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Chandrasen Pena
Chandrasen Pena

I Am What I Ate...and I'm Frightened!!! And Other Digressions From The Doctor Of Comedy \/\/FREE\\\\


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_OC_InitNavbar("child_node":["title":"My library","url":" =114584440181414684107\u0026source=gbs_lp_bookshelf_list","id":"my_library","collapsed":true,"title":"My History","url":"","id":"my_history","collapsed":true,"title":"Books on Google Play","url":" ","id":"ebookstore","collapsed":true],"highlighted_node_id":"");I Am what I Ate-- and I'm Frightened!!!: And Other Digressions from the Doctor of ComedyBill CosbyWheeler Pub., 2004 - Biography & Autobiography - 182 pages 2 ReviewsReviews aren't verified, but Google checks for and removes fake content when it's identifiedA New York Times Bestseller A Featured Alternate of the Book of the Month Club, Literary Guild, Doubleday Book Club, and Black Expressions Book ClubThe legendary Bill Cosby, America's most well-known comic, wants food lovers and over indulgers everywhere to know that they are not alone. In this original collection of humorous musings and digressions about our obsessions, the incomparable Doctor of Comedy is right on target as he reflects back on his own sixty-five years of dining at the banquet of life - from the hoagies to the stogies and every death-defying delicacy in between. What people are saying - Write a reviewReviews aren't verified, but Google checks for and removes fake content when it's identifiedLibraryThing ReviewUser Review - bibliophile26 - LibraryThingA book of ancedotes about getting older. The book had funny points here and there, but it seem to ramble on pointlessly most of the time. Maybe I'd appreciate it more if I were older. Read full review

I Am What I Ate...and I'm Frightened!!! And Other Digressions from the Doctor of Comedy

People with this disorder often also have major depression, although there is no evidence that one condition causes the other. If you're 40 or older and have panic disorder, you may have depression or another hidden medical condition. Talk to your doctor to find out what's going on.

He crossed the wide Mississippi into Minnesota. He changed trains at St. Paul; he rolled into gusty vastnesses of snow, cut by thin lines of fence-wire. He felt free, in release from the little fields of Winnemac and Ohio, in relaxation from the shaky nerves of midnight study and midnight booziness. He remembered his days of wire-stringing in Montana and regained that careless peace. Sunset was a surf of crimson, and by night, when he stepped from the choking railroad coach and tramped the platform at Sauk Centre, he drank the icy air and looked up to the vast and solitary winter stars. The fan of the Northern Lights frightened and glorified the sky. He returned to the coach with the energy of that courageous land. He nodded and gurgled in brief smothering sleep; he sprawled on the seat and talked with friendly fellow vagrants; he drank bitter coffee and ate enormously of buckwheat cakes at a station restaurant; and so, changing at anonymous towns, he came at last to the squatty shelters, the two wheat-elevators, the cattle-pen, the oil-tank, and the red box of a station with its slushy platform, which composed the outskirts of Wheatsylvania. Against the station, absurd in a huge coonskin coat, stood Leora. He must have looked a little mad as he stared at her from the vestibule, as he shivered with the wind. She lifted to him her two open hands, childish in red mittens. He ran down, he dropped his awkward bag on the platform and, unaware of the gaping furry farmers, they were lost in a kiss.

There was in Nautilus a country club which was the axis of what they called Society, but there was also a tribe of perhaps twelve families in the Ashford Grove section who, though they went to the country club for golf, condescended to other golfers, kept to themselves, and considered themselves as belonging more to Chicago than to Nautilus. They took turns in entertaining one another. They assumed that they were all welcome at any party given by any of them, and to none of their parties was anyone outside the Group invited except migrants from larger cities and occasional free lances like Martin. They were a tight little garrison in a heathen town.

The citizens had been told that in bubonic plague, unlike pneumonic, there is no danger from direct contact with people developing the disease, so long as vermin were kept away, but they did not believe it. They were afraid of one another, and the more afraid of strangers. The Commission found a street dying with fear. House-shutters were closed, hot slatted patches in the sun; and the only traffic was an empty trolley-car with a frightened motorman who peered down at them and sped up lest they come aboard. Grocery shops and drugstores were open, but from their shady depths the shopkeepers looked out timidly, and when the Commission neared a fish-stall, the one customer fled, edging past them.

Pretty clearly, what Harvard was telling me was that they suspected me of being a rapist, child molester, or something similar, or at least that they thought other people would suspect such things of me. I thought that was foolish and made what I had volunteered to do a little less convenient, but I took it not as an insult from Harvard but evidence of things wrong with the culture both I and the author of those instructions are embedded in.


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