Adam Beach Quotes

A towel, [The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy] says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (such a mind-boggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

A fragrant breeze wandered up from the quiet sea, trailed along the beach, and drifted back to the sea again, wondering where to go next. On a mad impulse it went up to the beach again. It drifted back to sea.

If you took a couple of David Bowies and stuck one of the David Bowies on the top of the other David Bowie, then attached another David Bowie to the end of each of the arms of the upper of the first two David Bowies and wrapped the whole business up in a dirty beach robe you would then have something which didn't exactly look like John Watson, but which those who knew him would find hauntingly familiar.

A beach house isn't just real estate. It's a state of mind.

A doctor, a logician and a marine biologist had also just arrived, flown in at phenomenal expense from Maximegalon to try to reason with the lead singer who had locked himself in the bathroom with a bottle of pills and was refusing to come out till it could be proved conclusively to him that he wasn't a fish. The bass player was busy machine-gunning his bedroom and the drummer was nowhere on board. Frantic inquiries led to the discovery that he was standing on a beach on Santraginus V over a hundred light years away where, he claimed, he had been happy for over half an hour now and had found a small stone that would be his friend.

A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value - you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-to- hand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you - daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough. More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have "lost". What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Some fish were jumping up the beach and into the tree, which struck me as an odd thing for a fish to do, but I tried not to be judgmental about it. I was feeling pretty raw about my own species, and not much inclined to raise a quizzical eyebrow at others. The fish could play about in trees as much as they liked if it gave them pleasure, so long as they didn't try and justify themselves or tell each other it was a malign god who made them play in trees.

Eight hours West sat a man alone on a beach mourning an inexplicable loss. He could only think of his loss in little packets of grief at a time, because the whole thing was too great to be borne.

There was something fascinating about tall thin men, the way their bones and Adam's apple lurked so unconcealed beneath the skin, their birdlike faces, their predatory stoop.

Out into the staff quarters. Over to the entrance to the movie theater. Tohr stopped dead. “If this is another Beaches marathon, I’m going to Bette your ass until you can’t sit down.” “Aw, look at you! Trying to be finny.” “Seriously, if you have any compassion in you at all, you’ll let me go to bed—” “I have peanut M&M’s up there.” “Not my style.” “Raisinets.” “Feh.” “Sam Adams.” Tohr narrowed his eyes. “Cold?” “Downright icy.” Tohr crossed his arms over his chest and told himself he was not pouting like a five-year-old. “I want Milk Duds.” “Got ’em. And popcorn.” With a curse, Tohr yanked open the door and ascended into the dimly lit red cave.

If you took a couple of David Bowies and stuck one of the David Bowies on the top of the other David Bowie, then attached another David Bowie to the end of each of the arms of the upper of the first two David Bowies and wrapped the whole business up in a dirty beach robe you would then have something which didn’t exactly look like John Watson, but which those who knew him would find hauntingly familiar. He

I want to climb every last mountain, row down every last river, explore every last cave, cross every last bridge, run across every last beach, visit every last town, city, country. Everywhere. I should've done more than watch documentaries and video blogs about these places.

Who are you?” I demanded when I was certain he couldn’t escape my grip. “I’m a twenty-four-year-old Taurus who enjoys long walks on the beach.” Even though I couldn’t see his face, I could feel his arrogant grin. “You have ten seconds to explain yourself,” I ordered. “Or I’m really going to hurt you.” “Oh, come on! Can’t we get back to the kissing? You can’t tease a guy like that.

Recalling his childhood in later life, Adams wrote of the unparalleled bliss of roaming in the open fields and woodlands of the town, of exploring the creeks, hiking the beaches, "of making and sailing boats...swimming, skating, flying kites and shooting marbles, bat and ball, football...wrestling and sometimes boxing," shooting at crows and ducks, and "running about to quiltings and frolics and sances among the boys and girls." The first fifteen years o fhis life, he said, :went off like a fairytale".

have nothing but sympathy for John Adams. I, for one, can’t stand sitting on a beach—an activity (if you can call it that) to which many people devote their entire vacations.

When she stamped her foot, it made a strange thud on the desolate beach. Like a heartbeat.

A beach house,” he said, “doesn’t even have to be on the beach. Though the best ones are. We all like to congregate,” he went on, “at boundary conditions.” “Really?” said Arthur. “Where land meets water. Where earth meets air. Where body meets mind. Where space meets time. We like to be on one side, and look at the other.

For a beach bum you’re not very chill,” said Benny. Bob frowned. “This beach bum is a retired death god who is getting a little agitated,” he said.

And she cannot be a day over thirty-five,” he said adamantly. “I have noticed that after that the fruit becomes . . . less firm.

A beach house isn’t just real estate. It’s a state of mind,’ said the man.

A beach house,” he said, “doesn’t even have to be on the beach. Though the best ones are. We all like to congregate,” he went on, “at boundary conditions.

A magician wandered along the beach, but no one needed him.

Faisal, say it. Please, say it.” Adam scooted close and pressed their faces together. Memories flickered through his mind like photographs falling to the floor. The night they met, the music playing beneath the tent on the beach, and the sweet honey taste of luqaymat. Peaches on Faisal’s lips, the warmth of his skin, Subhanallah, Faisal was always so warm, like he carried the sun within his soul. Feeling sand beneath his knees and sliding through his fingers. “Please. I want this. I want to be by your side for all eternity. Please, Faisal. Maa shaa Allah.

