Big Lug Quotes

Does it get heavy?" "Does what get heavy?" "That big head you lug around 24/7, 365." Sally patted Jen on the back. "It just seems like maybe your neck or back would begin to hurt at some point." "Wow, Sally. I'm impressed you aren't just going for a psychology degree! Right now you seem to be running for mayor of 'I think I'm funny' town.

Friend, we're traveling together. Throw off your tiredness. Let me show you one tiny spot of the beauty that cannot be spoken. I'm like an ant that's gotten into the granary, ludicrously happy, and trying to lug out a grain that's way too big.

I squealed as he swung me up over his shoulder and started striding back toward the waterfront. “Nikolas, put me down, you big lug!” I yelled through my laughter. He patted my backside. “This time my Mori and I are in complete agreement.” “You do know I can zap your warrior ass, right?” I squirmed and he held me tighter. His deep laugh warmed me to my toes. “But you won’t.” “How do you know?” “Because you like me... a lot.” I stopped wriggling and started grinning like a fool. What could I say? He was right.     ~

Look at that: The big lug was a trendsetter now. He was the world’s first cordless bungee jumper.

He didn’t want to cross this big lug when he was clearly having a bad day.

And what did you want?” His eyes sparkled with laughter. “I wanted to find the nearest bar and drink until I forgot a certain orphan with bewitching green eyes. I kept telling myself it was my Mori who wanted you, but the truth was, I noticed you before my demon did, and I wanted to see you again.” Warmth pooled in my stomach. “Would you do it differently now?” “Yes.” “What would you do?” “I’d do this.” I squealed as he swung me up over his shoulder and started striding back toward the waterfront. “Nikolas, put me down, you big lug!” I yelled through my laughter. He patted my backside. “This time my Mori and I are in complete agreement.” “You do know I can zap your warrior ass, right?” I squirmed and he held me tighter. His deep laugh warmed me to my toes. “But you won’t.” “How do you know?” “Because you like me... a lot.

Well, he replied, finally letting my hand go so that he could gesticulate with his; you don your khakis, schlep off to some jungle, hang out with the natives, fish and hunt with them, shiver from their fevers, drink strange brew fermented in their virgins’ mouths, and all the rest; then, after about a year, they lug your bales and cases down to the small jetty that connects their tiny world to the big one that they kind of know exists, but only as an abstract concept, like adultery for children; and, waving with big, gap-toothed smiles, they send you back to your study—where, khakis swapped for cotton shirt and tie, saliva-liquor for the Twinings, tisane or iced Scotch your housekeeper purveys you on a tray, you write the book: that’s what I mean, he said. Not just a book: the fucking Book. You write the Book on them. Sum their tribe up. Speak its secret name.

Every bit of evidence would suggest that the will to be moving is as old as mankind. Take the people in the Old Testament. They were always on the move. First, it's Adam and Eve moving out of Eden. Then it's Cain condemned to be a restless wanderer, Noah drifting on the waters of the Flood, and Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt toward the Promised Land. Some of these figures were out of the Lord's favor and some of them were in it, but all of them were on the move. And as far as the New Testament goes, Our Lord Jesus Christ was what they call a peripatetic--someone who's always going from place to place--whether on foot, on the back of a donkey, or on the wings of angels. But the proof of the will to move is hardly limited to the pages of the Good Book. Any child of ten can tell you that getting-up-and-going is topic number one in the record of man's endeavors. Take that big red book that Billy is always lugging around. It's got twenty-six stories in it that have come down through the ages and almost every one of them is about some man going somewhere. Napoleon heading off on one of his conquests, or King Arthur in search of the Holy Grail. Some of the men in the book are figures from history and some from fancy, but whether real or imagined, almost every one of them is on his way to someplace different from where he started. So, if the will to move is as old as mankind and every child can tell you so, what happens to a man like my father? What switch is flicked in the hallway of his mind that takes the God-given will for motion and transforms it into the will for staying put? It isn't due to a loss of vigor. For the transformation doesn't come when men like my father are growing old and infirm. It comes when they are hale, hearty, and at the peak of their vitality. If you asked them what brought about the change, they will cloak it in the language of virtue. They will tell you that the American Dream is to settle down, raise a family, and make an honest living. They'll speak with pride of their ties to the community through the church and the Rotary and the chamber of commerce, and all other manner of stay-puttery. But maybe, I was thinking as I was driving over the Hudson River, just maybe the will to stay put stems not from a man's virtues but from his vices. After all, aren't gluttony, sloth, and greed all about staying put? Don't they amount to sitting deep in a chair where you can eat more, idle more, and want more? In a way, pride and envy are about staying put too. For just as pride is founded on what you've built up around you, envy is founded on what your neighbor has built across the street. A man's home may be his castle, but the moat, it seems to me, is just as good at keeping people in as it is at keeping people out.

