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Sound Blocking Drapes

sound blocking drapes


  • Obstructing or impeding the actions of an opponent in a game, esp. (in ball sports) one who does not have control of the ball
  • (blocked) completely obstructed or closed off; “the storm was responsible for many blocked roads and bridges”; “the drain was plugged”
  • The sudden halting of the flow of thought or speech, as a symptom of schizophrenia or other mental disorder
  • the act of obstructing or deflecting someone’s movements
  • The action or process of obstructing movement, progress, or activity, in particular
  • (blocked) closed to traffic; “the repaving results in many blocked streets”


  • (drape) the manner in which fabric hangs or falls; “she adjusted the drape of her skirt”
  • Adorn, cover, or wrap (someone or something) loosely with folds of cloth
  • Let (oneself or a part of one’s body) rest somewhere in a casual or relaxed way
  • (drape) arrange in a particular way; “drape a cloth”
  • Arrange (cloth or clothing) loosely or casually on or around something
  • (drape) curtain: hanging cloth used as a blind (especially for a window)


  • Ascertain (the depth of water), typically by means of a line or pole or using sound echoes
  • Examine (a person’s bladder or other internal cavity) with a long surgical probe
  • appear in a certain way; “This sounds interesting”
  • financially secure and safe; “sound investments”; “a sound economy”
  • Question (someone), typically in a cautious or discreet way, as to their opinions or feelings on a subject
  • the particular auditory effect produced by a given cause; “the sound of rain on the roof”; “the beautiful sound of music”

sound blocking drapes – Blocking the

Blocking the Courthouse Door: How the Republican Party and Its Corporate Allies Are Taking Away Your Right to Sue
Blocking the Courthouse Door: How the Republican Party and Its Corporate Allies Are Taking Away Your Right to Sue
Thanks to constant political oratory against “frivolous lawsuits” and “jackpot justice,” it is widely known that there’s a legal crisis in this country. President Bush never misses an opportunity to call for laws that would bring more “common sense” to a legal system that, he claims, is out of control, wrecking the economy, driving doctors out of their practices, bankrupting small businesses, and costing American jobs. Journalists repeat the charges without examining them.
As a result, the lawsuit issue has moved to the political front burner, and in the past three years, state after state has responded by limiting citizens’ rights to sue. Just this year alone, the Republicanled Congress has passed restrictions on class action lawsuits and is steps away from enacting limits on medical malpractice lawsuits.
But is there really a crisis? National data show that the number of civil suits is falling, not rising, and that the average damage award is also going down. Despite intense media hype to the contrary, the number of personal injury lawsuits filed every year has been tumbling for the past decade. Upon closer examination, the stories of ridiculous lawsuits usually turn out to be false or badly misleading. The crisis, in short, appears to be a phantom.
So how do we explain the scary headlines? Who’s behind the “tort reform movement,” and what are the real goals? Blocking the Courthouse Door will show that the movement against so-called greedy trial lawyers and irresponsible plaintiffs is the result of a concerted and successful campaign by large corporations to get this issue on the table and thus limit their own vulnerability in the civil justice system. They have spent decades, and many millions of dollars, on focus groups and Madison Avenue public relations research. They have funded institutes, sponsored academic research, bankrolled politicians, set up phony “astroturf ” grassroots organizations (with chamber of commerce return addresses), and fed copy to all-too-gullible journalists.
For corporations, the self-interest involved is fairly plain. Tobacco companies, no longer able to dodge the bullet of liability for knowingly selling poisons, are making an end run around the civil justice system. If they can’t win a class action suit, they’ll make suing itself illegal. Insurance companies, drowning in red ink from mismanagement and bad investments in the bond market, hike insurance rates by huge sums and blame malpractice suits. The doctors in turn blame greedy lawyers — and their own injured patients. And for Republicans, the campaign provides an extra bonus: defunding the Democratic Party. Limits on lawsuits cut into the income of some of the Democratic Party’s most generous donors, the trial lawyers, who are often the only source of campaign cash for Democrats in many states.
By exposing some of the dubious characters, corporate chicanery, skewed research, fudged numbers, and bogus journalism that have buttressed the calls for lawsuit reform,Stephanie Mencimer shows who’s behind the movement to close the courthouse doors, and how they’ve successfully persuaded millions of Americans to give up their critical legal rights without fully understanding what they’re losing — often until it’s too late.