I tried to turn my heart to the living, to the place I was, but putting seed in land not owned by me or my family seemed alien. The sandy, gray-white soil looked like dirty beach sand, not fit for growing anything. It smelled like dust. Yet weeds and trees and wildflowers grew along the roads. When we drove into town, we passed dense, impenetrable woods and fields of corn, peas, and peppers. Such new combinations of seemingly poor soil and happy flora puzzled me. Everywhere I went, I picked up the dirt, examining it for clues. Bringing anything out of such soil would require a whole new language on my part. I imagined there must be something richer and darker under the gray sand, or some trick the farmers all knew. Trick or no trick, what I had always been able to do well now seemed inaccessible. Still, I searched the yard around our house for the best spot to plant my fall garden.

Now, the Star-Belly Sneetches Had bellies with stars.1 The Plain-Belly Sneetches Had none upon thars. Those stars weren’t so big. They were really so small You might think such a thing wouldn’t matter at all. But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches Would brag, ‘We’re the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches.’ With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they’d snort ‘We’ll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!’” Dr. Seuss

Perhaps he’d tell the world about the look on the Captain’s face as they motored south past the wide, empty beaches of Wonsan, which is where all the bureaucrats in Pyongyang are told they will go when they enter the paradise of retirement.

Oh I could be out, rollicking in the ripeness of my flesh and others’, could be drinking things and eating things and rubbing mine against theirs, speculating about this person or that, waving, indicating hello with a sudden upward jutting of my chin, sitting in the backseat of someone else’s car, bumping up and down the San Francisco hills, south of Market, seeing people attacking their instruments, afterward stopping at a bodega, parking, carrying the bottles in a paper bag, the glass clinking, all our faces bright, glowing under streetlamps, down the sidewalk to this or that apartment party, hi, hi, putting the bottles in the fridge, removing one for now, hating the apartment, checking the view, sitting on the arm of a couch and being told not to, and then waiting for the bathroom, staring idly at that ubiquitous Ansel Adams print, Yosemite, talking to a short-haired girl while waiting in the hallway, talking about teeth, no reason really, the train of thought unclear, asking to see her fillings, no, really, I’ll show you mine first, ha ha, then no, you go ahead, I’ll go after you, then, after using the bathroom she is still there, still in the hallway, she was waiting not just for the bathroom but for me, and so eventually we’ll go home together, her apartment, where she lives alone, in a wide, immaculate railroad type place, newly painted, decorated with her mother, then sleeping in her oversized, oversoft white bed, eating breakfast in her light-filled nook, then maybe to the beach for a few hours with the Sunday paper, then wandering home whenever, never- Fuck. We don't even have a baby-sitter.

Anywhere you wanted to travel to?” ‘I’m suffocated by the darkness and this question. I wish I was brave enough to have travelled. Now that I don’t have time to go anywhere, I want to go everywhere: I want to get lost in the deserts of Saudi Arabia; find myself running from the bats under the Congress Avenue Bridge in Austin, Texas; stay overnight on Hashima Island, this abandoned coal-mining facility in Japan sometimes known as Ghost Island; travel the Death Railway in Thailand, because even with a name like that, there’s a chance I can survive the sheer cliffs and rickety wooden bridges; an everywhere else. I want to climb every last mountain, row down every last river, explore every last cave, cross every last bridge, run across last beach, visit every last town, city, country. Everywhere. I should’ve done more than watch documentaries and video blogs about these places.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels. A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value. You can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapors; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a miniraft down the slow heavy River Moth; wet it for use in hand-to-hand combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mind-bogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can’t see it, it can’t see you—daft as a brush, but very very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.

If he was asked at this moment where he would like to be he would probably have said he would like to be lying on the beach with at least fifty beautiful women and a small team of experts working out new ways they could be nice to him, which was his usual reply. To this he would probably have added something passionate on the subject of food.

Seen from the outside, which it never is, the Restaurant resembles a giant glittering starfish beached on a forgotten rock. Each of its arms house the bars, the kitchens, the force-field generators which protect the entire structure and the decayed hunk of planet on which it sits, and the Time Turbines which slowly rock the whole affair backward and forward across the crucial moment.

If you took a couple of David Bowies and stuck one of the David Bowies on the top of the other David Bowie, then attached another David Bowie to the end of each of the arms of the upper of the first two David Bowies and wrapped the whole business up in a dirty beach robe you would then have something which didn’t exactly look like John Watson, but which those who knew him would find hauntingly familiar

I suddenly felt, well, terribly old as I watched a mudskipper hopping along with what now seemed to me like a wonderful sense of hopeless, boundless naïve optimism. I hoped that if its descendant was sitting here on this beach in 350 million years' time with a camera around its neck, it would feel that the journey had been worth it. I hoped that it might have a clearer understanding of itself in relation to the world it lived in. I hoped that it wouldn't be reduced to turning other creatures into horror circus shows in order to try and ensure them their survival. I hoped that if someone tried to feed the remote descendant of a goat to the remote descendant of a dragon for the sake of a little more than a shudder of entertainment, that it would feel it was wrong. I hoped it wouldn't be too chicken to say so.

