Beanie Quotes

I wonder if it will be—can be—any more beautiful than this,’ murmured Anne, looking around her with the loving, enraptured eyes of those to whom ‘home’ must always be the loveliest spot in the world, no matter what fairer lands may lie under alien stars.

You don't understand!' Foaly objected. Trouble cut him off with a chop of his hand through the air. 'I never understand. That's why we pay you and your dork posse." Foaly objected again. 'They are not dorks!' Trouble found space for yet another holster. 'Really? That guy brings a Beanie Baby to work every day. And your nephew, Mayne, speaks fluent Unicorn.' 'They're not all dorks,' said Foaly, correcting himself.

Well, you won't unless you come to lunch with me," Cal said. "I'm holding it for ransom. There's a gun to its heel right now." "I have lunch at my desk," Min began, and thought,Oh, for crying out loud, could I beany more pathetic ? "Emilio is experimenting with a lunch menu. He needs you. I need you.

She had on an OBEY beanie, but had corrected it with a Sharpie so the word was now Disobey. What a fucking rebel. Someone should notify the authorities before she did something really crazy, like eat non-organic blueberries in the cafeteria.

Eric cheated on her with a girl dumber than a box of Beanie Babies and lied about it.

That boy could wear a banana leaf and a propeller beanie and look beautiful." "That how you like your boys, Kiz?" asked Cactus. "Oh yes. All my boys. I'll issue him a banana leaf and a propeller beanie at once and induct him into my boy-harem." Evie snorted. "Boy harem! Imagine - their little propellers all spinning as they fan you with palm fronds." "While they satisfy my every whim," added Cactus. Kizzy snorted. "Forget it. I don't lend out my boys." "Come on, no one likes a greedy slave owner." "My boys aren't slaves! They stay because they want to. I give them all the elk meat they can eat. And Xbox, you know, to keep their thumbs nice and agile.

Did you ever see so many pee-wee hats, Carl?" "They're beanies." "They call them pee-wees in Brooklyn." "But I'm not in Brooklyn." "But you're still a Brooklynite." "I wouldn't want that to get around, Annie." "You don't mean that, Carl." "Ah, we might as well call them beanies, Annie." "Why?" "When in Rome do as the Romans do." "Do they call them beanies in Rome?" she asked artlessly. "This is the silliest conversation...

I could leave the room, if you want to keep talking about my hotness,” Liam offers and flops in the chair… I walk over and rip the beanie off. “Arrogance doesn’t suit you, Dempsey.” The giggle escapes me at the way his hair sticks out in various directions. “No one thinks you’re hot right now, buddy.” He stands and walks toward me slowly. His warm breath bathes my neck as he leans in so only I can hear, “I think we both know that’s not true.” Liam’s finger glides against my arm and I shiver. “We can pretend though.

Hey Gurllll! Introduce me to that bird? Can I have that plant’s number? Could you do my music assignment? Here, hold my beanie. Gotta go, byeee!

I took a moment to drink him in. His hair sticking in twenty-one directions since he’d yanked off his beanie. His Botticelli face. “I am entirely too old for you, Hayes.” “I don’t think you truly believe that. I mean, do you like me? Do you not have fun when we’re together? Do you feel like I have a problem following the conversation?” “No.” “Then I don’t think you really believe that. If you did, you wouldn’t be here. I think you care what other people might be thinking, or saying, and that’s what’s fucking you up.” I paused. “How do you not care?

GEORGE AND MARLEE UP IN A TREE! K-I-S-S-I-N-G! We stopped. There was a kid over there, standing by a hackberry bush. I’d never seen him before, not at Mary Day or anywhere else. He wasn’t but four and a half feet tall, and stocky. He had on gray shorts that went down all the way to his knees, and a green sweater with orange stripes. It was rounded out up top with little boy-tits and a poochy belly underneath. He had a beanie on his head, the stupid kind with a plastic propeller. His

It is often said of the gold rush that the people who got rich were the shovel dealers who profited from the greed of the forty-niners. With Beanie Babies, most of the lasting personal fortunes came from selling books and tag protectors, not from speculating in plush.

The donations are usually anonymous, because while philanthropy is a source of pride, philanthropy as the exit strategy of last resort from a comically bad investment isn’t.

What poore Elements are our happinesses made off, if Tyme, Tyme which wee can scarce consider to be any thing, be an essential part of our happines?

Something came down over my eyes and I realized that the German had pulled his beanie down over my head. “Hold this,” he said, continuing to tug the material down over my nose.

Your hair is very stylish.” Haddad winked. “But I promise you. You’re going to want this. It’s only going to get colder.” Cheeks burning, Kris took the beanie.

