Eyes Wide - Fridays Cry - N.C.G. (No Compromise Generation) (CD, Album)

Download Eyes Wide - Fridays Cry - N.C.G. (No Compromise Generation) (CD, Album)
Label: Not On Label (Fridays Cry Self-released) - none • Format: CD Album • Country: Canada • Genre: Rock • Style: Alternative Rock, Soft Rock, Gospel

He'd snuck Merle's stolen stereo into his room, but he didn't have any tapes to play on it. From his window he could see the rusting bits of machinery and old bikes in the yard, and their blue pitbull, Jack, who spent his day outside chained up. Or at least he did on the nights that Daryl wasn't able to sneak him into his room.

It gave him comfort to have the dog pressed against him as he slept, some affection that normally wasn't forthcoming. He'd read in one of his daddy's motorcycle magazines that Rick Grimes was racing for Team Greene. Good for him, Daryl had thought, but not said out loud.

He'd expected Grimes to be a snob, to look down on some redneck like Daryl as if he was better than him, what with living in a big ranch house with a famous dad, but instead Grimes had treated him as an equal.

He still had the gloves, hidden under his mattress so his dad couldn't ask him where they were from, or try to sell them. Daryl lay down, pressing his hands against his ears as he heard his daddy return from the bar. There was a clattering noise as he knocked over a chair in the kitchen, followed by loud swearing and then a high-pitched giggle from whatever woman he had brought home this time. Daryl hated listening to the noises coming from the other room when there was a girl there, but at least it meant he wouldn't the target for his daddy's drunken rage tonight.

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd been pulled out of bed by the hair and ordered to clean up whatever imaginary mess he had created. Tonight, he really needed sleep. They were going racing tomorrow. Daryl didn't want to know how they'd gotten the money to enter this time, something about some guy owing his daddy a favour.

Daryl was just happy that for now, he hadn't gotten dragged into the family 'business' the way Merle had. To this day he still hadn't told anyone but Rick about how Merle had really died.

His daddy had made damn sure that Daryl wouldn't open his mouth about it. He'd pressed him up against the wall, hand wrapped around Daryl's mouth, and hissed Keep it zipped.

Far as anyone knows, Merle ended up road pizza, you hear me? Daryl tried not to think about his brother lying injured and dying behind some dive bar after a meth deal gone wrong. No doubt his mouth had gotten him into trouble with the wrong people. Rival dealers, maybe, or gang members. What did it matter? His face kept flashing into Daryl's mind, maybe covered in blood, eyes gouged out, teeth broken.

Who knew. He could hear the woman moaning now, and he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he owned a pillow that he could put his head under.

Merle had been the same, pussy-hound and proud , he used to laugh. Daryl didn't much see the appeal. Not in the real life women nor the ones in the magazines Merle tried to give him. Have a look, some of these will get you hard for the first time in your life, little bro.

Shane had showed up late to the track. Rick's father paced around the motorhome, swearing angrily about disrespect and shoddy timekeeping. It wasn't often that Rick had heard him curse, but Shane's attitude lately had put his temper almost at boiling point. Like Rick, his father was slow to anger, but once he was, it was frightening. Plenty of kids would kill to race for my team, I've had enough of that spoilt brat's bitching and moaning.

Rick took a swig of his water and sighed. Money and rivalry will always get in the way. People who you thought you could trust will stab you in the back if they think it will help them win. Rick didn't want to think about it. He'd gotten this far by being honest and fair on the track. And look where it had gotten him — he was in Team Greene, with a boss he liked, a bike he was really getting comfortable with, and the potential to win today.

The only blot on his life right now was Shane. He was someone who had always had people around him. He needed a friend. Rick walked towards the Team Greene garage, where his bike was waiting for him. He noticed a battered-looking motorhome pull up, it's bodywork rusting and its tyres deflating. The exhaust belched blue smoke, and all of the windows were either scratched or broken.

Who in the hell would bring something like that to the racetrack A load of curse words polluted the air, and Will Dixon appeared from the driver's seat. In the six months since Merle had died, he'd gained even more of a beer belly, and his face was wrinkled and leathery with sun damage. Daryl looked up at him through long fair hair that was covering his eyes.

It had grown a lot since Rick had last seen him. Daryl had gotten taller too, his shoulders widening and jaw becoming stronger. His face was thin, but it suited him. Rick watched Will Dixon approach, and noticed the way Daryl instinctively flinched when his dad placed a hand on his shoulder. As Rick walked away, he saw Will Dixon push Daryl towards their motorhome, and hollering at him to hurry up and get the bike ready.

He was so ruffled by what had just happened that he didn't notice Shane arriving, two hours late. Daryl hoped Rick hadn't noticed the black eye his daddy had given him that morning. It was already starting to swell and turn purple. Daryl was dreading putting a helmet on, he knew the pressure of the plastic pressing against his tender flesh would be agony.

Luckily his hair had grown long enough for it to hang over his face and disguise most of the injury. Black eyes were fine. A few days and it would be nothing more than a yellowing memory.

The belt was worse. He wheeled his bike along the pitlane, looking into the Team Greene garage as he did so. Rick was there, laughing with some mechanics as he zipped up his leathers. He looked different from the last time Daryl had seen him. The lightest touch of stubble on his chin and slightly shorter hair. His new black and green leathers made him seem taller and more muscular.

Maybe it wasn't just the leathers doing that, Daryl found himself thinking. He felt guilty for not speaking to Rick, but he couldn't face the questions or pitying looks about his eye that he knew he'd get.