—Ojalá tuviéramos un poco más de tiempo... Me encantaría ir en bici por calles desiertas contigo, gastar cien dólares en un salón recreativo y llevarte a Staten Island en el transbordador para que probaras mis helados preferidos. —Me gustaría ir a Jones Beach, correr por la playa y entrar en el agua contigo, hacer tonterías con nuestros amigos bajo la lluvia. Pero también me gustaría disfrutar de noches tranquilas y charlar contigo mientras miramos una película mala.

Faolan stretched out on the blanket, propping his head on one elbow thoughtfully. “Eire is fine enough, I suppose,” he began, “but if I could have one wish, I’d show ye my Highlands. I’d take ye to the tops of the mountains and show ye where the golden eagles nest. I want ye to see the sun rise and set over the moors. I want to make love to ye in the heather with the warm sun beating down on us.” His eyes widened as an idea occurred to him. “We could sail out to one of the far islands and have it all to ourselves, like Adam and Eve in our very own Eden. I’d take ye walking on the beach in the moonlight, and I wouldna have to share ye with anyone but the selkies.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I’d teach ye to ride and hunt and fish, mo ruadh, and bank the fires to keep ye warm through the cold winter months.” With a blissful sigh, he pulled her tight against him and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “‘Twould be heaven for sure,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice when his lips brushed her ear, “pizza or no.

The beach was a beach we shall not name, because his private house was there, but it was a small sandy stretch somewhere along the hundreds of miles of coastline that run west from Los Angeles, which is described in the new edition of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy in one entry as “junky, wunky, lunky, stunky, and what’s that other word, and all kinds of bad stuff, woo,” and in another, written only hours later as “being like several thousand square miles of American Express junk mail, but without the same sense of moral depth. Plus the air is, for some reason, yellow.

It is a West zone planet which by an inexplicable and somewhat suspicious freak of topography consists almost entirely of subtropical coastline. By an equally suspicious freak of temporal relastatics, it is nearly always Saturday afternoon just before the beach bars close. No adequate explanation for this has been forthcoming from the dominant life forms on Ursa Minor Beta, who spend most of their time attempting to achieve spiritual enlightenment by running round swimming pools, and inviting Investigation Officials from the Galactic Geo-Temporal Control Board to 'have a nice diurnal anomaly.

Many speak of the legendary and gigantic starship Titanic, a majestic and luxurious cruise liner launched from the great shipbuilding asteroid complexes of Artrifactovol some hundreds of years ago now, and with good reason. It was sensationally beautiful, staggeringly huge and more pleasantly equipped than any ship in what now remains of history (see page 113 [on the Campaign for Real Time]) but it had the misfortune to be built in the very earliest days of Improbability Physics, long before this difficult and cussed branch of knowledge was fully, or at all, understood. The designers and engineers decided, in their innocence, to build a prototype Improbability Field into it, which was meant, supposedly, to ensure that it was Infinitely Improbable that anything would ever go wrong with any pan of the ship. They did not realize that because of the quasi-reciprocal and circular nature of all Improbability calculations, anything that was Infinitely Improbable was actually very likely to happen almost immediately. The starship Titanic was a monstrously pretty sight as it lay beached like a silver Arcturan Megavoidwhale among the laserlit tracery of its construction gantries, a brilliant cloud of pins and needles of light against the deep interstellar blackness; but when launched, it did not even manage to complete its very first radio message—an SOS—before undergoing a sudden and gratuitous total existence failure.

The designers and engineers decided, in their innocence, to build a prototype Improbability Field into it, which was meant, supposedly, to ensure that it was Infinitely Improbable that anything would ever go wrong with any pan of the ship. They did not realize that because of the quasi-reciprocal and circular nature of all Improbability calculations, anything that was Infinitely Improbable was actually very likely to happen almost immediately. The starship Titanic was a monstrously pretty sight as it lay beached like a silver Arcturan Megavoidwhale among the laserlit tracery of its construction gantries, a brilliant cloud of pins and needles of light against the deep interstellar blackness; but when launched, it did not even manage to complete its very first radio message—an SOS—before undergoing a sudden and gratuitous total existence failure.

That evening after tea the four children all managed to get down to the beach again and get their shoes and stockings off and feel the sand between their toes. But the next day was more solemn. For then, in the Great Hall of Cair Paravel--that wonderful hall with the ivory roof and the west door all hung with peacock’s feathers and the eastern door which opens right onto the sea, in the presence of all their friends and to the sound of trumpets, Aslan solemnly crowned them and led them onto the four thrones amid deafening shouts of, “Long Live King Peter! Long Live Queen Susan! Long Live King Edmund! Long Live Queen Lucy!” “Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen. Bear it well, Sons of Adam! Bear it well, Daughters of Eve!” said Aslan. And through the eastern door, which was wide open, came the voices of the mermen and the mermaids swimming close to the castle steps and singing in honor of their new Kings and Queens.

Adam Minsky, a young man weighing 230 pounds, reported that he lost 51 pounds in four months by eating only once per day. He’s tried various diet plans, such as Atkins, South Beach, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, and many others, but found that eating only once per day worked like nothing he had tried before. In one week he lost six pounds and in the first month, he lost 15 pounds. In four months, he lost 51 pounds. One year later, he had maintained his weight loss.