Filming wildlife documentaries couldn’t have happened without John Stainton, our producer. Steve always referred to John as the genius behind the camera, and that was true. The music orchestration, the editing, the knowledge of what would make good television and what wouldn’t--these were all areas of John’s clear expertise. But on the ground, under the water, or in the bush, while we were actually filming, it was 100 percent Steve. He took care of the crew and eventually his family as well, while filming in some of the most remote, inaccessible, and dangerous areas on earth. Steve kept the cameraman alive by telling him exactly when to shoot and when to run. He orchestrated what to film and where to film, and then located the wildlife. Steve’s first rule, which he repeated to the crew over and over, was a simple one: Film everything, no matter what happens. “If something goes wrong,” he told the crew, “you are not going to be of any use to me lugging a camera and waving your other arm around trying to help. Just keep rolling. Whatever the sticky situation is, I will get out of it.” Just keep rolling. Steve’s mantra. On all of our documentary trips, Steve packed the food, set up camp, fed the crew. He knew to take the extra tires, the extra fuel, the water, the gear. He anticipated the needs of six adults and two kids on every film shoot we ever went on. As I watched him at Lakefield, the situation was no different. Our croc crew came and went, and the park rangers came and went, and Steve wound up organizing anywhere from twenty to thirty people. Everyone did their part to help. But the first night, I watched while one of the crew put up tarps to cover the kitchen area. After a day or two, the tarps slipped, the ropes came undone, and water poured off into our camp kitchen. After a full day of croc capture, Steve came back into camp that evening. He made no big deal about it. He saw what was going on. I watched him wordlessly shimmy up a tree, retie the knots, and resecure the tarps. What was once a collection of saggy, baggy tarps had been transformed into a well-secured roof. Steve had the smooth and steady movements of someone who was self-assured after years of practice. He’d get into the boat, fire up the engine, and start immediately. There was never any hesitation. His physical strength was unsurpassed. He could chop wood, gather water, and build many things with an ease that was awkwardly obvious when anybody else (myself, for example) tried to struggle with the same task. But when I think of all his bush skills, I treasured most his way of delivering up the natural world. On that croc research trip in the winter of 2006, Steve presented me with a series of memories more valuable than any piece of jewelry.

Like the long gone captains of the Confederacy, he stood watch at the edge of Dauphin Island, his old life just out of sight across the water. What he felt in those moments, pelicans skimming the chop, tankers lugging cargo to ports unknown, was not loneliness or loss, as you might expect, nor the weight of tragedy but its opposite, pure lightness, the hole left inside him by Suzette’s death as big and hollow as a zeppelin and just as buoyant, as if the shape of her absence might lift him up and carrying him away.

Compared to all this, Ronstadt and Browne were still trying to graduate from the kids' table. Ronstadt had released her first album for Geffen, Don't Cry Now, in September 1973. Browne followed a few weeks later, in October, with his second album, For Everyman. Both albums sold respectably, but neither cracked the Top 40 on the Billboard album chart. And while Geffen had great expectations for both artists, in early 1974 each was still building an audience. Their tour itinerary reflected their transitional position. It brought them to big venues in Detroit, Boston, Philadelphia, and Washington, DC, but also took them far from the bright lights to small community theaters and college campuses in Oxnard, San Luis Obispo, New Haven, and Cortland, New York. At either end, there wasn't much glamour in the experience. They had moved up from the lowest rung on the touring ladder, when they had lugged their gear in and out of station wagons, but had progressed only to a Continental Trailways bus without beds that both bands crammed into for the late-night drives between shows. "The first thing that happened is we were driving all night, and the next morning we were exhausted," Browne remembered. "Like, no one slept a wink. We were sitting up all night on a bus."' "Touring was misery," Ronstadt said, looking back. "Touring is just hard. You don't get to meet anybody. You are always in a bubble . . . You saw the world outside the bus window, and you did the sound check every day."9 The performances were uneven, too. "While Browne is much more assured and confident on stage than he was a year or two ago, he's still very much like a smart kid with a grown-up gift for songwriting," sniffed Judith Sims of Rolling Stone. She treated Ronstadt even more dismissively, describing her as peddling "country schmaltz."' The young rock journalist Cameron Crowe, catching the tour a few days later in Berkeley, described Browne's set as "painfully mediocre."" But Ronstadt and Browne found their footing as they progressed, each alternating lead billing depending on who had sold more records in each market. By the time the cavalcade rolled into Carnegie Hall, the reception for Browne and Ronstadt was strong enough that the promoters added a second show. In February 1974, Jackson Browne and Linda Ronstadt were still at the edge of the stardom they would soon achieve.

