Brian Irons Quotes

I know this because the worst has happened. The thing I can’t live with… has happened. And for all our back and forth— and all the things we’ve said and done to each other… there’s one thing that I’ll never be able to tell anyone now… The one thing! The one thing I should have told you. But now I can’t… It wasn't worth it.

Alright so Evil Conevil, yeah. They're always asking him about that time he messed up. And the strangest question I've ever heard them ask is 'So evil what were you thinking right before you hit the ground?' how much stupider can you get? 'well, Bob. I was thinking, Hey! Did I leave the iron on? and when my lag broke in half, Hey! I should get a puppy! No! What do you think I was thinking? I was thinking AAAAAAAAA!!!!! AAAAAA!!!! AAAAAA!!!

Luke Cage: "It's my house! I paid for it with my own money!" Iron Fist: "My money." Luke Cage: "His money, but it's still my house!

The lions of hard rock, guys like Robert Plant, Roger Daltrey, Brian Johnson, Rob Halford, these monsters feel completely timeless, iconic, eternal. They simply shall not, will not, do not die. It's almost impossible to imagine a musical world without Robert Plant. No metal fan of any stripe can imagine a day when, say, Iron Maiden shuts it all down because Bruce Dickinson turned 85 and suddenly can't remember the lyrics to "Hallowed Be Thy Name." Metal revels in the raw energy and unchecked phantasmagorical ridiculousness of youth. It is all fire and testosterone and rebellious fantasy. It doesn't go well with reality. So it is for hard rock and a guy like Dio, an elfin titan with an undying love for lasers and sorcery, dragons and kings. The man wrote some terribly corny metal songs, but he sang every one with a ferocity and love and total honesty. He also wrote some of the finest hard rock melodies of all time, sang them with a precision and love unmatched by any hard rock singer since. It's a rare thing to give metal some heartfelt props. It is time. Raise your devil horns and salute.

It is important to distinguish between reductionism as a philosophical posi- tion (or world-view) and as a methodology. Reductionism in the former sense is now regarded as the antithesis of religious belief, so it is rather ironic that it owes its origins to the mechanical philosophy of René Descartes, who was a devout Catholic.

Good heavens,’ cried Mr White. ‘To fire great iron balls at people you have never even spoken to – barbarity is come again.

Life, perhaps less a document than an impression, conveyed through partial glances, stream-of-consciousness juxtapositions, unpredictable rhythms, a collage of sound, a conscientious diarist, a career of blackmail and scandal culminated in murder, a blind man with a will of iron and a nervous system of gossamer.

Skyscrapers tower above me, lifeless, iron giants stretching for the sky, reaching toward something more. And I’m reaching, too.

So after some instruction, Joseph put on the apron and started carefully polishing the clean dishes even though it made no sense to him. Over the course of the day, he learned how to wash the floors and clean the windows and empty out the iron stove. Soon the kitchen smelled of lemons and spices, fresh bread and soap. There was a short break for lunch before resuming work. The light shifted during the afternoon and cascaded through the clean windows, burnishing the room with gold. Joseph was so focused on the work, on the patters of the silverware and the curve of the handles on the ancient pitchers and measuring cups, that he forgot for a little while about his parents, and St. Anthony's, and the fire, and losing Blink. He felt a kind of pride in being allowed to touch all the delicate glassware, plates, and bowls, and he hadn't broken a single thing.

Jack was led out of the dark room into the strong light, and as they guided him up the steps he could see nothing for the glare. 'Your head here sir, if you please,' said the sheriff's man in a low, nervous, conciliating voice, 'and your hands just here.'    The man was slowly fumbling with the bolt, hinge and staple, and as Jack stood there with his hands in the lower half-rounds, his sight cleared: he saw that the broad street was filled with silent, attentive men, some in long togs, some in shore-going rig, some in plain frocks, but all perfectly recognizable as seamen. And officers, by the dozen, by the score: midshipmen and officers. Babbington was there, immediately in front of the pillory, facing him with his hat off, and Pullings, Stephen of course, Mowett, Dundas . . . He nodded to them, with almost no change in his iron expression, and his eye moved on: Parker, Rowan, Williamson, Hervey . . . and men from long, long ago, men he could scarcely name, lieutenants and commanders putting their promotion at risk, midshipmen and master's mates their commissions, warrant-officers their advancement.    'The head a trifle forward, if you please, sir,' murmured the sheriff's man, and the upper half of the wooden frame came down, imprisoning his defenceless face. He heard the click of the bolt and then in the dead silence a strong voice cry 'Off hats'. With one movement hundreds of broad-brimmed tarpaulin-covered hats flew off and the cheering began, the fierce full-throated cheering he had so often heard in battle.

