Blondies Quotes

Nobody calls me 'blondie' and keeps their kneecaps.

You're naked?" Kenji is suddenly studying my sheet and not bothering to be subtle about it. I flush despite my best efforts, flustered, frustrated. "Blondie said they destroyed my clothes." "Blondie?" Blond man is offended.

Can you at least pretend to be professional today?” Lindsey stopped, glanced back at Luc. “You show me professional, and I’ll show you professional.” Luc snorted, but his expression was gleeful. “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t know professional if it bit you on the ass.” “I prefer my bites in other places.” “Is that an invitation?” “If only you were so lucky, cowboy.” “Lucky? Hooking up with me would be the luckiest day of your life, Blondie.

And our safe word?" "Wonderwall." Lindsey turned around and cast Luc a sardonic look. " Your safe word is the name of an Oasis song?" "Blondie, I am the arbiter of all things fashionable in this House. Why not music?" "Spoken by a man wearing cowboy boots. I mean, seriously. Who wears cowboy boots ?

Silently, I lifted my doggy bowl off the floor. Then, with a quick, powerful flip of my wrist, I threw it into the back of Blondie’s head so hard that – with an earsplitting bang – it smashed flat before it ricocheted across the room and snapped the round top piece off the thick newel post at the foot of the stairs.

Ah, man. (Talon) What? (Wulf) Friggin’ Fabio alert. (Talon) Hey, you’re not too far from the mark either, blondie. (Wulf) Bite me, Viking. (Talon)

I put my hand next to his shoulder on the door frame, not touching, but real close. “Look, Blondie. I’m not asking you to bottom, just to fucking navigate.

Blondie?" Ten asked with a snort. "Hell, yes, she'll be fine. God wouldn't let something bad happen to one of his angels.

Michel en a marre d'être seul. Alors il s'est amputé d'une partie de son cerveau, histoire de ne pas voir la fille comme elle était: une emmerdeuse de premier ordre.

This shit is potent. I feel…” He nodded slowly. “Yeah.” I lifted my eyebrows, wondering if he was drunk or high. Blondie giggled again and pointed at him. “I’ve never heard you cuss before.” “I don’t,” Hamilton said blankly before Blondie charged, “But you just said shit.” He laughed and pointed back at her. “So did you.” As they giggled together, I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. Oh, dear God. Someone shoot me now.

La vie, c’est le mouvement, t’as pas fini de quitter des gens

L'ancienneté, chez les punks, était signe de crédibilité et conférait prestige et avantages divers. Un des rares points communs entre punk rock et fonction publique.

Tu connais l'effet que je fais au mecs: les premiers mois, ils adorent ça, que j'aille si mal et ils veulent toujours m'aider. Seulement point trop n'en faut: trop de douleur pourrait tacher le canapé...

Elle se répète: "change de tactique, ma fille, cesse de souffrir, t'es pas obligée de ramasser autant." Mais rien n'y fait. Il y a des gens qui se torturent mieux que d'autres. Dans cette catégorie, au moins, elle se sent championne absolue.

She’s lost her links to her old world, but she has never felt close to the one she’s in now. She’s torn in different directions, at a loss.

I so cherish these enlivening moments when you defy me even as a Blondy. When you react to me so humanly. I feel myself tingling right down to the center of my brain. I love how you look at me with such undisguised disdain. It's so endearing I want to rip out your beating heart and press it to my cheek.

With a deliberate shrug, he stepped free of the hold on his shoulder. “Tell me something, boys,” he drawled. “Do you wear that leather to turn each other on? I mean, is it a dick thing with you all?” Butch got slammed so hard against the door that his back teeth rattled. The model shoved his perfect face into Butch’s. “I’d watch your mouth, if I were you.” “Why bother, when you’re keeping an eye on it for me? You gonna kiss me now?” A growl like none Butch had ever heard came out of the guy. “Okay, okay.” The one who seemed the most normal came forward. “Back off, Rhage. Hey, come on. Let’s relax.” It took a minute before the model let go. “That’s right. We’re cool,” Mr. Normal muttered, clapping his buddy on the back before looking at Butch. “Do yourself a favor and shut the hell up.” Butch shrugged. “Blondie’s dying to get his hands on me. I can’t help it.” The guy launched back at Butch, and Mr. Normal rolled his eyes, letting his friend go this time. The fist that came sailing at jaw level snapped Butch’s head to one side. As the pain hit, Butch let his own rage fly. The fear for Beth, the pent-up hatred of these lowlifes, the frustration about his job, all of it came out of him. He tackled the bigger man, taking him down onto the floor. The guy was momentarily surprised, as if he hadn’t expected Butch’s speed or strength, and Butch took advantage of the hesitation. He clocked Blondie in the mouth as payback and then grabbed the guy’s throat. One second later, Butch was flat on his back with the man sitting on his chest like a parked car. The guy took Butch’s face into his hand and squeezed, crunching the features together. It was nearly impossible to breathe, and Butch panted shallowly. “Maybe I’ll find your wife,” the guy said, “and do her a couple of times. How’s that sound?" “Don’t have one.” “Then I’m coming after your girlfriend.” Butch dragged in some air. “Got no woman.” “So if the chicks won’t do you, what makes you think I’d want to?” “Was hoping to piss you off.” “Now why’d you want to do that?” Blondie asked. “If I attacked first”—Butch hauled more breath into his lungs—“your boys wouldn’t have let us fight. Would’ve killed me first. Before I had a chance at you.” Blondie loosened his grip a little and laughed as he stripped Butch of his wallet, keys, and cell phone. “You know, I kind of like this big dummy,” the guy drawled. Someone cleared a throat. Rather officiously. Blondie leaped to his feet, and Butch rolled over, gasping. When he looked up, he was convinced he was hallucinating. Standing in the hall was a little old man dressed in livery. Holding a silver tray. “Pardon me, gentlemen. Dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes.” “Hey, are those the spinach crepes I like so much?” Blondie said, going for the tray. “Yes, Sire.” “Hot damn.” The other men clustered around the butler, taking what he offered. Along with cocktail napkins. Like they didn’t want to drop anything on the floor. What the hell was this? “Might I ask a favor?” the butler said. Mr. Normal nodded with vigor. “Bring out another tray of these and we’ll kill anything you want for you.” Yeah, guess the guy wasn’t really normal. Just relatively so. The butler smiled as if touched. “If you’re going to bloody the human, would you be good enough to do it in the backyard?” “No problem.” Mr. Normal popped another crepe in his mouth. “Damn, Rhage, you’re right. These are awesome.