I love hockey!” She looks the part in her Mitchell jersey and Titans beanie, and I’m a little jealous I didn’t get to go. “Not as much as I love figure skating, obviously. But hockey has more drama; it was like an opera, but with sticks. I’m obsessed.

there was nothing to believe but that one colored in the room is fine, two is twenty, and three means close up shop and everybody go home; all living the New York dream in the Cause Houses, within sight of the Statue of Liberty, a gigantic copper reminder that this city was a grinding factory that diced the poor man’s dreams worse than any cotton gin or sugarcane field from the old country. And now heroin was here to make their children slaves again, to a useless white powder. She looked them over, the friends of her life, staring at her. They saw what she saw, she realized. She read it in their faces. They would never win. The game was fixed. The villains would succeed. The heroes would die. The sight of Beanie’s mother howling at her son’s coffin would haunt them all in the next few days. Next week, or next month some time, some other mother would take her place, howling her grief. And another after that. They saw the future, too, she could tell. It would continue forever. It was all so very grim. But then, she thought, every once in a while there’s a glimmer of hope. Just a blip on the horizon, a whack on the nose of the giant that set him back on his heels or to the canvas,

Nothing is more fun than to watch zealots go off the rails. They try to present themselves as rational, independent-minded persons like yourselves, balanced individuals who have examined our great wide world, weighed their options carefully, then coolly decided to devote their lives to Beanie Babies.

I was famous already! Brilliant! Except of course, I wasn’t famous. I was entirely unknown. Turns out that with my angelic little face, my beanie and my puffa jacket they thought I was Macaulay Culkin in full Home Alone garb, or maybe his little brother. Sorry, Macaulay, for stealing your fans, even if it was just for one day.

You are the handsomest devil, with those hazel-green eyes and that curly dark hair. Why do you hide it under that ridiculous beanie?” She reached those blood-red nails toward his beanie. Ram veered away. “Why do you hide beneath that oversized towel?” She sucked in a breath—then laughed. Shocked, and yet entertained. “I like you.

You can make a lot of money with a good cat." -Ty Warner

A solar-battery-powered chopper marked BELOVED BRETHREN MORATORIUM waited at the edge of the Zurich field. Beside it stood a beetle-like individual wearing a Continental outfit: tweed toga, loafers, crimson sash and a purple airplane-propeller beanie. The proprietor of the moratorium minced toward Joe Chip, his gloved hand extended, as Joe stepped from the ship's ramp onto the flat ground of Earth.

And so was this. These words—“Not in my presence will you talk about yourself in this way”—they don’t brush off easily. Nor should they. Sometimes a phrase lands in your soul with such weight it leaves the deepest impression. I collect these phrases like other people collect stamps and Beanie Babies. I fill the unlined pages of notebooks from Walmart with these phrases. These words that move me are treasures.

Charles Kindleberger explained the self-perpetuating feeding frenzy that develops when speculators start making money: 'There is nothing so disturbing to one’s well-being and judgment as to see a friend get rich'.

They played a Dave Matthews track, I have no idea which one as they all sound the same. It’s the kind of guitar based elevator music that people with beards and beanies listen to while drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon and vaping in their friend Steve’s bedroom. They nod along as they flick through mountain biking magazines and discuss CamelBak® water bottles and spoke tightening tools. Thankfully the song was killed halfway through and with a few words, a clank and whirring noises, Simon’s coffin lowered into the platform and was gone.

Unless Ty Warner suddenly gets interested in his estate planning, his mostly estranged younger sister, now sixty-five and relying on aid to the indigent for medical bills and part-time jobs to feed her half-dozen adopted animals, will be the sole heir to the largest fortune in the history of stuffed animals.

Evil is seductive; you will have to remain strong and not fall prey to its temptations.” He stood in front of Carlos first and placed a hand on his head. “Carlos de Vil, you possess a keen intellect; however, do not let your head rule your heart. Learn to see what is truly in front of you.” Evie was next, and Yen Sid did the same, resting a hand above her dark blue locks. “Evie, remember that when you believe you are alone in the world, you are far from friendless.” Jay bowed down and removed his beanie so the good professor could lay his hand on his head too. “Jay of Agrabah, a boy of many talents, open your eyes and discover that the riches of the world are all around you.

Ty Inc.'s 1989 catalog had this on the back cover: "Warning: If anyone dare copy our creative designs and patents without written permission, ownership of your eternal soul passes to us and we have the right to negotiate the sale of said soul. Furthermore, our attorneys will see to it that life on Earth, as you know it, is not worth living.

