I’d never heard this theory before:
Fate of Amelia Earhart prompts jail excavation
“In the past there had been rumors that Amelia Earhart’s plane was shot down and she was held captive by her Japanese captors on suspicion that she was a spy. Later she was burned and buried at the back of the jail,” Historic Preservation Office (HPO) director Epiphanio Cabrera said.
Is it just me, or is the next logical question, “was she burned dead or alive?” (Hey, with Japan’s track record, it’s a fair question, right?)
It seems the concoctions my brother and I have dreamed up over the years have finally gone mainstream:
Move over, mimosa!
I would add as an addendum to this article that if you don’t have two to six DAYS to prepare your artful infusions, a gallon jug of shochu mixed with a couple cans of fruit cocktail and chilled with frozen vodka shots can sometimes do the trick as well.
The most addictive Flash game ever:
Since I had a paid holiday to use up this week, I took the day off and slept until mid-afternoon. In truth, I had intended on waking up early to go fishing, but I got trapped in the intoxicating warmth of my blankets. By the time I got moving, the tides were unfavorable, so I thought we would go hiking up in the mountains and maybe try some largemouth bass (in Japan, “black bass”) fishing. We were not disappointed, as I hooked up with a couple 13-14 inchers within the first fifteen minutes:
What an awesome day off!
After reading this, would you still call my fear of sharks irrational? After years of watching shark documentaries on various nature channels, it is still baffling to me that even after getting bitten, many shark researchers will often continue their work (presumably with new nicknames like, “stumpy,” or out on the water, “bob”).
Was listening to Van Morrison late last night and got caught up in memories when the said track played.
When he first started his practice, my father often accepted barter when his patients couldn’t afford treatment. One man brought in a couple jars of Tupelo honey from his own beehives. Naturally, when I heard this story a couple years ago, I asked my dad how it tasted. “Sweet,” he said.
When my pal T’s father opened a cram school thirty years ago, many of his students came from poor families, so he also accepted fresh produce or other various goods as payment. That’s so cool.
When I think of how impersonal and insignificant office jobs are in the modern world, it makes me fucking sick.