He tried to put his daddy and Rick Grimes out of his mind. The most important thing would be to qualify well so that he was high up on the grid for the race the next day. Daryl didn't want to stick his nose in where it didn't belong, but he couldn't help hearing the words disrespect and no more chances. He wondered how Shane was enjoying still being in the junior category when Rick was already on a bigger bike. Extremely badly, probably. Daryl didn't like him, the way he swaggered around the paddock like he was the greatest thing to ever sit on a bike.

He was quick, Daryl conceded, but he acted like he didn't have a brain sometimes. Daryl knew that he let his Dixon temper get the better of him too sometimes, but he was observant on track, he knew that much.

Something that Shane wasn't. It was Richard Grimes. He'd never spoken to Rick's dad before. He didn't feel worthy enough, if he was being honest. And what would someone like Richard Grimes ever want with him anyway. Richard's eyes widened at that, as if he was staggered by Daryl's politeness.

He was used to calling older men 'Sir'. If he didn't call his daddy that, he'd pay the price. And anyway, his mom had taught him to respect his elders.

Daryl couldn't quite say he always did, Merle's influence had been pretty damn strong too, but at times like this, he knew he had to have manners.

Rick's dad looked a lot like him. His hair was cropped close and flecked with grey, but you could tell he had the same curls as his son. His beard was white and neatly trimmed, and while he was a little fatter around the face and stomach than he had been in his racing days, he still looked like he kept himself in decent enough shape.

He didn't have a cigarette and whiskey-ravaged face like his own daddy had, that was for sure. And his blue eyes, well, they were exactly like Rick's. Daryl wrinkled his nose. He'd heard that dozens of times over the years.

Merle had looked more like him, but Daryl had the same narrow grey-blue eyes, and a thin mouth that had a tendency to look cruel. Only thing your useless momma gave you was your cheekbones , his daddy had said once. Makes you look like a fuckin' girl. Like a fuckin' queer. He sucked on his teeth and pointed at Daryl's face.

That was a lie. Daryl wouldn't dare go to the dirt track where Rick and Shane and all their friends hung out. Daryl felt the weight of Richard's gaze on him, and he could sense that his cheeks were going red.

He hated people staring at his weird face. He hated to think that they were judging him for being a Dixon; for being no-good hillbilly crap. He could see Shane from the corner of his eye, staring over resentfully. Rick didn't quite know what to think when his dad told him that he'd fired Shane. He'd just gotten back from the podium after coming second, exhilerated and covered in the champagne that he was still too young to drink, when he saw his dad's expression and knew something had happened.

Rick had watched the junior race with interest. Shane had crashed at the first corner and pushed a marshal over in anger when they tried to retrieve his bike from the gravel.

But that hadn't even been the most exciting part of the race — that had been Daryl. He'd qualified dead last, as he usually did, but he'd fought his way up to eighth, beating more experienced riders on better bikes.

His overtakes had taken Rick's breath away. Daryl was brave — his dad might say he was a little crazy — but he obviously had guts, and what's more, he knew when to pick his moments, hunting down the guys ahead and edging closer just enough to fuck with their heads, push them into making a mistake, before finally making his move.

Rick knew that he himself was good, but he had to work hard at it; skill wasn't necessarily hereditary. But Daryl? Daryl had raw talent. Shane had blamed everyone but himself for his crash. He'd told Rick's dad to fuck off and walked out of the garage. Talent means nothing if you're going to ruin it all with a bad attitude.

Even that Dixon kid was better-mannered when I spoke to him earlier, have to admit he rode a hell of a race too and Kid has a black eye. Tried to lie and tell me he did it on a motocross bike, but I know Will Dixon. Rick was shattered by his dad's words.

He felt sick to the stomach and stupid for not ever considering that Daryl might be suffering at the hands of his father.

Rick remembered now the way Daryl had let his messy hair fall over his eyes, the way he had almost been scared to speak to him before the race. There was a knock at the motorhome door.

It was Rick's new boss, Hershel Greene. He and Rick's dad shook hands warmly. They'd known one another for years. Hershel had a slow, considerate manner, but he was razor-sharp and knew racing better than anyone else in the paddock.

His long white hair was tied back into a small ponytail, and he had a large white beard and moustache. Rode a good race earlier," Hershel began. He's given him a black eye to match the one he already had. Daryl held his arms up towards his head as he cowered on the kitchen floor. His head throbbed and both of his eyes were swollen up painfully.

He wasn't sure what exactly he was meant to have done this time. All he knew that his daddy had blackened his other eye with the back of his hand, right in front of everyone.

The only saving grace was that Rick Grimes hadn't been there to see it. Daryl wasn't sure why that fact was so important to him. Outside, he could hear Jack growling at the noise coming from the kitchen.

His daddy was swigging from a bottle of whiskey, draining it completely before throwing the bottle at the wall. It didn't smash, but the noise as it hit the tiles was enough to make the pitbull bark incessantly.

His cowboy boot connected with Daryl's ribs, and he clutched at his stomach desperately, trying to protect every single part of his body, fruitlessly. He'd been like this with Merle when they were growing up. But then Merle had gotten stronger, and gotten out. That had left Daryl as the victim. After his mom had died, the odd slap or punch had turned into beatings.

Fists, feet, belts. Anything in Will Dixon's hand could become a weapon to be used against his child. That's just how it was in their world.

Rick had never heard his dad call anyone that before, not in front of him anyway. He squirmed in his seat at the thick tension in the air. His dad switched the radio off irritably. Rick's dad turned north on the freeway instead of south towards their ranch on the outskirts of Atlanta. Main roads got smaller and less well kept as they headed into the foothills. Rick eventually plucked up enough courage to ask where they were going. I don't like the Dixons, but I'll be damned if I see talent go to waste or a kid treated so badly.

