Angus Young Quotes

I must have bitten Angus Young too, because his brother Malcolm walked up to me in a rage. I was wearing platform boots, and Malcolm's face was eye level with my belly button. "You fucking bastard," he roared at my navel. "You can bite my brother, fine! But if you fucking bite me, I'll bite your fucking nose off, you dog-faced faggot." I think I said something like "you and what stepladder," because before I knew it, he was attacking me, climbing up my leg and clawing at my face like a crazed cat.

Angus reached the young woman to find that she was shaken more by the sudden fire than by the lion, as she had only seen it as it ran back to the mountain. Sliding from the back of the cob, he took the woman’s hand to calm her shaking. Quietly he introduced himself, and hesitantly she told him that her name was Elbeth, and she was the daughter of James Cameron.

So this is what men are like. Well, that's it, then - I am going to be a lesbian.

Another by-the-way she told me was her real name. Agnes. Some kids in first grade turned it around to tease her, and to shut them up she said she liked Angus better. Then decided she really did. Likewise, her daddy used to take her to every practice and game, sitting her up on his shoulders. Coach’s girl, in her tiny Generals jersey some lady made for her, riding high for all to see. Then in fifth grade he stopped letting her come to practices because it was no place for a young lady. She said fine, she hated football. Then decided she really did. And that’s the story on a motherless girl named Angus. Unbeatable. Coach was a big guy with big hands holding the world by its neck, with every game a win or else the world ends. Storm in a shot glass type of thing. And Angus was the opposite. A whole ocean, dark and chill.

Since many sudden deaths in young people turn out to have a genetic cause, family members are often unknowingly at risk. Using the information from the genetic test, we can test other family members and identify who is or is not at risk. Then we can protect them using medications or lifestyle changes or, in some cases, implanting a device under the skin that can deliver a lifesaving shock to the heart in the event of a dangerous heart rhythm.

İsmi Jory Baker'dı ve daima tam vaktinde gelir, hiçbir provayı kaçırmaz ve seçmelerde tek bir hata bile yapmazdı. Göze çarpan bir yetenek, Angus Young veya Eddie Van Halen gibi iyi bir bir gitarist değildi, ama yeterince iyiydi. Barry'nin anlattığına göre Jory Baker bir zamanlar Saparx adında, çoğu kişinin o senenin en başarılı ismi olacağına inandığı bir grubun lideriydi. Creedence'ın ilk dönemlerine benzer bir tarzları vardı: sert sağlam gitar ve rock and roll. Şarkıların çoğunu Jory Baker yazıyor, kendisi seslendiriyordu. Sonra bir trafik kazası geçirmiş, kemikleri kırılmış ve hastanede tonla ilaç almıştı. Çıktığında "John Prine" adlı parçasında dediği gibi kafasında çelik bir plaka, sırtındaysa bir maymun vardı. Demerol'den eroine geçiş yapmıştı. Birkaç kez yakalanmıştı. Bir süre sonra metro istasyonlarında üç beş kuruş için gitar tıngırdatan bir müptela haline gelmişti. Ardından her nasılsa, on sekiz aylık bir dönemin ardından temizlenmeyi başarmış ve öyle kalmıştı. Kaybı büyüktü. Başarılı olması beklenen bir grup bir yana, herhangi bir grubun bile lideri değildi, ama provalara yine tam vaktinde geliyor ve hiçbir seçme sırasında hata yapmıyordu. Fazla konuşmuyordu, ama kolunun içindeki iğne izlerinin tümü yok olmuştu. Diğer tarafa ulaşmayı başardı, demişti Barry Grieg. Hepsi buydu. Bir zamanlar olunan kişiyle şu anki arasındaki geçiş döneminde neler olduğunu kimse bilemezdi. O hüzünlü yalnızlık cehennemini kimse analiz edemezdi. Değişimin haritası yoktu. Sadece... diğer tarafa ulaşılırdı. Ya da ulaşılamazdı.