 ‘You mean a lot to me, Foster. More than you’ll ever know.’ ” Sophie lunged for the paper. “Nope! No destroying the evidence—and don’t even think about telling me you don’t know what he meant by that, Blondie! Your cheeks are way too red!” Sophie tugged her hair forward. She’d been so thrown by the rest of Keefe’s message that she’d forgotten that part was in there—and her brain honestly had no idea what to do with it. It almost felt like Keefe was trying to tell her… But he couldn’t mean that.

Vampire Slayer,” I grumbled, “Try killing a god sometime and then get back to me. Blondie wouldn't last a day. She'd be whining to her mommy about the unfairness of it all within minutes. Oh, and falling for your prey... total amateur. You don't poop where you eat and you don't kill where you sleep. Or sleep with who you kill. No wait, that's necrophilia,” I frowned and then shook my head. “Oh whatever, it's just dumb to let your prey seduce you.

when you are at the top you only see shadows and when your at the bottom you are blinded by the light but from the middle everything is pleasing... day and night

C'est un gars qui tombe amoureux, souvent, son piédestal est facile d'accès, mais doté d'une option "eject

L'important, c'est de ne jamais désespérer.

winks at Thad before biting her bottom lip, and Thad leans in closer. “Any time you want, blondie.

I am calm, blondie.” “Even though these men are probably slavers or cannibals?” “Nah, homeowners’ association gone awry.

And then I notice the music flooding out of every part of the apartment at once — the couch, the walls, even the floor — and I know Bennies alone in Lou’s studio, pouring music down around us. A minute ago it was “Don’t Let Me Down”. Then it was Blondie’s “Heart of Glass”. Now it’s Iggy Pop’s “The Passenger”. Listening, I think, You will never know how much I understand you.

are moments, like this, that change everything. What had seemed solid and unchanging crumbles in an instant and nothing will ever grow there again as it had before. She once more closed her mouth, her eyes, her nose, and swore she’d get out, get out without betraying herself, and above all without being cured. She felt, rather than

Shock? More like shellshock at this point. Blondie knew I was gay, yet he was a Company Exec or else he wouldn’t be here. I was his butt boy in the worst possible way. When I squinted at him, he gave nothing up. Neither did I. I had shit on this newly minted man too. Double fucking jeopardy, jackass.

Adolf introduces Fascism to Germany, spreads war throughout Europe, murders millions in concentration camps—but he's a strict vegetarian and loves his dog. Tossing in a touching scene with his German shepherd Blondie and a dish of lentils won't make Hitler's character 'balanced.' Hitler's character isn't balanced.

We never really had a beginning. For months, we fought and insulted each other. Then we combusted into bed. We pretended what happened didn't matter, but it did, Blondie. You matter." "Braeden," I whispered and took a step farther into the room. He shook his head. "All the shit with Missy, and Zach… hell, even with my father, it got in our way. I let it. This is me swearing I won't let it again. This is me swearing this is our beginning. You're it for me." He took a breath, and I watched his chest rise with it. His dark, chocolate eyes latched onto mine. "Because I still don't like you, Blondie." I started to roll my eyes. "I love you." My heart stopped. Everything stopped. That place deep down inside me burned and tingled. "I don't like you either." My voice wobbled. The intensity of his stare drilled right into me, like he was seating desperately for my reply. "I love you so damn much," I confessed. -Braeden & Ivy

Why do you have so many? That bag is overflowing.” “I couldn’t remember what Principal Pruitt’s favorite dessert was, so I made them all.” “All?” “Brownies, cookies, blondies, lemon bars, and mini pecan pies. When I bribe, I bribe hard.

Back in the "leather and lace" eighties, I was the fantasy editor for a publishing company in New York City. It was a great time to be young and footloose on the streets of Manhattan—punk rock and folk music were everywhere; Blondie, the Eurythmics, Cyndi Lauper, and Prince were all strutting their stuff on the newly created MTV; and the eighties' sense of style meant I could wear my scruffy black leather into the office without turning too many heads. The fantasy field was growing by leaps and bounds, and I was right in the middle of it, working with authors I'd worshiped as a teen, and finding new ones to encourage and publish.

Tadhg hopped down from the table and sauntered over to the stereo to switch up discs. After spending a few minutes flicking through tracks, he settled on Bowling for Soup’s “Girl All the Bad Guys Want.” He gave me a cheeky wink and said, “This one’s for you, blondie.” Well, shit. I choked out a laugh. Little Alpha had moves.

An essential difference between British and American punk bands can be found in their respective views of rock & roll history. The British bands took a deliberately anti-intellectual stance, refuting any awareness of, or influence from, previous exponents of the form. The New York and Cleveland bands saw themselves as self-consciously drawing on and extending an existing tradition in American rock & roll. (...) A second difference between the British and American punk scenes was their relative gestation periods. The British weekly music press was reviewing Sex Pistols shows less than three months after their cacophonous debut. Within a year of the Pistols' first performance they had a record deal, with the 'major' label EMI. Within six months of their first gigs the Damned and the Clash also secured contracts, the latter with CBS. The CBGBs scene went largely ignored by the American music industry until 1976 -- two years after the debuts of Television, the Ramones and Blondie. Even then only Television signed to an established label.

Faye tilted her head slightly. “When was your first kill?” Winston met her stare for a long while, then exhaled. “I was nineteen, fighting a war I probably shouldn’t have been fighting, but it’s not like I knew that at the time.” “Mm. Did you regret it?” Winston grinned, but she could see the dark edges to it. “What? You think I come from some tragic backstory, blondie? That I’m a broken little boy who kills to fill that hole inside of my chest where my soul used to be? Nah. This ain’t one of them stories. I can’t dance or roll my tongue, but I can kill people pretty good. It’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at and when I lay my head down at night, I sleep like a baby. I don’t see their faces. Never have. Probably never will.” A chill spilled through her. The matter-of-fact nature of his confession scared her more than almost anything else she’d ever heard him say.