All the recent marketing successes have been PR successes, not advertising successes. To name a few: Starbucks, The Body Shop, Amazon.com, Yahoo!, eBay, Palm, Google, Linus, PlayStation, Harry Potter, Botox, Red Bull, Microsoft, Intel, and BlackBerry. A closer look at the history of most major brands shows this to be true. As a matter of fact, an astonishing number of well-known brands have been built with virtually no advertising at all. Anita Roddick built The Body Shop into a worldwide brand without any advertising. Instead she traveled the world looking for ingredients for her natural cosmetics, a quest that resulted in endless publicity. Until recently Starbucks didn’t spend a hill of beans on advertising either. In its first ten years, the company spent less that $10 million (total) on advertising in the United States, a trivial amount for a brand that delivers annual sales of $1.3 billion today. Wal-Mart became the world’s largest retailer, ringing up sales approaching $200 billion, with little advertising. Sam’s Club, a Wal-Mart sibling, averages $56 million per store with almost no advertising. In the pharmaceutical field, Viagra, Prozac, and Vioxx became worldwide brands with almost no advertising. In the toy field, Beanie Babies, Tickle Me Elmo, and Pokémon became highly successful brands with almost no advertising. In the high-technology field, Oracle, Cisco, and SAP became multibillion-dollar companies (and multibillion-dollar brands) with almost no advertising.

So I'll be careful-" "There is no careful. You are a bull in the china shop of love.You'll have no way of knowing what you've broken or how precious it may be.Any change you enact is not going to be obvious. There will be no great sign reading IF YOU VEER RIGHT,YOU SHALL BE A PRINCESS, VERSUS IF YOU VEER LEFT,YOU'LL REMAIN A SCULLERY MAID FOREVER." "Come on,Roland,don't you think I have slightly loftier goals than ending up a princess?" Luce said sharply. "I could venture a guess that there is a curse you want to put an end to?" Luce blinked at him,feeling stupid. "Right,then,best of luck!" Roland laughed brightly.

I love this song, can you turn it up?” I reached and turned the dial up on the Vance Joy song “Red Eye.” Adam bobbed his head to the music. At the stoplight I looked over at him. He was wearing the black beanie my brother had given him, his black Wayfarers, and the hospital gown. I laughed. He turned to me and smiled. “What?” he said. “You’re cute.” “Oh yeah? Wanna fool around?” He grinned. I was glad that Adam couldn’t see my eyes welling up behind my sunglasses. The car behind us honked. I hit the gas and my car lurched forward from the intersection. “How much time do we have?” I asked. “What? Are you serious?” “Yes, Adam, I am serious.” He was having a good day. He reached for my phone. “We have like an hour and a half before Leah freaks out.” I knew I was taking a big chance, but how could I say no to him? There was so much joy in him that day just because he got to go to the drive-thru at In-N-Out. “Okay.” I glanced over at him and flattened my lips. “You better not have a seizure on me.” “I can’t think of a better place to have a seizure. Although I can see how that wouldn’t be much fun for you.” I laughed hysterically. “Oh man, I didn’t mean literally on me; I meant on my watch.” “Well, Charlotte, I don’t have much control over that, but I’ll try. You know what helps?” “What?” “Alcohol.” “Really?” As we passed the Four Seasons he said, “Pull in here.” “This is too expensive, Adam.” “What? Are you crazy?” The energy in the car was tangible. “This may be the last time I ever go to a hotel with a girl. I’m paying. I have a ton of money. Come on, Charlotte, please?” His mood was instantly lighter than it had been in several days. “Okay.” I did a U-turn and pulled into the driveway of the hotel.

When personal gossip attains the dignity of print, and crowds the space available for matters of real interest to the community,” future Supreme Court justice Louis Brandeis wrote in the Harvard Law Review in 1890, in a piece which formed the basis for what we now know as the “right to privacy,” it “destroys at once robustness of thought and delicacy of feeling. No enthusiasm can flourish, no generous impulse can survive under its blighting influence.” Brandeis’s words reflected some of the darkness of Kierkegaard’s worries from fifty years earlier and foretold some of that sullying paranoia that was still to come fifty years in the future. Thiel had read this article at Stanford. Many law students do. Most regard it as another piece of the puzzle that makes up American constitutional legal theory. But Peter believed it. He venerated privacy, in creating space for weirdos and the politically incorrect to do what they do. Because he believed that’s where progress came from. Imagine for a second that you’re the kind of deranged individual who starts companies. You’ve created cryptocurrencies designed to replace the U.S. monetary system that somehow turned into a business that helps people sell Beanie Babies and laser pointers over the internet and ends up being worth billions of dollars. Where others saw science fiction, you’ve always seen opportunities—for real, legitimate business. You’re the kind of person who is a libertarian before that word had any kind of social respectability. You’re a conservative at Stanford. You’re the person who likes Ayn Rand and thinks she’s something more than an author teenage boys like to read. You were driven to entrepreneurship because it was a safe space from consensus, and from convention. How do you respond to social shaming? You hate it. How do you respond to petulant blogs implying there is something wrong with you for being a gay person who isn’t public about his sexuality? Well, that’s the question now, isn’t it?

