Cookie King Cadillac Mp3
The deal was simple: Nobody was looking to get over on anybody. I left my suede jacket and my cell phone unattended in the mezzanine for several hours while my wife and I roamed the arena, stood on the floor near the stage, then migrated into some empty lower-level seats. My jacket and phone werestill there when I returned.
Cookie King Cadillac mp3
Original order was delayed at USPS the tracking number never moved. I emailed customer service and they were very helpful and asked if I could wait for an other week or I could download them myself. I asked for and received the link. I was sent a Google drive link and had to make available offline then I could download. Very happy with the service and the disks arrived several days later from USPS /Canada post . Will definitely order again from Motion audio book
The Nero Wolfe books are great stories, well narrated by Michael Prichard. Many of these books have been very difficult to find as audiobooks. All 33 novels and 41 short stories for $55 is a terrific value. Many thanks to MotionAudioBooks for making this collection available.
It took longer than expected to received the CDs. In this case notification to the buyer would have been appreciated. The MP3 are a good format to save space on theCD's but a pain when dealing with forwarding to a point where the listener stop the CD for any reason. Having Chapters marking to skip would just great. Thismight be time consuming to the fabricator but a great addition for easy handling when using a portable CD player for example. The listerners would appreciated this so much.
With the assistance of Chuck Jackson and Marvin Yancy, a songwriting and producing duo, she recorded some songs in a studio in Chicago that was owned by Curtis Mayfield. Her demo tapes led to a contract with Capitol, resulting in the release of Cole's debut album, Inseparable, which included songs that reminded listeners of Aretha Franklin. Franklin later contended that songs such as "This Will Be", "I Can't Say No", and others were offered to her while she was recording the album You but she had turned them down. Released in 1975, the album became an instant success thanks to "This Will Be", which became a top ten hit and won her a Grammy Award for Best Female R&B Vocal Performance. A second single, "Inseparable", also became a hit. Both songs reached number-one on the R&B chart. Cole also won Best New Artist at the Grammy Awards for her accomplishments, making her the first African-American artist to attain that feat. The media's billing of Cole as the "new Aretha Franklin" started a rivalry between the two singers. The feud boiled over at the 1976 Grammy Awards when Cole beat Franklin in the Best Female R&B Vocal Performance category, a category which Franklin had won eight times before losing to Cole.
The Kingston Trio is not singing the jingle. Rather, it is The Limeliters, another popular group from the same time period as The Kingston Trio. The lead singer of the group was Glenn Yarbrough. It is his voice heard speaking the sales pitch and singing the jingle with his trio mates.
We are a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program and the Sheet Music Direct Affiliate Program, affiliate advertising programs designed to provide a means for us to earn fees by linking to affiliated sites.
Picture by Bertie - a retake of the classic illustration by Walter Crane.Duration 3:15.Based on the Charming version by the Victorian writer Andrew Lang.Read by Natasha.Once upon a time there were three bears, who lived together in a house of their own in a wood. One of them was a little, small wee bear; one was a middle-sized bear, and the other was a great, huge bear.One day, after they had made porridge for their breakfast, they walked out into the wood while the porridge was cooling. And while they were walking, a little girl came into the house. This little girl had golden curls that tumbled down her back to her waist, and everyone called her by Goldilocks.
Located on the RiverWalk, the 70-floor hotel boasts over 100,000 square feet of indoor and outdoor venues, according to Marriott. The site also offers a convention center, three ballrooms, a Wintergarden and an outdoor patio with a view of the Detroit River. From Jan. 2-3, a single room with a king bed costs $269, but $264 for members.
This all-suite hotel in Greektown comes equipped with "signature oversize marble bathrooms with deep soaking tubs or whirlpools." It's also next to the People Mover and close to Comerica Park, Ford Field, Little Caesars Arena and more.
"Where the fun never stops," according to the Greektown Casino website, the "casino playground" is 100,000 square feet of slot machines, table games, live poker and more. At the hotel, a Deluxe room with a king-size bed, floor-to-ceiling windows and "luxurious pillow-top mattress with plush bedding" on Jan. 2 costs $127.99, by Friday, the same room costs $146.99.