After the debacle of the combined allied counterattack on 21/22 May, Gort had concluded that his French allies were unravelling and he therefore had no choice but to disobey direct orders from his French commanders, and the implicit orders from London. He ordered the BEF to make all speed for Dunkirk, and he asked the commander of III Corps, Lieutenant-General Sir Ronald Adam, to make arrangements for a defensive line around the beaches. It was a critical and historic decision. On the face of it, Gort was right. His decision to withdraw made the Dunkirk evacuation possible and meant that Britain could fight on, and that the war would eventually be won. But it relied on an extreme series of strokes of luck and good weather, and there is another view – because Gort’s decision also destroyed Weygand’s plan for an Anglo-French offensive.

Jesus (Don't Touch My Baby)" In California Forever summer and hot Into the ocean You're smiling a lot On sandy beaches And the blankets are hot You're in my arms And I kiss your heart Jesus, don't touch my baby Jesus, don't touch my baby Jesus, don't touch my baby She's all that I got Reflections coming In through the sheets You love your baby are sweet Out on the highway We ride tonight Jesus don't know you He was just saying "Hi" Don't touch my baby Jesus, don't touch my baby Ryan Adams, Demolition (2002)

In the fall, he briefly flew to Northern California to attend his father’s funeral and also spent six weeks training at Roosevelt Roads Naval Station in Puerto Rico, one of ten thousand Marines training for an amphibious “mock assault” on Onslow Beach, North Carolina.

A series of interlocking islands and bridges, with wide white-sand beaches on the green Gulf of Mexico and placid marinas on Tampa Bay, St. Petersburg was a place of stucco and sunshine, East Coast attitude and tropical rain, cheap gas and imported food.

Are we not going to talk about this?” Jentry asked. I let out a huff that sounded more like a scoff, and kept walking in the direction of my room. “Aurora.” He grabbed for my arm, but I jerked it away. “Aurora, stop!” I whirled around when he finally grasped my hand, but managed to yank it away again when my apparent anger shocked him. “What exactly do you want to talk about?” I asked. “The fuck, Aurora?” “Do you want to talk about the fact that Declan’s moving? Or maybe about who the hell you had in my apartment this afternoon?” Jentry’s expression fell, his body stilled. “You saw her?” I laughed, but there was no humor behind it. “Another one of your girls?” I asked, bringing up our conversation from the beach all those weeks ago, and hated that my voice shook. “But it’s not a game though, right?” “No, Aurora—” “Who was that?” I demanded. He took a step toward me, but I backed away and put my hands up, as if I could ever stop him. “Wait, no. Let me guess. Jessica?” Jentry no longer looked sick that I’d found out; he looked terrifying. “What did she say to you?” His voice was deep and severe, and matched his expression. “What does it matter? You’ve been lying to me!” I yelled, ignoring the chill that crept through my body from his voice. “You made me believe—you told me—it doesn’t even matter!” I pointed at him, and then myself as I continued to yell, “We are not together, and thank God for that after what I saw earlier. Screw whoever you want, Jentry, but don’t tell me to stay somewhere so you can bring some girl back to my apartment. Find your own place if that’s what you want.” “Screw her? That’s not—fucking listen to me!” he begged when I turned and hurried to my room. “Auror—” “I don’t want to talk right now.” I gasped in surprise when he gripped my hand in his and yanked me back to where he was. “I do,” he countered huskily.

Rorie, look at me,” he said gently, and lifted my tear-streaked face until he was looking me in the eye. “I can’t let you apologize. I tried to keep you when I knew you weren’t mine.” His voice wavered during the last few words, and his green eyes watered. “I knew during that weekend at the beach. I didn’t know what was going on between the two of you . . . but I knew. I could see it. I was so afraid of what would happen when he moved back that I tried to do everything I could to keep you before that could happen. Tried to do everything I could to keep you from pulling away and going to him. Especially to him. Jentry has girls for a night before he forgets all about them; that’s how he’d always been. I knew he would do the same to you, and I wanted to prevent that and keep you with me.” I watched him in shock as he told me everything, unsure if I was breathing or not as I realized that weeks of heartache and worry could have been avoided. “But that night . . . I’d never expected what you told me. Because even though I didn’t believe him at the time, Jentry had said on the way to the beach that he was hung up on someone he never expected to see again. And it didn’t take a lot to connect what both of you had told me and realize that it had been you all along. And when you told me where you met him—damn it, Rorie, do you realize that I nearly walked in on the two of you that night? I never took you back to the frat house, but I didn’t realize that you’d already been in my room.” I dropped my face into my hands as that night came flooding back when Jentry went to talk to someone at the door, and mortification set in. “And how pissed off I’d already been at the thought of you looking for someone, only to realize that it was my brother. When all of that came pouring from you and settled in, I didn’t know what to do. I was livid and sick and so damn torn up that I didn’t know how to even look at you anymore. But I knew I’d already lost you to him before I’d even met you. I hated him, I hated you, I hated myself . . . and I just had to get away from you. And then . . .” He laughed sadly and shifted on the step. I looked up at him to find him staring at me as if he’d lost everything. “And then I woke up and saw you standing there with him and didn’t understand what was going on or how I’d gotten there. But once things were explained to me, I thought I could try again. I was selfish enough to think I had a second shot at keeping you. So please do not apologize to me.” I