After midnight, I’ve set the cookies on the cooling rack and put on my cat pajamas, and I’m climbing into bed to read when there’s a knock at my window. I think it’s Chris, and I go to the window to check and see if I’ve locked it, but it’s not--it’s Peter! I push the window up. “Oh my God, Peter! What are you doing here?” I whisper, my heart pounding. “My dad’s home!” Peter climbs in. He’s wearing a navy beanie on his head and a thermal with a puffy vest. Taking off the hat, he grins and says, “Shh. You’re gonna wake him up.” I run to my door and lock it. “Peter! You can’t be in here!” I am equal parts panicky and excited. I don’t know if a boy has ever been in my room before, not since Josh, and that was ages ago. He’s already taking off his shoes. “Just let me stay for a few minutes.” I cross my arms because I’m not wearing a bra and say, “If it’s only a few minutes, why are you taking off your shoes?” He dodges this question. Plopping down on my bed, he says, “Hey, why aren’t you wearing your Amish bikini? It’s so hot.” I move to slap him upside the head, and he grabs my waist and hugs me to him. He buries his head in my stomach like a little boy. His voice muffled, he says, “I’m sorry all this is happening because of me.” I touch the top of his head; his hair feels soft and silky against my fingers. “It’s okay, Peter. I know it’s not your fault.” I glance at my moonbeam alarm clock. “You can stay for fifteen minutes, but then you have to go.” Peter nods and releases me. I sink down on the bed next to him and put my head on his shoulder. I hope the minutes go slow. “How was the party?” “Boring without you.” “Liar.” He laughs an easy kind of laugh. “What did you bake tonight?” “How do you know I baked?” Peter breathes me in. “You smell like sugar and butter.” “Chai sugar cookies with eggnog icing.” “Can I take some with me?” I nod, and we lean our backs against the wall. He slides his arm around me, safe and secure. “Twelve minutes left,” I say into his shoulder, and I feel rather than see him smile. “Then let’s make it good.” We start to kiss, and I’ve definitely never kissed a boy in my bed before. This is brand-new. I doubt I’ll ever be able to think of my bed the same way again. Between kisses he says, “How much time do I have left?” I glance over at my clock. “Seven minutes.” Maybe I should tack on an extra five… “Can we lie down, then?” he suggests. I shove him in the shoulder. “Peter!” “I just want to hold you for a little bit! If I was going to try to do more, I’d need more than seven minutes, trust me.

Nate came back into the kitchen, his hair slightly messy from having had the beanie on. The gray thermal Henley he wore gave him a rugged, all-man look that made her heart skip a couple beats. For someone who was the opposite of her type, he sure was hard not to look at. Add the quiet sense of humor she'd seen last night and delivering chocolate chips, and he'd tiptoed into perfect territory.

I grab the first knitted hat I see, and I shove the plain black beanie on to cover up my wet hair. I’m sure I won’t be winning any modelling awards, but oh yeah, everyone is dead so I guess it doesn’t really matter.

window. ‘If this is your way of getting me to quit, it’s not going to work.’ She could almost see her dad standing on the pavement next to the car, taking inhumanly long drags on a cigarette. He shrugged at her, like, what’re you gonna do? She rolled her own window up and killed the engine, getting out of the car to look at the shelter. The building was sixties brutalist. A slab of concrete that looked like it would have been a chic and modern looking community centre six decades ago. Now it just looked like a pebble-dashed breeze block with wire-meshed vertical windows that ran the length of the outside.  Wide steps with rusty white rails led up to the main doors, dark brown stained wooden things with square aluminium handles, the word ‘pull’ etched into each one.  There was a piece of paper taped to the right-hand one that said ‘All welcome, hot food inside’ written in hand-printed caps.  There were five homeless people on the steps — three of them smoking rolled cigarettes. Two of those were drinking something out of polystyrene cups. The fourth was hunched forward, reading the tattiest looking novel Jamie had ever seen cling to a spine. His eyes stared at it blankly, not moving, his pupils wide. He wasn’t even registering the words. The last one was curled up into a ball inside a bright blue sleeping bag, his arms and legs folding the polyester into his body, just a pockmarked forehead peeking out into the November morning. Had they slept there all night on that step waiting for the shelter to open? She couldn’t say. Jamie and Roper crossed the road and the folks on the steps looked up. They were of varying ages, in varying states of malnutrition and addiction. The smell of old booze and urine hung in the alcove. Jamie wasn’t sure if you could tell they were police by the way they looked or walked, but the homeless seemed to have a sixth sense about it. Two of the three who were smoking clocked them, lowered their heads, and turned to face the wall. The third kept looking and held his hand out. The one with the novel didn’t even register them. Jamie knew that if they searched the two that turned away, they would have something on them they shouldn’t — drugs, needles, a knife, something stolen. That’s why they’d done it — to become invisible. The one who held out a hand would be clean. Wouldn’t risk chancing it with a police officer otherwise. She’d worked enough uniformed time on the streets of London to know how their minds worked.  She took a deep breath of semi-clean air and mounted the steps, looking down at the mid-thirties guy with the stretched-out beanie and out-stretched hand.  ‘We’re on duty,’ Roper said coldly, breezing past. Jamie gave him a weak smile, knowing that opening her pockets in a place like this would get them mobbed. If they needed to question anyone