One day Manson tried with me. I stared right back, holding his gaze until his hands started shaking. During the recess, I slid my chair over next to his and asked, "What are you trembling about, Charlie? Are you afraid of me?" "Bugliosi," he said, "you think I'm bad and I'm not." "I don't think you're all bad, Charlie. For instance, I understand you love animals." "Then you know I wouldn't hurt anyone," he said. "Hitler loved animals too, Charlie. He had a dog named Blondie, and from what I've read, Adolf was very kind to Blondie.

Blondie pressed the gun into him even harder. “I’m gonna count to one,” the man said into his ear. “Just one.

I’m wondering how long I have to deal with this bullshit before I can brief my troops. Oh, and I gotta feed my goldfish. Let’s get this straight, Blondie—” “Blondie?” “That’s an insult, not a pet name.

From the first time I set eyes on Marilyn, I thought she was just wonderful. On the silver screen, her lovely skin and platinum hair were luminescent and fantastic. I loved the fantasy of it. In the fifties, when I grew up. Marilyn was an enormous star, but there was such a double standard. The fact that she was such a hot number meant that many middle-class women looked down on her as a slut. And since the publicity machine behind her sold her as a sex idol, she wasn’t valued as a comedic actor or given credit for her talent. I never felt that way about her, obviously. I felt that Marilyn was also playing a character, the proverbial dumb blonde with the little-girl voice and big-girl body, and that there was a lot of smarts behind the act. My character in Blondie was partly a visual homage to Marilyn, and partly a statement about the good old double standard.

Thomas,” Inez interrupted with exasperation. “I’m trying to tell you I love you.” “You do?” he asked, a smile spreading halfway across his face. “But then why did you tell Terri that you wanted to delay the turn?” “It wasn’t you. It was because of the pain involved,” she said with a grimace and then admitted, “I don’t like pain, Thomas. I mean I’m practically phobic about it. My whole life, I’ve avoided any situation that might involve pain. My dentist even has to gas me to fill a cavity.” Inez shrugged unhappily. “I probably would have delayed and put it off as long as I possibly could if you hadn’t had to change me to save my life. In truth, Blondie probably did us both a favor by precipitating the events that forced you to turn me.

Tristan would egg me on to trash-talk the little blondie who had “stolen” my boyfriend. Of course I know now that no one can “steal” boyfriends against their will, not even Angelina Jolie itself. But I was filled with a poisonous, pointless teenage jealousy,

The dining table was covered with platters of food: everything and pumpernickel bagels, everything minibagels, everything flagels, bialys, cream cheese, scallion cream cheese, salmon spread, tofu spread, smoked and pickled fish, pitch-black brownies with white chocolate swirls like square universes, blondies, rugelach, out-of-season hamantaschen (strawberry, prune, and poppy seed), and “salads”—Jews apply the word salad to anything that can’t be held in one’s hand: cucumber salad, whitefish and tuna and baked salmon salad, lentil salad, pasta salad, quinoa salad. And there was purple soda, and black coffee, and Diet Coke, and black tea, and enough seltzer to float an aircraft carrier, and Kedem grape juice—a liquid more Jewish than Jewish blood. And there were pickles, a few kinds. Capers don’t belong in any food, but the capers that every spoon had tried to avoid had found their way into foods in which they really didn’t belong, like someone’s half-empty half-decaf. And at the center of the table, impossibly dense kugels bent light and time around them. It was too much food by a factor of ten. But it had to be.

This is how it should have been that first night down on the sand," he whispered. "This is our beginning Ivy. I want to make it official. I want there to be no doubt, 'cause I'm gonna do stupid shit all the time." I giggled, and his white teeth flashed. "I'm gonna leave the toilet seat up. I'm gonna be overprotective, probably bossy, and my temper is always gonna run hot." "I don't care," I told him, sliding my hands up to rest on his chest. "Tell me you'll be my girl, and I swear I'll love you with everything I got." "I'm always gonna be stubborn. I'm not gonna take your shit. My makeup will be all over the bathroom, and I still don't have a major. Oh, and I want to keep Prada. You have to like her, too." "I already told Rim to get your adoption paperwork ready for that rat." Then in lower tones, he said, "She's grown on me." I smiled. He totally loved Prada. "So what's my answer?" He tightened his arms around my waist. I pretended to think it over. A girl should never sound too eager-even if she was practically peeing herself with glee. "Blondie," Braeden growled. "I'm already yours, B. I have been for a long time.

But Chloe is practically tipping over like a teapot with excitement. “I heard the valedictorian last year snapped over a grilled cheese recipe and started working at a deli—” Teddy waves his hand at Chloe. “She’s fine. She’s at Columbia. But she makes a mean blondie, if you’re into desserts.

My love, why did you leave me on Lexington Avenue in the Ford that had no brakes? It stalled in the traffic and broke down outside her window. She was writing a letter: I love you very much: Careful Now in capitals. That was a different letter. Yes, but I get confused. One day she saw a golden oriel in the orchard. One day she said, Then have your orgy with Blondie, work out your passion on her. I see it all, the poop of burnished gold. If I got angry and made a scene? But No. No. No, I believe you, of course, I believe you for didn't you say I was the one? Yes, you said, Take care of this girl for she is what makes my blood circulate and all the stars revolve and the seasons return. This was my dream, and why I had circles under my eyes this morning at breakfast. Everyone noticed it, and I think one of them sniggered. You don't take much interest in politics, do you? You never read the newspapers? I drank my coffee, but I had a slight feeling of nausea. It's to be expected, I don't mind it at all, it's nothing. My love, are you feeling better? He can't talk, he can only mutter. O my dear, O my dear, drink a little milk, lie down and rest a little. I will comfort you. I can carry love like Saint Christopher. It is heavy, but I can carry it. It's the stones of suspicion I stumble on. Did I say suspicion? No. No. No. It's nothing. I love you. A slight feeling of nausea, that's all. After a while I got out into the open air, and his face was the moon hanging in the snowy branches.

