Bermuda T Shirt Quotes

He'd changed since the last summer. Instead of Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt, he wore a button-down shirt, khaki pants, and leather loafers. His sandy hair, which used to be so unruly, was now clipped short. He look like an evil male model, showing off what the fashionable college-age villain was wearing to Harvard this year.

The door opened, and we were met by a fifty-something man with a grizzled blond beard. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt. Also, he had an eye patch. "This is incredible," I heard Adrian murmur. "Beyond my wildest dreams.

The marketing people are always talking about something called 'consumers'. I have this image of a fat little man in baggy Bermuda shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, and a straw hat with beer-can openers dangling from it, clutching fistfuls of dollars.

suit. He was reading The Wall Street Journal. The lady across the table was probably Mrs. Dare, though all I could see of her were hot pink fingernails and the cover of Condé Nast Traveler. Why she’d be reading about vacations while she was on vacation, I wasn’t sure. Rachel stood at the porch railing and sighed. She wore Bermuda shorts and her Van Gogh T-shirt. (Yeah, Rachel was trying to teach me about art, but don’t get too impressed. I only remembered the dude’s name because he cut his ear off.)

So, Bran, tell us,” said a lanky guy in a striped rugby shirt and salmon-colored chinos. He was standing next to a guy in Bermuda shorts and buckskin shoes. Every year more and more preppies were showing up at her parties and if she was honest with herself, she knew it was Brandon’s influence.

Josh Miller, 22 years old. He is co-founder of Branch, a “platform for chatting online as if you were sitting around the table after dinner.” Miller works at Betaworks, a hybrid company encapsulating a co-working space, an incubator and a venture capital fund, headquartered on 13th Street in the heart of the Meatpacking District. This kid in T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, and a potential star of the 2.0 version of Sex and the City, is super-excited by his new life as a digital neo-entrepreneur. He dropped out of Princeton in the summer of 2011 a year before getting his degree—heresy for the almost 30,000 students who annually apply to the prestigious Ivy League school in the hope of being among the 9% of applicants accepted. What made him decide to take such a big step? An internship in the summer of 2011 at Meetup, the community site for those who organize meetings in the flesh for like-minded people. His leader, Scott Heiferman, took him to one of the monthly meetings of New York Tech Meetup and it was there that Miller saw the light. “It was the coolest thing that ever happened to me,” he remembers. “All those people with such incredible energy. It was nothing like the sheltered atmosphere of Princeton.” The next step was to take part in a seminar on startups where the idea for Branch came to him. He found two partners –students at NYU who could design a website. Heartened by having won a contest for Internet projects, Miller dropped out of Princeton. “My parents told me I was crazy but I think they understood because they had also made unconventional choices when they were kids,” says Miller. “My father, who is now a lawyer, played drums when he was at college, and he and my mother, who left home at 16, traveled around Europe for a year. I want to be a part of the new creative class that is pushing the boundaries farther. I want to contribute to making online discussion important again. Today there is nothing but the soliloquy of bloggers or rude anonymous comments.” The idea, something like a public group email exchange where one can contribute by invitation only, interested Twitter cofounder Biz Stone and other California investors who invited Miller and his team to move to San Francisco, financing them with a two million dollar investment. After only four months in California, Branch returned to New York, where it now employs a dozen or so people. “San Francisco was beautiful and I learned a lot from Biz and my other mentors, but there’s much more adrenaline here,” explains Miller, who is from California, born and raised in Santa Monica. “Life is more varied here and creating a technological startup is something new, unlike in San Francisco or Silicon Valley where everyone’s doing it: it grabs you like a drug. Besides New York is the media capital and we’re an online publishing organization so it’s only right to be here.”[52]

little curious as to where exactly they’ve sent that coupon as I do not recall actually giving them an address. If it was a mandatory field on their form then chances are I just started typing things about horses, as per usual. Looks like there’s going to be one lucky horse out there somewhere... and one confused postman.   Trevor Mcinsley to: Cape Kidnappers Golf Course   Hello, I was wondering what the dress code for your course is. Specifically if ski goggles/paintball masks are allowed? We will have rather a large gathering and we are... erm, afraid of getting hit in the eyes by stray balls. Yes, that’s it. WE ARE DEFINITELY NOT AN INTERNATIONAL CRIME SYDNICATE. Thanks.   Cape Kidnappers Golf Course to: Trevor Mcinsley   Trevor,   Thank you for your inquiry.   The dress code at Cape Kidnappers is generally considered tidy but requires collared shirts and khaki pants or bermuda shorts. While we understand you are concerned about your eyes, ski goggles and paintball masks are not allowed. Traditional safety