She didn’t know what had caused the difference, but even Gino was on board. They were clearly guarding the couple rather than guarding the compound against her. “Don’t get him in trouble with Nonny,” Rubin advised. “Cut through the bullshit,” Gino added. “You aren’t going to turn him down, because someone has to look after the lug. I don’t know what you know about him that we don’t, but it sounds like you’re meant for each other. Just get over there to Nonny before she decides to quit cooking for us.” Bellisia shook her head, a little bit stunned. The big, badass GhostWalkers were afraid of an eighty-year-old woman—or more precisely, their stomachs were.

Keep that firefighter’s body in shape for the calendar,” I joke with a grin. “Shut up,” he laughs. “You want in an in-shape firefighter when your apartment burns down, Jackson. You don’t want some wimpy kid who can’t toss you over their shoulder and haul your heavy ass out because you inhaled too much smoke.” “Romantic, Dusty. A big, strong firefighter lugging me over his shoulder like a damsel in distress.

She was always grateful when that happened, when her other life lost some of its power to haunt. It felt like setting down a big suitcase crammed with all the things you loved. You didn’t love them any less, but it was nice not to have to lug them around.

After checking the manual again, she located the mat in the trunk and peeled it back, then unscrewed the big winged nut holding down a sort of cardboard cover. Beneath it—shazaam!—lay the spare tire and pieces of what the instructions assured her was the jack. If only she had the faintest notion how to assemble it. She removed the metal components and shivered again. She’d packed a set of long johns, but she wasn’t eager to spend time removing boots or stripping off jeans. Activity would warm her. Keep moving. Next the tire, which was determined not to leave its cocoon. She was strong for her size from years of hauling around big pots, but never had she cursed her small stature more. The thing weighed a ton, and it was wedged in there so tightly she couldn’t get it to budge. She’d go to the next step, then come back to the stupid spare. Nothing went better after that. Jacking up the car was a nightmare, and trying to loosen what the book called lug nuts simply wasn’t happening. Cold and scared and frustrated, Scarlett forced herself to think hard about the alternative: walking back to Sweetgrass Springs. But the town had been deserted except for Ruby’s,

I used Harvard’s computer system only once as an undergraduate, to run regressions for my senior thesis on the economics of spousal abuse. The data was stored on large, heavy magnetic tapes that I had to lug in big boxes across campus, cursing the entire way and arriving in a sweaty mess at the sole computer center, which was populated exclusively with male students. I then had to stay up all night spinning the tapes to input the data. When I tried to execute my final calculations, I took down the entire system. That’s right. Years before Mark famously crashed that same Harvard system, I beat him to it.

Preacher. I gotta ask you something. What the hell’s eating you?” “What do you mean?” he replied, frowning. Jack shook his head in frustration. “You have this beautiful little family under your roof. You watch over them like a papa bear. That kid adores you, you have a sweet, cuddly young beauty to knock boots with every night, and you’re depressed. I mean, you are obviously depressed!” “I’m not depressed,” he said somewhat meanly. “And I haven’t knocked boots with anybody.” “What?” Jack said, confused. “What?” “You heard me. I haven’t touched her.” “She have issues?” Jack asked. “Like the abusive ex or something?” “No,” Preacher said. “I have issues.” He laughed. “Yeah? You don’t want her? Because she—” “I don’t know what to do,” Preacher said suddenly. Then he averted his eyes. “Sure you do, Preacher. You take off your clothes, she takes off her clothes...” Preacher snapped his head back. “I know where all the parts go. I’m not so sure she’s ready for that....” “Preacher, my man, do you have eyes? She looks at you like she wants to—” “Jesus, she scares me to death! I’m afraid I’ll hurt her,” he said, then shook his head miserably. What the hell, he thought. Jack’s my best friend. If I can’t tell Jack, I can’t tell anyone. But he said, “You say anything about this and I swear to God, I’ll kill you.” Jack just laughed at him. “Why would I tell anyone? Preacher, you’re not going to hurt her.” “What if I do? She’s been through so much. She’s so soft. Small. And I’m—hell, I’m just a big, clumsy lug.” “No, you’re not,” Jack said, laughing again. “Preacher, you don’t even break the yolks. You’re—well, you’re big, that’s for sure.” He chuckled. “You’re probably big all over,” he said, shaking his head. “Believe me, women don’t mind that.” Preacher’s chin went up and he frowned, not sure whether he’d just been complimented or insulted. “Listen,