Die young, stay pretty. Blondie, right? We think of it as a modern phenomenon, the whole youth thing, but really, consider all those great portraits, some of them centuries old. Those goddesses of Botticelli and Rubens, Goya's Maja, Madame X. Consider Manet's Olympia, which shocked at the time, he having painted his mistress with the same voluptuous adulation generally reserved for the aristocratic good girls who posed for depictions of goddesses. Hardly anyone knows anymore, and no one cares, that Olympia was Manet's whore; although there's every reason to imagine that, in life, she was foolish and vulgar and not entirely hygienic (Paris in the 1860s being what it was). She's immortal now, she's a great historic beauty, having been scrubbed clean by the attention of a great artist. And okay, we can't help but notice that Manet did not choose to paint her twenty years later, when time had started doing its work. The world has always worshipped nascence. Goddamn the world.

Just my fingers, Blondie. I gotta get in here. Figure if it’s just my fingers, it’ll be okay. I think I can get in deeper than with my tongue this way.” “Love your tongue.” Zev chuckled. “Yeah, I know. I think the people in the rooms next to ours know too.” Jonah laughed, enjoying the fact that they could talk and tease while they loved on each other.

Our relationship is inevitable. The sooner you realize and accept it, the better.

Detta är en sann historia - men ändå inte helt sanningsenlig. I verkligheten var allt mycket värre...

la gente aplaudía cuando ponían una canción. Y aplaudían de nuevo cuando se daban cuenta de que después venía otra que les gustaba. Pensé ay, no estoy tan sola.

In the great snowfall before the bomb" In the great snowfall before the bomb colored yule tree lights windows, the only glow for contemplation along this road I worked the print shop right down among em the folk from whom all poetry flows and dreadfully much else. I was Blondie I carried my bundles of hog feeder price lists down by Larry the Lug, I'd never get anywhere because I'd never had suction, pull, you know, favor, drag, well-oiled protection. I heard their rehashed radio barbs— more barbarous among hirelings as higher-ups grow more corrupt. But what vitality! The women hold jobs— clean house, cook, raise children, bowl and go to church. What would they say if they knew I sit for two months on six lines of poetry?

Pleasure's real or is it fantasy? Reel to reel is living rarity, people stop and stare at me We just walk on by, we just keep on dreaming Dreaming, dreaming is free Dreaming, dreaming is free

If the early English and LA punk bands shared a common sound, the New York bands just shared the same clubs. As such, while the English scene never became known as the '100 Club' sound, CBGBs was the solitary common component in the New York bands' development, transcended once they had outgrown the need to play the club. Even their supposed musical heritage was not exactly common -- the Ramones preferring the Dolls/Stooges to Television's Velvets/Coltrane to Blondie's Stones/Brit-Rock. Though the scene had been built up as a single movement, when commercial implications began to sink in, the differences that separated the bands became far more important than the similarities which had previously bound them together. In the two years following the summer 1975 festival, CBGBs had become something of an ideological battleground, if not between the bands then between their critical proponents. The divisions between a dozen bands, all playing the same club, all suffering the same hardships, all sharing the same love of certain central bands in the history of rock & roll, should not have been that great. But the small scene very quickly partitioned into art-rockers and exponents of a pure let's-rock aesthetic.

She had made a cheddar-and-parsley roulade. Lina had made a lentil goulash, plus almond-and-white-chocolate blondies. Emmeline had made two different types of risotto. Erin had made lamb-and-asparagus mini pies and a strawberry-and-spinach salad. Renni had made bread-and-butter pudding using chocolate croissants. Andrea had made a hearty beef goulash plus zucchini with feta and mint. Sash had made a giant pumpkin cheesecake. The kitchen was a kaleidoscope of smells.

The thought of kissing Fitz in front of Keefe was more than just awkward. It felt… wrong, somehow. “I am staying out of it,” Ro insisted. “It’s not like I’m dragging them to separate corners—though we all know I could. I just figured I should make sure that our sweet, innocent little Blondie noticed that her teal-eyed wonder boy left out that crucial detail, since I know it’s kinda hard to think when a cute boy is leaning in with his eyes all heavy-lidded and his lips all puckery. And I thought she might want a little further clarification before she got lost in all the ‘YIPPEE! HE’S KISSING ME’—but what do I know?” Fitz’s glare could’ve withered forests. “And I thought the fact that I was about to kiss her made it pretty clear how I feel.” “Does it, though?” Ro asked, tapping her chin with a painted claw. “I mean, I guess it could. Or it could mean you’re in the mood for some lip-on-lip action—and hey, no one’s judging you. Smooching rocks!

The Man With the Child in His Eyes’ – Kate Bush ‘Go Your Own Way’ – Fleetwood Mac ‘Sex and Drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll’ – Ian Dury ‘David Watts’ – The Jam ‘Until the Night’ – Billy Joel ‘Rikki, Don’t Lose That Number’ – Steely Dan ‘Watching the Detectives’ – Elvis Costello ‘(I Am Always Touched by Your) Presence, Dear’ – Blondie ‘I Will Survive’ – Gloria Gaynor ‘Goodbye Girl’ – Squeeze ‘Make Me Smile (Come up and See Me)’ – Steve Harley ‘Girls Talk’ – Dave Edmunds ‘I Fought the Law’ – The Clash ‘Life in a Day’ – Simple Minds

Blondie into a highly recognizable rock band? Does a photograph steal your soul? Were the aboriginal people right? Are photographs part of some mystical image bank, a type of visual Akashic record? A source of forensic evidence to examine the hidden, darker secrets of our souls, perhaps? Now, I can tell you that I’ve had my picture taken thousands of times. That’s a lot of theft and a lot of forensics. Sometimes I read things into those pictures that no one else seems to see. Just a tiny glimpse of my soul maybe, a passing reflection on a piece of glass . . . If you were me, by now you might be wondering if you had any soul left at all. Well, I had one of those Kirlian photographs taken once at a new age fair—and there supposedly was my soul, my aura, staring back at me. Yes, maybe there is still some of my soul to go around.