It really has been good to see you Carter. I’ve missed you.” “I’ve missed you too Blaze. These last couple years have gone,” he took another swig and sighed deeply, “a lot different than I thought they were going to.” “For me too.” I leaned onto the island and shook my head, laughing softly, “I didn’t think I would be married or have a baby, that’s for sure.” “I did, but I definitely thought it would be with me. I had it all planned out, I was gonna sweep you off your feet, you were going to drop out of college and marry me immediately.” He puffed a small laugh and ran a hand through his short hair. “Well, obviously that didn’t happen.” I smirked at him. “Obviously. What did you see yourself doing?” “Continuing school, trying to enjoy the ‘college experience’, I guess. I don’t really know Carter, I just wanted to get away, be me, or find out who I was.” “And then you met Brandon, and your whole world changed?” He looked sad, even through his smile, “I’ve gotta admit, I thought getting you to marry me anytime soon was a long shot, but I couldn’t believe the girl I knew was already head over heels for some guy she’d just met. You were so different when I got here, confident, feminine and outgoing. I had to keep reminding myself that you were my Blaze. I’d already lost you to everyone here though. It was painfully obvious after those first few minutes on the beach. And seeing you with him, I just – I don’t know. It shocked the hell out of me and killed me.” “To be honest, I wasn’t even thinking about dating when I left home. I mean, I figured I would, but never thought I’d meet someone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with after just two weeks of being here, ya know?” I laughed softly and the corners of my mouth tilted up, “Definitely thought marriage and babies would happen sometime after graduation. Like you said though, life doesn’t always go as planned, does it? It caused me to grow up, too soon probably, but I’m fine with that because it was the result of my actions. I just hate that those actions forced the people closest to me to grow up too.

Brandon lightly brushed his hand over Liam’s head before he dropped both of them to my waist and then over where my stomach used to be. “Do you miss it?” His hands had stilled for a second before sliding over my flat stomach again. I know, I know, I already have a lot of women that hate me. When we walk into the appointments for Liam, everyone asks if we adopted because within a week, my stomach went completely back to normal. It was mind blowing even to Brandon and me, and we definitely knew that my stomach had been close to the size of a beach ball not long before. I had one stretch mark, and it was mostly unnoticeable because it ran along a tip of one of my lilies. But if it weren’t for that and my chest, I would think I’d made the entire pregnancy up and just stolen a baby from the hospital. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen either way.” He shrugged and kissed the top of my head, “I do miss it, but I’m glad that he’s here now. It will just take some time to get used to not having your stomach there. Like right now, I keep going to run my hands over it, and then they just continue to slide straight across and it throws me off for a second.” “Throws you off? Think about how I felt when I went to set that bowl on my stomach and it fell into my lap.” Brandon’s husky laugh sent a shiver through me. “I’m sorry, but that was funny as hell. Your face was priceless.” Liam

I placed my thumb over the name Hendricks and swallowed hard. I let the image of the girl I’d left in the kitchen be forefront in my mind and pictured the surname Ryan instead. My heart started racing as I imagined it all. Rachel in a white dress, her blue eyes and beautiful smile directed at me as we exchanged vows. Rachel with my parents and Mason’s family. Us at the beach in Florida. Rachel’s stomach round with my hands pressed softly against it. I let my focus come back to the bedroom of the villa and blew out a hard breath. It didn’t matter that I’d only known her a little over two months. I’d known that first day that she was a game changer, and I was sure now that I couldn’t live without her. I wanted to marry her; I wanted everything I’d just envisioned. And I wanted it now. Letting

Adam Yates wore freshly ironed khakis and a bright pink shirt that might be the norm on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach but not Broad Street in Newark. He wore loafers without socks, his legs too casually crossed. He had that whole Old World, came-over-on-the-Mayflower thing going on, what with the receding ash-blond hair, the high cheekbones, the eyes so ice blue she wondered if he was wearing contacts. His cologne smelled like freshly cut grass. Loren liked it.

call this my own graveyard. I let the pontoon boat glide over the beach, turning the engine off. The water crashing against the shore is like the faint whispers of my victims pleading for their lives. A nightmare for some but an arousing sound for my sadistic mentality. I

Ode to Douglas Adams In the solar system we inhabit, we live on a small planet we all call Earth. Okay, when I say small, I mean it’s small compared to say, oh, Jupiter. Earth is something like a dime compared to Jupiter’s beach ball. On this Earth is a fairly large country we all call The United States of America. Of course, when I say fairly large, it’s like the U.S. is a piece of broccoli next to China’s really large cauliflower. Now that I think of it, that may not be a good comparison as it depends on the restaurant you go to. At the place I was at last night it would be a good comparison as the cauliflower was larger than the broccoli. Not that I’d touch either. I had a hamburger with fries and somebody at the next table had those ghastly vegetables. From the Preface to "Sex and the American Male." I was saddened by the passing of Douglas Adams and wrote the preface to sound a little like his "Hitchhiker's..." books and to honor him. I hope he's smiling.