I told players at UCLA that we, as a team, are like a powerful car. Maybe a Bill Walton or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or Michael Jordan is the big engine, but if one wheel is flat, we’re going no place. And if we have brand new tires but the lug nuts are missing, the wheels come off. What good is the powerful engine now? It’s no good at all.

We were taught not to offer or invite aid, because, like it or not, helping is a messy, confused proposition; sometimes you get it right and sometimes you get it wrong, and sometimes you have no choice but to trust that the man holding your tire iron, cussing at your old lug nuts, is a deeply kind human after all.

Then before the big lug even knew what was happening, Dom lunged forward to catch him by the neck in a hold. Jabbing the tip of his blade into the brute’s back, Dom dragged him into the alley. A moment of struggle ensued until Dom hissed, “I’ll bury this knife in your ribs, you bloody fool, if you don’t stop fighting.” The man stilled. “If it’s money ye’re after--” “It’s not.” Dom tightened his forearm across the man’s throat, just enough to limit his breathing. “Who’s in the house with Barlow?” There was a long pause. “Don’t know what ye’re talking about,” the man wheezed. “Then we’ll stand here until you figure it out.” Dom stuck the bruiser with his blade just enough to make him bleed. “While we wait, I can do some carving.” “Now see here,” the man warned him, “if you cut me, my friends will hunt you down and smash your face to bits. You don’t know who ye’re dealing with.” “Neither do you. Ever hear of the Duke’s Men?” God, how he hated that term, but it was better known than Manton’s Investigations. “I’m one of them.” “Ye’re lying.” “Not a bit. I’ve got friends of my own. With guns. And plenty of reason to shoot them. My name’s Manton. Perhaps you’ve heard of me.” The man froze. “Dominick Manton? The runner what captured those rebels in Cato Street?” “The very one.

Auld Reekie's sons blyth faces wear, September's merry month is near, That brings in Neptune's caller chere, New oysters fresh; The halesomest and nicest gear Of fish or flesh. Whan big as burns the gutters rin, Gin ye hae catcht a drookit skin, To Luckie Middlemist's loup in, And sit fair snug O'er oysters and a dram o' gin, Or haddock lug.

We caught up with Bigs at the base of the hill. He was watching the sledders race down the slope. His eyes looked moist. I was worried the big lug might burst into tears. Either that, or rip a tree out of the ground.

Whack! His giant hand slapped my back. My eyeballs nearly rolled across the floor. “Thanks a lot, you guys!” Bigs shouted. “Thanks a million! Thanks a . . . thanks . . . a . . . gazillion!” Then he walked away. I mean, maybe he walked. I don’t know for sure. The big lug was so happy he might have floated away on fluffy white clouds. I looked at Mila. She shrugged back at me. “I had to tell him something,” she explained. “I guess,” I said. “Bigs is a little rough,” Mila observed. “Yeah, I noticed,” I said, rubbing my chest.

Conversing with Dylan was somewhat akin to lugging a big, heavy tree branch to a dumpster.

I’m tired of lugging around the big bag of little traumas I’ve collected

there are two kinds of thoughts that dominate almost all humans: thoughts revolving around our own history and thoughts revolving around our own future. These thoughts are mesmerising, and they all have the same fingerprints: my life. It’s as though you’re walking through life lugging these two big, heavy, important bags with you – one containing all your thoughts about your history, the other all your thoughts about your future. They’re wonderful, valuable bags. But try putting them down, just for a bit. See if you can greet some part of life more immediately, here and now. And if you’re successful, you can pick the bags back up later. If you want to.