The 2004 Utica Tornado Story – Part 2 of 3

The 2004 Utica Tornado Story - Part 2 of 3
(photo: Crosses for those who died. Memorial benches will be carved from stone blocks that were part of the Milestone Tap.)

Utica Tornado of April 20, 2004
Story by Julia Keller
First printed December 5, 6, and7 in the Chicago Tribune.

Part 2: `Milestone’s gone!’
A savage tornado obliterates the century-old landmark where many sought shelter. Who lived? Who died?

By Julia Keller
Tribune staff reporter
Published December 6, 2004

In the basement of Duffy’s Tavern, dirt sifted between the floorboards overhead for 10 seconds. They could hear muffled booms from above, the crashes, the bangs and cracks and rattles. The whole building seemed to shudder, as if bumped rudely in a crowd. Sixty seconds before, they had hurried into the basement, chased there by a tornado flying toward the tiny town of Utica at 6:09 p.m. on April 20.

Down the wooden steps they had come, hurrying, hurrying, but trying not to shove. The lights died. Once at the bottom, they huddled shoulder to shoulder, next to things they couldn’t see: shelves with plastic tubs of French dressing and twist-tied bags of the green and white mints that Lisle Elsbury liked to hand out to departing customers.

Elsbury, the owner of Duffy’s, was last in line, having gathered everybody–six staff members, six customers–and made sure they were headed down the stairs and then closing the basement door behind him. His foot was still on the bottom step when it hit.

Ten seconds of shaking. Of falling dirt. "Everybody OK?" Elsbury said, once the shaking stopped. A nervous murmur of yeses.

He waited another 45 seconds or so. When he thought it was all over–you couldn’t be sure, not really, but you followed your instincts–Elsbury headed up the steps and cautiously opened the door.

He expected chaos. He expected, at the very least, severe damage: splintered bar, overturned tables and chairs, busted windows.

But Elsbury saw little change. Later he would discover a great deal of structural damage to the second floor, but for now, he felt lucky.

Chris Rochelle, 23, the bartender, was right behind his boss. When he saw that Duffy’s seemed intact, Rochelle moved straight out the back door to check on the rest of the town. He had good friends up and down this street, but none better than Larry Ventrice over at Milestone, Larry who’d encouraged him to start lifting weights again and take care of himself, Larry who’d lent him a car in which to drive home to Kansas last Christmas. If Duffy’s looked OK, then Rochelle wanted to help his friend Larry clean up Milestone.

He ran north through the alley, past the backs of Duffy’s and Skoog’s Pub and the other buildings, past the blown-down bricks and felled trees and hunks of twisted metal.

When he got to the corner he couldn’t believe what he saw. What he didn’t see.

Rochelle ran back to Duffy’s–he would have no memory of the running, of his knees rising and falling or of the breath tearing in and out of his chest, but he knew he must have done so, because that’s where he ended up–and he screamed, "Milestone’s gone! Milestone’s gone!" Even as he was saying it, even as the words flew out of his mouth, it didn’t sound possible. But it was. He had seen it. Or, not seen it.

Steve Maltas, who had taken refuge in the boiler room of the firehouse along with seven other volunteer firefighters, shoved open the heavy door. Yep, the building was still standing.

Then they all hurried outside, and the first thing they saw was what wasn’t there: Milestone.

A knee-high pile of rubble–sandstone blocks, thick wooden beams and a crusty overlay of broken concrete–seethed and steamed in the space where a two-story building had stood since 1887, right across the street from the firehouse.

For a few seconds Maltas and the others were too stunned to move, too numb, their minds utterly rejecting what their eyes were telling them was true: A building had been flattened in 10 seconds, like a sandcastle squashed by a bored kid at the beach.

They broke out of their astonishment and ran across the street to the jagged pile. Where to start? What to do? Good God. The center was absolute mashed chaos–wood and concrete and stone and wire and a thick powdery mist of pulverized mortar–but the edges, the edges looked bizarre: At the edges were huge intact sandstone blocks that had toppled in neat rows, like dominoes.

They started pulling at the rocks, doing what anybody would do: trying to get to whoever was inside, grabbing and lifting and clawing. They could hear screams and calls for help, and it was a healthy sound, God knows, because silence would have been worse.