My father used to say that there's no such thing as "heroes" or "villains," that they only exist in storybooks. Which is ironic, since pretty much all of his beliefs came from what he read in works of fiction. . . . "If I worried how every evil son of a bitch out there would respond to what I typed, I'd never touch a keyboard again." "All the more reason I'm going to stick to writing novels." "Why, because you think made-up stories have never resulted in actual casualties? Putting new ideas into another person's head is an aggressive act, and aggressive acts have consequences. Face it, you can be a writer or a pacifist, but you can't be both.

There is a difference in the lone, who are free to walk as fast and far as they like, and the lonely, who cannot free themselves from what holds them, nor advance to what they seek.

I mean, look at us; we’re no deities, but still. A professional thief and a gold-rank adventurer? The most exciting person I knew at iron-rank was a guy named Brian who could conjure a huge metal duck.

A faint pink tinged Laura’s cheeks. “I have an idea, yes. But I don’t have all the details ironed out.” “Bull, Laura.” I said it with a great deal of love in my voice. “You know as soon as Brian gets home, that engagement’s going to be official, and then you’re going to be the best damned Marine wife around. I know you have it worked out to do graphic art online from wherever he’s stationed. So don’t tell me you don’t have a plan.

Well, as for slavery…it is true that I should not like to be one myself, yet Nelson was in favour of it and he said that the country’s shipping would be ruined if the trade were put down. Perhaps it comes more natural if you are black…but come, I remember how you tore that unfortunate scrub Bosville to pieces years ago in Barbados for saying that the slaves liked it – that it was in their masters’ interest to treat them kindly – that doing away with slavery would be shutting the gates of mercy on the negroes. Hey, hey! The strongest language I have ever heard you use. I wonder he did not ask for satisfaction.’ ‘I think I feel more strongly about slavery than anything else, even that vile Buonaparte who is in any case one aspect of it…Bosville…the sanctimonious hypocrite…the silly blackguard with his “gates of mercy”, his soul to the Devil – a mercy that includes chains and whips and branding with a hot iron. Satisfaction. I should have given it him with the utmost good-will: two ounces of lead or a span of sharp steel; though common ratsbane would have been more appropriate.’ ‘Why, Stephen, you are in quite a passion.’ ‘So I am. It is a retrospective passion, sure, but I feel it still. Thinking of that ill-looking flabby ornamented conceited self-complacent ignorant shallow mean-spirited cowardly young shite with absolute power over fifteen hundred blacks makes me fairly tremble even now – it moves me to grossness. I should have kicked him if ladies had not been present.

I became expert at making myself invisible. I could linger two hours over a coffee, four over a meal, and hardly be noticed by the waitress. Though the janitors in Commons rousted me every night at closing time, I doubt they ever realized they spoke to the same boy twice. Sunday afternoons, my cloak of invisibility around my shoulders, I would sit in the infirmary for sometimes six hours at a time, placidly reading copies of Yankee magazine ('Clamming on Cuttyhunk') or Reader's Digest (Ten Ways to Help That Aching Back!'), my presence unremarked by receptionist, physician, and fellow sufferer alike. But, like the Invisible Man in H. G. Wells, I discovered that my gift had its price, which took the form of, in my case as in his, a sort of mental darkness. It seemed that people failed to meet my eye, made as if to walk through me; my superstitions began to transform themselves into something like mania. I became convinced that it was only a matter of time before one of the rickety iron steps that led to my room gave and I would fall and break my neck or, worse, a leg; I'd freeze or starve before Leo would assist me. Because one day, when I'd climbed the stairs successfully and without fear, I'd had an old Brian Eno song running through my head ('In New Delhi, 'And Hong Kong,' They all know that it won't be long...'), I now had to sing it to myself each trip up or down the stairs. And each time I crossed the footbridge over the river, twice a day, I had to stop and scoop around in the coffee-colored snow at the road's edge until I found a decent-sized rock. I would then lean over the icy railing and drop it into the rapid current that bubbled over the speckled dinosaur eggs of granite which made up its bed - a gift to the river-god, maybe, for safe crossing, or perhaps some attempt to prove to it that I, though invisible, did exist. The water ran so shallow and clear in places that sometimes I heard the dropped stone click as it hit the bed. Both hands on the icy rail, staring down at the water as it dashed white against the boulders, boiled thinly over the polished stones, I wondered what it would be like to fall and break my head open on one of those bright rocks: a wicked crack, a sudden limpness, then veins of red marbling the glassy water. If I threw myself off, I thought, who would find me in all that white silence? Might the river beat me downstream over the rocks until it spat me out in the quiet waters, down behind the dye factory, where some lady would catch me in the beam of her headlights when she pulled out of the parking lot at five in the afternoon? Or would I, like the pieces of Leo's mandolin, lodge stubbornly in some quiet place behind a boulder and wait, my clothes washing about me, for spring?

