Blazer For Men Quotes

In wrapping things up the writer had a choice: the "happy" ending in which the two former enemies are rescued and we can imagine them going forward with their lives as friends the "realistic" ending in which they are rescued but immediately resume their quarrel: or the cruelly ironic ending where fate takes a hand. The class was about evenly divided among the three endings. For Me though there was no choice the writer absolutely had to go with the ironic one. What would be the point I argued of a story like that with a happy ending The two men walking off into the sunset together and unharmed isnt an ending-it's a cop-out.

Zen philosopher Cheri Huber once said, “If you had a person in your life treating you the way you treat yourself, you would have gotten rid of them a long time ago.

Why you do such a thing?” Ito demanded. “Because I think Blue Ribbon could be great success,” Sumeragi said, “maybe $20 million account. I shake hands many times with Mr. Steve Prefontaine. I shake hands with Mr. Bill Bowerman. I go many times to Trail Blazer game with Mr. Phil Knight. I even pack orders at warehouse. Nike is my business child. Always it is nice to see one’s business child grow.” “So then,” Ito said, “you hide invoices because . . . you . . . like these men?” Deeply ashamed, Sumeragi bowed his head. “Hai,” he said. “Hai.

Thin, androgynous, simply dressed in striped naval-uniform-style suits, or schoolboy sports clothes and blazers, the “Chanel woman” conjured the silhouette of the war’s millions of soldiers—the young men dying just out of sight of the general population.

At childhood’s end, the houses petered out into playing fields, the factory, allotments kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, till you came at last to the edge of the woods. It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears he had! What big eyes he had! What teeth! In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry. The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods, away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake, my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes but got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem. I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for what little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf? Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws and went in search of a living bird – white dove – which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth. One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said, licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books. Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head, warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood. But then I was young – and it took ten years in the woods to tell that a mushroom stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out, season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones. I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up. Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone. Little Red-Cap

We had somehow drawn towards each other. I towered over her, taller than most men and built like an athlete. I never hunched. Never recoiled. I wore my height with pride. She raised her chin to combat me. I pushed her to be the best that she could be. “I know exactly who I am,” I said with every ounce of confidence I possessed. “What unsettles you, Rose, is that you have no idea what kind of guy that is.” I stepped closer and she stiffened. “If people stare at me and see my problems, then I’m useless to them. So I give them exactly what they want. I am whomever or whatever they need.” I held out my blazer again. “And you need a fucking jacket.” She reluctantly took the blazer but hesitated. “I can’t be you,” she said. “I can’t internalize all of my feelings. I don’t understand how you can do that.

Bazıları için aşkın tanımı buydu. Derslerde en arkaya otururlar. Yaz günü 40 derece sıcakta giydikleri blazer ceketleri ve ucuz popülerliğin son moda pop şarkılarını bangırdattıkları, sanayiden 100 Lira’ya temin edilmiş çakma ses sistemleriyle donatılmış, viteslerine bir tespih geçirilmiş arabaları olur. Hocaya sordukları sorularla onu bozmaya çalışır ve kendi esprilerine vahşi bir hayvanın boru gibi sesiyle gülerler. Bütün cümleleri gramer teröründe gazi madalyası alacak kadar bozuktur ve sonlarına mutlaka bir küfür yerleştirirler. Anlaşılamaz ve yersiz bir özgüvene sahiptirler. İşte yüzlerinden bela akan, gittikleri her yerde ezelden oralıymış gibi davranan, at hırsızından dönme bu tip erkekler için her kızla yatmıyor olmak aşkın tanımıydı. Yatabilirlerdi. Ama yatmamayı tercih ederek asaletin pençesinde aşk ıstırabı çekerlerdi.

Straight White Male by John Niven My favorite novel by one of my favorite contemporary writers, this is a no-holds-barred tale of the hard-drinking, always insulting, hard-womanizing, Irish screenwriter Kennedy Marr. Set mainly between Los Angeles and England, Kennedy is an amalgam of many of my closest friends, and the book is at the same time familiar and shocking at every turn. Read secretly away from your wife or girlfriend. Or probably not at all. Just to be safe.

Tinker in Television by Grant Tinker Until Barry Hearn writes his autobiography (or rather dictates it in one forty-eight-hour, caffeine-and-lager-fueled, way-beyond-politically-incorrect ramble to his assistant, Michelle), this remains my favorite autobiography of all time and had a massive effect on me, and how I would come to view my career, when I read it in 1994.

Ogilvy on Advertising by David Ogilvy I have learned more about creativity, and working in a creative field, from this one book than from any other job, course, or person with the exception of my ridiculously smart and talented, but not quite as tall, older brother, William. The book is ostensibly about how to get a job in advertising, how to run an advertising agency, and how to create successful and powerful advertising. But along the way, this brilliant British émigré to the United States (he came fifty-one years before me, in 1938), tells the entire history of advertising, predicts its future, and comes as close to explaining how ideas can be communicated using words and pictures, about the power of persuasion, than anyone who has ever written on the dark art. The book includes the story of how he created the Rolls-Royce print ad which I still think about every time I see a Roller or think about how to sell a high-end TV project.