Hey, Grace! Guess what? Me and my grampa Frank Miller played games today! And I winned him at Old Maid and at hopping and skipping and Tic-Tac-Toad! And so I am the bestest game winner in the whole world!” That Grace smiled. “Me, too,” she said. “I’m a good game winner, too.” I patted her very nice. “Yeah, only you can’t be as good as me, Grace. ’Cause I said it first, that’s why.” That Grace did a mad face at me. Then she called me the name of beanie head. I patted her again. “You don’t take criticism that well, Grace,” I said. Just then she got out a pencil and paper from her back pack.

Beanie

The clouds hang heavy, like wet wool, and stars start to appear through the trees like large, shining stones at the bottom of a river. The temperature has fallen with the sun and Lauren hugs her padded arms to her padded body. ‘It’s already dark. Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ve got homework to do.’ The thought of school tomorrow sits in her stomach. They gather various belongings and treasures scattered around the camp – some plastic binoculars, a handmade catapult, a rusty teapot, a length of rope – and put them inside the hut. They argue about whether to take home the packet of bourbons that have been stolen from Billy’s larder, before deciding to leave it in the supply tin, half buried in the frozen ground. They walk back down the looping path, banked by snow-laden ferns, towards Clavanmore. She likes Billy walking beside her like this, in his Aberdeen beanie. He’s like a big brother, but with a better face and hair. Lauren rolls the silver ring between her index finger and thumb, in her pocket. Darkness seeps into the forest and the white snow fades to a dark grey, then darker still, until the world is black.

I told them dinner was ready and went to the living room, where Rachel and Richard were hiding out. "You realize, I suppose, that both your names begin with the same letter." I poured them a glass of wine. Each. I'm generous that way. Richard grinned. "Yes, we noticed that early on. We also noticed that if we have a child and give him or her a name that also begins with R that we can say we have the three Rs covered." "Wow, and maybe you can all have matching propeller beanies." I was covering the fact I was suddenly excited at the thought of my sister having children. I had accepted it was never going to happen, and it was fine, but a baby is a baby, am I right? Rachel shrugged. "Why not? How about Rapunzel, or Requiem, or Rumpelstiltskin?" "Or Random, Rorschach, or Ritalin." Richard liked this game. "You could go techy and call them RAM or ROM." "Or medical and call them Rheumatism or Rabies or Rubella.

been long, greasy, and pulled back into a low ponytail.  The words Mary had used were ‘cute asymmetrical bob’, and Jamie thought that probably meant she’d cut it for her. Damn, she really did care. No one that looked even remotely like Grace showed up, though. And after all the soup was finished, the crowd began to dissipate. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Mary said. ‘She’s usually here for lunch.’ Roper smacked his lips. ‘Who knows. Word gets around sometimes. Maybe she heard about the vic—’ He cut himself off. ‘About Oliver.’ Mary nodded, like she concurred.  ‘Mrs Cartwright,’ Jamie said, ‘do you know where Grace sleeps? Does she have a usual spot, or do you know if anyone might know how we can get hold of her?’ Mary thought for a second. ‘There’s a bridge that runs across an old overground line — not far from here. I know that a lot of our patrons make themselves a space there. I don’t know if that’s where she sleeps, but…’ She looked around, and seeing a guy in his late twenties with a tattered beanie hat pulled down to his eyebrows sitting on one of the chairs, polishing off a bowl of soup, lifted her hand and called out to him. ‘Reggie?’ He looked up, the fur lining the hood of his jacket all clumped together and dirty. ‘Hmm?’ he said, looking scared all of a sudden.  Jamie smiled at him, but the fear of getting questioned by two police detectives couldn’t be dispelled that easily.  Mary beckoned him over and he approached cautiously. ‘Reggie — you’ve got a space down on the old overground line, right? Under the bridge?’ He looked at Roper and Jamie, as though admitting it was going to get him in trouble.