The summer of 1999, we went on holiday to Spain to visit my cousin Penny, who runs a horse farm in Andalucia. It is a beautiful, wild part of the country. Shara would ride out early each day in the hilly pine forests and along the miles of huge, deserted Atlantic beaches. I was told I was too tall for the small Andalucian ponies. But I didn’t want to be deterred. Instead I ran alongside Shara and tried to keep up with the horse. (Good training, that one.) Eventually, on the Monday morning we were to leave, I took her down to the beach and persuaded her to come skinny-dipping with me. She agreed. (With some more eye-rolling.) As we started to get out after swimming for some time, I pulled her toward me, held her in my arms, and prepared to ask for her hand in marriage. I took a deep breath, steadied myself, and as I was about to open my mouth, a huge Atlantic roller pounded in, picked us both up, and rolled us like rag dolls along the beach. Laughing, I went for take two. She still had no idea what was coming. Finally, I got the words out. She didn’t believe me. She made me kneel on the sand (naked) and ask her again. She laughed--then burst into tears and said yes. (Ironically, on our return, Brian, Shara’s father, also burst into tears when I asked him for his blessing. For that one, though, I was dressed in a jacket, tie, and…board shorts.) I was unsure whether his were tears of joy or despair. What really mattered was that Shara and I were going to get married.

Their champion, Goliath of Gath,” said Shammah. Goliath continued his rant, “I DEFY THE RANKS OF ISRAEL THIS DAY! CHOOSE FOR YOURSELVES A CHAMPION TO FIGHT ME! IF HE WINS, THE PHILISTINES WILL BE YOUR SERVANTS. IF I WIN, YOU WILL BE OUR SERVANTS!” Abinadab muttered, “He has taunted us these forty days with the same challenge.” “Forty days?” said David. How had he failed to hear about it, he wondered. “Is there no one to stand up to this blasphemer?” Shammah snickered, “Easy for you to say from the comfort of your palace luxury.” Abinadab threw in, “The man who kills him, the king will laud with tax exemption and great riches.” The next words that came from Abinadab struck David in the chest like an iron rod. “The king has even offered up the hand of one of his daughters to the soul who triumphs over this titan.

Of course, what these perverted little Israelites really wanted was their own sexual gratification. The temple of Asherah housed the Qedeshim, or sacred prostitutes, both male and female. Their income kept the temple funded, since the Israelite tabernacle and priesthood was the only cultus to receive entitlement funds from their theocratic government. And bring in income they did. Asherah’s boys and girls were as busy in Israelite towns as in any Canaanite town. Sometimes more so. The intensity of forbidden pleasure was no doubt a bigger draw for those bent on fighting their fleshly cravings. Ironically, it made them all the more wild in their abandon to her. Their surrender to illicit passions was like freeing a prisoner. At least, that is what they felt it was. The reality was that they were imprisoning themselves to her. They were simply exchanging one form of slavery for another. These humans would never learn that they could not be truly free in the way they wanted to be, for to be their own master was the most foolish slavery of all.

The Law of Attraction says that you are a “living magnet” and that you invariably attract into your life the people, ideas, opportunities, and circumstances in harmony with your dominant thoughts. When you think positive, optimistic, loving, and successful thoughts, you create a force field of magnetism that attracts, like iron filings to a magnet, the very things you are thinking about. This law explains why it is that you don’t have to be concerned where your good is going to come from. If you can keep your mind clearly focused on what you want, and refrain from thinking about what you don’t want, you will attract everything you need to achieve your goals, exactly when you are ready. Change your thinking and you change your life.