While Pirlo’s New York sojourn was mostly memorable off the field, who could not adore a man who says about his free kicks, “Each shot bears my name and they’re all my children.” But his greatest comments may be about his own humanity. On his looks, he once wrote, “If I glimpse the mirror when I get up, or before going to bed at night, I see a man of average ugliness. With stubble, an unruly mane of hair, a squint nose, slightly protruding ears, and bags under my eyes. But I also see a man who’s completely happy with the figure staring back at him.

Polish Approach” to World Cups and Euros: A theory posited by a Polish waiter in London who once told us: “We Poles always have a defined rhythm to the three group stage games we play at every major tournament in which we are inevitably eliminated. They even have ritualistic names: Match day one: “The opening game in which everything is possible.” Match day two: “The must-win game in which our team’s survival is on the line.” Match day three: “A dead rubber Game of Honor in which the result is irrelevant because the team is already eliminated.

Oates struggled with wet feet throughout the seventy-nine-day journey across packed ice. As they closed in on the Pole, they had the horror of encountering the abandoned remnants of the Norwegians’ tent. Inside, a note from Amundsen informing them he had beaten them to it. Defeated and distraught, the small party attempted to return home, yet progress was agonizingly slow. Blizzards battered the party, and Oates, suffering from both gangrene and frostbite, had his big toe turn black and his body become yellow. His inability to walk bogged down the entire party, who, despite Oates’s protestations, refused to leave him behind. One the 17th of March, on his thirty-second birthday, Oates awoke and muttered his last words to the rest of his team, “I am just going outside and may be some time.” He then proceeded to wander off into a −40°F blizzard and was never seen again.

When Aeschines spoke, they said, “How well he speaks.” But when Demosthenes spoke, they said, “Let’s march against Philip.

Science has a raft of studies attempting to probe this issue. Many point to the physiological arousal supporters experience whilst watching games. We feel alive. More than that, we experience communion and community with others, which feeds our sense of self. None more than the few occasions when the team muster a win to be savored when we “BIRG,” the psychological shorthand for “basking in reflected glory.” BIRG-ing is great for you. That goal you neither assisted on nor scored does wonders for your self-esteem.

A deep, booming chime echoed through the square. It throbbed in the stones under my feet. Children cried, covering their ears. And I started screaming as I ran. ‘Marcel!’ I screamed, knowing it was useless. The crowd was too loud, and my voice was breathless with exertion. All the same and all, I couldn't stop screaming. The clock tolled again. I ran past a nude young girl child in her mother's arms as her hair was almost white in the dazzling sunlight. A circle of tall men, all wearing red blazers, called out warnings as I barreled through them. The clock tolled again and again. On the other side of the men in blazers, there was a break in the throng, space between the sightseers who milled aimlessly around me. My eyes peered over the vast dark narrow passage to the right of the wide square edifice under the tower. I couldn't see the street level there were still too many kids and teens in the way.

A deep, booming chime echoed through the square. It throbbed in the stones under my feet. Children cried, covering their ears. And I started screaming as I ran. ‘Marcel!’ I screamed, knowing it was useless. The crowd was too loud, and my voice was breathless with exertion. All the same and all, I couldn't stop screaming. The clock tolled again. I ran past a nude young girl child in her mother's arms as her hair was almost white in the dazzling sunlight. A circle of tall men, all wearing red blazers, called out warnings as I barreled through them. The clock tolled again and again. On the other side of the men in blazers, there was a break in the throng, space between the sightseers who milled aimlessly around me. My eyes peered over the vast dark narrow passage to the right of the wide square edifice under the tower. I couldn't see the street level there were still too many kids and teens in the way. The clock tolled again, and the rings cried out. Part: 2 Thrashed Just like me, this is not here anymore… It was hard to see now, more than ever. Without the kids, teens, and tweens, to break the wind, it whipped at my face and burned my eyes. -And- I for one at that moment could not be one hundred present certain if that was the reason behind my tears, or if I was crying in defeat as the clock hands rounded the face again, and the bell grew hazier. A big family of ten stood nearest to the alley's opening. The two girls wore blue dresses, with matching ribbons tying their dark hair back. The father wasn't small or big. It seemed like I could see something bright in the shadows, just over his shoulder. I rushed toward them, trying to see past the stinging tears. The clock hands spun, and the littlest girl clamped her fingers around one of the boy's long fingers.