However, the GMs strike back with more engine choices (including a hybrid) and a more supple-riding suspension, but the Ford offers what some consider more responsive handling. However, we're discussing a vehicle that weighs almost three tons, so regardless of its responsiveness, we're not talking Corvette- or Mustang-type handling here.
The 2008 Ford Expedition is available with just one engine on all trim levels, "a 5.4-liter V8 making 300 horsepower and 365 pound-feet of torque," according to Edmunds. They add that either "two-wheel or four-wheel drive (with low-range gearing) is offered." ConsumerGuide writes that the engine allows for impressive acceleration and finds that the Expedition has "sufficient power for any situation." Kelley Blue Book adds while they "weren't overwhelmed by the 5.4-liter V8's acceleration while towing, the Expedition seemed fully up to the task." Of the reviews read by TheCarConnection.com, Motor Trend offers one of the most critical reviews of the engine, saying that the Ford Expedition "feels sluggish right out of the gate," and "you can tell there's a lot of weight here, and the engine doesn't seem interested in compensating." For a hard number to hang your hat on, Edmunds says their test Ford Expedition 4WD "accelerated from zero to 60 mph in 8.9 seconds," which they feel is "a decent time for this class."
The generous dimensions of the 2008 Ford Expedition may make it difficult to maneuver in a parking lot, but they also afford a tremendous amount of interior space. Build and materials quality are also on the rise at Ford, especially with the King Ranch trim of the Ford Expedition.
In terms of safety features, the Ford Expedition 2008 doesn't disappoint. Edmunds writes "all major safety equipment is standard on the 2008 Ford Expedition, including antilock disc brakes with brake assist and a rollover-sensing stability control system." Kelley Blue Book elaborates by saying that "the AdvanceTrac stability controls system with Roll Stability Control modulates braking and engine power to help maintain driver control in marginal conditions, particularly those involving slippery surfaces." Cars.com adds "side-impact airbags for the front seats and side curtain airbags for all three rows of seats are standard."
One area of particular concern in large SUVs like the Ford Expedition 2008 is driver visibility. On the Ford Expedition, "visibility is hampered by thick roof pillars and large headrests, particularly over the left shoulder," according to ConsumerGuide. For the Ford Expedition, 2008 brings a pair of optional visibility assistance features, including "a back-up radar system to help making parking this giant a bit easier," according to ForbesAutos, that J.D. Power says complements the optional "rear-view camera." Reviews read by TheCarConnection.com overwhelmingly recommend the rearview camera, which ConsumerGuide describes as "helpful when backing up."
On the even more luxurious Ford Expedition Limited trim, J.D. Power says to expect a "rear parking sensor" and "wood and leather-trimmed steering wheel" to go along with the "perforated leather seats" that come standard. Finally, the 2008 Ford Expedition King Ranch incorporates all of the Limited trim's standard features and adds "upgraded leather upholstery, [and] unique interior and exterior trim," according to ConsumerGuide.