Daryl was still lying on the floor in a foetal position when he heard the angry voices outside. It hurt to open his eyes, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood. He felt like he wanted to vomit. The fingers of his right hand ached where his daddy had stamped on them, and there was broken glass everywhere. He wasn't sure what it was from.

The bottom of his already threadbare shirt was ripped after his daddy had tried to pull him up off the ground. His back felt like it was on fire from where the leather belt had cut into his flesh. This time had been the worst time, until the next time. What I do to my son ain't your concern," he heard his daddy slurring at whoever was outside.

There was some kind of commotion, the noise of shouting and the front door slamming. Jack barked and barked, and then a softer, younger voice was pleading Dad, please stop , and suddenly there were eager footsteps coming towards him; a man's voice saying For the love of God Dixon, what have you done?

I'm writing Chapter 6 at the moment and it's kicking my ass, so comments would be appreciated The red mist had come down. And when it came down on Daryl, it hung all around him like an angry swarm of bees. He couldn't help it.

All his life he'd gotten into trouble for fighting, for losing his head, and for acting before thinking. Usually when he was racing, that side of him didn't come out as much. But today? Today he'd been powerless to fight that rage that was always lying dormant inside him. Daryl's back was almost healed, and you could scarcely tell that he'd had a busted lip. He hadn't heard from his daddy. He didn't want to. But he missed Jack. There were a few dogs running around the Grimes ranch, but none he loved half as much as that pitbull.

Here's the deal , Rick's father had told him, the morning after they'd taken him away. You wash my cars, you clean my bikes, you mend fences, you mow the lawn. You do as I say and you work hard.

Daryl had just nodded, aware of Rick's presence behind him as he'd gotten this lecture. He wasn't scared of hard work. He was used to lugging scrap metal and tyres around his daddy's yard. Washing a few cars would be piss-easy. For the first time in his life, he had a bedroom that was warm and comfortable.

It was only a small room above the garage, but it had everything he needed. A lamp instead of a candle, a soft chair to sit in, even a chest of drawers for his meagre possessions.

He worked all day and went into the main house for meals. Rick and his dad shared the cooking, and Daryl tried all manner of foods he'd never had before — lean steak and sweet potatoes, spaghetti in tomatoey, garlicky sauce, ice cream sandwiches. Daryl had wiped sauce from his mouth with a sleeve and nodded. He daren't look at Rick, who he knew was trying not to snigger out loud.

Daryl wasn't sure what way to answer so he just shrugged, and started mopping up sauce with a piece of garlic bread. Afterwards, he began to fill the sink with water so he could do the dishes. If his daddy or Merle could see him now, they'd call him a queer and ask where his apron was. The silence between them as Daryl handed Richard each dish was awkward. Daryl couldn't think of anything to say to start a conversation, so he said nothing.

Talking didn't come easy to him, it never had. Maybe with Rick, sometimes. He found the other boy easier to talk to more than most people he'd ever met. Nice room too. You know that I fired Shane Walsh, so I need someone else for my team. Daryl stopped chewing the chocolate bar. He didn't dare hope. Good shit never happened to Dixons, and hope just meant setting yourself up for a fall. Richard slapped him on the shoulder, and Daryl's body tensed up, uncomfortable with bodily contact like that, because usually it meant pain.

Richard realised what he'd done, and apologised. What I'm not sorry for is telling you that that will be your last candy bar for a while.

If you do well, if you respect me and the work my team does, we'll see if we can't extend that to the rest of the season. Rick took Daryl to the dirt track after dinner most evenings. Sometimes they didn't even ride their bikes much, they just sat in the grass banking surrounding the track, talking about racing, and life.

Rick quickly realised that aside from racing, they hadn't really known much about each other at all. He hadn't known that Daryl liked chocolate and hated peanut butter, that he loved the heavy metal bands that Merle had introduced him to — or that his mom had been killed in a house fire years before. Rick wasn't used to people being so forward with their questioning when it came to his mom, but he'd learned that Daryl didn't really conform to the same social norms as anyone else. He was severely shy, but direct and honest.

Dad met her at a track when he was still racing and they got married after only a few months. He's never been the same since she died. Threw himself into starting the race team, just to take his mind off things. If she was still here, I don't think the team would be anywhere near as successful. Probably ever. Maybe I was stupid thinking that people stayed friends forever.

Yeah, he's an asshole though. The shit he talked about girls Like what? They had a curfew of 9pm during weekdays, and they just about made it back to the ranch, both covered in dirt from riding their bikes.

Daryl paused outside the front door of the main house, biting his bottom lip. Rick changed quickly into pyjama bottoms and one of his dad's old team t-shirts that had seen better days, sitting down on the bed cross-legged as he waited for Daryl. When he heard the water stop running, he stood up quickly, watching as Daryl came back in, seeing how he took in every single aspect of the room, from the posters, to the expensive record player, and the thick, plush green carpet.

Rick looked from the girl on the poster to Daryl. He had wrapped a blue and white striped towel around himself. His waist was thin — probably too thin — but his shoulders were wide and freckled. There were droplets of water dripping from Daryl's long hair onto his tanned skin, and Rick couldn't stop staring at them. Daryl had hardly any body hair, in contrast to Rick's body. He was becoming far too hairy for his liking, dark curls on his chest and legs that he didn't much care for.

