Big John says. "That's a bunch of Mexican nationals down there, and I'm not of a mind to visit...
...palm fronds rattle behind the right-field fence. The odors of peanuts, mustard and beer waft over the emerald green grass, and in the inebriating sunshine, laughter and catcalls issue from the bleachers. An eight-year-old boy waves a miniature bat, a bikini-clad college student ogles the first baseman, and a pair of guys in U.A.W. T shirts argue earned-run averages in the shade of an entryway tunnel. At the plate, a nervous hopeful up from the minors squares his batting helmet and prays to the puffy clouds above the orange groves: God, please send the next...