Buddies Inspirational Quotes

Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird.

Keep me up till five because all your stars are out, and for no other reason…Oh dare to do it Buddy! Trust your heart. You’re a deserving craftsman. It would never betray you. Good night. I’m feeling very much over-excited now, and a little dramatic, but I think I’d give almost anything on earth to see you writing a something, an anything, a poem, a tree, that was really and truly after your own heart.

There comes a time when you're losing a fight that it just doesn't make sense to keep on fighting. It's not that you're being a quitter, it's just that you've got the sense to know when enough is enough.

So tonight I reach for my journal again. This is the first time I’ve done this since I came to Italy. What I write in my journal is that I am weak and full of fear. I explain that Depression and Loneliness have shown up, and I’m scared they will never leave. I say that I don’t want to take the drugs anymore, but I’m frightened I will have to. I am terrified that I will never really pull my life together. In response, somewhere from within me, rises a now-familiar presence, offering me all the certainties I have always wished another person would say to me when I was troubled. This is what I find myself writing on the page: I’m here. I love you. I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long. I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it—I will love you through that, as well. If you don’t need the medication, I will love you, too. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and Braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me. Tonight, this strange interior gesture of friendship—the lending of a hand from me to myself when nobody else is around to offer solace—reminds me of something that happened to me once in New York City. I walked into an office building one afternoon in a hurry, dashed into the waiting elevator. As I rushed in, I caught an unexpected glance of myself in a security mirror’s reflection. In that moment, my brain did an odd thing—it fired off this split-second message: “Hey! You know her! That’s a friend of yours!” And I actually ran forward toward my own reflection with a smile, ready to welcome that girl whose name I had lost but whose face was so familiar. In a flash instant of course, I realized my mistake and laughed in embarrassment at my almost doglike confusion over how a mirror works. But for some reason that incident comes to mind again tonight during my sadness in Rome, and I find myself writing this comforting reminder at the bottom of the page. Never forget that once upon a time, in an unguarded moment, you recognized yourself as a FRIEND… I fell asleep holding my notebook pressed against my chest, open to this most recent assurance. In the morning when I wake up, I can still smell a faint trace of depression’s lingering smoke, but he himself is nowhere to be seen. Somewhere during the night, he got up and left. And his buddy loneliness beat it, too.

Just like when there's a time that a smart person knows enough is enough, there's a time when you know you've got to fight.

Ask ten different scientists about the environment, population control, genetics and you'll get ten different answers, but there's one thing every scientist on the planet agrees on. Whether it happens in a hundred years or a thousand years or a million years, eventually our Sun will grow cold and go out. When that happens, it won't just take us. It'll take Marilyn Monroe and Lao-Tzu, Einstein, Morobuto, Buddy Holly, Aristophanes .. and all of this .. all of this was for nothing unless we go to the stars.

There was something else that [Christopher] Reeve told me privately, off camera, and it made me grin. While he was lying in the hospital, just becoming conscious with tubes connected to all parts of his body, a doctor in a white coat came in and with a Russian accent, commanded: "Turn over!" Are you nuts? Reeve thought. I said: 'Turn over!'" the doctor repeated. As Reeve was about to answer "the imbecile", he realized there was something familiar about the man in the white coat. He wasn't a doctor at all. He was Reeve's old buddy from acting school at Julliard, Robin Williams. Reeve waited for a breath, and almost choked with laughter. He realized, he told me, "If I can laugh, I can live.

You laugh at me becuse I am different. I laugh at you becuse your all the same.

Risa: I love you! Otani: I know. Risa: And... you love me too, right, Otani? Otani: Yeah. Crowd: *cheers* Good job, buddy! Risa and Otani: AHHHHH! *runs away*

During the Cold War of the 1950s, American spies were issued eyeglasses with thick, clunky frames. If captured, they were trained to casually chew the curved earpieces, where fatal doses of cyanide were cast inside the plastic. It's these same horn-rimmed suicide glasses, the wrangler says, that inspired the look of Buddy Holly and Elvis Costello. All those young hipsters wearing death on their nose.

No, buddy. I won’t be mad. In fact, I’m mighty happy God brought you to the perfect family in His perfect timing just like we prayed for.

