Word: pockets
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Dates: during 2000-2000
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...only trouble with the new SoftBook and RocketBook is that the text is still ever so slightly pixelated--not as smooth or as eye-pleasing as the text you're reading now. The newest Pocket PCs do a slightly better job, thanks to Microsoft's ClearType technology.But Pocket PCs are a little too small to read an entire novel on--unless you happen to enjoy squinting...
...magazine or photo album you'll ever need. This model can also do a lot of the Palm Pilot's work--like keeping a calendar and address book. It's not quite as portable as the Palm, however; it's something for your book bag rather than your shirt pocket. SoftBook Press, which makes the software for the device, thinks the addition of color will help it break into the school market. You could download a whole e-curriculum for the price of a few textbooks...
Vicente Fox Quesada leaps from the stage at Papantla, in the Mexican state of Veracruz, wiping beads of sweat off his mustache with a bandanna he keeps stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. Suddenly, he's mobbed like a Mexican rock star, one of those angry norteno balladeers who wail about shame and betrayal. At 6 ft. 5 in. in his cowboy boots, Fox, the presidential candidate of the conservative National Action Party (P.A.N.), towers above everybody, even his bodyguards. He moves toward a blue Suburban, through a press of sweating, grinning fans shouting...
Jeffrey Wright makes quite an entrance in Shaft. He arrives with a phalanx of lackeys and junkyard dogs, an ice pick in his pocket and a trash-talking mouth aimed point-blank at Samuel L. Jackson. It's the kind of grand, self-important entrance you haven't seen since Liberace stopped making TV specials. And for the rest of the movie, Wright lives up to that moment with his broadly drawn, carefully shaded performance as Peoples Hernandez, a drug kingpin and the first great movie villain of this millennium...
...tried too hard and assumed too much. Walking home drunkenly from a party one night, a friend of Dave's leaned suspiciously heavily on me and slipped his hand in my back pocket. More soberly the next day, he called and asked if I'd like to come by his room to hang out. I was elated at this social triumph--he was cool and suave and built, and a sophomore. A catch. Never mind that after half an hour of conversation he abruptly and unblushingly dimmed the lights, turned on jazz music and folded out his futon. We proceeded...