Her disillusionment with the business had intensified as the need to simplify her stories increased. Her original treatments for Blondie of the Follies and The Prizefighter and the Lady had much more complexity and many more characters than ever made it to the screen, and adapting The Good Earth had served as a nagging reminder of the inherent restraints of film. Frances found herself inspired by memories of Jack London, sitting on the veranda with her father as they extolled the virtues of drinking their liquor “neat,” and remembered his telling her that he went traveling to experience adventure, but “then come back to an unrelated environment and write. I seek one of nature’s hideouts, like this isolated Valley, then I see more clearly the scenes that are the most vivid in my memory.” So she arrived in Napa with the idea of writing the novel she started in her hospital bed with the backdrop of “the chaos, confusion, excitement and daily tidal changes” of the studios, but as she sat on the veranda at Aetna Springs, she knew she was still too close to her mixed feelings about the film business.48 As she walked the trails and passed the schoolhouse that had served the community for sixty years, she talked to the people who had lived there in seclusion for several generations and found their stories “similar to case histories recorded by Freud or Jung.” She concentrated on the women she saw carrying the burden in this community and all others and gave them a depth of emotion and detail. Her series of short stories was published under the title Valley People and critics praised it as a “heartbreak book” that would “never do for screen material.” It won the public plaudits of Dorothy Parker, Rupert Hughes, Joseph Hergesheimer, and other popular writers and Frances proudly viewed Valley People as “an honest book with no punches pulled” and “a tribute to my suffering sex.

My 1979 Top 40 In no particular order, this is the forty-track rotation I listened to when I was researching, prepping and writing 1979. They were all released in the late 1970s, though not all in 1979 itself. But then, like Allie, we all listen to tunes from our past . . . I hope it gets you in the mood for reading! ‘Picture This’ – Blondie ‘Lovely Day’ – Bill Withers ‘Automatic Lover’ – Dee D. Jackson ‘Brass in Pocket’ – The Pretenders ‘It’s a Heartache’ – Bonnie Tyler ‘Wild West Hero’ – Electric Light Orchestra ‘Because the Night’ – Patti Smith ‘Into the Valley’ – The Skids ‘YMCA’ – Village People ‘Like Clockwork’ – Boomtown Rats ‘Stayin’ Alive’ – Bee Gees ‘Uptown Top Ranking’ – Althea & Donna ‘No More Heroes’ – The Stranglers ‘Take a Chance on Me’ – Abba ‘Werewolves of London’ – Warren Zevon ‘Psycho Killer’ – Talking Heads ‘Kiss You All Over’ – Exile ‘Top of the Pops’ – Rezillos ‘Heroes’ – David Bowie ‘Don’t Hang Up’ – 10cc ‘English Civil War’ – The Clash ‘2-4-6-8-Motorway’ – Tom Robinson Band ‘Rebel Rebel’ – David Bowie ‘Glad to be Gay’ – Tom Robinson Band

Pie?" I narrowed my eyes at her, and then down at the container in her hands, where there were chocolate hand pies lined up in neat rows. The So Sorry Blondies were all gone by then, devoured between me and Paul and the rest of the dive team, and the memory of their deliciousness was too fresh for me to resist another Pepper Evans creation. I took one of the mini pies with a wary hand, just as she pulled out her phone, tapped it a few times, and smirked. I stopped chewing. "Did you just tweet?" I asked, my mouth full of chocolate. Pepper swept her bangs back with her fingers, and this time the gesture was calculated and breezy. "Did I?" I scowled into my phone screen, lowering it under my desk so Mrs. Fairchild wouldn't see. This one was just a GIF of Regina George from Mean Girls--- "Why are you so obsessed with me?" "At least your pie is better than your tweets," I mumbled. But the smirk on Pepper's face only deepened. "Those are from the Big League Burger bargain menu, by the way." My mouth dropped open. Pepper turned her eyes back to her textbook, burying her smirk in it. "Enjoy.

The grown-ups stand around watching. Grown-ups know what to do. The grown-ups stand around watching. Is that Simon lying on the pavement? He has got blondie hair like Simon’s. The grown-ups stand around watching. A boy has been run over, another kid says. Is that Simon lying on the pavement? He was walking in front of me. The grown-ups stand around watching. Mrs Bailey puts a blanket over him – but I can still see his blondie hair. She looks at me but before she can turn quickly to the other grown-ups, I can see she’s scared. ‘Send Mark away.’ What have I done wrong? The grown-ups know what to do. They send me away. I run ahead alone. Trying to find Simon. I might not recognise him. Pulling kids by their shoulders – no that’s not him. I speed up when I hear the ambulance siren. ‘Simon’s been run over,’ Pete Williams said. I run away, trying hard not to believe him. How can Pete Williams tell who is lying there, anyhow I saw him looking for his brother too. Surely I would have recognised my own brother. My teacher says, ‘Simon will be in his classroom’. But he isn’t, so she smiles and cuddles me, warm and soft. ‘It’s alright, Mark, they call ambulances for sprained ankles these days.’ When he came into the classroom everyone stopped and looked. He didn’t have to tell me. I said ‘Simon’s dead,’ and he nodded, unable to speak. Mark Purvis

Lloyd moved to the blackboard and wrote ‘Maneater, Hall and Oates’ at the bottom of a long list of songs and artists. The blackboard in the kitchen had once been installed as a way of communication for the house. It had turned into a list of Songs That You Would Never See In The Same Light Again. This was basically a list of songs that our serial killing landlord had blared at one time or another at top volume to cover the sound of his heavy electric power tools. It was a litany of 70’s and 80’s music. Blondie, Heart of Glass was on the list. So was Duran Duran’s ‘Hungry like the Wolf’. Sam had jokingly given him an Einstürzende Neubauten CD on the premise that his tools would blend right in to the music, and he’d returned it the next day, saying it was too suspicious-sounding and made him very nervous for some reason. The next weekend, we had gone right back to the 80’s with the Missing Persons and Dead or Alive. I tried not to think about why he was playing the music, but it was a little hard not to think about. The strange thumps sometimes suggested that he’d gotten a live one downstairs and was merrily bashing in their skull in the name of his psoriasis to the tune of ‘It’s My Life’ by Talk Talk. Other times I listened in horror as my favorite Thomas Dolby songs were accompanied by an annoying high-pitched buzzsaw whine that altered as if it had entered some sort of solid tissue. He never borrowed music from us again – he claimed our music was too disturbing and dark, and shunned our offerings of Ministry and Nine Inch Nails in favor of some­thing nice and happy by Abba. You’ve never had a restless night from imagining someone deboning a human body while blaring ‘Waterloo’ or ‘Fernando’. It’s not fun.