Daryl's skin looked a lot smoother than his did as a result. There was no envy in his voice, it was just matter-of-fact. Rick put the radio on, and Daryl complained about every single song. Country music was his least favourite, he revealed. Dolly Parton and George Jones reminded him of his daddy coming home from the bar and playing their records too loudly and too long into the night. He asked Daryl if he wanted to play Nintendo, but Daryl didn't know how.

He'd never used a computer or games console before. He'd never even played Pac-Man. Rick had never felt like such a spoilt little rich boy before, even though he wasn't spoilt, and all the money went towards the team, not him. It was a bitter laugh, one that made Rick feel uncomfortable. Fob offMake or persuade someone to accept something. Fob offLie or deceive someone. Fob off onMake or persuade someone to accept something you don't want. Fob off ontoMake or persuade someone to accept something you don't want.

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Follow throughContinue moving limbs after hitting a ball. Follow upDo something to check or improve an earlier action. Follow up Find our about a problem and act.

Fool about Not be serious. Fool about Be unfaithful. Fool around Not be serious. Fool around Be unfaithful. Fool withPlay with something dangerous. Forge ahead Make a lot of progress in a short time. Forge ahead Move forwards very quickly.

Freak out Become very disturbed or angry. Free upMake money or time available by not using it elsewhere. Free upDo work or a task for someone to make them available for something. Freeze outShut out or exclude by unfriendly treatment. Freeze outForce to retire or withdraw from membership, a job, etc. Freeze overBecome covered with ice lake, river, pond, etc.

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Front forRepresent someone, especially when covering illegal or wrongful activities. Front offConfront someone and let them know you are prepared to fight. Front onto Face of a building. Front outFace up to someone, withstand criticism. Front upAdvance cash for something. Frown on Disapprove. Fuel upPut petrol or other fuel into a vehicle. Gad about Visit a lot of different places for pleasure.

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Get around Become known. Get around Visit many different places. Get around Walk or go to places. Get around Avoid a problem. Get around Persuade, convince. Get aroundHave personal or sexual relationships with many people. Get around toFinally manage to do something, make the effort to do something. Get atCriticise. Get atMean.

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Get intoBe accepted or admitted. Get intoBecome or be accepted as a member. Get intoStart a habit or way of acting or behaving. Get intoBe small enough to wear something. Get intoCriticise. Get itBe punished or scolded. Get it offHave sex. Get it off withHave sex with. Get it onBecome interested or excited. Get it onHave sex. Get it on withHave sex with.

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Get toAnnoy, irritate. Get toArrive. Get toStart discussing a topic. Get toHave the opportunity to do something. Get togetherMeet socially. Get upGet out of bed. Get upOrganise. Get up toDo something wrong or naughty. Ghost away Remove someone secretly of discreetly.

Gin upBoost, increase or exaggerate. Ginger up Make more lively. Give awayEntrust your daughter to her husband through the marriage ceremony.

Give away Tell a secret, often unintentionally. Give away Distribute something for free. In this issue of the magazine, they are giving away a free DVD. Give awayGive without asking for or expecting payment. Give awayGive an advantage to your opponent in a sport by making a mistake, playing badly, etc. Give awayGive an unwanted baby to people to bring up. Give away Betray, report to authorities. Give awayGive a weight advantage to an opponent in boxing. Give back Return something you've borrowed.

Give back Return something that someone has lost. Give inStop doing something because it's too hard or requires too much energy. Give inSubmit homework, etc.. Give inSurrender, accept defeat. Give inOffer or submit for judgement, approval. Give in to Agree to something you don't like. Give in to Allow a feeling or desire to control you. Give it toCriticise harshly or punish someone for something.

Give it up forApplaud. Neil Simon Theater, West 52nd Street, Minskoff Theater, West 45th Street at Broadway, Majestic Theater, West 44th Street, James Theater, West 44th Street, Nederlander Theater, West 41st Street, Such a good time is being had by so many people that this fitful, eager celebration of inanity and irreverence has found a large and lucrative audience Shubert Theater, West 44th Street, Gershwin Theater, West 51st Street, Jill Clayburgh stars as an Episcopal minister with a troublesome son and what may be an undiscovered Gospel.

Engaging, if a little too tidy MacB, Liev Schreiber and Jennifer Ehle inscribe thoughtful studies in the excesses of ambition and the ultimately annihilating prickings of conscience. Blood flows regularly, but as if it's being dispensed from silver taps. Despite the intelligence and craft of their performances, neither Mr. Schreiber nor Ms. Ehle seems to inhabit fully the darkness of their characters.

Her new show, a collection of songs interspersed with musings on her life and on public figures ranging from Britney Spears to Condoleezza Rice, is casual to the point of being offhand.

That said, it's invigorating to be in the presence of a true original Frankenstein, Theresa Rebeck has tried to transplant the big, blood-engorged heart of a Greek tragedy into the slender body of a modest American comic drama. The resulting hybrid runs amok in a stylishly acted production, directed by Will Frears and starring Kate Burton and Tony Goldwyn Ratings and running times are in parentheses; foreign films have English subtitles.

Full reviews of all current releases, movie trailers, show times and tickets: nytimes. One of the most exciting and necessary movies of the year. Brilliant, harrowing, essential viewing. Manohla Dargis. Nathan Lee. Dull and cheerless, notwithstanding a handful of funny supporting turns, notably from Judy Davis and Jason Bateman.

John Lasseter directed, and Owen Wilson provides the voice of the little red race car who learns all the right lessons from, among others, a Hudson Hornet given voice by Paul Newman. It's a wonderful life, not. Cohen, the Canadian singer-songwriter, poet and author, now 71, with a tribute concert at the Sydney Opera House in January And as such, once it gets going, Ron Howard's movie has its pleasures.