He found himself thinking of something Barry Grieg had once said to him about a rhythm guitar player from L.A., a guy named Jory Baker who was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. Not the kind of guitar player that caught your eye, no showboat like Angus Young or Eddie Van Halen, but competent. Once, Barry had said, Jory Baker had been the driving wheel of a group called Sparx, a group everybody seemed to think that year's Most Likely to Succeed. They had a sound something like early Creedence: hard solid guitar rock and roll. Jory Baker had done most of the writing and all of the vocals. Then a car accident, broken bones, lots of dope in the hospital. He had come out, as the John Prine song says, with a steel plate in his head and a monkey on his back. He progressed from Demerol to heroin. Got busted a couple of times. After a while he was just another street-druggie with fumble fingers, spare-changing down at the Greyhound station and hanging out on the strip. Then, somehow, over a period of eighteen months, he had gotten clean, and stayed clean. A lot of him was gone. He was no longer the driving wheel of any group, Most Likely to Succeed or otherwise, but he was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. He didn't talk much, but the needle highway on his left arm had disappeared. And Barry Grieg had said: 'He's come out the other side.' That was all. No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just . . . come out the other side. Or you don't.

He found himself thinking of something Barry Grieg had once said to him about a rhythm guitar player from L.A., a guy named Jory Baker who was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. Not the kind of guitar player that caught your eye, no showboat like Angus Young or Eddie Van Halen, but competent. Once, Barry had said, Jory Baker had been the driving wheel of a group called Sparx, a group everybody seemed to think that year's Most Likely to Succeed. They had a sound something like early Creedence: hard solid guitar rock and roll. Jory Baker had done most of the writing and all of the vocals. Then a car accident, broken bones, lots of dope in the hospital. He had come out, as the John Prine song says, with a steel plate in his head and a monkey on his back. He progressed from Demerol to heroin. Got busted a couple of times. After a while he was just another street-druggie with fumble fingers, spare-changing down at the Greyhound station and hanging out on the strip. Then, somehow, over a period of eighteen months, he had gotten clean, and stayed clean. A lot of him was gone. He was no longer the driving wheel of any group, Most Likely to Succeed or otherwise, but he was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. He didn't talk much, but the needle highway on his left arm had disappeared. And Barry Grieg had said: 'He's come out the other side.' That was all. No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just . . . come out the other side. Or you don't.

He found himself thinking of something Barry Grieg had once said to him about a rhythm guitar player from L.A., a guy named Jory Baker who was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. Not the kind of guitar player that caught your eye, no showboat like Angus Young or Eddie Van Halen, but competent. Once, Barry had said, Jory Baker had been the driving wheel of a group called Sparx, a group everybody seemed to think that year's Most Likely to Succeed. They had a sound something like early Creedence: hard solid guitar rock and roll. Jory Baker had done most of the writing and all of the vocals. Then a car accident, broken bones, lots of dope in the hospital. He had come out, as the John Prine song says, with a steel plate in his head and a monkey on his back. He progressed from Demerol to heroin. Got busted a couple of times. After a while he was just another street-druggie with fumble fingers, spare-changing down at the Greyhound station and hanging out on the strip. Then, somehow, over a period of eighteen months, he had gotten clean, and stayed clean. A lot of him was gone. He was no longer the driving wheel of any group, Most Likely to Succeed or otherwise, but he was always on time, never missed a practice session, or fucked up an audition. He didn't talk much, but the needle highway on his left arm had disappeared. And Barry Grieg had said: 'He's come out the other side.' That was all. No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just . . . come out the other side. Or you don't.