Good design in fact is like good poetry. Not in any sense of sublimity, but in the sheer rightness of choice from the many possible for each part. Each part must fit tightly, must work accurately, must conform to the interaction of the rest. The beauty in good design is that of appropriateness, of least effort for what is achieved. It derives from a feeling that all that is in place is properly in place, that not a piece can be rearranged, that nothing is to excess. Beauty in technology does not quite require originality. In technology both form and phrases are heavily borrowed from other utterances, so in this sense we could say that, ironically, design works by combining and manipulating cliches. Still, a beautiful design always contains some unexpected combination that shocks us with its appropriateness.

A mercenary does a job because he’s paid to. A soldier does his because he’s ordered to. A warrior does it because he wants to.

When we examined the detailed history of the evolution, we found large gaps of time in which little happened at all. Then we saw the sudden appearance of a key circuit (an enabling technology) and quick use of this for further technologies. A full adder circuit might appear after say 32,000 steps; and 2-,3-,and 4-bit adders fairly quickly after that. In other words, we found periods of quiescence, followed by miniature "Cambrian explosions" of rapid evolution. We also found, not surprisingly, that the evolution was history dependent. In different runs of the experiment the same simple technologies would emerge, but in a different sequence. Because more complicated technologies are constructed from simpler ones, they would often be put together from different building blocks. (If bronze appears before iron in the real world, many artifacts are made of bronze; if iron appears before bronze, the same artifacts would be made of iron.) We also found that some complex needs for circuits such as adders or comparators with many inputs-different ones each time-would not be fulfilled at all. And we found avalanches of destruction. Superior technologies replaced previously functioning ones. And this meant that circuits used only for these now obsolete technologies were themselves no longer needed, and so these in turn were replaced. This yielded avalanches we could study and measure. In these ways we were able to examine the evolution of technology in action, and it bore out the story I gave earlier in this chapter.

Leaders must live by the same principles and values that they expect from their teams and people. Leadership is about action: leaders must do their part before asking others to do theirs. Walk the walk; don’t just talk.

The Accuser was not impressed by any of this. A transformed seraph himself, his plaintiffs were all Sons of God as well. His opposition did not intimidate him at all. He and Semjaza, along with almost two hundred Watchers, presented themselves across from the array they despised. They considered the throne-circling adversaries to be a mob of sycophants, yes-men and sell-outs, puppets and tools. The Accuser, Semjaza, and their fellow Watchers were just as divine, and maybe even more powerful than their enemies because at least they exercised free will — real free will — iron will. That will did have to bend to the sovereignty of the Judge, however, to the use of their original heavenly names of Semjaza, Baraqel, and Zaqiel instead of their Shinarian deity names of Anu, Enlil, and Nanna.

Enoch almost laughed out loud. The absurd lengths to which the Accuser would go to construct an entire paradigm of delusion to suit his purposes amazed the human. He wondered if anyone would ever actually believe this combination of insanity and iniquity. Ironically, he could see where the Accuser was going with it, and it was truly evil. He would make sure to address it in his rebuttal. The Accuser ended with a rising plea. “Does your unfair favoritism and partiality know no bounds, Elohim? You choose who rules over whom, who is forgiven and who is not, you elect one man over another to carry your purposes forward. These are not the actions of a fair and impartial Creator, these are the actions of — dare I say it again — a tyrant and puppet master! But of course, if the sandal fits, wear it. Your honor. Amen.” The Accuser bowed and went back to his team of Watchers.

After his initial excitement wore down, Lot began to see that all was not well in the “Cities of Love.” The government promoted tolerance of all religious devotion. They maintained shrines for gods from all over Canaan. Ashtart was the supreme goddess of the pentapolis and resided in Sodom, entertaining visiting deities like Molech, Asherah and Dagon. There was tolerance for all the gods — except one: El Shaddai, the Creator God of all things, the god that Lot worshipped. El Shaddai was burned in effigy, mocked and criticized as being, ironically, an intolerant tyrant who demanded exclusive devotion and was thus unworthy of anything but ridicule. If anyone was discovered to have any kind of personal devotion to El Shaddai, they were imprisoned, tortured and made an example of.

How deliciously ironic that something so apparently beneficial to the mind as education could be twisted into a tool of power to lull young minds into thoughtless adherence.

