A professional wrestling submission move.

The executor stands behind the victim and wraps one arm under the victim's neck. This theoretically clamps down on the carotid artery, cutting off circulation of blood to the brain and making the victim pass out.

Rowdy Roddy Piper, a wrestler for both the World Wrestling Federation and World Championship Wrestling at various times, used the sleeper as his finishing move.

Aside from him, though, the sleeper is most often used to generate cheap heat--when a heel puts a sleeper on a babyface, the referee will check the face's arm three times to see if he's still concious. Invariably, the face's arm will drop the first two times and then miraculously come alive on the third--to the delight and cheers of the audience.
When you lose somebody, when you miss them, you suffer because the departed person has become something imaginary, something unreal. But your desire for them isn't imaginary. So that's what you have to fasten onto: the desire. Because it's real.

Jonathan Coe, The House of Sleep, 1998.

The last sleeper I rode was in Vietnam. We (my then-boyfriend David, his mate John, and I) had just left Nha Trang and were on the southbound train returning to Saigon. It was a quiet, subdued journey: we were supposed to be travelling North to Hanoi but the few days in Nha Trang had proved that we had neither the mettle nor inclination to stay in Vietnam. John had seriously gashed his ankle on a piece of flotsam in the sea; I was disgusted by the thousands of condoms generated by Nha Trang's thriving sex trade, scattered by the dozens per meter square everywhere on the beach. Vietnam, though beautiful, was certainly not a day at the beach. The cash-starved, war-hardened people frightened me. After six months of hard work in Kuala Lumpur, we wanted r&r, not hardship, whether witnessed or travailled. This last overland journey had its ultimate destination as the Ho Chi Minh City airport, where a flight to Thailand would take us to rich tourist heaven: Krabi.

The trains in Vietnam were as old and slow as one might expect, and the windows were covered in steel mesh grilles, because as our guidebook explained, children made sport of throwing rocks at the trains. Our sleeper compartment was "first class" accomodation: two small bunks on both sides with thin, plastic-covered foam pads; a small collapsible table; a net curtain, and a door with a broken latch. On the ceiling, a rather ineffectual fan worked on the same dynamo as the ceiling light, which flickered in time with the speed of the train.

I was in an upper bunk across from then-boyfriend David (we found the bunks far too small to want to share, even if we had, which I didn't); Dave's friend John was in the lower, and a Vietnamese couple had the other lower berth.

The journey was long, and I had trouble sleeping. I lay listening to the sounds of the men's breath and soft whispers of Vietnamese coming from below me. The couple spent the entire night clutching one another. It was something curious - their embrace, in a tiny room otherwise filled with three large Westerners, was utterly contrary to the privacy normally sought out for Asian intimacies. Through the night, as I tried to sleep, I could half-hear soft syllables of Vietnamese between the rhythmic clacketing of the tracks.

It was so hard to sleep. The air seemed damp and muggy even as cold breezes blew in through the grille. I pulled my sarong around me but it didn't help much. Nor did it help as morning dawned and the mosquitoes started biting and buzzing in my ears as if they were doing it on purpose.

As we left the countryside and entered the outskirts of Saigon, the tracks became lined with shacks and shops, their denizens using the rails as their main street. Gap-toothed children brushing teeth and taking baths in bright plastic tubs, waving dripping arms at the train. Sinewy young men with towels around their shoulders striding purposefully through the smoggy morning air, utterly ignoring the hundreds of tons of slowly moving steel that cruised alongside them. As I watched the scene I swatted yet another mosquito, swearing quietly so as not to wake my friends.

"The mosquitoes are terrible, just terrible", said the man in the bunk below me, in an American-accented voice. I was astonished. Hardly anyone we'd met in Vietnam spoke English; even the interpreters were difficult to understand. We started talking, pleasantly, if formally, he asking where I was from, I asking what he did for work, thinking that he must have quite a good job to be that skilled in English.

"I live in the United States", he said, with pride or contempt I couldn't tell. "I used to work for McDonnell-Douglas; they arranged my green card. Now I own a store in Michigan".

I asked if his wife lived with him, almost not bearing to hear the answer I expected.

"No, she wants to stay in Vietnam. She does not know any English." The woman, young, pretty, smiled at me.

It was the first smile in ten days in Vietnam that I could be sure was not motivated by profit. She had clear eyes, a kind face. Knowing how long and expensive flights were, I asked (again reluctant, even as I asked, to hear the answer) how often he visited. He said he made it out every year, maybe every two years, if money was tight. This visit had lasted a month.

"When are you going back?" I asked.

"This morning", he replied.

I guess the aghast expression on my face amused him; I imagine it was probably unusual for this man to experience sympathy from someone like me - he laughed, quietly, kindly. I sputtered, "would you like to be alone, the rest of the time-" I looked at my watch; there was only about half an hour to go. He assured me that no, that wouldn't be necessary, reminding me that my friends were asleep in bunks we had paid for. I got up out of my bunk, making noises about needing to wash.