It was not my fault. If only the group had followed my original itinerary without changing it hither, thither, and yon, this debacle would never have happened. But such was not the case, and there you have it, I regret to say. "Following the Buddha's Footsteps" is what I named the expedition. It was to have begun in the southwestern corner of China, in Yunnan Province, with vistas of the Himalayas and perpetual spring flowers, and then to have continued south on the famed Burma Road. This would allow us to trace the marvelous influence of various religious cultures on Buddhist art over a thousand years and a thousand miles-a fabulous journey into the past. As if that were not enough appeal, I would be both tour leader and personal docent, making the expedition a truly value-added opportunity. But in the wee hours of December 2nd, and just fourteen days before we were to leave on our expedition, a hideous thing happened ... I died. There. I've finally said it, as unbelievable as it sounds. I can still see the tragic headline: "Socialite Butchered in Cult Slaying." The article was quite long: two columns on the left-hand side of the front page, with a color photo of me covered with an antique textile, an exquisite one utterly ruined for future sale. The report was a terrible thing to read: "The body of Bibi Chen, 63, retail maven, socialite, and board member of the Asian Art Museum, was found yesterday in the display window of her Union Square store, The Immortals, famed for its chinoiserie...." That odious word-"chinoiserie"-so belittling in a precious way. The article continued with a rather nebulous description of the weapon: a small, rakelike object that had severed my throat, and a rope tightened around my neck, suggesting that someone had tried to strangle me after stabbing had failed. The door had been forced open, and bloody footprints of size-twelve men's shoes led from the platform where I had died, then out the door, and down the street. Next to my body lay jewelry and broken figurines. According to one source, there was a paper with writing from a Satanic cult bragging that it had struck again. Two days later, there was another story, only shorter and with no photo: "New Clues in Arts Patron's Death." A police spokesman explained that they had never called it a cult slaying. The detective had noted "a paper," meaning a newspaper tabloid, and when asked by reporters what the paper said, he gave the tabloid's headline: "Satanic Cult Vows to Kill Again." The spokesman went on to say that more evidence had been found and an arrest had been made. A police dog tracked the trail left by my blood. What is invisible to the human eye, the spokesman said, still contains "scent molecules that highly trained dogs can detect for as long as a week or so after the event." (My death was an event?) The trail took them to an alleyway, where they found bloodstained slacks stuffed in a shopping cart filled with trash. A short distance from there, they found a tent fashioned out of blue tarp and cardboard. They arrested the occupant, a homeless man, who was wearing the shoes that had left the telltale imprints. The suspect had no criminal record but a history of psychiatric problems. Case solved. Or maybe not. Right after my friends were lost in Burma, the newspaper changed its mind again: "Shopkeeper's Death Ruled Freak Accident." No reason, no purpose, no one to blame, just "freak," this ugly word next to my name forever. And why was I demoted to "shopkeeper"? The story further noted that DNA analysis of the man's skin particles and those on both the blood- spattered trousers and the shoes confirmed that the man was no longer a suspect. So who had entered my gallery and left the prints? Wasn't it an obvious case of crime? Who, exactly, caused this freak accident? Yet there was no mention of a further investigation, shame on them. In the same article, the reporter noted "an odd coincidence," namely that "Bibi Chen had organized the Burma Road trip, in which eleven people went on a journey to view Buddhist art and disappeared." You see how they pointed the shaking finger of blame? They certainly implied it, through slippery association with what could not be adequately explained, as if I had created a trip that was doomed from the start. Pure nonsense. The worst part about all of this is that I don't remember how I died. In those last moments, what was I doing? Whom did I see wielding the instrument of death? Was it painful? Perhaps it was so awful that I blocked it from my memory. It's human nature to do that. And am I not still human, even if I'm dead? The autopsy concluded that I was not strangled but had drowned in my own blood. It was ghastly to hear. So far none of this information has been of any use whatsoever. A little rake in my throat, a rope around my neck-this was an accident? You'd have to be brainless to think so, as more than a few evidently were. At the postmortem, photos were taken, especially of the awful part of my neck. My body was tucked into a metal drawer for future study. There I lay for several days, and then samples of me were removed-a swab of this, a sliver of that, hair follicles, blood, and gastric juices. Then two more days went by, because the chief medical examiner went on vacation in Maui, and since I was an illustrious person, of particular renown in the art world-and no, not just the retail community, as the San Francisco Chronicle suggested-he wanted to see me personally, as did esteemed people in the professions of crime and forensic medicine. They dropped by on their lunch hour to make ghoulish guesses as to what had happened