TEDDY DAY POEM: A bear hug for you, and I would make you forget your sorrows! I’ll be there with you forever, in your today and all tomorrows!! .. The moment I am not there.. Close your eyes and you'll see me.. You're there in my heart, and yours, I always would be; so just be fine! .. O girl, O girl, O.. O.. girl.. you be mine.. You're my buddy and I am your teddy.. O sweety, you be my.. Valentine. .. Just be mine.. O O.. be my Valentine!!!

Each moment we take some decisions & these small small decisions decides our future which will one day become our present. We r ourselves responsible for our present & future. Now u will say that situations of our life r not in our hand. This is true but buddy situations only help us in shaping our attitude towards life. They never decides our future.

Hey Blake, how’s it hanging?” She questioned, looking through me at Blake, obviously ignoring my presence. She looked smug at the double meaning in her sentence. Blake furrowed his eyebrows. Brianna only talked to him on rare occasions when she bumped into us at my house. He must have been confused as to why she approached us in public, considering how she and I weren’t friends even in the slightest sense. Ignoring the fact that she was talking to Blake and not me, I spoke. “Longer than anything you’ve ever sucked.” Blake’s eyes widened for a second before he bit his lip to keep from laughing. Brianna turned toward me with cold eyes, her smile gone. “Not like you would know, Virgin Violet.” Her cohorts laughed and smiled like that was the funniest thing they had heard in their entire lives. “You know I really do admire you, Bri Bri.” I smiled sweetly, leaning forward as I placed my hand on her shoulder. “The fact that you’ve had so many fuck buddies this summer and still have not managed to contract some kind of STI or gotten pregnant really does inspire me.” I smirked wickedly. “At least from my knowledge you haven’t.” The look that came to her face made me want to buckle over with laughter. She looked flustered, angry, and embarrassed all at the same time. Maybe I hit a soft spot.

The pièce de résistance, put into the can on the very first day, owed its inspiration to Little Richard, who would whip audiences to further frenzy between numbers by self-congratulatory cries of “Well...all right!” Buddy turned the phrase into a gentle love song infused with all his special quality of patience and optimism and his developing ability to make personal sentiments into universal ones. “Well, All Right” is a riposte to all the criticism and condescension that teenagers faced from their elders in the rock 'n' roll fifties—and have in every decade since. The setting is as adventurously simple as that of “Everyday”: Buddy plays flamenco-accented acoustic guitar, with only a plashing cymbal for company. The mood is not one of youthful anger and defiance but of maturity before its time: calm, stoical, steadfast in affirming its “dreams and wishes.” The intimacy in the voice could equally be that of lover or elder brother. Girl or boy, you can imagine you and he are alone together, gazing into the fire and imagining a bright future when the young will “live and love with all our might,” which could almost be a prophecy of the sixties' hippie culture.

It is a painful irony that silent movies were driven out of existence just as they were reaching a kind of glorious summit of creativity and imagination, so that some of the best silent movies were also some of the last ones. Of no film was that more true than Wings, which opened on August 12 at the Criterion Theatre in New York, with a dedication to Charles Lindbergh. The film was the conception of John Monk Saunders, a bright young man from Minnesota who was also a Rhodes scholar, a gifted writer, a handsome philanderer, and a drinker, not necessarily in that order. In the early 1920s, Saunders met and became friends with the film producer Jesse Lasky and Lasky’s wife, Bessie. Saunders was an uncommonly charming fellow, and he persuaded Lasky to buy a half-finished novel he had written about aerial combat in the First World War. Fired with excitement, Lasky gave Saunders a record $39,000 for the idea and put him to work on a script. Had Lasky known that Saunders was sleeping with his wife, he might not have been quite so generous. Lasky’s choice for director was unexpected but inspired. William Wellman was thirty years old and had no experience of making big movies—and at $2 million Wings was the biggest movie Paramount had ever undertaken. At a time when top-rank directors like Ernst Lubitsch were paid $175,000 a picture, Wellman was given a salary of $250 a week. But he had one advantage over every other director in Hollywood: he was a World War I flying ace and intimately understood the beauty and enchantment of flight as well as the fearful mayhem of aerial combat. No other filmmaker has ever used technical proficiency to better advantage. Wellman had had a busy life already. Born into a well-to-do family in Brookline, Massachusetts, he had been a high school dropout, a professional ice hockey player, a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, and a member of the celebrated Lafayette Escadrille flying squad. Both France and the United States had decorated him for gallantry. After the war he became friends with Douglas Fairbanks, who got him a job at the Goldwyn studios as an actor. Wellman hated acting and switched to directing. He became what was known as a contract director, churning out low-budget westerns and other B movies. Always temperamental, he was frequently fired from jobs, once for slapping an actress. He was a startling choice to be put in charge of such a challenging epic. To the astonishment of everyone, he now made one of the most intelligent, moving, and thrilling pictures ever made. Nothing was faked. Whatever the pilot saw in real life the audiences saw on the screen. When clouds or exploding dirigibles were seen outside airplane windows they were real objects filmed in real time. Wellman mounted cameras inside the cockpits looking out, so that the audiences had the sensation of sitting at the pilots’ shoulders, and outside the cockpit looking in, allowing close-up views of the pilots’ reactions. Richard Arlen and Buddy Rogers, the two male stars of the picture, had to be their own cameramen, activating cameras with a remote-control button.