My interest in comics was scribbled over with a revived, energized passion for clothes, records, and music. I'd wandered in late to the punk party in 1978, when it was already over and the Sex Pistols were history. I'd kept my distance during the first flush of the new paradigm, when the walls of the sixth-form common room shed their suburban-surreal Roger Dean Yes album covers and grew a fresh new skin of Sex Pistols pictures, Blondie pinups, Buzzcocks collages, Clash radical chic. As a committed outsider, I refused to jump on the bandwagon of this new musical fad, which I'd written off as some kind of Nazi thing after seeing a photograph of Sid Vicious sporting a swastika armband. I hated the boys who'd cut their long hair and binned their crappy prog albums in an attempt to join in. I hated pretty much everybody without discrimination, in one way or another, and punk rockers were just something else to add to the shit list. But as we all know, it's zealots who make the best converts. One Thursday night, I was sprawled on the settee with Top of the Pops on the telly when Poly Styrene and her band X-Ray Spex turned up to play their latest single: an exhilarating sherbet storm of raw punk psychedelia entitled "The Day the World Turned Day-Glo" By the time the last incandescent chorus played out, I was a punk. I had always been a punk. I would always be a punk. Punk brought it all together in one place for me: Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels were punk. Peter Barnes's The Ruling Class, Dennis Potter, and The Prisoner were punk too. A Clockwork Orange was punk. Lindsay Anderson's If ... was punk. Monty Python was punk. Photographer Bob Carlos Clarke's fetish girls were punk. Comics were punk. Even Richmal Crompton's William books were punk. In fact, as it turned out, pretty much everything I liked was punk. The world started to make sense for the first time since Mosspark Primary. New and glorious constellations aligned in my inner firmament. I felt born again. The do-your-own-thing ethos had returned with a spit and a sneer in all those amateurish records I bought and treasured-even though I had no record player. Singles by bands who could often barely play or sing but still wrote beautiful, furious songs and poured all their young hearts, experiences, and inspirations onto records they paid for with their dole money. If these glorious fuckups could do it, so could a fuckup like me. When Jilted John, the alter ego of actor and comedian Graham Fellows, made an appearance on Top of the Pops singing about bus stops, failed romance, and sexual identity crisis, I was enthralled by his shameless amateurism, his reduction of pop music's great themes to playground name calling, his deconstruction of the macho rock voice into the effeminate whimper of a softie from Sheffield. This music reflected my experience of teenage life as a series of brutal setbacks and disappointments that could in the end be redeemed into art and music with humor, intelligence, and a modicum of talent. This, for me, was the real punk, the genuine anticool, and I felt empowered. The losers, the rejected, and the formerly voiceless were being offered an opportunity to show what they could do to enliven a stagnant culture. History was on our side, and I had nothing to lose. I was eighteen and still hadn't kissed a girl, but perhaps I had potential. I knew I had a lot to say, and punk threw me the lifeline of a creed and a vocabulary-a soundtrack to my mission as a comic artist, a rough validation. Ugly kids, shy kids, weird kids: It was okay to be different. In fact, it was mandatory.

You and your stupid spotted dick can just go to hell.” He froze. “My spotted...what? Shit.” He glanced wildly around the room before hissing, “I’m going to kill her.” When his face drained of color, I frowned. “Huh?” He didn’t even hear my question as he ranted on to himself. “I cannot believe Blondie told you about that.” His gaze seared into mine, suddenly intense and desperate. “And it’s not spotted like there’s a bunch of dots. It’s one fucking birthmark. That’s it.

i was losing my mind.

You could not have known he was going to leave Spicy Brunette at the altar for Cute Blondie unless you'd seen this before. I think I've been played," Benny huffs as he finishes off the last fry. "Think about what you're saying, Ben Kenobi. Spicy versus cute. We're never supposed to like the spicy woman in movies, not for the romantic hero to end up with. He's supposed to go with the aw-shucks, girl-next-door type who was right in front of his face all along. Spicy gal never had a chance, bless her heart." He scrunches his nose, mulling this over. "Then I have a dilemma, see," he says, and his feigned thoughtfulness makes me smirk. "Oh, do you?" "Yeah, because what if I'm into this girl who's cute but also spicy? Is she too good to be true? Can I really have one or the other?

Si Paulina Rubio se llamara Pauline Blondie, ese güevón diría que la tipa es de pinga.

Mom," Blondie tells me, "cupcakes are cake wrapped in love." I smile and agree with her. Yes, love, they most certainly are. ~ Violet Lapp and Blondie from "The Circle.

she could sell in the café provisions she baked in her own time with a shelf life longer than pastries. When she thought of it there had been a rush of certainty she could do it, and a prickling of pride in having conceived a way to make money on her own. It would double at least what she was making now. Without Nicholas it might never had occurred to her. The other day he had stuck a label, which he had found in the junk drawer, on a plastic-wrapped loaf of banana bread. He wrote on the label with a marker, "From the Summer Kitchen Bakery." She had found the gesture adorable at the time and hugged him, but something about it had evidently started percolating in the recesses of her mind, and now she was lapping at the brew like someone tasting it for the first time and wondering how she had never before tasted such ambition. She was thinking of cellophane-packaged chocolate brownies and caramel blondies and orange-and-almond biscotti and pear and oat slices and butter shortbread and Belgian chocolate truffles, marmalades, chutney, relishes, and jellies beautified in jars with black-and-white gingham hats and black-and-white ribbon tied above skirted brims. She could even sell a muesli mix she had developed, full of organic cranberries and nuts and the zest of unwaxed lemons. And she wouldn't change Nicholas's label at all. A child's handwriting impressed that the goods were homemade. She would have his design printed professionally, in black and white, too, old world, like the summer kitchen itself.

