Woozie and suga meet the spartans

Film Score Daily: Did They Mention the Music

Carmel Apple Sugar Babies c. Twizzlers . Craig & Arianna (Spartan Cheerleaders) . Meet Joe Black () c. . Woozy Winks (Plastic Man's sidekick) c. rarely drank, and monitored her sodium and sugar intake, cholesterol, . staggering forward to meet our own fates, orange as our most foolish hope woozy on the juice. .. spartan than the Red Deer retirement home to which he still fondly. The recipe called for brown sugar, molasses, butter, eggs, cream, ginger and soda dissolved . Great way for kids 8–12 to learn about ocean conservation and meet a .. Admittedly, Bonnie Kay got off to a slow start, with its unpaved parking lot, Spartan dining room, concrete floors, I'm feeling a little woozy and scared.

Sugar Ray Robinson vs. Jake La Motta in Raging Bull. His punitive superego tries to micromanage or destroy every thought, every feeling; remember the shot of his veiny fist in that pail of ice, a dramatic cousin of the moment where he tries to preserve his pre-fight purity by dousing his hard-on? The movie is inside and outside of La Motta because La Motta is inside and outside of himself. Jack Cates in 48 Hrs.

Hammond is a boxer, Cates is a brawler. Their respective strategies illustrate the cliche about how youth and skill can be defeated—or at least answered—by age and treachery. Hammond dominates the first half of the fight, dancing circles around his much larger opponent, hitting him so fast that Cates can barely stay on his feet.

Unfortunately for Hammond, he fights like he talks; his confidence rests on the presumption that nobody else can get a word or a hit in edgewise. When he stops battering Cates for a moment, Cates launches himself off an alley wall, tackles Hammond, takes him down into a heap of garbage, rolls around with him, chucks a trash can at him, grapples with him some more, then evens the punishment scales with a couple of lucky blocks and some John Wayne-style roundhouses.

More tell me, more still!! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: What about that, eh? What else were they invented for? Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh?

You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. Remember your epiphanies written on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria?

Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale.

When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once. The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts.

Am I not going there? He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. He hopes to win in the gros lots.

Ulysses / James Joyce

About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La vie de Jesus by M. Lent it to his friend. Moi, je suis socialiste. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re. My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. Physiques, Chimiques et Naturelles. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone: Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere.

On the night of the seventeenth of February the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. You seem to have enjoyed yourself. Whom were you trying to walk like? Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons.

Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. See what I meant, see? You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven.

Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge; a blue French telegram, curiosity to show: The aunt thinks you killed your mother. She always kept things decent in The Hannigan Famileye. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.

About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck. Deux Irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez ah, oui! She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know that word? There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial.

Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria?

Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, La Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure, know how he died? The froeken, bonne a tout faire, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said, tous les messieurs. Not this monsieur, I said. Bath a most private thing. Green eyes, I see you. The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobaccoshreds catch fire: How the head centre got away, authentic version.

Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide.

Know-Scope

Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone, not here. I was a strapping young gossoon at that time, I tell you. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me.

She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, soldier of France. Know that old lay?

I taught Patrice that. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by the hand. O, O the boys of Kilkenny. Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion. He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots.

The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I?

He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbacans the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters.

Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there when this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their — blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer.

He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms.

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike. A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here.

And these, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Heavy of the past. I zmellz de bloodz odz an Iridzman. A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me? You will not be master of others or their slave.

I have my stick. From farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. He is running back to them. Galleys of the Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows.

Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires.

I spoke to no-one: Dog of my enemy. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. For that are you pining, the bark of their applause? Paradise of pretenders then and now. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house.

Would you do what he did? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. Naturlich, put there for you. Would you or would you not? They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out. I would want to. I am not a strong swimmer. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly, shellcocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine.

His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. With him together down. I could not save her. A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life.

Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. The carcass lay on his path. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Supply Pad upgrade time reset. Saved game bug fixed and game progress restored for affected players.

Maximum Camera scroll and fast scroll speeds increased. And now, a hallowed and harrowing tale from our beloved traveling evangelist ske7ch, who journey to the city of angels to spread good tidings of great toys. There and Back Again - A ske7ch's Tale Hey folks, wow it feels like an eternity since the last time I was writing words for a community update!

That was some kind of crazy week, eh? This was the first time returning to E3 in a few years so I was personally super excited to get the opportunity to go back — even though it was going to be an odd show for Halo and and I fully expected a lot of disappointed fans at the lack of new hotness in the keynote. I gotta say it was super awesome of Xbox to throw this great fan-centric event and invite lucky fans to be their VIP guests for the entire week.

They were bussed over from the keynote to a private party where they had unlimited Mt. Dew, Doritos, and other treats while grooving to a DJ, playing some games including Halo: CE on original Xbox consoles and mingling with Xbox staff. The fans were loaded up with swag from partners and left a little woozy from overindulgence of sugar, snacks and freebies.

I also want to give a shout out to the th who showed up in full force and full costume to help make this event extra special for fans! This is where Halo Wars 2: Awakening the Nightmare made its debut as we had six stations with the new Terminus Firefight mode running in glorious 4K on some tricked out gaming PCs. Two waves of media passed through during the day and later in the afternoon Kiki, Barry the EP on the Halo Wars team and myself joined Major Nelson on the Xbox E3 Daily Show to officially reveal the new Awakening the Nightmare trailer and speak briefly about the upcoming expansion.

Later at night those same lucky fans from Sunday were invited back to have the whole venue to themselves for a bona fide party. Again, huge kudos to the Xbox team for going above and beyond in taking care of these fans! It was a great time to meet great folks and it was especially awesome seeing the likes of Phil Spencer and other senior Xbox folks mingling with fans for nearly four straight hours.

An entourage of folks also rolled through over the course of the event and we all enjoyed the chance to talk with some very passionate fans. And boy did they. The mob to get in wrapped around the block and it was a real Herculean task just to fight through the sea of bodies to get to the booth and report for my shift.

The show was crazy packed. It become apparent that the traditional show and booth layout might not have been particularly well suited to 15, extra attendees. The booth was jam packed and abuzz with energy the whole time, which was great, and despite the claustrophobic and crammed conditions did bring a good boost of excitement that has been lacking at E3 over recent years.

We had six stations of Terminus Firefight playable on the floor with a steady line of players all day every day. As the show went on it was great seeing some of the same fans come through over and over to replay the demo. As the days went by we were wondering — what is the highest possible score someone could theoretically get in this 5-round fixed demo?

At first the bar was set around K which proved to be a comfortable ceiling on day one. However, by Thursday a few hardcore fans had blown us away with a brand new record ofpoints! This was significantly higher than even the HW2 team had been able to do in their occasional hands-on sessions. Greg was off camera most of the time but had the critical job of delivering an exciting play through and while I think he was a little nervous, he pulled it off like a champ especially once I reminded him to actually spend his Leader Powers.

To wrap things up I was put on the spot to pick a fan out of the audience to give away a replica Plasma Rifle signed by the team. You can check out the video of that entire segment right HERE. Despite the sentiment storm erupting across social and in forums the mood on the floor in the booth was pretty great and it was really nice to talk and play with fans — old and new alike.