A young woman stepped in front of the dais and cleared her throat. She had reddish-brown hair that hung in loose waves down her back. Her figure was slender and regal, and Ian could have easily drowned in her emerald eyes. But what captured his attention the most was the way the lass carried herself—confident, yet seemingly unaware of her true beauty. She wore a black gown with hanging sleeves, and the embroidered petticoat under her skirts was lined in gray. With the added reticella lace collar and cuffs dyed with yellow starch, she looked as though she should have been at the English court rather than in the Scottish Highlands. “Pardon me, Ruairi. Ravenna wanted me to tell you that we’re taking little Mary to the beach. We won’t be long. We’ll be in the garden until the mounts are readied, if you need us.” When the woman’s eyes met Ian’s, something clicked in his mind. His face burned as he remembered. He shifted in the seat and pulled his tunic away from his chest. Why was the room suddenly hot? He felt like he was suffocating in the middle of the Sutherland great hall. God help him. This was the same young chit who had pined after him, following him around the castle and nipping at his heels like Angus, Ruairi’s black wolf. But like everything else that had transformed around here, so had she. She was no longer a girl but had become an enchantress—still young, but beautiful nevertheless. His musings were interrupted by a male voice. “Munro, ye do remember Lady Elizabeth, eh?” How could he forget the reason why he’d avoided Sutherland lands for the past three years?

He’s fair-haired, wi’ long yellow locks tied up wi’ blue ribbon. And big eyes and long lashes, too, like a lassie’s.” Hayes leered at his listeners, batting his own stubby lashes in mock flirtation. Encouraged by the laughter, he went on to describe the new Governor’s clothes—“fine as a laird’s”—his equipage and servant—“one of they Sassenachs as talks like he’s burnt his tongue”—and as much as had been overheard of the new man’s speech. “He talks sharp and quick, like he’ll know what’s what,” Hayes said, shaking his head dubiously. “But he’s verra young, forbye—he looks scarce more than a wean, though I’d reckon he’s older than his looks.” “Aye, he’s a bittie fellow, smaller than wee Angus,” Baird chimed in, with a jerk of the head at Angus MacKenzie, who looked down at himself in startlement.

Papa, what is it?” Alice in her humble Cinderella costume—a costume close enough to her mother’s all those years ago to revive fond memories in Lyle—ran lightly down the stairs at the side of the stage. “Travelers in need, chicken,” he said, smiling at her. “Mr. Black, Mr. Plum, this is my family. My wife, Lady Lyle. You’ve met Michael. These are my older sons Angus and Hamish. And this ragamuffin is my daughter Alice.” “You’ve caught us in the middle of putting on a play, Mr. Black,” Charlotte said. “I apologize for our odd appearance.” Lyle waited for some response, then caught the dazed expression on young Black’s face as he stared at Alice. “Mr. Black?” he prompted. “I’m…I’m sorry, my lord,” Black said without shifting his gaze from Alice. “Please don’t let us inconvenience you.” “We’re used to taking in travelers in trouble,” Lyle said, not sure what he thought about his daughter making such a fast conquest. Except it was worse than that, damn it. “I’ll…I’ll show you back to the house. You’ll want dry clothes,” Alice said, returning Black’s interest with a readiness that made every hair on Lyle’s neck bristle with warning. He caught his wife’s eye and stifled his immediate veto of Alice’s offer. “The play’s about to start, Alice,” Angus said. “A short delay won’t matter,” she said, without looking at her brother. Her attention was all for the tall young man with the burning gray eyes and wet blond hair. “You’re too kind, Lady Alice,” Black said. “Come with me.” A brilliant smile curled Alice’s lips. “To the ends of the earth,” the young man said, smiling back with untrammeled delight. They turned toward the door, and Lyle instinctively started to follow until his wife’s hand curled around his arm. “Let them go.” She drew Lyle away from the crowd. “I don’t like the way he was looking at her,” he grumbled, shooting the oblivious Julian Black a glower over his shoulder. Charlotte

ass1 n. 1 a hoofed mammal of the horse family, which is typically smaller than a horse and has longer ears and a braying call. Genus Equus, family Equidae: E. africanus of Africa, which is the ancestor of the domestic ass or donkey, and E. hemionus of Asia. (in general use) a donkey. 2 BRITISH INFORMAL a foolish or stupid person: that ass of a young man. make an ass of oneself INFORMAL behave in a way that makes one look foolish or stupid. Old English assa, from a Celtic word related to Welsh asyn, Breton azen, based on Latin asinus. ass2 n. NORTH AMERICAN VULGAR SLANG a person's buttocks or anus. [mass noun] women regarded as a source of sexual gratification. oneself (used in phrases for emphasis). bust one's ass try very hard to do something. chew (someone's) ass reprimand (someone) severely. drag (or tear or haul) ass hurry or move fast. get your ass in (or into) gear hurry.