Apple may not do customer research to decide what products to make, but it absolutely pays attention to how customers use its products. So the marketing team working on the iMovie HD release scheduled for Macworld, on January 11, 2005, decided to shoot a wedding. The ceremony it filmed was gorgeous: a sophisticated, candlelit affair at the Officers’ Club of San Francisco’s Presidio. The bride was an Apple employee, and the wedding was real. There was one problem with the footage, however. Steve Jobs didn’t like it. He watched it the week before Christmas, recalled Alessandra Ghini, the marketing executive managing the launch of iLife. Jobs declared that the San Francisco wedding didn’t capture the right atmosphere to demonstrate what amateurs could do with iMovie. “He told us he wanted a wedding on the beach, in Hawaii, or some tropical location,” said Ghini. “We had a few weeks to find a wedding on a beach and to get it shot, edited, and approved by Steve. The tight time frame allowed for no margin for error.” With time short and money effectively no object, the team went into action. It contacted Los Angeles talent agencies as well as hotels in Hawaii to learn if they knew of any weddings planned—preferably featuring an attractive bride and groom—over the New Year’s holiday. They hit pay dirt in Hollywood: A gorgeous agency client and her attractive fiancé were in fact planning to wed on Maui during the holiday. Apple offered to pay for the bride’s flowers, to film the wedding, and to provide the couple with a video. In return, Apple wanted rights for up to a minute’s worth of footage of its choosing.

Passing from the dusty house and packing crates, paint stink, the blurting radio and Daddy’s grinding tools to enter this wood reminds her of walking off a beach covered in people and into the sea. Behind her the world hushes. Cool air softly washes her skin.

You want to give freely. With no expectations,” Pastor Rendell finally said when Adam didn’t reply. “That’s what love is. Love is giving, with no expectations of getting anything in return. In fact, that’s really the way it should be in your marriage all the time. You’re just looking for things to do or to say or to just be with her, whatever it is that makes her happy. Because you want her to be happy. Not because you have to or because you want something.” “I

It was strange, the idea that this book wasn't just for him, it was for everyone. All these people who had taken it out before him, people who would take it out after him. They might have read it on the beach, on the train, on the bus, in the park, in their living room. On the toilet? He hoped not! Every reader, unknowingly connected in some small way.

Learn Chinese in 5 Minutes  1) That’s not right = Sum Ting Wong  2) Are you harbouring a fugitive = Hu Yu Hai Ding  3) See me ASAP = Kum Hia  4) Stupid Man = Dum Fuk  5) Small Horse = Tai Ni Po Ni  6) Did you go to the beach = Wai Yu So Tan  7) I bumped the coffee table = Ai Bang Mai Fa Kin Ni  8) I think you need a face lift = Chin Tu Fat  9) It’s Very dark in here = Wai So Dim  10) I Thought you were on a diet = Wai Yu Mun Ching  11) This is a tow away zone = No Pah King  12) Our meeting is scheduled for next week = Wai Yu Kum Nao  13) Staying out of sight = Lei Ying Lo  14) He’s cleaning his automobile = Wa Shing Ka  15) Your body odor is offensive = Yu Stin Ki Pu  16) Great = Fa Kin Su Pah

As a self-proclaimed human rights activist, Hochschild can be forgiven for his economic illiteracy. But since it is the keystone that begins his tale, it is another fib worth correcting. The EIC’s large trade surplus (more physical goods going out than coming in) was because virtually none of the revenue from the goods sold in Europe was sent back to pay for labor, which was “paid for” as a fulfillment of the EIC labor obligation. Instead, the revenue paid for European administration, infrastructure, and trade services in the Congo as well as profits that were parked in Belgium (an overall payments deficit). For Hochschild to claim that Africans were getting “little or nothing” for the goods they produced because fewer goods were being sent to Africa displays a stunning economic ignorance. It is like saying that the empty container ships returning to China from today’s port of Long Beach show that China’s workers are being paid “little or nothing.

So it’s not unreasonable to suspect that her forwarding address here at Strand Beach is somewhere out there, too, within reach of someone savvy enough to find it. Or vengeful enough.

The Adam Smith that we know today was shaped by his early life and education in Kirkcaldy and Glasgow. As a bright young man he was able to benefit from gifted teachers, to read widely, and to discuss what he read with the students he spent time with. Smith clearly loved the school, the university, and the clubs and societies in Glasgow and Eddinburgh. They shaped his thinking. But we should also remember that, for all his sociability, Smith also loved to be on his own. When it came time to write the Wealth of Nations he returned to his mother's home and to the solitude of Kirkcaldy. Here he was able to arrange his thoughts during long walks on the beach. It is no surprise that a major section of Book V of the Wealth of Nations ended up being about education. Smith's own education and experience as a teacher shaped his thinking and awareness of how important education is to society.

We persisted with role playing and, about six weeks later, Adam came to therapy with a smile. He had said no. He said it was for something minor: a colleague had texted him to see if he could go in to the office on the weekend and help box some equipment that was going to be transported later that week. At the time of receiving the text, Adam was just about to go for a run along the beach. He had driven about 45 minutes just to get there. So Adam replied to his colleague saying he couldn't. After sending that text message, Adam said he felt an amazing surge of positive energy. He went on the run. But then the fear kicked in. He started thinking he'd get a text from his boss saying to get to the office and help. Despite checking his messages constantly, nothing ever came. A few days later in a staff meeting, Adam shared that he would like to take on a new client. The response was an immediate yes, with his supervisor saying she would set it up for him. When reflecting on these two experiences, Adam said, 'I know it sounds small and trivial, but these two things have given me such a boost. Why didn't I do this sooner?' By being assertive, saying no and sharing his feelings, Adam had unleased a part of himself he usually tried to suppress. He then said, 'What I'd really like to work on in therapy now is how to start thinking about asking a girl out.' In building assertiveness, he went from never saying no to colleagues to asking to take on a client in a staff meeting and wanting to start dating.