He and the screenwriter Akiva Goldsman have deftly rearranged some elements of the plot, unkinking a few overelaborate twists and introducing others that keep the action moving along.

The movie does, however, take a while to accelerate, popping the clutch and leaving rubber on the road as it tries to establish who is who, what he's doing and why. So I certainly can't support any calls for boycotting or protesting this busy, trivial, inoffensive film. Which is not to say that I'm recommending that you go see it. Anne Hathaway plays the beleaguered assistant, but she is much less interesting -- and in the end less sympathetic -- than the boss, Miranda Priestly, incarnated by Meryl Streep as a subtle and searching and very funny portrait of glamour and power.

How much you like it will depend on your appetite for the kind of cultural metaphors that David Jacobson flings onto the screen with a reckless abandon. Occasionally well observed, but mostly irritating and contrived. By taking samurai-movie conventions and placing them in the harsh light of daily survival, the director, Yoji Yamada, is illuminating the twilight of an entire way of life.

Jeannette Catsoulis. But after the first half-hour, those growls subside into whimpers, and the fangs are retracted, and the movie morphs turns into a feel-good family comedy oozing good vibes.

The absolute preposterousness of this teary romance is inseparable from its charm, which is greater than you might expect. After starting out warm and fuzzy, this tonally uncertain film stealthily pulls out the rug until you suddenly find yourself standing on a cold stone floor, barefoot and shivering. Directed, without much flair, by J. Abrams, the small-screen auteur behind "Lost" and "Alias.

Then, by degrees, it subverts those expectations to spiral down a rabbit hole of ambiguity and doubt. Except for a few contemporary touches the World Trade Center in flames as a portent of Armageddon it slavishly recycles the original. Laura Kern. The writers, including Karey Kirkpatrick, who directed with Tim Johnson, pad the story with the usual yuks and some glop about family, but there is no poetry here and little thought.

The performances -- especially by Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep as a pair of singing sisters -- are so full of relaxed vitality that you almost don't notice that the film is, at heart, a wry, sober contemplation of mortality. Like its forerunner, it is a generational group portrait of young, smart, sexy, well-educated Europeans at work and play filmed in a style that might be called Truffaut Lite.

The comedy is stretched a little thin by the feature length, but there are still some laughs. Where once the superhero flew up, up and away, he now flies down, down, down, sent from above to save mankind from its sins and another bummer summer.

Two gay boys one of whom is dead are reunited with the help of an enigmatic girl on roller skates in a metaphysical melodrama about grief, love, hysterical pregnancy and the transmigration of souls.

Written and directed by Paul Greengrass, whose earlier films include "Bloody Sunday. The credited writers here are Simon Kinberg and Zak Penn, who, like the director, Brett Ratner, are not mutant enough to fly. It begins on Wednesday with Chung Chang-wha's "King Boxer" , about a champion fighter whose fingers are shattered, and Zhang Che's "Five Venoms" , the story of a dying master seeking revenge on his former disciples.

Thursday night's feature is "Twelve Disciples of Nelson Mandela," Thomas Allen Harris's tribute to his stepfather, who worked to eliminate apartheid. Mankell, the author of the internationally best-selling Wallander novels.

In "The Photographer," to be shown Wednesday and Thursday, an American tourist is murdered while visiting a famous Swedish photographer. Ben Sisario. Sunday at 7 p. The music dips into reggae, samba, funk and house, never staying in one place long. Jon Pareles. With Georgie James and the Metronomes. Clarkson is the best proof yet that reality television might not be a bad idea.

With Rooney. Sunday at p. Costello had worked in the 's. They recorded "The River in Reverse" Verve Forecast , an album of bittersweet parables about loss and perseverance, and are now touring together, with a piece band that seamlessly commingles Mr. Costello's Imposters and Mr. Toussaint's Crescent City Horns. Behind their apparent melancholy is a playful wit and a modest awe: "It takes leviathans down in the abyss," sings Eric Johnson, the band's leader.

HAKIM Tomorrow Hakim is a superstar in his native Egypt, singing a high-energy dance update of shaabi, an irreverent and streetwise pop style. Its name means "of the people. Hay, who in the 's was the voice and face of the Australian new-wave oddballs Men at Work.

Holland sings charming and deceptively childlike songs: "Crush in the Ghetto," on her new album, "Springtime Can Kill You" Anti- , is a wry, greet-the-morning scene that finds her overdressed on a bus ride home from a one-night stand.

See above. The first concert features the arch postpunk band Les Savy Fav, the alternative rapper Beans and Dragons of Zynth, a talked-about new band whose sound is called "Afrotek. Levy pioneered dancehall reggae a quarter-century ago, and his distinctive wail remains one of the genre's most stirring sounds.

With Patrick Junior. Kelefa Sanneh. The Bronx -- which hails from Los Angeles, not New York -- plays a violently propulsive and proudly obnoxious kind of strut-punk that comes down from Black Flag and the MC5.

With the Loved Ones. Tomorrow at 8 p. Molina never rushes her lullabies, letting them swirl and melt, seductively drawing a listener in. Mouthus, a fearsomely unpredictable duo from Brooklyn, delves into guttural depths of guitar and vocals, and Coughs, a six-piece band from Chicago, offers tortured singing above a malevolent rumble of percussion.

Also on the bill are members of the clamorous Sightings and the gloomy but strangely not very noisy Bret Gand Is Dead. And though this veteran Brooklyn band's new album, "Happy New Year" Jagjaguwar , also toys with some medieval-ish folk, there is plenty of that eerie, cathartic drone.