After we finished the interview Paul thanked me for my time and told me he thought I was great on the radio. He suggested I think about it as a career. I thanked him and said I’d consider it. But really all I was thinking about was Jamie. As soon as I got in my car I looked on my phone and saw I had a Facebook friend request from her. I felt schoolgirl giddy. I accepted the request and immediately called my Army buddy Max. Max is one of the guys who came with me on that first Tough Mudder. We are really close friends, and he’s someone I’ve always confided in. Just a few weeks before I had called and told him, “You know what? I’m done with women for the time being, but the next time I talk to a girl, I’m shooting out of my league.” So now I called Max and said, “I’ve met a girl way out of my league and I’m gonna take a shot.” I wasn’t good at asking women out and felt really nervous. I told Max she had sent me a friend request and he urged me to send her a private message on Facebook. I typed out a pretty long message and hit SEND. Then I finally put the keys in the ignition and left the radio station parking lot. Every red light I hit, I checked my phone to see if she had responded. She hadn’t. Why wasn’t she responding? Finally, I pulled over and looked again. The message hadn’t gone through! I panicked and called Max back. “What am I gonna do? What if I send another one and the first one is just floating through the Internet and it eventually goes through? Do I send another one? Do I make it sound exactly the same? I’m gonna look like a crazy person! What do I do? I don’t know what to do!” Max calmed me down again and I rewrote my original message. This time she responded. “Jamie, it was great meeting you and Paul today. Sorry you got stuck with a used bracelet. If I run into you again I will hook you up with a new one. You’ll just have to give that one back. They aren’t free. LOL. Take care.” She responded: “Ha ha. Actually, Noah Galloway, I got the one I wanted ;). Great to meet you, too. Love your story. Tragedy to triumph. I can’t imagine the number of people you inspire every day. Hope to run into you sooner rather than later.

One other thing. And that's all. I promise you. But the thing is, you raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam `unskilled laughter' coming from the fifth row. And that's right, that's right - God knows it's depressing. I'm not saying it isn't. But that's none of your business, really. That's none of your business, Franny. An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and *on his own terms*, not anyone else's. You have no right to think about those things. I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. You know what I mean?" ... The voice at the other end came through again. "I remember about the fifth time I ever went on `Wise Child'. I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast - remember when he was in the case? Anyway. I started bitching one night before broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again - all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my mind. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and - I don't know. Anyway, seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on air. It made *sense*." ... "... Let me tell you something now, buddy ... Are you listening?" ... "I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, in can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret - Are you listening to me? *There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.* That goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone *any*where that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know - listen to me, now - *don't you know who that Fat Lady really is?*... Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.

One other thing. And that's all. I promise you. But the thing is, you raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam `unskilled laughter' coming from the fifth row. And that's right, that's right - God knows it's depressing. I'm not saying it isn't. But that's none of your business, really. That's none of your business, Franny. An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and *on his own terms*, not anyone else's. You have no right to think about those things. I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. You know what I mean?" ... The voice at the other end came through again. "I remember about the fifth time I ever went on `Wise Child'. I subbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast - remember when he was in the case? Anyway. I started bitching one night before broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I said they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again - all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than one just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my time. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio going full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and - I don't know. Anyway, seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on air. It made *sense*." ... "... Let me tell you something now, buddy ... Are you listening?" ... "I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, in can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret - Are you listening to me? *There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.* That goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone *any*where that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know - listen to me, now - *don't you know who that Fat Lady really is?*... Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.

