December 5th, 2005

Chris Keeley

Fletcher sat in her cozy living room, under a portrait of a heavily muscled Jesus, and laughed with

Sursum Corda Residents' Faith In Developer's Vision Runs Low

By Lori Montgomery and Sue Anne Pressley
Washington Post Staff Writers
Monday, December 5, 2005; A01

Of the 650 people who live in Sursum Corda, about 35 showed up for the first big meeting. Quiet as lambs, the elderly men and weary-looking women listened to lawyers and developers talk about the $80,000 each family will get and how they can use the money to buy a home. Only two people asked questions. The rest nodded, scraped back their chairs -- and walked away still baffled by the complicated deal that is supposed to change their lives.

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Rooker is not sure what she will do in the new Sursum Corda. She may be "too old" to buy, she said; she might just stay and rent. But she said she has faith in KSI and in the future.

"We know it takes time to work things out," she said. "This didn't happen overnight, so it's not going to work out overnight. That's why you've got to stay prayed up on a lot of things."

Chris Keeley

Mr. Metcalf had the winning $3 ticket for a $65 million Powerball jackpot. Ms. Merida had refused to

December 5, 2005

Instant Millions Can't Halt Winners' Grim Slide

CORBIN, Ky., Nov. 30 - For Mack W. Metcalf and his estranged second wife, Virginia G. Merida, sharing a $34 million lottery jackpot in 2000 meant escaping poverty at breakneck speed.

Years of blue-collar struggle and ramshackle apartment life gave way almost overnight to limitless leisure, big houses and lavish toys. Mr. Metcalf bought a Mount Vernon-like estate in southern Kentucky, stocking it with horses and vintage cars. Ms. Merida bought a Mercedes-Benz and a modernistic mansion overlooking the Ohio River, surrounding herself with stray cats.

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It is unclear how much of Ms. Merida's estate remains, but it appears she saved some of it. That may not have been the case with Mr. Metcalf, his daughter said. Six months after his death, his house in Corbin was sold for $657,000, about half of what Mr. Metcalf had paid for it.

In a brief obituary in The Kentucky Enquirer, Ms. Merida's family described her simply as "a homemaker." On a black tombstone, Ms. Metcalf had this inscribed for her father, "Loving father and brother, finally at rest."

Al Salvato contributed reporting from Cold Spring, Bellevue and Dayton, Ky.

Chris Keeley

Athina Roussel, the billionaire heiress to the late Greek shipping tycoon Aristotle Onassis's fortun

Billionaire Onassis Heiress Weds Brazilian Equestrian Champ

By Cristina Zahar
Reuters
Monday, December 5, 2005; C03

SAO PAULO, Brazil -- Athina Roussel, the billionaire heiress to the late Greek shipping tycoon Aristotle Onassis's fortune, married Brazilian equestrian champion Alvaro Affonso de Miranda in a sumptuous wedding held behind tight security in Sao Paulo on Saturday night, witnesses said.

Up to 1,300 guests from around the world attended the event on the lush grounds of an art museum in the smart Morumbi district. The couple exchanged vows around 10 p.m., and the party lasted until 4 a.m. Sunday, the witnesses said.
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Athina turns 21 next month and is embarking on a struggle for control of the billion-dollar Onassis Foundation charity. Its trustees have decreed she is not Greek enough to head it.

Doda has encouraged her to improve her Greek credentials, according to media reports. She has said she wants to ride for Greece in the next Oly
Chris Keeley

Sweet is a burlesque dancer who uses the stage name Dita Von Teese

Manson Hitched

Shock rocker Marilyn Manson married his longtime girlfriend Saturday in Ireland, People magazine reports on its Web site.

Manson, whose real name is Brian Warner , married 33-year-old Heather Sweet in front of about 60 guests at Castle Gurteen, the home of a friend in Kilsheelan, County Tipperary, the magazine says.

Sweet is a burlesque dancer who uses the stage name Dita Von Teese . They have been dating for four years and Manson proposed at their Los Angeles home last year, People reports.

It is the first marriage for both.

Manson, 36, wore a black silk taffeta tuxedo and Sweet was in royal purple silk taffeta with a corset. They were married in a nondenominational ceremony conducted by underground filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky.
Chris Keeley

My fellow-drivers, riding their brakes and clinging to the wheel as if it were some kind of voodoo f

LA CONCHITA by T. CORAGHESSAN BOYLE
Issue of 2005-12-12 Posted 2005-12-05

In my business, where you put something like forty to forty-five thousand miles a year on your vehicle and the sweet suck of the engine at 3500 r.p.m. is like another kind of breathing, you can’t afford distractions. Can’t afford to get tired or lazy or lift your eyes from the road to appreciate the way the fog reshapes the palms on Ocean Avenue or the light slips down the flanks of the mountains on that mind-blowing stretch of Highway 1 between Malibu and Oxnard. Get distracted and you could wind up meat. I know that. The truckers know that. But just about everybody else—Honda drivers, especially, and I’m sorry—they don’t even know they’re behind the wheel and conscious half the time. I’ve tried to analyze it, I have. They want value, the Honda drivers, value and reliability, but they don’t want to pay for the real deal—German engineering is what I’m talking about here—and yet they still seem to think they’re part of some secret society that allows them to cut people off at will, to take advantage because they’re so in the know. So hip. So Honda. And, yes, I carry a gun, a Glock Nine I keep in a special compartment I had built into the leather panel of the driver’s-side door, but that doesn’t mean I want to use it. Or would use it again. Except in extremis.
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It took maybe three minutes, no more, before Freddie had the cooler secured—minutes that were ticking down till the donor organ was just a piece of meat you could have laid out on the stainless-steel counter at the market—and then he was off, kicking up mud, the blast of his exhaust like the first salvo in a war of attrition. But I didn’t care about any of that. I cared about the liver and where it was going. I cared about the woman who’d taken hold of my wrist and her husband and the little girl I never did get to lay eyes on. And though I was wet through and shivering and my car was stuck and my shoes ruined and my hands so blistered I couldn’t make a fist with either one, I started back up the hill—and not, as you might think, to watch the lucky man emerge from the hole in the ground or to take a bow or anything like that, but just to see if anybody else needed digging out