Seconds later, they were joined by other people, people who had emerged from downtown buildings and looked around to check the damage and then saw–Good Lord–Milestone, what was left of Milestone, and so they ran to the site and bent over or dropped to their knees and pulled,

How To End A Bad Blind Date

How To End A Bad Blind Date
We are back from Montana, safe and sound. Had a great time…and I have some images I wanted to post today. But a call from Larry Talbot stopped me.

"How are we doing?" he asked. "With comments et al."

"Did you actually just say ‘et al’ to me?" I asked. "Who says ‘et al’? Makes it sound like you ate everyone in Kentucky," I observed shrewdly.

Talbot ignored me. He can be downright…dogged.

"How are we doing?" he demanded…again

I have been down the "how many" road with Talbot before…just a couple of days ago. I sighed. I started getting a headache.

"Our latest image has four thousand comments," I lied.

"Liar," he snapped. I could feel the chill, even over the phone line. "The possibility of getting precisely four thousand comments is minimal."

"Well I rounded it down," I said. "We actually got four thousand one hundred and seven."

"Liar," he said.

"No…no…flickr has a "secret comment" option. Most people prefer that. I get the comments…ummm..secretly."

There was a pause wherein the line hummed.

"You are lying to me." It wasn’t a question.

I sighed. "Yeah. I am." (I’d known in a flash that his secret computer labs in Geneva would bust me in a moment. Why put off the inevitable?")

"So how many did we get?"


"THIRTEEN???" he thundered.

I nodded and then remembered he can’t hear a nod on the phone. "Yes. Thirteen."


"I think you pissed a lot of people off with that gun rant," I said. "It wasn’t funny. And if I hadn’t edited out the line about your idea to shoot the whole Pro Gun Control lobby…"

"That was the very heart of my thesis," hissed Talbot.

"Listen, Larry: flickr is a photography site. People want to look at pictures. They don’t want to stop and read a huge block of copy. They just want to comment and get the hell away…onto the next image."

"YOU post long stories," Talbot insisted. "My computer labs in Geneva have verified this."

"Yeah," I said. "I do…but Larry…I don’t expect a lot of people to stop and comment. You can’t write on a photography site and expect people to respond. They won’t. You just post these things so a few of your friends will know what you’re up to. Sometimes I want to communicate what it was like being there with a little more detail. You post the shot and the words. Then you kinda…y’know…chill. So will you relax? In fact I was gonna post some shots of hoo doo shots today. I was gonna write a funny story about getting lost in Lethbridge and–"

"No," Talbot told me.


"No. I will send you a fresh article. I wrote it for Helium years ago on the topic of How To End A Bad Blind Date.

"Is it funny?" I asked. "I don’t think the remaining dozen or so people coming to my stream want to read another loooong diatribe."

"Yes. Print it. Run it."

So here it is. Hoo doos later, I guess…


by L. Talbot

To end a BBD ("Bad Blind Date") you could always try that old standby: Fake a seizure.

It works like this. You settle back in your chair with the air of one completely at ease. Drape one leg casually over the chair arm as you casually pick at stray bits of food with your fingernail. It’s a classic – one that, like friend pork rinds and The Gong Show, never seems to go out of style.

Look deeply into her eyes and smile broadly. Draw her in by talking exclusively about yourself. Women love this sort of detail. They want to know every little thing that has ever happened in your life. Your aspirations to be a cowboy and/or a nurse and/or a cowboy/nurse as a child.

Share your longing for a really good Lincoln Logs set – and your ache as a child (here you pause shyly…and admit it’s still an ache) to own an issue of The Amazing X-Men #3 comic book. (Women appreciate this also as it allows them to have some direction as to Christmas shopping. It never hurts to offhandedly add details such as WHERE Amazing X-Men #3 is to be found, the name of the shop owner and the precise cost so she can begin budgeting NOW.)

She will be enraptured. Of course she’ll try to disguise her interest by checking her watch frequently, making phone calls, pretending to doze off and looking hopefully at passing strangers. But you may rest assured that it’s all part of the game.

She wants you. That much is obvious. But alas – she has failed to pass the test and is about to be gracefully let down.

Continue throughout the meal. Talk constantly. Women appreciate this, since they are so often uncertain of where to take a conversation – and truly appreciate it when the male takes a strong lead and tells her all about himself.

Should she begin to speak – forestall the inevi

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