He knew evil was bound up in the heart of mankind. If you took away swords from good men, then only evil men would find a way to have swords, and they would end up killing the good. But the depth of depravity that shook his soul most was the sexual perversity that saturated the cities. There was no respect for persons, animals or even things, as they engaged in rampant carnal excess. Regardless of the abortifacient herbs and potions, there was an explosion of births that the citizens had no desire to take responsibility for. This epidemic of unwanted infants became a source for human sacrifice to Molech, the underworld deity. Some just left their infants in the wilderness, to die of exposure to the elements and wild animals. It was called a “necessary evil.” Everyone claimed it was a tragedy so many babies had to be sacrificed, but they fought for a mother’s right to sacrifice her offspring or the gods would curse them with oppression. Ironically, oppression was what Lot constantly felt, living there as a citizen.

Dagon smiled. It was all a balance of power. Each display of potency by an individual in their unholy trinity would require an equal display of potency in the other two. And Ba’alzebul’s favored form of potency was sexual conquest. Ba’alzebul grabbed Asherah’s leather corset in his hands and with one yank, ripped her outfit completely off her body, leaving her naked before the ravenous eyes of the two gods. The muscle-bound deity said with a jackal-like grin, “I do believe I am hungry.” Dagon drooled. Her sensuous female figure was ironically juxtaposed with her male sexual member. She was, after all, a male Watcher in goddess disguise. Though he artificially modified his body to appear female, he would not go so far as to mutilate his own source of debauched pleasure. Asherah knew she had to fight to make her attackers feel superior. She was strong, but not nearly as strong as Ba’alzebul. So she fought them on that fortuitous evening, but her attackers overpowered her and raped her until morning.

But now he was finally gone. Abigail was free.   When David received word of Nabal’s demise, he praised Yahweh for the merciful rescue of Abigail. He immediately sent for her to ask her hand in marriage. Though she was a most desirable woman, and though they had been drawn to each other with intense attraction, it was still a political move for them both. For her, she would have the protection of a husband whom she was sure would be the next king. For him, he gained the wealth and resources of a rich, landowning widow, who was a high-ranking member of the clan that controlled the Hebron area, a target for his eventual proclamation of kingship. In this world of blood and iron, romantic attraction was a luxury in the politics of kingdoms and dynasties. David was overwhelmed with gratitude to Yahweh for giving him far beyond what he deserved with this amazing woman he was about unite with in holy matrimony.

The scourge, which the Romans called the flagrum, was a long-handled whip that branched out into multiple leather thongs a total of five feet in length. At the end of each thong was a knot with an embedded piece of iron or glass. The sharp material would rip the flesh from the victim in streaks of bloody gore down their backs.

Messiah, “He shall be called a Nazarene.” He was also well acquainted with the Davidic Psalm that spoke of Yahweh having a unique Son.   “You are my Son; today I have begotten you. Ask of me, and I will make the nations your inheritance, and the ends of the earth your possession. You shall break them with a rod of iron and dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel.

Thousands of sheep, cattle, and donkeys were also cleansed through water as spoils of war and divided among the peoples. So too the thousands of shekels of items of silver, gold, bronze, and iron were purified through fire and also apportioned out to the tribes. On the final day of purification, Joshua and Caleb were getting ready to return to camp. They were in Joshua’s tent eating a small meal of goat and bread. Joshua took a sip of wine from his goatskin flask. Caleb watched him closely. He had been watching Joshua closely these seven days. Joshua looked refreshed. And he looked different. Like he was a changed man from the one whose pursuit of rigid excessive holiness rose to a crescendo of self-righteous vengeance and hate. He had come to the end of himself and was crushed by his own unrighteousness.

Tomorrow will be our victory.” He gave an angry look at Caleb and added, “But it will be a holy victory. For Yahweh has declared that the city and all that is within is herem, devoted to Yahweh for destruction.” The men gave each other somber looks. Joshua continued, “Only Rahab the harlot and all her family with her in her house shall be spared because she has helped Israel. All items of silver and gold, bronze, and iron are to be brought to the tabernacle. They shall be cleansed and placed in the treasury of Yahweh. But every living thing, men and women, young and old, as well as the oxen, sheep, and donkeys shall be put to the sword. There can be no compromise in this herem.

The Philistines had brought beautiful painted art, sculpture, and pottery to the land of Canaan. The Israelites were still scratching on rocks and using stones for utensils. The Philistines had developed blacksmithing and the new art of forging iron. The Israelites were still using bronze, copper and tin for crude implements and few weapons. The Philistines had iron chariots; the Israelites cowered on foot in the hills and mountains. The Philistines had developed a cosmopolitan culture that traded with the nations of the world, and adopted many ideas and gods into its own. The Israelites still worshipped a primitive invisible demon whose insane jealousy demanded his people avoid contact with other nations. It was a wonder they were having so much trouble overcoming these ignorant, uncouth and uncultured Hebrews.