One other thing. And that's all. I promise you. But the thing is, you raved and you bitched when you came home about the stupidity of audiences. The goddam `unskilled laughter' comming from the fifth row. And that's right, that's right - God knows it's depressing. I'm not saying it isn't. But that's none of your business, really. That's none of your business, Franny. An artist's only concern is to shoot for some kind of perfection, and *on his own terms", not anyone else's. You have no right to think about those things. I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. You know what I mean?" ... The voice at the other end came through again. "I remember abouut the fifth time I ever went on `Wise Child'. I subbbed for Walt a few times when he was in a cast - remember when he was in the case? Anyway. I started bitching one night before broadcast. Seymour'd told me to shine my shoes just as I was going out the door with Waker. I was furious. The studio audience were all morons, the announcer was a moron, the sponsors were morons, and I just damn well wasn't going to shine my shoes for them, I told Seymour. I sais they couldn't see them anyway, where we sat. He said to shine them anyway. He said to shine them for the Fat Lady. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, but he had a very Seymour look on his face, and so I did it. He never did tell me who the Fat Lady was, but I shined my shoes for the Fat Lady every time I ever went on the air again - all the years you and I were on the program together, if you remember. I don't think I missed more than one just a couple of times. This terribly clear, clear picture of the Fat Lady formed in my time. I had her sitting on this porch all day, swatting flies, with her radio goin full-blast from morning till night. I figured the heat was terrible, and she probably had cancer, and - I don't know. Anyway, seemed goddam clear why Seymour wanted me to shine my shoes when I went on air. It made *sense*." ... "... Let me tell you something now, buddy ... Are you listening?" ... "I don't care where an actor acts. It can be in summer stock, in can be over a radio, it can be over television, it can be in a goddam Broadway theatre, complete with the most fashionable, most well-fed, most sunburned-looking audience you can imagine. But I'll tell you a terrible secret - Are you listening to me? *There isn't anyone out there who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady.* That goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone *any*where that isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that? Don't you know that goddam secret yet? And don't you know - listen to me, now - *don't you know who that Fat Lady really is?*... Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy.

I suppose that's true for everyone in life - when it rains, it pours. Nothing ever just comes one at a time. But I guess sometimes, at least this one time, when it poured, it wasn't a bad thing!

I've given up on it getting easier, but at least I haven't given up. I guess that's something...

So after I got Jamie’s address, I wrote to her every day. Every night after I put the kids to bed, I would write. I would tell her about everything that had happened--what I did, what the kids did, something funny one of them said. I just wrote as much as I could for several pages. Every night I wrote her novels and every morning I mailed them to her. That was all well and good until I found out I’d addressed all of the envelopes incorrectly! I’d left out one digit of the zip code on every single letter I’d written. I was devastated. Even though I had put a return address on them, I was sure they were stuck in post office limbo. I had this realization the same day I got my first letter from Jamie. I ripped it open and read it through gripped fingers. She told me all about her first few days in basic training, and at the bottom she added the most heartbreaking line, “I wish you’d write me. I know you’re busy and I know you don’t like to write, but I wish you would.” I couldn’t believe it. She thought I hadn’t written at all. I called a buddy of mine who is now Command Sergeant Major Phil Blaisdell, a battalion sergeant major at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. “Phil, I’m in trouble. Man, I’ve been sending her letters and I was putting the wrong zip code on them and I got a letter from her and she thinks I’m not sending her letters and I know she needs that.” “All right, let me call you back.” A little while later my phone rang. “I’m Command Sergeant Major Duncan. I am the battalion sergeant major of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. First of all, I’d like to tell you that I know who you are and I appreciate your service and what you’ve done. I’ve seen your Men’s Health issue and you are an inspiration. I understand you know a Specialist Boyd,” she said. “Yes, Sergeant Major, I do.” “Well, I’ve got her standing in front of me right now. Would you like to talk to her?” “Yes, Sergeant Major, I would.” So she handed the phone to Jamie. Jamie was a little stressed out because she had been called to the sergeant major’s office and thought, What have I done? The conversation was rushed and she was speaking in a hushed tone. “Hey, I miss you, I love you.” “Hey, me, too, baby. Let me tell you real quick, I’ve been sending you letters--” “I got them all today. Thank you.” “I miss you, and I hope that you can tell.” “Look, I want to keep talking but they’re watching me.” “Okay, we’re good. Just wanted to make sure you got the letters. I love you and we’ll talk later.