Who?” “Bill Judd Jr.” “Oh, noooo.” Round, Swedish oooo’s. “Miz Sweet, when we were going through Judd Sr.’s office, we found some invoices on your computer, for chemicals that were apparently used in an ethanol plant out in South Dakota…” “I heard about it on TV. That was the same one? The one where they were making drugs?” “Yes, it was,” Virgil said. “Oh, nooo.” The sound was driving him crazy; she sounded like a bad comedian. “Who in town knew about the ethanol plant?” She turned her face to one side and put a hand to her lips. “Well, the Judds, of course.” “Both of them?” Virgil asked. “Well…Junior set it up, but Senior knew about it.” He pressed. “Are you sure about that?” “Well, yes. He signed the checks.” “Did you see him signing the checks?” Virgil asked. “No, but I saw the checks. It was his signature…” “Do you remember the bank?” She shook her head. “No, no, I don’t.” She frowned. “I’m not even sure that the bank name was on the checks.” “Did you ever talk to Junior about that?” “No. It wasn’t my business,” she said. “They wanted to keep it quiet, because, you know, when ethanol started, it sounded a little like the Jerusalem artichoke thing. The Judds were involved in that, of course.” “So how quiet did they keep it?” Virgil asked. “Who else knew? Did you tell anybody?” He saw it coming, the noooo. “Oh, noooo…Junior told me, don’t talk about this, because of my father. So, I didn’t.” “Not to anybody?” Her eyes drifted. She was thinking, which meant that she had. “It’s possible…my sister, I might have told. I think there might have been some word around town.” “It’s really important that you remember…” She put her hand to her temple, as though she were going to move a paper clip with telekinesis, and said, “I might have mentioned it at bridge. At our bridge club. That a plant was being built, and some local people were involved.” “All right,” Virgil said. “So who was at the bridge club?” “Well, let me see, there would have been nine or ten of us…” She listed them; he only recognized one of the names. WHEN HE WAS DONE with Sweet, he strolled up the hill to the newspaper office. He pushed in, and found Williamson behind the business counter, talking to a woman customer. Williamson looked past the woman and snapped, “What do you want?” “I have a question, when you’re free.” “Wait.” Williamson was wearing a T-shirt and had sweat stains under his arms, as though he’d been lifting rocks. “Take just a minute.” The customer was trying to dump her Beanie Baby collection locally—ten years too late, in Virgil’s opinion—and wanted the cheapest possible advertisement. She got twenty words for six dollars, looking back and forth between Virgil and Williamson, and after writing a check for the amount, said to Virgil, “I’d love to hear your question.” Virgil looked at her over his sunglasses and grinned: “I’d love to have you, but I’m afraid it’s gotta be private, for the moment.” “Shoot.” She looked at Williamson, who shrugged, and she said, “Oh, well.” WHEN SHE’D GONE out the door, Williamson said, “I’m working. You can ask me out back.” “You still pissed about the search?

What i quickly discovered is that high school running was divided into two camps: those who ran cross-country and those who ran track. There was a clear distinction. The kind of runner you were largely mirrored your approach to life. The cross-country guys thought the track runners were high-strung and prissy, while the track guys viewed the cross-country guys as a bunch of athletic misfits. It's true that the guys on the cross-country team were a motley bunch. solidly built with long, unkempt hair and rarely shaven faces, they looked more like a bunch of lumberjacks than runners. They wore baggy shorts, bushy wool socks, and furry beanie caps, even when it was roasting hot outside. Clothing rarely matched. Track runners were tall and lanky; they were sprinters with skinny long legs and narrow shoulders. They wore long white socks, matching jerseys, and shorts that were so high their butt-cheeks were exposed. They always appeared neatly groomed, even after running. The cross-country guys hung out in late-night coffee shops and read books by Kafka and Kerouac. They rarely talked about running; its was just something they did. The track guys, on the other hand, were obsessed. Speed was all they ever talked about....They spent an inordinate amount of time shaking their limbs and loosening up. They stretched before, during, and after practice, not to mention during lunch break and assembly, and before and after using the head. The cross-country guys, on the the other hand, never stretched at all. The track guys ran intervals and kept logbooks detailing their mileage. They wore fancy watched that counted laps and recorded each lap-time....Everything was measured, dissected, and evaluated. Cross-country guys didn't take notes. They just found a trail and went running....I gravitated toward the cross-country team because the culture suited me

The shot that won me over completely was of Coco clad in a pleated army-green skirt, with a matching military sweater, a tiny strand of pearls, a beanie, and wild-print knee socks, all by Gucci: it’s like my id and my Girl Scout uniform hooked up in a fitting room at Bergdorf’s.

Sherry was just six years old on that day when she sat curled up in her Uncle Beanie Moe’s lap, one arm slung across his neck, the other fingering the string of blue beads he’d brought her back from New Orleans. Her mother, Dumpling, had walked into the room smiling, then stopped and stared as the smile froze and cracked on her face. Sherry couldn’t have known that her sitting innocently on her uncle’s knee would hurtle her mother back in time—back to a warm Easter afternoon when a misplaced hand had suddenly turned ugly. Dumpling’s eyes went glassy as she marched over to them, lifted her hand into the air, and brought it down across Sherry’s six-year-old face so hard, the girl had ended up kissing the floor and seeing stars. Dumpling had never said why she slapped Sherry, and Beanie Moe hadn’t asked. He just helped Sherry up and carried her over to the couch and sat her down. He comforted her with words, but didn’t dare touch her. Dumpling, she just stormed out of the room, leaving the slight scent of Ivory soap swirling in the air.