Yahweh the Father then spoke the words from heaven, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.” Those words were an allusion to a well-known messianic psalm of David where Yahweh spoke to the coming King.   “You are my Son; today I have begotten you. Ask of me, and I will make the nations your inheritance, and the ends of the earth your possession.”   But justice and inheritance were not merely a passive receiving of land rights. It was a hostile takeover from inhabitants that would not give up without a fight. The second part of that prophecy did not bode well for the powers of the earth.   You shall break them with a rod of iron and dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel.” Now therefore, O kings, be wise; be warned, O rulers of the earth. Serve Yahweh with fear, and rejoice with trembling. Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and you perish in the way, for his wrath is quickly kindled.   But that was not the only Scripture of such ominous foreboding.

The strong family warrior has turned into a shell-shocked returning vet—listless, moody, with an invisible injury draining him of vitality.

Perhaps you would like to come into the cabin,’ said Jack, taking Stephen’s elbow in an iron grip. ‘Your things will be brought aboard directly, never trouble yourself’ – Stephen cast a look into the boat and seemed about to break away. ‘I shall see to it myself at once, sir,’ said the first lieutenant. ‘Oh, Mr Simmons,’ cried Stephen, ‘pray bid them be very tender of my bees.’ ‘Certainly,

Perhaps you would like to come into the cabin,’ said Jack, taking Stephen’s elbow in an iron grip. ‘Your things will be brought aboard directly, never trouble yourself’ – Stephen cast a look into the boat and seemed about to break away. ‘I shall see to it myself at once, sir,’ said the first lieutenant. ‘Oh, Mr Simmons,’ cried Stephen, ‘pray bid them be very tender of my bees.’ ‘Certainly, sir,’ said the first lieutenant, with a civil inclination of his head.

If God dominates the world and everything in it with an iron fist (or rod, as in Psalm 2:9 and Revelation 2:27), we may find ourselves more amenable to authoritarians who do the same, especially if they hold up Bibles in front of churches.

He kept his eye open for other events that looked like the place to be and became drawn to them, looking for any opening to create news and enhance his value further. One such event was the Arnold Classic, held on March 2nd in Columbus, Ohio. The Arnold Classic was an annual bodybuilding event traditionally held at the Greater Columbus Convention Center. It served as something of a melting pot, luring agents, pornstars, hustlers, fans and wannabe stars to one venue with its gravitational pull. “If you like fake tits that’s the place to go”, jokes Kim Wood. “It’s a cesspool, there’s drug dealers…you just wallow in the sleaze.” Pillman’s visit was dual-purpose – in addition to hanging out at the expo, he was filming a commercial to plug his hotline to air on Hardcore TV. ECW’s television crew Stonecutter Productions, headed by Steve Karel, put it together with Brian. In what would become an unfortunate, ironic twist of fate, it was Karel, the same man who told Kim Wood about the WCW-ECW connection which led to Pillman becoming the talk of the industry, that took Brian to the Arnold Classic. Of course, a lot of the attendees were wrestling fans and with Brian in character, he was getting almost as much attention as Arnold himself. Brian and Karel took the sleaze a step further, going back and forth between strip shows and nude woman contests, when Pillman came across a model that caught his eye. In this case, however, it wasn’t a female. One of the sponsors of the Arnold Classic was Hummer. Schwarzenegger fell in love seeing a fleet of military Humvees roll past the set of Kindergarten Cop in 1990 and wanted one of his own. Arnie finally convinced AM General to produce them, and it was Schwarzenegger himself who purchased the first Hummer off the assembly line. Since then he was linked with them and with the bodybuilding expo bearing his name, it was only natural to have a number of floor models on display. Pillman loved the look of one of the Hummers in particular and since the ones being showcased had to be gotten rid of, Karel, with his connections, was able to get Brian a pretty good deal if he wanted to purchase it there and then. Despite all his hard work being with the goal of cashing in and making it out on the other end financially better off, Pillman’s focus lapsed amidst the intoxicating vibe of working everybody and living his character. Against his prior instincts, he bought the vehicle.