Orton got her start a decade ago, contributing clear, siren vocals over electronic music. On her own she has headed away from electronica and toward intimate, confessional folk, a journey completed on her most recent album, "Comfort of Strangers" Astralwerks. It's a Los Angeles band that's determined to annex every pan-American party groove from funk to samba to Mexican cumbia in its consciousness-raising songs.

With Radio Mundial. His opening act is the Hacienda Brothers, a band he has produced. At 7 and p. Roth sings a few. Kill Egyptian mythology. Screw, marry, kill: the color yellow, the sound of cymbals, trepidation. They play Screw Marry Kill until class gets out, and they keep playing out the door and down the hallway.

In the middle of making Grantaire decide between sleep, laughter, and pizza, Jehan says,. The group meets in Ms. Grantaire waits. It's stupid, but his heart is beating faster at the thought of showing up at save-the-world club. That's why he doesn't immediately notice that Jehan has has a big photo of Walt Whitman stuck up on the inside of his locker door, like a movie star. He's trying to decide whether or not to say anything about it when a dark-haired figure leaps toward them, shouting something and wrapping an arm around Jehan.

Grantaire's adrenaline has a full three seconds to kick into high gear before he realizes it's just Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac is loud but harmless. They had Health together last year, and prior to that, Grantaire remembers him vaguely from the middle school play. Jehan looks at the floor. One corner of his mouth quirks up. This must be their normal routine, Grantaire decides, part of Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac.

He can get away with this stuff by virtue of being a theater kid; people expect it of him. It was tragic. I was five minutes from putting a wig on Bossuet and making him say stuff about Dante, just to fill the void. Jehan had twisted away to root through his locker some more, but he straightens up, smoothing out two pieces of crumpled notebook paper. Over and over. Jehan coughs again. The scary part is that Courfeyrac seems to mull it over.

Courfeyrac is untroubled. He hooks his elbow through Jehan's free arm. Jehan had been vague about the name, earlier. Grantaire is starting to see why. Like, the ones way far down in the alphabet? Or the ones that just kind of suck, like Q? But it might also—there's 'accelerate' or 'activate' to think about, couple of other things. The C we're pretty sure is 'change'. Surprisingly, Grantaire knows or at least recognizes most of them.

Courfeyrac greets her with a kiss on her hand and a line of Shakespeare. Very Captain Planet. Granted, the only other information Grantaire has is that sometimes Bahorel comes to school in bright lavender jeans, which is not a standard wrestling team move. Grantaire has long assumed option two, but his presence now is testing that.

Less surprising is Feuilly, who last year spent all of Current Events trying to get people worked up about the war. Grantaire mostly brought in articles about old women getting arrested for keeping eighty dogs in their apartments, or drunk men crashing their riding mowers into their local police stations. Human interest pieces. In a school where even most of the pot heads are conservatives, Enjolras has managed to find ten allies, all of them united for a common cause, and the desire to effect real change in the world.

Well, except for Marius, who clearly just wants to make out with Cosette. And Bahorel, who could be there by accident. When Enjolras looks up and sees Grantaire, a muscle in his jaw twitches gratifyingly. At the very least, it answers the question of whether or not Enjolras remembers him.

He scuffs the toe of one shoe against the smudgy linoleum, holding onto a straight face through sheer force of will. Enjolras takes a deep breath. He lets it out. Enjolras doesn't waste any time. And, okay. Logically, empirically, Grantaire understands that laughing has got to be counterproductive, but God, he cannot help it.

The sound comes out more bitter than he was expecting, but what can you do? Enjolras rolls his eyes. Wedgies will go unwedged, Indian burns unburned, nurples unpurpled. I solemnly pledge to keep my grubby mitts off your justice club. And contrary to popular belief, Grantaire does have a self-preservation instinct somewhere. Or coalition. Or communism. Cat Stevens? Help me out here. Grantaire makes a mental note for Jehan and Courfeyrac. Much as Grantaire normally loves driving Enjolras up the wall, this level of scrutiny is starting to make his hands itch.

He nods, grateful for a chance to talk about something else. Enjolras looks at him again. Is he supposed to be saying something? Is this a test? The silence stretches out between them.

He leans against a locker. It earns a confused furrow of the eyebrows. Grantaire follows at his heels. As the meeting begins, Courfeyrac gives him a quick lowdown on how the ABC works. Everybody gets three minutes to make the case for their favorite cause, and then we vote on what we work on for the next month.

Musichetta wants gun control. Jehan has a lot of feelings about school funding, and also single moms for some reason. Courfeyrac can wax poetic about minimum wage.

Bossuet is big into animal rights. Cosette is passionate about the environment, and Marius is passionate about whatever Cosette is passionate about. Seriously, everything. At first, Grantaire thought the whole social justice sampler plate thing was just a love of committee rule run amuck, but after seeing Enjolras get equally fired up about inflation, carbon credits, and corn syrup, it dawns on him.

The group operates this way because it needs to. Enjolras never could have picked one cause to champion. He wants, fiercely, to change the world in every direction at once. Enjolras was compelling enough in detention. Watching him around people who actually care is spellbinding. Sometimes he smiles. From his expression, he was hoping that last time might have been a fluke. Grantaire widens his eyes.

Oh hey, Combeferre! Just in time. It becomes almost routine. Meetings are Mondays and Fridays, and Grantaire comes to every one of them, and every time, Enjolras asks why. If this was anyone else, it would count as banter. He keeps asking, though. Grantaire keeps coming up with new reasons, and Enjolras keeps asking. Maybe part of Enjolras looks forward to the latest smartass answer, maybe Enjolras would even be disappointed if Grantaire stopped showing up.