Mom," Blondie says, "cupcakes are really just little cakes wrapped in love." Yes, my love, they are!

If I couldn't escape the guilt, there was nothing left to do but lean into it. And leaning into it is what led me to grabbing the forty dollars my mom leaves out in the front to order food if I ever need it, schlepping miserably down to the bodega, and collecting everything I needed to make Paige's infamous So Sorry Blondies from the summer before she left for college. I pull them out of the oven now, the smell wafting through the kitchen---the brown sugar and butter and toffee against the richness of the dark chocolate chips and toffee against the pockets of dark chocolate caramel sauce. A little bitter and a little sweet.

Um… you want to hack into the registry again?” Dex tried. Ro snorted. “Wow, you guys are super bad at this. How about I save us all some time and speak for my boy? Okay, so Councillor Sparkle-Eyebrows—” “Who?” Dex interrupted. Ro shrugged. “No idea. Can’t remember his name. You guys have way too many leaders to keep them all straight. All I know is the dude had these huge hairy things above his eyes and a jewel from his crown rested right between them, so I’m calling him Councillor Sparkle-Eyebrows. Anyway, he said my boy’s new elf-y ability is linked to the tone of his voice, and he seemed pretty sure about it. So, assuming he’s right, we need you to use your techy skills to build a gadget that’ll give Hunkyhair better control over that, kinda like you did for Blondie to help with her power-boost-touch thing. And personally, I vote for something that makes his voice extra high-pitched and squeaky—although it could also be fun to make him sound super creepy. Ooo, is there a way to have it switch back and forth?” She smirked at Keefe, daring him to contradict her. But he honestly wouldn’t care if Dex made him sound like a screeching siren, if it made talking safe again. “Welllll,” Dex said, dragging out the word. “I bet I can figure out how to make something like that. But… would it really help? There’s a difference between voice and tone, you know?

I tap the link, and it opens up a bright, cheery, robin's-egg blue web page. P&P Bake, it's called. It's clearly one of those WordPress blogs converted into a website, but that doesn't make it any less captivating--- the pictures on the posts are so vivid, I can practically taste them through the screen. I scroll down, glancing at the dessert names, lingering on the pictures. The most recent is Tailgate Trash Twinkies, which are apparently a homemade cake roll infused with PBR; I scroll down and see A-Plus Angel Cake, and Butter Luck Next Time Butter Cookies, and then--- And then, on Halloween, there's an entry for Monster Cake. My breath stops before it can leave my chest, my entire body stiffening on the couch like a corpse. There's no mistaking it. I may have a bad habit of eating Pepper's baked goods so fast, it threatens the time-space continuum, but the bright colors and gooey mess of that cake are so distinct in my mind and in my taste buds, I could see it in another life and immediately identify it. Yet my brain still refuses to process it, and I'm still scrolling as if I'll blink and it will disappear, a vivid, sleep-deprived teenage hallucination. But the further I scroll the worse it gets. The So Sorry Blondies. The Pop Quiz Cake Pops she and Pooja were eating the other day. A few things I've never heard of before, with irreverent, silly names, some of which must be Paige's, but others that are so distinctly Pepper it stings to read.

We spend the rest of the night baking, using the ingredients I have left over to make another batch of So Sorry Blondies--- this one modified with extra peanut butter, Paige's favorite. We turn on an old Taylor Swift album and eat the dough raw and catch up on each other's lives. We talk about how she and my dad came up with Big League Burger in the first place, and weird dessert hybrids we want to try in the city, and fall asleep watching Waitress with fingers still sticky from chocolate and toffee.

But Ky understood. She hated how well she now understood. After all, hadn’t she kept every hurt she’d ever experienced from her own parents? Hadn’t she hidden the bullying, the name-calling, the cruel acts of strangers, the times she’d been told to go back to where she came from, the ching-chongs, the pulled-back eyelids, the blondies with the Cabbage Patch Kids, the way she was forced to play the monster, the way she was asked why she couldn’t just take a joke, the times she was told that Asian women were ugly, kinky, docile, crazy, nerdy, unworthy, the way she was dismissed by men, the way she was dismissed by white men, their comments about what Asian women were and weren’t, what Asian women could or couldn’t be, the way she smiled with her tongue pressed against her teeth even as an ache beat in tandem with her heart—hadn’t she hidden all of that? And hadn’t she lived her own ambitious, exciting, anxious, uncompromising life while knowing that she could never, ever, ever, ever tell her parents about what she had been through? Because knowing would break their hearts. Because she had to help them believe that their sacrifices had paid off. Because she had to help them believe that moving to a country where they didn’t speak the language and weren’t seen as individuals had been worth it. Because she had to convince them that they’d done right by their children, that no one had failed, that no one had been let down, that they were one of the lucky ones who’d followed the path and found success. It made perfect sense. You lied to protect. You lied because of love.

It’s just a nickname—his last name is Kishimoto. He gets mad when we chop it in half. Gets sensitive about it.” “Well why do you chop it in half?” He snorts. “Because it’s hard as hell to pronounce.” “How is that an excuse?” He frowns. “What?” “You got mad that I called you Blondie and not Winston. Why doesn’t he have the right to be mad that you’re calling him Moto instead of Kenji?” He mumbles something that sounds like, “It’s not the same thing.” I slide down a little. Rest my head on the pillow. “Don’t be a hypocrite.

I had my baby shower at the Garage when I was pregnant with Paulo. Debbie Harry of Blondie and Andy Warhol threw it for me. That’s showing you normal. (Paulo and Keith Haring would also become very close; to Paulo, he was Uncle Keith. They would draw together, like it was the most fun you could have in the world.)