Adventure itself prefers to remain dormant, featureless, and nameless; it is the adventurer who must awaken adventure, embody it, and remind it its name

I dream of hard things yet to be done.

Become defeatable, embrace it, for it is the greatest impetus to improve. It is because I am defeatable that, ultimately, I am unbeatable and endure.

Becoming the best isn't in making ourselves the best, but in making those around us even better.

All decisions are mistakes. Each cut as it heals. Each heals as it cuts. The best keep moving forward. The worst let inaction fester.

Where you step into transformation, there is your dojo.

Skullface had time for just one agonized scream before he fell. The iron-shod cartwheels rolled over him. He lay in a red mist of death, the life ebbing from his broken body.

The idea of race is a recent phenomenon in human history. It dates to the start of the transatlantic slave trade and thus to the subsequent caste system that arose from slavery. The word race likely derived from the Spanish word raza and was originally used to refer to the “ ‘caste or quality of authentic horses,’ which are branded with an iron so as to be recognized,” wrote the anthropologists Audrey and Brian Smedley.

When you think positive, optimistic, loving, and successful thoughts, you create a force field of magnetism that attracts, like iron filings to a magnet, the very things you are thinking about.

As far as the guys were concerned, the storm clouds had miraculously been lifted as unexpectedly as they had gathered, and much to their relief, it was all clear skies, blueberry waffles, and sunshine again. Angelina had set four beautiful frittatas on the table, sliced in wedges. She had topped them, in turn, with caramelized shallots and ricotta; grape tomatoes, fresh basil, and mozzarella; bacon and cheddar and broccoli rabe; and roasted garlic and grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. She had laid a cast-iron pan filled with fried potatoes on the table and placed fresh-baked, frosted sweet rolls in a basket in the middle.

You are going to have to take the rest of these croissants to work with you, I cannot be trusted alone in the house with a half-dozen buttery, crispy pillows of deliciousness." "Well, I wouldn't have brought so many, but that place will only sell them if you buy eight or more." I laugh. A Logan Square conundrum. "I know. One of the neighborhood quirks." "You hipsters with your crazy convolutions." I laugh. The transitional predominantly Latino neighborhood I moved into almost fifteen years ago has indeed become hipster central. Full of young men in skinny jeans and ironic T-shirts and scraggly facial hair, and young women in cotton sundresses with motorcycle boots, all blithely riding about on their vintage Schwinns with earbuds in, making motorists stabby.

Angelina, I adore you...," crooned Louis. Then the New Orleans Gang picked up the beat and King Louis sang, "I eat antipasto twice, just because she is so nice, Angelina..." Fresh pasta time. Angelina cracked three eggs into the center of a mound of 00 flour, in time to the music, and began teasing the flour into the sticky center. With a hand-cranked pasta maker, she rolled out the dough into long, silky-thin sheets, laid them out until they covered the entire table, then used a 'mezza luna' to carefully slice wide strips of pasta for a new dish she wanted to try that she called Lasagna Provencal, a combination of Italian and French cheeses, Roma and sun-dried tomatoes, Herbes de Provence, and fresh basil. It was a recipe for which she had very high hopes. Angelina started assembling her lasagna. She mixed creamy Neufchatel, ricotta, and a sharp, grated Parmigiano-Reggiano in with a whole egg to bind it together. She layered fresh pasta sheets in a lasagna dish, coated them with the cheesy mixture, ripped in some fresh basil and oregano and sun-dried tomatoes. She worked quickly, but with iron concentration. "I'm-a just a gigolo, everywhere I go...," sang King Louie. For the second layer, she used more pasta topped with Gruyere and herbed Boursin cheese. The third layer was the same as the first. For the fourth layer, she used the rest of the Boursin and dollops of creme fraiche, then ladled the thick, rich tomato sauce from the stove on top and finished it with a sprinkling of shredded Gruyere. She set it aside for baking later and felt a flush of craftswomanly pride in the way it had all come together.

She made her aubergine napoleons, a beautifully layered dish of smoked mozzarella paired with a nutty, millet flour-coated, sautéed eggplant, finished lightly crispy on the outside and velvety smooth on the inside. She peeled her roasted peppers and laid them out with fresh balls of salty mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, fresh basil, and a sprinkle of balsamic vinaigrette. She broke out a mixture of ground beef, veal, and pork for the rosemary and garlic meatballs, fried up in a cast-iron skillet and set swimming in her red-gravy cauldron.