Grantaire tells himself this, and is struck by a sudden memory of being eleven years old, pointing a homemade wand at an automatic door and trying to convince himself he had moved it by magic.

Grantaire's trying to retrieve his Algebra textbook from where it's slid into the back of his locker without tipping over anything else. It's a real-life Jenga situation. They're friends through sheer proximity, because school officials can't kick that fetish for alphabetization. Last year, they sat side-by-side in Spanish, and Eddie laughed himself red-faced at how Grantaire hassled the teacher.

Grantaire closes his locker. Watch your ass with that one. Grantaire makes himself laugh. It doesn't sound right, but Eddie doesn't notice.

He thumps Grantaire on shoulder and walks off. Enjolras and his friends have a plan. As he stuffs the book into his backpack, he thinks that he really needs to stop going to meetings. He considers patting Enjolras on the shoulder and then thinks better of it, lets his hand drift back down.

For the first time in years, he finds himself sketching real people again. Suddenly his algebra notebook is half filled with scribbled portraits: Musichetta arguing with Bahorel, mid-hand gesture.

Enjolras and Combeferre, heads bowed together, conspiring. Cosette lugging a giant stack of books about alternative energy. Enjolras scowling at the mention of corporate personhood. Enjolras brandishing a pencil as he talks about voter registration. At first, part of the routine is walking to Ms. Grantaire had assumed that all the dramatics was just Courfeyrac functioning on default settings.

And in a way, he was right. Feuilly looked confused. Enjolras was surprisingly tolerant. Cosette almost dropped him, which was just about the funniest thing Grantaire had ever seen. Are you having fun? Am I going too far? Jehan is harder to read. For a while, Grantaire has no idea if the feelings were returned.

He actually does it less with Courfeyrac. Watching them dance around each other is equal parts adorable and nauseating. Still, bros before—other bros. Or something. Grantaire has zero interest in playing third wheel.

Seriously, fuck tricycles. When he rejoins them in Ms. Cupiding is hungry work, and, well, there are no snacks in justice club. Giving them shit would be like kicking a basket of unusually political puppies. Besides, Grantaire spends two hours with them every single week. He could never get away with being perpetually obnoxious. Make a series of straight-faced, somber-sounding comments designed to include the word "duty" as many times as possible.

A tremendous thank-you to the many people who have looked over various drafts of this story, including estelendur , threetynes , effectively-immortal , and sonhoedesrazao , and most especially to bedlamsbox , who has shepherded and guided this fic from its very beginnings. Well, a little weird, I suppose. This story is by default set around the time I was in high school, so about or If you don't feel like reading a period piece, feel free to imagine that everyone has smartphones and Facebook accounts that they just don't talk about, and they're burning CDs for each other out of retro nostalgia.

Eponine makes a scene, Enjolras makes a proposal, Grantaire makes a decision he can't take back. Also, there are jokes. Grantaire doesn't realize he's been avoiding Combeferre until he's faced with it, until there's no escape.

It's about ten minutes after one of the ABC meetings has broken up, and Grantaire is loitering by the south exit when he approaches. There's a brief uncomfortable moment where they have to decide how much to acknowledge each other and Grantaire opts for a silent nod but Combeferre must feel differently, because he says,. Grantaire pulls his earbuds off, pauses his mp3 player.

Combeferre seems to consider this. He slips his keys back into his coat pocket. This probably merits a response, but Grantaire can't think of one. It's not until Combeferre gives him a weird look that he realizes how bad that probably sounds coming from the resident unbeliever.

And yeah, Grantaire makes an effort not to heckle anyone but Enjolras. But looking over at Combeferre's guarded expression, he realizes that maybe not everyone else draws that distinction. He racks his brain for some way to fix this. Combeferre doesn't seem to know what to do with that, either. I guess it's always in my head, so. Grantaire is laughing before he can stop himself. Something in Combeferre's posture seems to unbend. Grantaire laughs again. Combeferre gives a small smile.

We compromised. I had a regular dog named—". Drug use only affects short-term memory, but he guesses Combeferre isn't in a position to know. He actually has to hear the words leaving his mouth before he realizes how pathetic they sound. It's bad enough when an adult breaks out the 'high school is the greatest time of your life' routine, but Jesus, who admits to peaking in second grade?

He throws a laugh on the tail end but it's way too late, that comment is just sitting there, like a turd in a public pool. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wondering where Eponine could possibly be. If he hadn't said he was waiting for her, he could make his excuses now, retreat to his car, and text her the new plan. Except Eponine never has her phone on, so Grantaire is stranded even in his imagination. There's a reason why Grantaire is the first to leave every meeting.

The ABC is technically a student group, open to everyone. When they assemble in Ms. But most of the members are also friends—all of them are, to one degree or another, except Grantaire. It makes things weird sometimes. Grantaire had kept the presence of mind not to throw the thing away.

Playing third wheel is bad enough, but twelfth wheel? God no. Combeferre's eyes narrow. Grantaire could smack himself. It's times like these he has trouble believing he used to be one of the smart kids. He stares down at the floor, wondering how quickly he could dig an escape tunnel. Bless that girl. Eponine crosses her arms. They start toward the parking lot. I've been waiting here forever, what the hell were you doing? She shrugs, and there's a telltale clinking from her backpack.

I was so fucking bored. She juts her chin, defensive. Grantaire turns around. Combeferre is standing a few feet behind them, one hand on the door of his Volvo.

Combeferre blinks back at her from behind his glasses, face impassive. She draws her knees up on the seat. Like I'm a barefoot orphan in one of those Save the Children ads. Grantaire would classify it as more of a "I am staring at your forehead so I don't look at your boobs by accident" look, but he isn't sure if that would help or hurt Combeferre in her eyes.