With the Allies on the advance nearly everywhere and invasion talk in the air, London was a welcoming place for young airmen who were taking the fight to Hitler’s doorstep. The first stop for American airmen was usually the nearest Red Cross Club, where helpful volunteers made bookings free of charge at commercial hotels or at one of the Red Cross’s own dormitory-like facilities. After checking in and dropping off their kits, most men headed straight for Rainbow Corner. Located on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus, it was a place as close to home as a GI could find in all of England. Administered by the American Red Cross, Rainbow Corner had been designed “to create a strictly American atmosphere.” There was an exact replica of a small-town corner drugstore in the club’s basement, where ice-cold Cokes were sold for a nickel and grilled hamburgers for a dime. Upstairs, in the grand ballroom, servicemen danced with volunteer hostesses to the driving music of soldier bands—the Flying Forts, the Thunderbolts, the Sky Blazers. There was also a lounge with a jukebox and a small dance floor with tables and chairs around it. Lonely GIs dunking donuts in fresh coffee would loaf there, listening to the latest American hits. Rainbow Corner never closed its doors. The key had been symbolically thrown away the day of the grand opening in November 1942.

As the old man ushered Myron through the crowd, several men in green blazers—another look sported mostly at golf courses, perhaps to camouflage oneself against the grass—greeted him with whispered, “How do, Bucky,” or “Looking good, Buckster,” or “Fine day for golf, Buckaroo.” They all had the accent of the rich and preppy, the kind of inflection where mommy is pronounced “mummy” and summer and winter are verbs. Myron was about to comment on a grown man being called Bucky, but when your name is Myron, well, glass houses and stones and all that. Like

So why am I here, then?” Granite Man spread his satellite-dishes excuse for hands. “That’s what I’d like to know.” The three men formed a triangle, Granite in front, the two blue-blazers in back. Granite made a small nod. One of the blazers produced a gun and aimed at Myron’s head. This was not good. There are ways of disarming a man with a gun, but there’s an inherent problem: It might not work. If you miscalculate or if your opponent is better than you think—something not unlikely in an opponent who knows how to handle a gun—you could get shot. That’s a serious drawback. And in this particular situation there were two other opponents, both of whom looked good and were probably armed. There is a word expert fighters use for a sudden move at this juncture: suicide.

Finally, my mother confronted me, and bought me a sports bra. She tried so hard to make me feel okay about it. “It’s how God made you and God loves you,” she told me again and again. Not everyone was so nice. In seventh grade the pastor at our church nearly grabbed my mother after I performed at the service. “Jessica can’t sing in front of the church because—” he paused. “You could see her breasts.” “Her breasts?” “Her nipples!” he said, trying not to yell for all to hear. “Well, why the hell are you looking?” my mother asked. She was always that tiger mom. She had her own resentment about putting so much into the church and not getting credit. Any slight to her family gave her the release valve of anger. “She will make men lust!” “She’s thirteen!” Mom had to explain the nipple controversy and I thought I’d done something wrong. “I’m just catching the spirit of the Lord,” I said. The compromise was big vests for summer and roomy blazers for winter. Anytime I sang, I had to cover myself. I got my revenge in little ways. I would intentionally laugh loud during church. Any odd thing that happened, I would let it rip, and the pastor would shush me in front of five hundred people. My dad hated it, but my mom would laugh, too.

I left my car in the garage, then followed the guard’s directions past a Spanish tile fountain in the lobby to the elevators, and then to the top floor. Another blazered gentleman smiled at me in the lobby, and a third just happened to be on the elevator. Both were polite and both, like the guard in the parking garage, had the corded necks of men who spent a lot of their time honing confrontational skills. Corded necks are a dead giveaway.

I looked up sharply, displeased to find Donald’s attention on Catherine, who’d been silent at my side throughout the entire confrontation. She offered him a soft smile. “Can I call a car for you, Mr. Rockford?” His mouth fell open then slammed shut. She’d stumped him with her politeness, and I was quietly amused. Catherine had a way of handling the men I met with on a daily basis. Her manners never failed her, but she had a cutting edge beneath her soft outer layer. “No, you can’t call a car for me, young lady.” “Oh, that’s too bad.” She gestured politely to the door. “If there’s anything else I can do to make your exit easier…” His nostrils flared, and his eyes fell on her belly. “You really want to bring a kid into the world working for a man like this? What kind of mother are you—?” That was enough. I jerked him back by the collar of his sports jacket before he could complete his filthy question and marched him toward the door. He resisted, but the old guy wasn’t much more than bones and paunch beneath his tailored suit, so the little fight he put up was laughable. Once he was on the street and my security team was alerted to keep him there, I rejoined Catherine in the lobby. Her lips were rolled over her teeth, eyes on her feet. “Do you have anything to say, Catherine?” She shook her head. “No. Nothing at all, Elliot.” She held her notebook against her chest, her gaze averted. On anyone else, I might have taken her response at face value and believed she was interested in the uninspired architecture of our new building. But not Catherine. She’d been holding herself back from day one. If I hadn’t been so impressed by the ingenuity she’d shown in making an entirely new outfit from the lost and found box—a discarded cardigan, athletic leggings, an oversized blazer, and a tie as a belt—I wouldn’t have hired her. Not because her résumé wasn’t up to snuff. It had been fine. And it wasn’t because her answers to my questions had been anything less than passable.