I just wrote as much as I could for several pages. Every night I wrote her novels and every morning I mailed them to her. That was all well and good until I found out I’d addressed all of the envelopes incorrectly! I’d left out one digit of the zip code on every single letter I’d written. I was devastated. Even though I had put a return address on them, I was sure they were stuck in post office limbo. I had this realization the same day I got my first letter from Jamie. I ripped it open and read it through gripped fingers. She told me all about her first few days in basic training, and at the bottom she added the most heartbreaking line, “I wish you’d write me. I know you’re busy and I know you don’t like to write, but I wish you would.” I couldn’t believe it. She thought I hadn’t written at all. I called a buddy of mine who is now Command Sergeant Major Phil Blaisdell, a battalion sergeant major at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. “Phil, I’m in trouble. Man, I’ve been sending her letters and I was putting the wrong zip code on them and I got a letter from her and she thinks I’m not sending her letters and I know she needs that.” “All right, let me call you back.” A little while later my phone rang. “I’m Command Sergeant Major Duncan. I am the battalion sergeant major of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri. First of all, I’d like to tell you that I know who you are and I appreciate your service and what you’ve done. I’ve seen your Men’s Health issue and you are an inspiration. I understand you know a Specialist Boyd,” she said. “Yes, Sergeant Major, I do.” “Well, I’ve got her standing in front of me right now. Would you like to talk to her?” “Yes, Sergeant Major, I would.” So she handed the phone to Jamie. Jamie was a little stressed out because she had been called to the sergeant major’s office and thought, What have I done? The conversation was rushed and she was speaking in a hushed tone. “Hey, I miss you, I love you.” “Hey, me too, baby. Let me tell you real quick, I’ve been sending you letters—” “I got them all today. Thank you.” “I miss you, and I hope that you can tell.” “Look, I want to keep talking but they’re watching me.” “Okay, we’re good. Just wanted to make sure you got the letters. I love you and we’ll talk later.

I love you, buddy. Sometimes when she says this it almost feels like she's saying, 'I'm sorry for everything.' Me too.

official programming language was reminiscent of the minis. Created in the spring of 1975 by two young men who had been inspired by the Popular Electronics article—Bill Gates, now a Harvard undergrad, and his high school buddy Paul Allen, a programmer working outside Boston—Altair BASIC took a number of key features from DEC’s BASIC for the PDP-11.

There is no role too small for a big actor.

It's good to remember even during your darkest hour, you are not here to be punished.You are here to serve.

My car broke down. Instead of AAA, I called AA by mistake. They could only move my car twelve steps.

February 2013 Continuation of Andy’s Message (part four)   The priest from Taer and Anak’s parish was as corrupt as they came. The day after I broke ties with the boys, they came to my lodging with their priest demanding monetary compensation for my intimate liaisons with them. I had no idea the Father ran a homeless shelter for runaway kids. This padre was a pimp: he dished out these runaways in return for food and protection.               That day, he labelled me a sinner and pelted me with fire and brimstone, accusing me of corrupting his innocent dependants. Then he proceeded to hound me to repent from my nefarious ways. According to this man of God, ‘the one and only way’ to cleanse my moral impurities was to confess and donate to his parish. He gave me an ultimatum to appear at his office at the soonest and told me he would not hesitate to contact the police if I transgressed. But as soon as they were out of sight, my buddies and I vanished to another island without trace. From there, we departed for Canada, knowing the threat had been nothing but fraudulent extortion. (Besides, I knew if I had gone in for confession, he would have tape-recorded my penance to blackmail me). My intuition had served me well: a year later, I came upon a TV documentary exposing the Marcos’ state and church corruption in the Philippines. One of the indicted priests was none other than the man who had accosted me the year before. Young, you probably are aware that corruption runs rampant in Third-World countries. This tale of mine is just one cautionary example of many. This disreputable experience had left its loathsome mark – one I had difficulty quelling, even though I wanted to see more of this awe-inspiring country. Maybe my apprehension will dissipate if I visit that part of the world with you, cherished memories in hand. You’re one fine specimen from that region.☺   Your loving ex, Andy XOXOXO