Downstairs, Angelina rummaged through Mrs. Capuccio's refrigerator and found some pumpernickel bread, the end of a smoked pork roast, and a half a pound of Swiss cheese. She started thinking of the kinds of food she'd miss making most if she were stuck in bed most of the day, and she immediately thought deli. She cruised the refrigerator shelves and found some India relish, which she mixed together with a bit of ketchup and mayonnaise to make an improvised Thousand Island dressing. When she found a little can of sauerkraut in the cupboard, she knew she had a winner. She cooked up a Reuben sandwich in a cast-iron skillet, brewed a strong cup of tea with two sugars and a drop of milk, and brought it up to the room on a tray with some dill pickle slices on the side.

Her anger, so useful just moments before, was getting the better of her now. She could hear it; she was too loud. Nira had counseled her again and again on the importance of holding her tongue and her peace. Ironic, given the source, but good advice all the same.

For now that I have seen The curd-white hawthorn once again Break out on the new green, And through the iron gates in the long blank wall Have viewed across a screen Of rosy apple-blossom the grey spire And low red roofs and humble chimney-stacks, And stood in spacious courtyards of old farms, And heard green virgin wheat sing to the breeze, And the drone of ancient worship rise and fall In the dark church, and talked with simple folk Of farm and village, dwelling near the earth, Among earth's ancient elemental things: I can with heart made bold Go back into the ways of ruin and death With step unflagging and with quiet breath. (Martin Armstrong)

The greatest are the poet who has failed, the songwriter who has lost, the warrior whose wounds have not healed, and the explorer who still seeks but does not know

Bryan Ferry would abandon overt glam threads in favour of classically tailored tuxedos, US military uniforms and an infamous gaucho look. Ironically, Ferry then began to draw a considerable gay male following while Eno, slavered in cosmetics and done up like a camp Christmas tree, became – much to his own satisfaction – an unlikely object of lust for legions of adolescent girls.

You did,” said Brian. “You encouraged us to fight … because you sent your pig out to get some iron golems and bring them back here while we were fighting so that Billy would nearly get killed and I would corral everyone to save him, and because of that we would make up and realise the value of family and teamwork!” Steve paused. “Um.” Alex said, “What?” “That’s what he did!” cried Brian happily. “Isn’t it!” Billy gasped. “AND ORANGE-HAIR GIRL KNOW ABOUT IT TOO! ORANGE-HAIR GIRL HELP BILLY SEE THAT BONE BROTHERS SHOULD FIGHT TOGETHER AGAIN! BECAUSE ORANGE-HAIR GIRL KNOW DIRTY PIG GOING TO COME WITH BIG METAL MACHINE-MEN!” Now Alex said, “Um.” “That,” said Steve, “is exactly what happened. You’ve got us! That was our plan all along. We just goaded you into fighting so that all this stuff with the iron golems would happen and you would become friends again.” Brian jumped up and down. “I knew it!!” Billy grinned. “YOU CLEVER, BRIAN. AND YOU BOTH CLEVER, ORANGE-HAIR GIRL AND STUPID SMILE BOY.” “Thank you,” said Steve. Then: “Wait. ‘Stupid smile boy’?” “You’re very welcome,” said Alex. “As thanks for our, err, brilliant planning … what do the two of you think about untying us?” Brian and Billy looked at her. They looked at Steve. They looked at Porker. And then: “BWA HA HA HA HA!” “Ha hah! What a silly suggestion!” “ORANGE-HAIR GIRL THINK THEM DESERVE BE UNTIED!” “What madness! Why would we ever do that? Eh, Billy?” “HA HA! YES, WHY? THEM ONLY REPAIR OUR BOND AND BRING FAMILY TOGETHER AGAIN! DO THEM THINK THAT REALLY DESERVE THEM BE UNTIED?” “Hee-hee, yes! E-exactly,” said Brian, laughter abruptly petering out. Then Billy stopped too. “BWA HA … HA.” They frowned. They looked at each other. They looked back at Alex. They looked at Steve. They looked at Porker. (Again.) “Maybe we should free them,” said Brian quietly. “THEM DO GOOD THING FOR US,” said Billy. “IT ONLY FAIR.

One day he decided he was more dependent on the kindness of women than he liked so he went off to hunt wild beasts with his bare hands. But all he found was a stray dog & a couple of old pigeons & it was cold & he missed the sound of soft voices, so finally he came back & never worried about it again. —Iron John