I lingered in the aisle, watching from the other side of the train the rail-track world of kitchens billowing steam and the smells of breakfast noodles as Saigon rolled by. I thought hard. The couple in the compartment, still in their embrace, proved to me that it was possible to live apart from one's love for as long as it took. Modern tags like "long-distance relationship" do true love a disservice, I thought. And then I felt ashamed of myself - the fellow David in the compartment, supposedly my boyfriend, was not my love - I knew that. He was a good guy, someone in whom I sought little more than company, which, I knew, upset him. Though I'd tried so hard to forget him, I knew who was my love. Though he was halfway across the earth, doing who knew what, I was strangely comforted by the thought of him.

I went back into the compartment where my ex boyfriend and his friend were awake and stuffing clothes into their backpacks. With as much diplomacy and grace as I have summoned for any ambassador I bade the man a safe trip, wishing he and his wife a long and happy life. I knew the same diplomacy would be necessary with David, and told him something similar over dinner that night in Thailand .

1973 comedy by Woody Allen. Allen's character wakes up to find himself the victim of a botched operation, cryogenically frozen and stranded hundreds of years in the future.

Despite science having proven steaks and cigarettes to be the best thing for you and incredible orgasms just a shower away, the scientists who wake Allen hope he will lead a revolution against the repressive Leader.

The secret police soon rush the house. Allen escapes disguised as a servant robot. He meets up with Diane Keaton, in one of his earliest film pairings with the actress, who was also his friend and lover.

The classic fish-out-of-water storyline takes a dramatic twist when Allen is captured and wholeheartedly accepts the Leader's teachings, leaving Keaton's inept character to handle the revolution against the Leader - or at least the Leader's nose.

One of Allen's best films, Sleeper gives him the chance to combine his acidic wit with a physical comedy shades apart from Buster Keaton.

Another name for a hidden terrorist or agent, one who hides among hostages until the time is right.

Picture this, a plane has just been hijacked by terrorists. Now, there was actually an FBI agent posing as a passenger, who at the right moment jumps up and overpowers the hijacker. See? He's what they call a sleeper. A number of European Airlines had this when there was a threat.

Usually it's a terrorist who is the sleeper. If you saw the movie Executive Decision, there was a bomb on board, controlled by the sleeper. If troops boarded the plane and took out the terrorists, the 'other' terrorist/sleeper, posing as a passenger, could then either get up and suprise-attack the troops, or set off the bomb.

In light of the World Trade center terrorism, the US Government has said they will have U.S. Marshalls on board incognito trained in anti-hijacking techniques may travel on all flights.

Sleeper, the band, were an epic meditation on intangiability. Throughout 1995 and 1996 they were extremely famous; lead singer Louise Wener was a regular on the cover of the NME and was voted by the short-lived Jewish style magazine 'New Moon' as their 'Most Eligible Jewish Woman' of 1996. They were one of the key Britpop bands, and were the most famous of the 'three anonymous musicians with a female vocalist' groups (such as Lush, Catatonia, Skunk Anansie, Elastica, Echobelly, The Cranberries, and so forth).

The band were formed in 1993 as 'Surrender Dorothy', although the quickly realised that this was as bad a name as 'The Cranberry Saw Us' (the original monikor of the Cranberries). Wener (vocals, guitar) and 'Long' Jon Stewart (guitar) wrote the songs; vigorous Diid Osman played The Bass non-stop until 1997, when he was sacked and replaced by Dan Kaufmann. Throughout, stoic Andy McClure played The Drums.

Their debut album 'Smart' generated a buzz; 'The It Girl' was massive for a short time, produced a couple of top ten singles, and Elvis Costello recorded a cover of 'What do I do now?'. If you read the NME at this point, the band seemed at least as important as Blur or Oasis. Wener

In 1997 they released a final album, 'Pleased to meet you', but their time had passed. The album itself was much the same as before - jangly indie guitars with meandering, directionless tunes - but whereas Oasis could get away with the same old, Sleeper could not. As with Catatonia the group itself was much the same, but fashion had moved on. To utter indifference the group split up in 1998.

Subsequently Louise Wener wrote a novel, 'Goodnight Steve McQueen', which was published by Hodder & Stoughton - clearly sensing a female Nick Hornby - in 2002, and another novel, 'The Big Blind', for 2003. The band itself was featured in the 2003 documentary film 'Live Forever', and will no doubt be mentioned when Britpop is trendy again, in 2015.

"The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long".

Sleep"er (?), n.

1.

One who sleeps; a slumberer; hence, a drone, or lazy person.

2.

That which lies dormant, as a law.

[Obs.]

Bacon.

3.

A sleeping car.

[Colloq. U.S.]

4. Zool.

An animal that hibernates, as the bear.

5. Zool. (a)

A large fresh-water gobioid fish (Eleotris dormatrix).

(b)

A nurse shark. See under Nurse.

 

© Webster 1913.


Sleep"er, n. [Cf. Norw. sleip a sleeper (a timber), as adj., slippery, smooth. See Slape.]

Something lying in a reclining posture or position.

Specifically: --

(a)

One of the pieces of timber, stone, or iron, on or near the level of the ground, for the support of some superstructure, to steady framework, to keep in place the rails of a railway, etc.; a stringpiece.

(b)

One of the joists, or roughly shaped timbers, laid directly upon the ground, to receive the flooring of the ground story

. [U.S.]

(c) Naut.

One of the knees which connect the transoms to the after timbers on the ship's quarter

.

(d) Naut.

The lowest, or bottom, tier of casks

.

 

© Webster 1913.

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