Eventually, at 7:22 A.M. on the morning of May 26, 1998, with tears still pouring down my frozen cheeks, the summit of Mount Everest opened her arms and welcomed me in. As if she now considered me somehow worthy of this place. My pulse raced, and in a haze I found myself suddenly standing on top of the world. Alan embraced me, mumbling excitedly into his mask. Neil was still staggering toward us. As he approached, the wind began to die away. The sun was now rising over the hidden land of Tibet, and the mountains beneath us were bathed in a crimson red. Neil knelt and crossed himself on the summit. Then, together, with our masks of, we hugged as brothers. I got to my feet and began to look around. I swore that I could see halfway around the world. The horizon seemed to bend at the edges. It was the curvature of our earth. Technology can put a man on the moon but not up here. There truly was some magic to this place. The radio suddenly crackled to my left. Neil spoke into it excitedly. “Base camp. We’ve run out of earth.” The voice on the other end exploded with jubilation. Neil passed the radio to me. For weeks I had planned what I would say if I reached the top, but all that just fell apart. I strained into the radio and spoke without thinking. “I just want to get home.” The memory of what went on then begins to fade. We took several photos with both the SAS and the DLE flags flying on the summit, as promised, and I scooped some snow into an empty Juice Plus vitamin bottle I had with me.* It was all I would take with me from the summit. I remember having some vague conversation on the radio--patched through from base camp via a satellite phone--with my family some three thousand miles away: the people who had given me the inspiration to climb. But up there, the time flew by, and like all moments of magic, nothing can last forever. We had to get down. It was already 7:48 A.M. Neil checked my oxygen. “Bear, you’re right down. You better get going, buddy, and fast.” I had just under a fifth of a tank to get me back to the Balcony. I heaved the pack and tank onto my shoulders, fitted my mask, and turned around. The summit was gone. I knew that I would never see it again. *Years later, Shara and I christened our three boys with this snow water from Everest’s summit. Life moments.

The second element to why the show has worked is undoubtedly my team. And guess what? I am not alone out there. I work with a truly brilliant, small tight-knit crew. Four or five guys. Heroes to a man. They work their nuts off. Unsung. Up to their necks in the dirt. Alongside me in more hellholes than you could ever imagine. They are mainly made up of ex-Special Forces buddies and top adventure cameramen--as tough as they come, and best friends. It’s no surprise that all the behind-the-scenes episodes we do are so popular--people like to hear the inside stories about what it is really like when things go a little “wild.” As they often do. My crew are incredible--truly--and they provide me with so much of my motivation to do this show. Without them I am nothing. Simon Reay brilliantly told me on episode one: “Don’t present this, Bear, just do it--and tell me along the way what the hell you are doing and why. It looks amazing. Just tell me.” That became the show. And there is the heroic Danny Cane, who reckoned I should just: “Suck an earthworm up between your teeth, and chomp it down raw. They’ll love it, Bear. Trust me!” Inspired. Producers, directors, the office team and the field crew. My buddies. Steve Rankin, Scott Tankard, Steve Shearman, Dave Pearce, Ian Dray, Nick Parks, Woody, Stani, Ross, Duncan Gaudin, Rob Llewellyn, Pete Lee, Paul Ritz, and Dan Etheridge--plus so many others, helping behind the scenes back in the UK. Multiple teams. One goal. Keeping one another alive. On, and do the field team share their food with me, help collect firewood, and join in tying knots on my rafts? All the time. We are a team.

Durant had a 42 point game to finish a spectacular rookie season where he averaged 20.3 points, 4.4 rebounds and 2.4 assists. He was the first rookie to average more than 20 points in a game since Carmelo Anthony (21) and LeBron James (20.9). He also became the first rookie to lead his team in scoring since Emeka Okafor and Josh Childress did it in 2004-05. As Durant won these accolades, he was knocked to his knees all year long. Durant was often criticized for flopping too much, but the truth was that he was not strong enough to stay on his feet to defend his heftier opponents. There were rumors that he couldn't even bench press 185 pounds because all he ate was chicken and candies. He was called "Starvin" and "String Bean" by his buddies because of his reed-thin 185 pound frame. Durant was so thin that Sonics Coach P.J. Carlisimo played him as a 6-9 guard at that time. Durant was also labeled as "chucker" because he took 1,366 shots from the field and made just 43%. He was just taking orders from Carlisimo, who