Oh, I have to get a picture of this,” I said as Funboy stepped out of the Frankie. He stood, wearing sandals, baggy Bermuda shorts, and an oversized shirt that was both loud and tacky. The shirt, which hung to his narrow hips, featured a pattern of blue, yellow, and red shapes that were either paramecium or paisley. I couldn’t decide which, and I was too busy enjoying Funboy’s expression. Each floppy shirtsleeve had gold braiding like the cord for drapes in a decaying castle, and the collar was trimmed in purple fuzz taken from a hapless animal that was, no doubt, utterly fabulous. A broad-brimmed sun hat

In the midst of the riot, I noticed a young, blond American couple wearing Bermuda shorts and golf shirts, and holding hands, immobilized by the fights raging around them. The referee, a quiet little fellow called Hammer, was also fighting for his life, blindly swinging a steel chair, deflecting unidentified flying objects and attacking fans. He was backing his way toward the two Americans. My first instinct was to intervene, but they were more than thirty feet away, and I would never have made it. Hammer swung full force as he turned, smashing his chair over the blond man’s head. The man fell to the floor, his girl beside him, helpless and terrified. Now I understood why Bruce had stayed home. Back in the hotel room, Smith was sick too, and we took turns racing to the toilet and sweating on our grungy beds. My shoulder was killing me, and I couldn’t raise my arm. Tiny gnats landed on us incessantly; they seemed harmless enough, so we just rubbed them out. The street sounds filtered up, sirens wailed, and it turned out the little gnats weren’t so harmless after all: For weeks we were covered in festering boils. Smith and I took turns with a pair of tweezers plucking at the eruptions on our arms and chests, leaving big pink craters.

A man in Bermuda shorts and a bright striped shirt was standing at the base of a huge camera boom, cursing with a richness of invective wonderful to hear.

I flip through those two “fancy” hangers again and again—and even expand the search to the “not fancy” section of the closet. I scour the “outgrew it but not ready to say goodbye” section in the way back of the closet, but the shirt is nowhere to be found. Blergh! In desperation, I drop down to my pile of “let’s see if they still smell tomorrow” clothes on the floor, pinching my nose closed as I rummage through the mountain of stinky horse-themed tops and gym clothes. “Aha!” I bravely plunge my arm into the pile of stench. There, hiding at the very bottom, is the missing white button-down. Of course! I wore it back in October for my Amelia Earhart costume at the Halloween parade! It must have somehow disappeared in my Bermuda Triangle of laundry . . . for three months. Yikes. I

I say, I’d always figured those toga-wearing guys hung out around the same time. His smile is soft. You always know what poets wore. I say something like, Baudelaire tweezed his nose hairs and wore the floppy black satin bow. Dickinson wore white like a virgin bride. Warren Whitbread wore Brooks Brothers shirts, button-down, oxford-cloth. Jeans and khakis. He was long of limb and lean in a blue bathrobe. He says, And Mary Karr? Black black black. Plus loads of mascara. Spike heels. He reaches among the wrappings on the floor and holds up the eye-fryingly pink sweater his mother picked up for me in Bermuda, saying, You’re not ready for this yet? Grotesque as it looks, in some ways, I want nothing more than to look right occupying

Sharko had checked online for the local temperature: celestial fires torched the country, a veritable sauna, which wouldn’t help matters. He packed his suitcase with plain short-sleeved shirts, two bathing suits—you never know—two pairs of twill trousers, and Bermuda shorts. He didn’t forget his tape recorder, cocktail sauce, candied chestnuts, or O-gauge Ova Hornby locomotive, with its black car for wood and charcoal.