to cause my premature demise. For days, they slid me in, they slid me out, and said brutish things about the contents of my stomach, the integrity of the vessels in my brain, my personal habits, and past records of my health, some being rather indelicate matters one would rather not hear discussed so openly among strangers eating their sack lunches. In that refrigerated land, I thought I had fallen into the underworld, truly I did. The most dejected people were there-an angry woman who had dashed across Van Ness Avenue to scare her boyfriend, a young man who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and changed his mind halfway down, an alcoholic war vet who had passed out on a nude beach. Tragedies, mortal embarrassments, unhappy endings, all of them. But why was I there? I was stuck in these thoughts, unable to leave my breathless body, until I realized that my breath was not gone but surrounding me, buoying me upward. It was quite amazing, really-every single breath, the sustenance I took and expelled out of both habit and effort over sixty-three years had accumulated like a savings account. And everyone else's as well, it seemed, inhalations of hopes, exhalations of disappointment. Anger, love, pleasure, hate-they were all there, the bursts, puffs, sighs, and screams. The air I had breathed, I now knew, was composed not of gases but of the density and perfume of emotions. The body had been merely a filter, a censor. I knew this at once, without question, and I found myself released, free to feel and do whatever I pleased. That was the advantage of being dead: no fear of future consequences. Or so I thought. When the funeral finally happened on December 11th, it was nearly ten days after I died, and without preservation I would have been compost. Nonetheless, many came to see and mourn me. A modest guess would be, oh, eight hundred, though I am not strictly counting. To begin, there was my Yorkshire terrier, Poochini, in the front row, prostrate, head over paws, sighing through the numerous eulogies. Beside him was my good friend Harry Bailley, giving him the occasional piece of desiccated liver. Harry had offered to adopt Poochini, and my executor readily agreed, since Harry is, as everyone knows, that famous British dog trainer on television. Perhaps you've seen his show-The Fido Files? Number-one ratings, and many, many Emmy Awards. Lucky little Poochini. And the mayor came-did I mention?-and stayed at least ten minutes, which may not sound long, but he goes to many places in a day and spends far less time at most. The board members and staff of the Asian Art Museum also came to pay respects, nearly all of them, as did the docents I trained, years' and years' worth, plus the people who had signed up for the Burma Road trip. There were also my three tenants-the troublesome one, as well-and my darling repeat customers and the daily browsers, plus Roger, my FedEx man; Thieu, my Vietnamese manicurist; Luc, my gay haircolorist; Bobo, my gay Brazilian housekeeper; and most surprising to say, Najib, the Lebanese grocer from my corner market on Russian Hill, who called me "dearie" for twenty-seven years but never gave me a discount, not even when the fruit had gone overripe. By the way, I am not mentioning people in any order of importance. This is simply how it is coming to me. Now that I think of it, I would estimate that more than eight hundred people were there. The auditorium at the de Young Museum was crowded beyond belief, and hundreds spilled into the halls, where closed-circuit television monitors beamed the unhappy proceedings. It was a Monday morning, when the museum was usually closed, but a number of out-of-towners on Tea Garden Drive saw the funeral as a fine opportunity to sneak into the current exhibit, Silk Road Treasures from the Aurel Stein Expeditions, a testimony, in my opinion, to British Imperial plundering at the height of cupidity. When guards turned the interlopers away from the exhibits, they wandered over to my funeral fete, morbidly lured by copies of various obituaries that lay next to the guest book. Most of the papers gave the same hodgepodge of facts: "Born in Shanghai ... Fled China with her family as a young girl in 1949 ... An alumna of Mills College and guest lecturer there, in art history ... Proprietor of The Immortals ... Board member of many organizations ..." Then came a long list of worthy causes for which I was described as a devoted and generous donor: this league and that society, for Asian seniors and Chinese orphans, for the poor, the ill, and the disabled, for the abused, the illiterate, the hungry, and the mentally ill. There was an account of my delight in the arts and the substantial amounts I had given to fund artist colonies, the Youth Orchestra with the San Francisco Symphony, and the Asian Art Museum-the major recipient of my lagniappes and largesse, before and after death-which enthusiastically offered the unusual venue for my funeral, the de Young, in which the Asian was housed. Reading the roster of my achievements, I should have been bursting with pride. Instead, it struck me as nonsensical. I heard a roar of voices coming from every bit of chatter from every dinner, luncheon, and gala I had ever attended. I saw a blur of names in thick, glossy programs, my own displayed in "Archangels," below those in the fewer-numbered and more favored "Inner Sanctum," to which that Yang boy, the Stanford dropout, always seemed to belong. Nothing filled me with the satisfaction I believed I would have at the end of my life. I could not say to myself: "That is where I was most special, where I w