But I was stuck for a long time by myself at Abraham Lincoln's portrait, standing in the middle of the huge hall as people moved all around me with mostly children. I felt as if time had stopped as I watched Lincoln, facing him, while watching the woman’s back as she was looking out the window. I felt wronged, so much like Truman from the movie, standing there in the middle of the museum alone. I was wondering what would Abraham Lincoln do if he realized he was the slave in his own cotton fields, being robbed by evil thieves, nazis. I had taken numerous photos of Martina from behind, as well as silhouettes of her shadow. I remember standing there, watching as she stood in front of the window; it was almost as if she was admiring the view of the mountains from our new home, as I did take such pictures of her, with a very similar composition to that of the female depicted in the iconic Lincoln portrait looking outwards from the window. I hadn't realized how many photographs I snapped of Martina with her back turned towards me while we travelled to picturesque places. Fernanda and I walked side-by-side in utter silence, admiring painting after painting of Dali's, without exchanging a single word. Meanwhile, Luis and Martina had got lost somewhere in the museum. When I finally found her, she was taking pictures outside of the Rainy Cadillac. We both felt something was amiss without having to say it, as Fernanda knew things I didn't and vice versa. We couldn't bring ourselves to discuss it though, not because we lacked any legal authority between me and Martina, but because neither Fernanda or myself had much parental authority over the young lady. It felt like when our marriages and divorces had dissolved, it was almost as if our parenting didn't matter anymore. It was as if I were unwittingly part of a secret screenplay, like Jim Carrey's character in The Truman Show, living in a fabricated reality made solely for him. I was beginning to feel a strange nauseous feeling, as if someone was trying to force something surreal down my throat, as if I were living something not of this world, making me want to vomit onto the painted canvas of the personalised image crafted just for me. I couldn't help but wonder if Fernanda felt the same way, if she was aware of the magnitude of what was happening, or if, just like me, she was completely oblivious, occasionally getting flashes of truth or reality for a moment or two. I took some amazing photographs of her in Port Lligat in Dali's yard in the port, and in Cap Creus, but I'd rather not even try to describe them—they were almost like Dali's paintings which make all sense now. As if all the pieces are coming together. She was walking by the water and I was walking a bit further up on the same beach on pebbles, parallel to each other as we walked away from Dali's house in the port. I looked towards her and there were two boats flipped over on the two sides of my view. I told her: “Run, Bunny! Run!

The Golem, The Monster was in love with herself; the Goy was in love with her too. She was in love with Club Golan. A perfect storm was approaching and I could almost feel it. I didn't know what was wrong with my beautiful girlfriend as her face gradually began to look like a monster's and she started treating me like garbage. What was controlling her mind? Who was behind her, making her get so sick again so quickly after meeting some new people at the beach bar? Why did Sabrina say that I would die lonely and sad, and why was Martina's perception of me so wrong and unreal? How was their plan on track, I didn't understand while I was running after Martina and I couldn't understand where our happiness had slipped out of our hands again? I was desperately trying to figure out what had happened to my life, my career, and what had happened to my pretty girlfriend, what had happened to my baby? It was almost like my girlfriend's perceptions were all wrong somehow. She had seen me as a useless homeless bum and she had seen the only value or service in Europe and Barcelona which could make a living or money as, 'short shorts and loose legs'. I felt hopeless and I didn't understand what the spell was. How was my 'Stupid Bunny' a Frankenstein? I could feel it on my skin, and I could see it in Martina's eyes, that the criminals' plans were in play and had been working since the moment Adam arrived in Spain, or maybe even before that somehow. Before I even met Martina. Before we even broke all up with Sabrina. Before the Red Moon, the last date and before the provocation the following night. I felt like 10-20 criminals were trying to bully me and trying to woo Martina and outsmart me with her, but I was so worried for her and was so busy trying to save her every day with her on my mind, as if I too was under spells, under possession and couldn't do anything about it to help her or break the illusions keeping her possessed, even when supposedly she was, we were, rid of the bad people. I felt like I was in a screenplay in the set up stages of a drama. I felt like someone had sat down with a piece of paper and a pen, and was drawing plans against my life. I felt like someone had written a screenplay on how to play this out, how to take the club from me and Martina. Someone must have written a list of characters. Casting. I never called Sabrina a bitch. Adam and Martina both called her “bitch.” Martina said “The Bitch” and Adam said “that Crazy Bitch.” ’The Goy’ ’The Bitch’ ’The Gipsy’ ’The Giants’ ’The Golem’ ’The Lawyer’ ’The Big Boss’ ’My Girlfriend’ ’The False Flag’ ’The Big Brother’ ’The Stupid Bunny’ ’The Big Boss Daddy’ ’The Italian Connection’, etc. I was unable to break any illusion, the secret, the code; I was dumbstruck in love with “my girlfriend” (who I thought was my “stupid bunny”), being the ‘false flag’, and maybe it was actually “the bitch” portrayed by Sabrina who was my true love perhaps, putting me to the tests, with Adam and the rest, using Martina and her brother, playing with strings, with her long pretty fingernails, teaching me a lesson for cheating when I thought she was cheating too and making me unhappy when I thought she was unhappy with me. As if I knew, Sabrina had been behind my new girlfriend, Martina playing roles; I had seen all the signs and jokes. I just couldn't comprehend it having a cover over my eyes. I was unsure what should I do what would be real wise? I didn't think Sabrina would be capable of hurting me at all. Why did Martina keep saying, Tomas you are so nice and tall?