There were good reasons to have a dog, but there were so many equally good reasons not to have one, and if people ever engaged in any calculation of benefit and convenience there would be no place for dogs in our lives. But that was not the way it was; people took on dogs out of love, without questioning whether it was the right time or the right place for love. Love simply took over and prompted one to act there and then. That was how dogs were taken into our lives; in that spirit of spontaneous affection, and not because we had considered and approved their case. Their case was messy and inconvenient and demanding—and yet we did it; we took on dogs, as Angus now did with this puppy on its lead and its two unrealistic young owners.

The throat pack should not be so bulky that the tongue is forced anteriorly limiting the access to the mouth for the dentist. In young children, reduce the size of an adult-sized pack to one-third (ribbon gauze of about 30 cm moistened with saline).

After a while I found myself near Mary Angus' shack. It looked so lonely and forlorn I almost started to cry. For the first time I really understood why she was staying here, how even though she was sick she could keep on living in a space like that. If you loved somebody enough you could live anywhere.

Mango Tree" I wish I had a mango tree In my backyard With you standin next to me Take the picture From her lips I heard her say Can I have you Caught up on what to say I said you do I said you do I said you do Through my eyes I can see A shooting star Weavn it's way across the sea Somewhere from mars Down the street we would run To scratch our names in the park Young and free in the sun Wheels upon the tar I said you do I said you do I said you do I said you do I wish I had a mango tree In my backyard With you standin next to me Take the picture From her lips I heard her say Can I have you Caught up on what to say I said you do I said you do I said you do I said you do I said you do

Daisy Chain Dirty heart, Mr. blue, a given grace to dying few. I lick the flame, these matches burn. One taste of love, a child is born. Wild horses cry, down on this earthly knoll. The deserts skin, too dry to grow. So sugar man, today no thrills. I spent my heart, none left to steal. Her daisy chain, her sugar kiss. Forever young, we'll live in bliss. Yes, I'm in love with how you fill. In. My. Heart. Hallelujah, it made me shiver. I hope I never, have to sing it to ya. So can I take your hand, on this trip of mine? Our ride awaits, this Wonderland. Has anyone seen, a leprechaun? I saw him last end, where the colours run. So sugar man, today no thrills. I spent my heart, none left to steal. Her daisy chain, her sugar kiss. Forever young, we'll live in bliss. Yes, I'm in love with how you fill. In. My. Heart. Yes, I'm in love with how you fill. In. My. Heart. [Instrumental] Yes, I'm in love with how you fill. In. My. Heart. Yes, I'm in love with how you fill. In. My. Dark.

I had been waiting to get Angus alone, and he appeared a little apprehensive about the occurrence when I discreetly said, ‘Angus, my fine young man.’ I smiled charmingly. Now he knew something was up, for certain. ‘You wouldn’t know how to build a bomb by any chance would you?’ He looked around sheepishly, ‘Is this a trick question?’ I sighed impatiently, ‘You’re not going to get in trouble Angus.’ His shoulders dropped and he grinned wolfishly, ‘Well in that case ... doesn’t everyone?

I know you are not paying me any heed, Ragnall. I can warn you over and over, but it will make no difference because you are a young man with beauty, strength and the firm belief that you know better than anyone who has ever trod Britain’s green fields before you. In reality you have the judgement of a sex-starved billy goat with a head injury. When you are old and wise, you will see what a fool you are now, and you will see life’s cruellest joke.

When owing to the infirmity of his years, he could not play the Warpipe, he would sit in a sheltered spot, facing the sun but sheltered from the wind, with his stick in his hand, and playing upon it with his fingers, and with a sad Cronan (crooning), he played thus the tunes he used to play in his young days.