On the screen, Eponine's soldier lobs a grenade and crouches behind some crates. Like, when we were little. He takes a swig and suppresses a shudder.

Good lord, his memory had not been exaggerating how bad that shit is. She'd been popular, he knows that much. He can vaguely remember hearing her name, other girls upset that they didn't have something Eponine Thenardier had: new shoes, gel pens, pierced ears. Between skipping fourth grade and flunking his first go-round of freshman year, there was a big chunk of time where they weren't even in the same grade.

By the time they started hanging out, she was riding the downswing of a shift in reputation. Not that it bothers her, she says. She says it frequently, blinking too much and not quite meeting his eyes.

She pauses the game and rubs at her eyes, sighing. They've been pausing the game a lot lately, Grantaire thinks. Normally they've got more dedication. Why, what does it matter?

He crawls over to hand her the bottle. Eponine accepts it and takes a long swallow. He tries very hard not to ask if she's okay.

Grantaire swallows. He ponders this riddle for a while, and then he says, "Want some pizza? Eponine's head is in her hands. That does earn a look. When her face resurfaces, even Grantaire can tell her eye makeup is smeared. By the time the kitchen is filling with the acrid smell of burning plastic, things are already halfway back to normal.

Grantaire pries open the oven door and grabs a pair of tongs with the other hand. The pan smokes and hisses and almost slides out of his grip. He flings it into the sink with a loud clatter. As they wait for the ex-pizza and pan to cool off enough for the garbage can, he pours them each a bowl of cereal. Jehan is reading instead of paying attention in World Myth. Nobody could blame him for that. The funny thing is, the book he's sneaking is The Iliad.

It may even be in the original Greek; Grantaire only catches a glimpse of it as they pass notes back and forth. Jehan's reply comes a few minutes later: I took World Mythology to learn world mythology. I'm not letting World Mythology get in the way of that.

This duck is amazing. Can I keep it? Grantaire shrugs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He pulls out a book from his backpack. He takes the book, though, turns it over in his hands. The cover is black and white. World War One was kind of the death of old-timey anyway. The Lost Generation, y'know.

Hemingway and all that. Jehan squints at him. Enjolras jokes—". It almost sounds like an accusation. That couldn't have been comfortable. Jehan shakes his head. Do you have an imaginary friend? Jehan huffs. A corner of Jehan's mouth quirks up. Grantaire shakes his head. Grantaire, you're great, but you don't know everything. It's like getting dropkicked by a rainbow.

The bell rings. Jehan just sighs and says, "Thanks again for the duck. The thing about Enjolras's angry face is that he has more than one. Grantaire is becoming an expert on the topic, and he can confidently report that the guy's got a cornucopia of pissed-off expressions at his command. Each look conveys a slightly different mood.

There's the fire-in-the-eyes clenched jaw of determination, often present when rallying the troops.


The Real King of Pop, Feliz Navidad - Frans Bauer - Kerstfeest (CD, Album), Fight For Your Mind - Ben Harper - Welcome To The Cruel World - Fight For Your Mind - The Will To Li, Twilight Fields - Kirlian Camera - Schmerz (CD), Brother Louie - Modern Talking - Best Of (CD), Grannys Highland Home - Kenneth McKellar - Kenneth McKellar (Vinyl, LP), Niño De Los Reyes* - El Porompompero (Vinyl), The Little Drummer Boy - The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards - The Pipes & Drums & Military Band Of The R, Dad (Acoustic) (Live @ Discobolo - Tvm) 1998 - The Yellow Melodies - In Compilations 1997-2016 (Memo, Knald Eller Fald, Computer Love - Eruption (4) - I Cant Stand The Rain (Vinyl, LP, Album), Lamour Vient, Lamour Va - Claude François - Magnolias For Ever (CD, Album), Kathleen Cools: Het Veiligheidsprobleem - Bart Peeters & Hugo Matthysen - Het Ergste Uit Het Leugenp, Rose Kingdom - Kaya (6) - Ophelia (CD), The Amazing Pudding (Atom Heart Mother) Ocean Breakup / King Of The Universe - Electric Light Orchestra - On The Third Day (Vinyl, LP, Album


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  2. Fenrilkree Permalink is a platform for academics to share research papers.
  3. Kigrel Permalink
    Peace, Paul Z From: [email protected] (James Fryer) Subject: CRD: Don't think twice it's alright (Bob Dylan) Don't Think Twice It's Alright Bob Dylan C G Am Well it ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe F C G If you don't know by now C G Am And it ain't no use to sit and wonder why babe D7 G G7 It don't matter any how C C7 When.
  4. Gardarr Permalink
    Notes: A tremendous thank-you to the many people who have looked over various drafts of this story, including estelendur, threetynes, effectively-immortal, and sonhoedesrazao, and most especially to bedlamsbox, who has shepherded and guided this fic from its very beginnings. "Stay gold, Ponyboy" is a reference to The Outsiders; Grantaire isn't just being weird.
  5. Mazusar Permalink
    Jul 07,  · Selective listings by critics of The New York Times of new and noteworthy cultural events in the New York metropolitan region this week. * denotes a highly recommended film, concert, show or.
  6. Shaktir Permalink
    * The normal race weekend is for practice sessions on Fridays, qualifying on Saturdays, and the races on Sundays. * No technical knowledge of racing or bikes is needed for this one, but any questions please do ask! Other points to note: * At the beginning of this story, both Rick and Daryl are 13 years old.

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