Mukesh turned to the front page of To Kill a Mockingbird and noticed the Brent Council Libraries sheet, full of black, splotchy dates. So many! It was strange, the idea that this book wasn’t just for him, it was for everyone. All these people who had taken it out before him, people who would take it out after him. They might have read it on a beach, on the train, on the bus, in the park, in their living room. On the toilet? He hoped not! Every reader, unknowingly connected in some small way. He was about to be a part of this too. “Yes, please.” He handed both books back to the girl, stamp at the ready, and as he watched, he wondered, had Naina ever held either of these books? She’d been here all the time, she’d read hundreds of books. Had To Kill a Mockingbird been one of them?

It’s 1968, and Aiken Day’s life is in chaos. Living in Windsor, Ontario, he suffers bleak visions and nightmares—flashbacks to the killing, the slaughter of the Essex Scottish Regiment on the shale beaches of Dieppe. His wife, the elegant former professor Paris Day, has run off with a civil rights group whose members have traded peaceful protests for violent bank heists, and their son Adam, a young black man in a white, white world, seems ready to follow in her footsteps. While Aiken sets off to discover the truth behind an FBI story about his wife, Bobby Kennedy and his team criss-cross the US on his run for the Democratic nomination for the presidency, campaigning to end racial discrimination and the Vietnam war. A sprawling, Pynchonesque novel that spans Canada and the US, Pushing Bobby’s Cadillac explores the hope and anguish spawned by the year 1968.

As far as I know, John Chapman never set foot in Geneva, New York, but there is an orchard there where I caught my last and in some ways most vivid glimpse of him. Here on the banks of Lake Geneva, in excellent apple-growing country, a government outfit called the Plant Genetic Resources Unit maintains the world’s largest collection of apple trees. Some 2,500 different varieties have been gathered from all over the world and set out here in pairs, as if on a beached botanical ark. The card catalog of this fifty-acre tree archive runs the pomological gamut from Adam’s Pearmain, an antique English apple, to the German Zucalmagio. In between a browser will find almost every variety discovered in America since the Roxbury Russet distinguished itself in a cider orchard outside Boston in 1645

Masa gave him a tour of his mansion, which had a $3 million driving range that could simulate a Pacific Ocean fog rolling over Pebble Beach as a light drizzle fell from the ceiling.

Meanwhile, Comique’s productions had moved from Long Beach to a studio in Edendale, next door to Keystone. Arbuckle was in need of a home nearer his workplace, and Joe Schenck encouraged him to live in a house worthy of a millionaire celebrity. He moved in to the West Adams house, also renting from the Miners.

Here we are,” said Mallory, running up to me, pulling Margo along. “Oh, thank goodness.” Mary Anne and I counted the Pikes about five times before we were satisfied that they were all safe and sound. “I want to see the shark!” cried Nicky, jumping up and down. So did I. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s walk down the beach, away from this crowd.” Mary Anne and the other kids followed us. When we had a little space, we held our hands to our eyes, blocking the glare of the sun, and stared out to sea. “I think I see something!” exclaimed Byron. “Where?” we all asked. He pointed. “See? Sort of over to the left?” I could make out a faraway shape, but it looked like a seagull bobbing on the waves. Later, Adam swore he could see five fins circling around, but nobody else saw them. At last we gave up. We walked back to the lifeguard stand. The crowd was dispersing. Scott and Bruce were back on duty. I saw a good opportunity to ask Scott a question. “Hi,” I said to him, leaning against the base of the stand and squinting up. “Hi, love.” Love! Scott had called me love! Of course, he meant his love. When I recovered, I managed to say, “So were there really sharks?” “It looked that way. Sometimes it’s hard to tell, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.” “I’ll say.” Scott wiped his brow. “It’s going to be a hot one.” “So you want a soda or something?” I asked eagerly. “You

Overt displays of emotion embarrassed me. That’s why I turned away at the beach in North Carolina to cry. That’s why I kept it together until I reached my hotel room in Grand Rapids. This thing I was carrying around with me was my burden. I didn’t need any outside observers. At the same time, I had to share it because to not do so felt so dishonest. Maybe this was because I am a Gemini. Maybe it was because my mother was a dry introvert while my father was the most outgoing person in the room. Maybe that’s why after spouting off for forty-five minutes from a stage like the life of the goddamn party, I have the hardest time making small talk with anyone that comes up to me. I want every eye in the room on me and then I want everyone to leave me alone. The same was true of what I was writing about Lydia. I wanted everyone to know how I felt but I also didn’t want to talk to anyone about it.

I want her as my best friend, my favorite person to talk to, the one who I walk with through every good and bad season. I want so much more with her than just that kiss on the beach.