Warner once offered to take their five-year-old daughter out for ice cream, but when he pulled up in his Rolls-Royce, he asked her if she had any money.

...Do you need a hug?” Payton asked with a smile. Ryann chuckled as Payton walked around the kitchen cabinet and held open her arms. “Come on in.” Ryann wrapped her arms around Payton’s waist and set her chin on her shoulder. “I made that stupid Silent of the Lambs threat again, and she corrected me. That made me furious.” Payton snorted with laughter as she wrapped her arms snugly around her. “Did you ever see the movie?” “No, I don’t like serial killer flicks. Shelly told me about it.” “I didn’t think so. The killer didn’t make meat suits, he took their skin. So when you want to sound really vicious, you say something like… ‘I’ll skin you and wear one of your ass cheeks like a beanie.’” “That’s really gross,” Ryann said as she continued to hold on. “But I suppose ‘I’ll snap you like a broomstick’ doesn’t have the same effect.

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[Peggy Gallagher] was also appearing once a month for two hours on WGN Radio [...] During one summer show, a caller asked, 'Do you think there is a seasonal cycle for Beanie Babies?' 'It’s not different than any other kind of investment—the stock market or the commodities market,' was Gallagher’s reply. Then she explained that she used to be a trader on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. 'There are peaks and valleys. It’s an investment for people. There’s nobody as big as the market. The Hunt [brothers] tried to do it with the silver market. There is nobody bigger than the market. The prices have stabilized a bit right now, but now they’re starting to get more active. So it’s just like any other type of investment'.

The Bradford Exchange—a knockoff of [Joseph] Segel’s [Franklin Mint] business—created a murky secondary market for its collector plates, complete with advertisements featuring its “brokers” hovering over computers, tracking plate prices. To underscore the idea of these mass-produced tchotchkes as upmarket, sophisticated investments, the company deployed some of its most aggressive ads (which later led to lawsuits) in magazines like Kiplinger’s Personal Finance and Architectural Digest. A 1986 sales pitch offered “The Sound of Music,” the first plate in a new series from the Edwin M. Knowles China Company, at a price of $19.50. Yet the ad copy didn’t emphasize the plate itself. Rather, bold type introduced two so-called facts: “Fact: ‘Scarlett,’ the 1976 first issue in Edwin M. Knowles’ landmark series of collector’s plates inspired by the classic film Gone With the Wind, cost $21.60 when it was issued. It recently traded at $245.00—an increase of 1,040% in just seven years.” And “Fact: ‘The Sound of Music,’ the first issue in Knowles’ The Sound of Music series, inspired by the classic film of the same name, is now available for $19.50.” Later the ad advised that “it’s likely to increase in value.” Currently, those plates can be had on eBay for less than $5 each. In 1993 U.S. direct mail sales of collectibles totaled $1.7 billion

Beanie Babies?” Sawyer’s mother shoveled some chow mein into her mouth and grinned, chewing steadily. “How do you even know what those old things are?” “I pay attention in history class.

tea cozy of a beanie and danced joyfully up and

Octavian ripped open a Beanie Baby and pronounced grave omens and hard times ahead, but predicted the camp would be saved by an unexpected hero (whose initials were probably OCTAVIAN).

She tried to kill me.” A jolt passed through Beanie. “Oh my God …” whispered Robyn. “Are you serious?” “As serious as the gun she held to my head,” said Henry.

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wearing beanie hats,

He screams sarcastic, freaky, reserved, and somehow soft. He looks like a Greek sculpture, carved into perfection. Well-built curves show through his clothing. He’s brawny-looking but boyish at the same time. His jawline is razor-sharp, lips so rosy and plump, making me slightly jealous. Let’s not forget the small tattoos that linger on his long fingers. A few strands of silky brown hair pop out from under a black beanie that lies over his head. If I take off that hat, I’ll be met with gorgeous, smooth hair. Black jeans fit his toned legs well. A gray sweatshirt with colorful graphics covers his torso. Under that hoodie, I know there’ll be a six-pack. And what makes him even more droolworthy—which I don’t know how that’s remotely possible—are the rings on his slim fingers. Someone, catch me. I’m going to faint. He wears rings!

