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Luckily, Max gets some guidance from veteran farm dog Rooster Harrison Ford, making his animated-film debut , who pushes Max to ditch his neuroses, find his inner alpha, and give Liam a little more freedom. Meanwhile, while her owner is away, plucky Pomeranian Gidget Jenny Slate tries to rescue Max's favorite toy from a cat-packed apartment with a little help from her feline friend, Chloe Lake Bell , who has discovered the joys of catnip. And crazy-but-cute bunny Snowball Kevin Hart gets delusions of grandeur that he's an actual superhero after his owner Molly starts dressing him in superhero pajamas.

But when Daisy Tiffany Haddish , a fearless Shih Tzu, shows up to ask for Snowball's help on a dangerous mission, he'll have to summon the courage to become the hero he's only been pretending to be. Can Max, Snowball, Gidget and the rest of the gang find the inner courage to face their biggest fears? Details Animation, Comedy 1 hr. Opened June 7th, Search for a Movie or Location. Doc nodded, holding the red coil to his cigar. The glow of the lighter, the soft lights of the instrument panel, gave to his large and bony, bald but bearded head a hard-worn dignity.

He looked like Jean Sibelius with eyebrows and whiskers, in the full vigor of his fruitful forties. Sibelius lived for ninety-two years. Doc had forty-two and a half to go. Abbzug loved him.


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Not much, perhaps, but enough. She was a tough piece out of the Bronx but could be sweet as apfelstrudel when necessary. That classic Abbzug voice might rasp on the nerves at times, when her mood was querulous, but kisses or candy or con could usually mellow the harshest of her urban tones. Her tongue though adder- sharp was sweet he thought as Mogen David all the same. His wife had loved him, more than he deserved, more than realism required.

Given sufficient time she might have outgrown it.

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The children were all grown up and a continent away. Doc's nicer patients liked him but didn't always pay their bills. He had a few friends, some poker-playing cronies on the Democratic County Committee, some drinking companions from the Medical Arts Clinic, a couple of neighbors in the Heights. No one close. His few close friends were always sent away, it seemed, returning rarely, the bonds of their affection no stronger than the web of correspondence, which frays and fades. He was therefore proud and grateful to have a nurse and buddy like Ms.


  1. Hey Mike!
  2. The Grudge Ditch Gang by Jessie Haynes: Jessie Haynes - Better World Books.
  3. Alive in the Jungle A Story for the Young.
  4. Bonnie Abbzug at his side, this night, as the black automobile rose westward under the rosy smog-glow of the city's personal atmosphere, beyond the last of the Texaco, Arco and Gulf stations, past the final Wagon Wheel Bar, into the open desert. High on the western mesa near burnt-out volcanoes, under the blazing, dazzling, starry sky, they stopped among the undefended billboards at the highway's side.

    Time to choose another target. Doc Sarvis and Bonnie Abbzug looked them over.

    So many, all so innocent and vulnerable, ranged along the roadway in serried ranks, clamoring for the eye. Hard to choose.

    The Sun Gym Gang

    Should it be the military? Sarvis loved them all, but sensed a certain futility in his hobby. He carried on these days more from habit than conviction. There was a higher destiny calling to him and Ms. That beckoning finger in his dreams. We drove all this way. You won't be happy if you don't. Doc said, "Exactly.

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    He opened the trunk lid and removed, from among the golf clubs, the spare tire, the chain saw, the case of spray paint, the tire tools, the empty gas can, another gasoline can, full. Doc closed the lid. Doc's car carried other hex signs — he was indeed a decalcomaniac — to ward off evil: the M. Taking no chances, looking both ways, severe and sober as a judge, carrying his matches and his can of gasoline, Dr. Sarvis marched through the weeds, the broken bottles, the rags and beer cans of the ditch, all that tragic and abandoned trivia of the American road, and climbed the cutbank toward the object of his fierymania:.

    While down below his Bonnie waited at the wheel of the Lincoln, her engines running, ready for getaway. After two years in the jungle delivering Montagnard babies and dodging helicopters for those boys up there fired their tumbling dumdums at thirty rounds per second at anything that moved: chickens, water buffalo, rice farmers, newspaper reporters, lost Americans, Green Beret medics — whatever breathed and another year as a prisoner of the Vietcong, he returned to the American Southwest he had been remembering only to find it no longer what he remembered, no longer the clear and classical desert, the pellucid sky he roamed in dreams.

    Someone or something was changing things. The open desert was being scraped bare of all vegetation, all life, by giant D-9 bulldozers reminding him of the Rome plows leveling Vietnam. These machine-made wastes grew up in tumbleweed and real-estate development, a squalid plague of future slums constructed of green two-by-fours, dry-wall fiberboard and prefab roofs that blew off in the first good wind. This in the home of free creatures: horned toads, desert rats, Gila monsters and coyotes. A smudge of poisoned air overhung his homeland.

    Hayduke smelled something foul in all this.

    The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

    A smoldering bitterness warmed his heart and nerves; the slow fires of anger kept his cockles warm, his hackles rising. Hayduke burned. And he was not a patient man. After a month with his parents, he raced off to a girl at Laguna Beach. Found, fought and lost her. He returned to the desert, heading north by east for the canyon country, the Arizona Strip and the wild lands beyond.

    There was one place he had to see and brood upon awhile before he could know what he had to do. Hayduke rumbled up the asphalt trail in his new secondhand jeep, one eye on the road and the other itching with hay fever; he was allergic to tumbleweed, that exotic vegetable from the steppes of Mongolia. Small problems: he liked this machine; he was pleased with the handy extras — roll bars, auxiliary gas tank, mag rims and wide-tread tires, the Warn hubs and the Warn winch with foot cable, the gimbal-mounted beer-can holder screwed to the dash, the free and natural paint job.

    The desert eased his vague anger. Near the dirt road which turned off the highway and led east for ten miles to the volcanic ramparts of the Kofa Mountains, he stopped, well away from the traffic, and made himself a picnic lunch. He sat on warm rock in the blazing spring sun, eating pickle and cheese and ham in onion roll, washing it down with beer, and opened himself through pore and nerve ends to the sweet stillness of the Arizona desert.

    He gazed about and found that he still remembered most of the scrubby little trees: the mesquite great fuel for cooking and heating, beans for hard times, shade for survival , the green-barked paloverde with its leafless stems the chlorophyll is in the bark , the subtle smoke tree floating like a mirage down in the sandy wash. Hayduke proceeded. The hot fury of the wind at 65 mph whistled past his open window, strummed his sleeve, kissed his ear as he drove on and on, northeast toward the high country, the good country, God's country, Hayduke's country, by God.

    And it better stay that way. Or by God there'll be trouble. Twenty-five years old, Hayduke is a short, broad, burly fellow, well-muscled, built like a wrestler. The face is hairy, very hairy, with a wide mouth and good teeth, big cheekbones and a thick shock of blue-black hair. A bit of Shawnee blood back in there, maybe, somewhere, way back in the gene pool.

    Pain & Gain - Story

    His hands are large and powerful, pale white under the black hair; he's been in the jungle and then in the hospital for a long time. He drank another beer as he drove along. Two and a half six-packs to Lee's Ferry.


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    5. Out there in the open Southwest, he and his friends measured highway distances in per-capita six-packs of beer. Time is relative, said Heraclitus a long time ago, and distance a function of velocity. Since the ultimate goal of transport technology is the annihilation of space, the compression of all Being into one pure point, it follows that six-packs help.