Hey, Blondie---can't you read a clock? Or are the numbers too complicated for your pretty little head?" "I'd ask you to teach me, but my guess is you'd be too busy scratching your balls.

Ella: Hey there, Blondie. Hanna: Hey hey. Kady: You call me Pinky, you start a blood feud.

away. “We both know he hasn’t got the skills to make a wand, never mind the funds.” Wands were ridiculously expensive, the small pointy wood able to concentrate a spell a lot easier for the caster, resulting in fewer accidents. “He even told everyone how he is going to be given a special recognition for it from the Magicka!” Rose continued with a snort. “Yeah, maybe recognition for the worst witch in town. He has one of the worst track records in Paladin history.” “Yeah, you’re right.” Alice said, not quite believing it herself. “Come on blondie.” Rose put her arm around her again. “Let’s get you to your meeting. Don’t want you to piss off Grayson any more than he already is.” “I’m sure I can manage it.” Adjusting her neatly pressed collar, Alice stared at the clock on her grey cubicle wall, it was one of those Chinese novelty cats that every minute or so looked in the other direction. The realisation that something could go very wrong in the meeting was dawning on her. Not once in the last five years working under Dread had she been called into an official disciplinary meeting. Yes, she had had more than one warning over the years, but nothing as official as an actual meeting. The cat’s eyes moved to the left, its tail swinging beneath it. Swatting the blue ball floating lazily around her head she continued to stare at the cat, the eyes swapping to the right once more. Stupid bloody thing. She swatted at the blue flame again,

A girl a few feet away suddenly gasped, jumping up and down. “Ohmagod it’s Caleb Altair.” I glanced over my shoulder in the direction she was pointing, pulling away from my friends. Caleb headed a line of Juniors as he strode down the corridor like he owned every ounce of oxygen in it. His friends pointed us out and my gut tightened as his stony gaze slid over us. His fan club were eyeing him hopefully and I knew in the depths of my heart he wasn’t going to pass us by without comment. He slowed his pace, breathing in deeply. “Do you smell that guys?” He sniffed the air and my scowl grew. “Smells like a bunch of Orderless Fae pretending they deserve a place in our prestigious Academy.” “Is it raining assholes today?” Tory commented, turning away from him and for a moment it almost looked like he was going to crack a smile. “I have an Order,” Sofia muttered under her breath but Caleb’s Vampire hearing didn’t let her get away with it. “I wouldn’t go around reminding people of that, blondie. Being a Pegasus is worse than not having an Order.” His friend fist bumped him, nodding his agreement as he laughed. He was a tall guy with red hair and cold eyes. “Yeah I dunno how there are so many of them on campus,” the redhead jibed. “Only a freak would want to screw a horse.” Caleb chuckled at that, nodding firmly. “I think I’d rather give up my claim first.” His shitbag friends laughed their heads off as Caleb swept off down the hall to a stream of excited hoots. “God he’s awful,” I growled. “Ignore him Sofia.” “If I ever bump into him as a Pegasus, I’ll introduce him to my left hoof,” Sofia hissed and I raised my brows at the fire in her eyes. “I would so love to see that,” Tory laughed, then lowered her voice as she looked to me. “I wonder if we can use his Pegasus hate against him?” “Yeah, you should spread a rumour that he likes Pegasus ass,” Sofia whispered, a manic gleam in her eyes. I kinda liked this crazy side to her and couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled from my throat. Diego stared at her in shock, then nodded keenly. “That would be fantastico, Sofia. I doubt anyone would believe us freaks though.” He winked at her and she blushed at his insinuation. (Darcy)

Listen, Blondie, tell this bitch face that you don't get an exception unless you're exceptionnal, and I'm exceptional as hell.

Clearly being sent from her bedroom with a throbbing hard-on hadn’t deterred him from pursuing their deal. Unless it was a trap. She side-eyed him, looking for signs he was about to yell ‘gotcha, Blondie! I hate Margaret Atwood, show me where you piss from!’

Or so help me blondie, I’m going to do such dirty bad things to you, you won’t be able to walk for a week.

In this bed, you are going to take as fucking long as you want or need until you come so hard your legs shake and you’ve creamed all over my dick. Got it blondie?

Wait, so you shift into a bear and your name is Ted. . . ” Oh fuck. “Blondie, no,” I caution her. It’s a trigger of mine. Not many things can send me over the edge—other than singing telegrams—but she’s about to step onto a landmine. “A bear, named Ted,

You mean a lot to me, Foster. More than you’ll ever know.’ ” Sophie lunged for the paper. “Nope! No destroying the evidence—and don’t even think about telling me you don’t know what he meant by that, Blondie! Your cheeks are way too red!” Sophie tugged her hair forward. She’d been so thrown by the rest of Keefe’s message that she’d forgotten that part was in there—and her brain honestly had no idea what to do with it. It almost felt like Keefe was trying to tell her… But he couldn’t mean that. …Could he? “Whoa.

Hi, The.” Blondie One reached out and squeezed his hand.

On the one hand, Beltane was a fertility ritual, but the condoms on the potluck table seemed a strange acceptance of that.

You need to make yourself valuable to the coven.

I just I wish my mother wasn’t so manipulative, you know?

Bert, you’re a jackhammer,” Mayor Greenhill said. “Besides, the whole coven knows your job. So, the killer will to work to keep their secrets from you.

Was the arguing was normal for them or was he acting like this because of her?

The eerie effect of darting in and out made it seem them look like more canines than Lovernisca’s magic touched.

Sophia needed to get him to hand over the gun and tie him up before the fox ordered the animals to attack. at being attacked. Then again, maybe the animals wouldn’t risk their lives for the spirit fox and the strange witch.

Felix worked for him when before he became an insurance adjuster.

it sounded like it had everything too do with

A deal? As if making a kid with someone she had just met was not an issue? As if Sophia were a baby factory waiting to be farmed out?

You have to realize we started the council in because of the curse on your family.

Makayla back away, bumping the sliding glass door.

Sophia and Alexis needed remove the strands of the curse from Makayla and contain the dark magic so it couldn’t harm anyone.