Leaderboard

Gives a whole new dimension to "On the Barbie!"

Most of the pictures I could find online needed quite a bit of cropping, but here's Candy Floss.

Installed Windows 10 on his/her computer.

CONFERENCE The Deacon's Seat had known many backsides. Some belonged to men more at home in the saddle, come to take their ease on a deck that didn't move, shaded by the split-shake roof run out over the boardwalk in front of the Sheriff's office. Hardy souls sat there, pretending an imperviousness to cold, sheltered from snow when the winds were calm; men of business were known to take their ease, in conference with one another, or the pale eyed Sheriff, or whoever else might have migrated to this welcoming resting-place. The Sheriff wiped it down of a morning, disposing of dust settled in since the last cleaning; it was, after all, right on the street, and the street was dirt, and in dry weather, dust was a part of life: visiting backsides kept it clean, to a degree, but not reliably. High and low, rich and beggarly, resident and transient, at one time or another, were seen on the Deacon's Bench, and where two or more were gathered, it generally got kind of deep, for where men congregate, tales are told, lies are crafted, jests and coarse laughter shared, and so universal and catholic was the visiting cross section thereon, that the Sheriff was not at all surprised to see a schoolboy sitting on the Deacon's Bench. The lad held an open book and his face held a studious frown, and the Sheriff, a father himself, came over and eased his bony backside down onto the polished smooth bench seat. "Learnin' anything?" the Sheriff asked, his voice gentle, and the boy looked up at him. "I can't read much, Sheriff," he admitted. "Are you lookin' for anythin' pa'tickelar?" The boy's eyes raised to the whitewashed schoolhouse, across the dirt street and diagonally downhill from the Sheriff's office. "Miz Sarah said all the knowledge in the world is in books," he said, "and I want some of it!" Linn nodded slowly. "She's right," he said quietly. "My Pa told me the very same thing." The boy looked at him quickly, the way a lad will when he realizes he's just received corroboration on a theory. "How much of this can you read?" Linn asked, laying his arm across the back of the bench, above the boy's shoulders. "Just the little words." "Can you make much sense of what you can read?" "Not really." "Well, now, let's take a look here. May I?" The boy surrendered the book to the Sheriff's fatherly hands. Linn marked the place with careful fingers -- the boy noticed white lines crisscrossing the Sheriff's fingers, and looked at his own, marked in an identical manner from mistakes made with a Barlow knife -- Linn closed the cover, read the title, nodded, opened the book again. "History of the United States," he said. "That is an important book." "That's what Miz Sarah said," the boy affirmed. "Do you know what you're looking at -- this page, here?" "No, sir." "This here is the Ohio and Erie Canal. It's talking about Irishmen digging that big ditch with hand shovels and how they were able to float cargo and settlers here, there and yonder. See this?" His finger rested momenarily on the copperplate engraving of a map: he knew the outline, for it was familiar to him; within, squiggly lines, some running along the south shore of the northern border, others running the length of the state. "Yes, sir." "Know what it is?" "No, sir." "This used to be the West," Linn said. "Huh?" The boy's nose screwed up a little as his face wrinkled up in a little boy's puzzlement. "Do you know what Ohio is?" "No, sir. I think I heard Miz Sarah talk about it maybe." Linn nodded, closed the book. "Come with me." He rose, the boy following: the two went into the Sheriff's office. "Pull up a chair, here beside mine." Linn went to a cabinet with broad, shallow drawers, opened one, another, pulled out a large sheet of paper. "This," he said, settling the large sheet on his desk top, "is a map of the You-Nited States." The boy leaned forward, hands turned backward, gripping the smooth, rounded edge of the Sheriff's desktop. "Here's the East Coast. Atlantic Ocean. Nation's capital, Washington, DC. Here" -- his finger thumped on a light-blue-tinted area -- "that is Lake Erie. This under it, recognize the shape?" The boy blinked, opened his book again, laid it open on the map, compared the two. "That's it?" "That," Linn said, "is Ohio. Now we are clear ... out ... here." His finger traced westward, thumped again, on a hand-drawn squarish shape. "Here we are, in the Shining Mountains. These lines here are railroads. These are rivers. Now I don't have the Ohio and Erie Canal system drawn in here, but you have them in your book." The boy was looking from one to the other, frowning, trying to justify the disparity in size between the two. "This country is an awful lot bigger than a man would realize," Linn said quietly. "You're Joe Adam's boy." "Yes, sir. Michael, like the Archangel." Linn stuck out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Michael, and that is a fine name indeed." Michael grinned, that sudden bright grin of a delighted boy, and he took the Sheriff's hand the way he'd seen his own Pa shake hands. "Now. Let's go back out on the Deacon's bench and see if we can't rassle some knowledge out of this book." Ranchers, miners, business owners and a pale eyed schoolmarm, at one time or another that day, looked over at the front of the Sheriff's office. Every last one of them counted it a good thing indeed that this chief law enforcement officer, this hard-eyed keeper of the Law, could still sit with a young schoolboy, and help the lad explore the wonders to be found in the printed word. Michael grew, as all boys do; he became a man, a husband, a father and grandfather; he never rose to any great office of influence or power, he never became a tycoon or a business magnate, but even as an old man, sitting with his grandsons on either side of him and a book open on his lap, he never, ever forgot what it was for a lean old lawman to tell him, with actions instead of words, that he, Michael, was worth it -- worth the time -- that this skinny, pale eyed old Sheriff thought him important enough, to help him explore the marvels, the wonders, the worlds and the adventures, to be found in a book.

Not true without pics. kR

It's like the statue of Molly Malone. Bronze statue of a woman with a low-cut bodice selling fish. The entire statue is a dull brown color - tarnished bronze. Except for the top of the boobs sticking out of that low-cut bodice. They're all nice bright and shiny yellow, from all the tourists petting them.

Wiry feller

Brits call it candy floss. Back in the seventies Penthouse magazine had a comic strip in it every month. Oh Wicked Wanda. And Wanda had a girlfriend. Cute little blonde with long legs and short skirts. Named Candy Floss. That name puzzled me long after the comic quit running. Until I found out that it was cotton candy. She did look very sweet.

YES!!!!!

Does that make it more toothsome?

When we visited Germany, Austria, and Prague, we saw lots of peeing statues. I guess when things look bad, go to town and see the statues! This quote was found online: Probably the coolest fountain ever!! The Dachshund fountain in Bad Camberg - Erbach. Sitting in the Delerium Bar in Brussels, looking out the window to the building on the other side of the narrow alley, there was an alcove with a fountain of a young girl squatting and peeing. Wokers would have a heart attack! Another brass or bronze statue of a nude male was tarnished except for his particular member, which was polished shiny by the tourists rubbing it. People need to lighten up. Or light up!

I had a lighter shade of pale green '62. It was my first car! 6 cyl, 3 on the tree!

Goodyear has the traditional blimp. but what if Target sponsored a blimp? With only their logo on the side?

A wild one!

Just a trim, please.

Typewriters, guns...same thing. Right??

Happy Independence Day...but not for these fellers.