In each room, I caught the eyes of Samora, another person on the tour, and a musician and composer from Oakland, California, with messy black hair hidden beneath an orange beanie. Each time one of us glanced over, the other would furrow a brow, a silent but clear acknowledgment

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Beanie had bought a dog on Friday, a red setter, beautiful red shiny coat, but stupid, scatty and the worst dog she could have rescued from the pound for a two up two down with a small yard. They took it out all weekend. Jordi and Greg loved it and called it Dillan. When they came home from school that Monday, it had ripped the place to shreds. The curtain she had made herself, the rubbish bin contents, the sofa – in tatters. Everything up turned, crap everywhere. They cleaned up as best they could and hid upstairs with the dog. When she came home late, even though she had a skinful, she knew what the dog had done. They waited in bed, holding the dog. She was too strong. It screamed as she dragged it down the stairs.

But I’ll gladly have you sit on my face. Make me your throne, and you’ll be my crown

Doppenger had forced himself on her? And she thought it was because she wanted it. And Griffin almost did the same thing. Fuck. Shit. He hit himself in the head. What was wrong with him? There were signs. She’d asked, plenty of times. Let me touch you. Grace had told him. She had been in an abusive relationship. But he’d ignored it because he wanted to get ahead of his biology. He wanted to be in control, but he wasn’t, was he? All this time he thought he managed his habits with an iron fist. He thought he was better than his siblings. He thought losing control was like how he was back when he’d killed those men in his past, but the truth was, he’d been out of control for a long time. And she still stood there with her beanie over her eyes, waiting for permission.

Fighting back a laugh of his own, he grinned. “No,” he answered. “But I’ll gladly have you sit on my face. Make me your throne, and you’ll be my crown.

The speculative boom for Beanie Babies has resulted in an unsurpassed volume of high-quality, perfectly preserved, monetarily worthless plush animals for children most in need of the comfort of something soft.

The donations are usually anonymous, because while philanthropy is a source of pride, philanthropy as the exit strategy of last resort from a comically bad investment isn't.

Like the Velveteen Rabbit of Margery Williams's perennially best-selling children's book, plush makers are animated by the prospect of their creations becoming the first thing a child loves and values.

But I was struck by the drama he created and his personal flair. His unique presence and obvious intelligence started to suck me into his drama, almost as if I were auditioning for a part.

Kids who grew up in Naperville remember trading them in the first half of 1995, close to a year before the rest of the country had heard of them, and a few teachers had banned Beanies from their classrooms because they'd become a distraction.

Wilder's Wonka is, as in the book, the embellishment and excitement round the edges - his batty, barmy, nutty, screwy, dippy, dotty, daffy, goofy, beany, buggy, wacky, loony nature dazzling and drawing our attention but, narratively speaking, remaining decoration.

Phoenix’s beanie. Eli’s hoodie. Kade’s backpack. Hudson’s t-shirt.

The next time we met up he’d arrived in Lycra running gear, a zip-up jacket, a black beanie hat. I didn’t know it was him at first because his face was covered by a balaclava. As he approached, he pulled it down and I saw his smiling face emerge. He said, “What do you think? Invisible enough?” I pointed at the balaclava and laughed and said, “Where’d you get that scary-assed shit from?” He shrugged. “Found it in my dad’s drawer.

What is needed is true child liberation, true autonomy, true trust and respect, because children deserve these things by right of being people. There doesn't have to be--there shouldn't be--any justification needed, any future use to be extracted from them, for children to be deserving of liberation.

When Saint Augustine was formulating his doctrine of Original Sin, all he had to do was look at people as they are originally. Originally, they’re children. Saint Augustine may have had a previous job – unmentioned in his Confessions – as a preschool day-care provider. But it’s wrong to use infantile as a pejorative. It’s the other way around. What children display is adultishness. Children are, for example, perfectly adultish in their self-absorption. Tiny tots look so wise, staring at their stuffed animals. You wonder what they’re thinking. Then they learn to talk. What they’re thinking is, My Beanie Baby!

And who would be such an idiot and wear such a beanie? Only a fool would say that he is coming to tear down capitalism; for the capitalists have money and power, and they will resist any open or direct assault on their position. Therefore the communist label interferes with the accomplishment of the communist goal because even a relatively clueless businessmen instinctively fears expropriation.

In a near-by clearing, Cricket and How-Ya-Do came upon a ridiculously comical sight. It was an extra-large hyper-manic bird yelling at the funniest looking Crawfish that she had ever seen. The Crawfish stood over a foot tall, which just does not happen, and he was wearing a light-blue beanie and gold chains around his neck.

A teddy bear, to me . . . is endless and unconditional love.

Beanie moved from cocaine to speedballing, the coke/heroin mix that livened up the heroin while bringing gravitas to an otherwise dipshit high like cocaine.

Smee comes by silently to clear our plates, making Wendy jump in her chair. “Oh my god, I didn’t know anyone else was here.” I smirk. “That’s Smee. My first mate, if you will.” He smiles, his brown hair bouncing under his ridiculous red beanie as he inclines his head. “Pleasure, miss.” “First mate.” She giggles. “Like a pirate? Does that make you the captain?