Garrance winks as Juju jumps onto my lap. "It appears that Juju likes you too." Feeling out of sorts, I stroke the cat's head, look down at him. He's weighing my thighs down, and I like the way it feels, all warm. I also love his loud purrs. He's nothing like a rat. "The big lug is kind of growing on me," I say, stroking his chin, and Garrance grins.

Lassiter once told him over drinks that he viewed the courtroom as a saloon in an old Western. He liked to burst through the swinging doors, knock over a poker table, pistol whip a gunfighter, toss a big lug through a window, and flip a chair into the mirror above the bar. “And that, Alex, is just when I say ‘good morning.

Well, I may be the first kid in history to be hospitalized for fainting during a fight. The nurse told me I crumpled to the ground right before the big lug swung at me and was rescued by the Cafeteria Lady who happened to be in the parking lot pushing a cart of strawberry milk.

answered, pulling on his overcoat. All the loneliness of the evening seemed to descend upon her at once then and she said with the suggestion of a whine in her voice, ‘Why don’t you take me with you some Saturday?’ ‘You?’ he said. ‘Take you? D’you think you’re fit to take anywhere? Look at yersen! An’ when I think of you as you used to be!’ She looked away. The abuse had little sting now. She could think of him too, as he used to be; but she did not do that too often now, for such memories had the power of evoking a misery which was stronger than the inertia that, over the years, had become her only defence. ‘What time will you be back?’ ‘Expect me when you see me,’ he said at the door. ‘Is’ll want a bite o’ supper, I expect.’ Expect him at whatever time his tipsy legs brought him home, she thought. If he lost he would drink to console himself. If he won he would drink to celebrate. Either way there was nothing in it for her but yet more ill temper, yet further abuse. She got up a few minutes after he had gone and went to the back door to look out. It was snowing again and the clean, gentle fall softened the stark and ugly outlines of the decaying outhouses on the patch of land behind the house and gently obliterated Scurridge’s footprints where they led away from the door, down the slope to the wood, through which ran a path to the main road, a mile distant. She shivered as the cold air touched her, and returned indoors, beginning, despite herself, to remember. Once the sheds had been sound and strong and housed poultry. The garden had flourished too, supplying them with sufficient vegetables for their own needs and some left to sell. Now it was overgrown with rampant grass and dock. And the house itself – they had bought it for a song because it was old and really too big for one woman to manage; but it too had been strong and sound and it had looked well under regular coats of paint and with the walls pointed and the windows properly hung. In the early days, seeing it all begin to slip from her grasp, she had tried to keep it going herself. But it was a thankless, hopeless struggle without support from Scurridge: a struggle which had beaten her in the end, driving her first into frustration and then finally apathy. Now everything was mouldering and dilapidated and its gradual decay was like a symbol of her own decline from the hopeful young wife and mother into the tired old woman she was now. Listlessly she washed up and put away the teapots. Then she took the coal-bucket from the hearth and went down into the dripping, dungeon-like darkness of the huge cellar. There she filled the bucket and lugged it back up the steps. Mending the fire, piling it high with the wet gleaming lumps of coal, she drew some comfort from the fact that this at least, with Scurridge’s miner’s allocation, was one thing of which they were never short. This job done, she switched on the battery-fed wireless set and stretched out her feet in their torn canvas shoes to the blaze. They were broadcasting a programme of old-time dance music: the Lancers, the Barn Dance, the Veleta. You are my honey-honey-suckle, I am the bee… Both she and

Lugging around guilt, shame, resentment and self-loathing is The Big Snooze running the show, pitching a fit, demanding to be right and to be seen. Your higher self, on the other hand, could give a crap about what anybody else thinks or does because your higher self is madly in love with you and that’s all that matters. Whatever happened, happened. Holding on will not change this fact, it will just keep the negative feeling from the past alive, keep you a prisoner to your pain and lower your frequency.

The quality of the food on a mountain climb is usually a direct function of availability and the willingness of someone to lug it up there for you. Base Camp on Everest, for example, was a busy place and a big market for provisioners. As a result, we enjoyed eggs every morning. But the higher you go and the farther away from civilization you are, the more practical and less palatable the fare becomes. By the time you get really high (and have just about stopped caring about food altogether), all that you generally consume are simple carbohydrates and the occasional swallow of soup with cookies or crackers.