Finally, this story was set in a dire time, a deadly serious time, and the world of the first-century Jew under the rule of the Romans would not have been one that easily inspired mirth. It’s more than a small anachronism that I portray Joshua having and making fun, yet somehow, I like to think that while he carried out his sacred mission, Jesus of Nazareth might have enjoyed a sense of irony and the company of a wisecracking buddy. This story is not and never was meant to challenge anyone’s faith; however, if one’s faith can be shaken by stories in a humorous novel, one may have a bit more praying to do. My thanks to the many people who helped in the

Fall is my favorite time of year, even the traffic lights change color.

At age 64 I started working at a preschool. I figured the kids would have a lot to teach me.

As crazy as all of this may sound to you, I know that our brains are able to control so many things depending on how we think about something. About twenty years ago, a business partner and I taught real estate investing seminars. One of the most significant factors that affects someone’s success in real estate, or any other endeavor, is belief. I’ve heard it said that if you believe you can or if you believe you can’t, either way, you’re right. Suppose you really honestly believe that you’ll succeed in real estate or any other endeavor. In that case, you’re about 1,000 times more likely to put in the effort and stick with it. If you don’t believe you’re going to succeed, then most people put in next to no effort to basically prove themselves right when nothing happens. At our seminars, we would demonstrate this by teaching the concept of “Spots.” We explained that according to an ancient methodology, we all have a weak spot and a strong spot. Speaking in a strong, confident voice, we’d say, “Here’s your strong spot right here,” and demonstrate this by touching the center of our forehead. “You also have a weak spot” (speaking in a softer, weaker voice). “It’s located in the soft fleshly spot right here behind your ear.” We again demonstrated and encouraged them to follow along. Then to give it a little emphasis, we added, “Careful, don’t push it too much, or you’ll get really weak!” Then we said, “We’ll show you how this actually works,” and invited one of the stronger-looking participants up onto the stage. We’d touch the person in their “strong” spot and ask them to hold their arm straight out to the side. “Now I’m going to push down on your arm, and I want you to resist me as much as you can.” We’d push down with a decent amount of effort, and our client’s arm would not budge down at all. “Now I’m going to touch your weak spot” (touching the person behind their ear). “And watch as I’m now able to push their arm completely down.” The crazy thing is that no matter how hard the subject tries to hold their arm up, after touching their “weak” spot, it drops right down with much less effort than during the first attempt. Then we said, “Now I want you to prove this to yourself. Pair up with the person next to you to test this out for yourself.” The room would buzz with the sounds of people talking as they discovered that the strong and weak spots really did, for the most part, work. Then we would switch the spots. “Isn’t it crazy that just because we told you to push on the strong spot behind your ear, that made you really strong? And when we told you to push on the weak spot in the middle of your forehead, that made you really weak?” we’d say. “No, no, you’ve got them backward!” the crowd would shout at us. At which point, we’d demonstrate that the spots worked just as well if you switched them, finally telling them, “We actually made all this up—but it works anyway!” What you tell yourself and what you believe really does make a difference. I don’t know if this helps to explain why I was hiking the Appalachian Trail. I was passionately committed to the belief that if I hiked the entire Appalachian Trail, then my foot and leg were going to have to be better. Each day that I hiked, with every mile further north that I went, heck, with every single step I took, I was reclaiming my life. I know that anything is possible. My adventure on the trail proved this to me each and every day. 14 May—Finding a Buddy You Can’t Avoid Pain, But You Can Choose to Overcome it. —Paulo Coelho Two and a half hours after leaving Shenandoah National Park, I arrived home.

Shockingly, she’s there, but it’s even more shocking that she’s pretty. She is pretty, sweeter, and cuter than me. Clear and white skin, pink lips. Every boys’ dream! I couldn’t stop gawking at her. Kellie has amazing big almost turquoise eyes that open wide and slight rosy cheekbones, like a model. And the best part of it all is her boobs look as big as mine. People are nudging and pushing us because she’s and, I am obstructing the entranceway, but we just stood there, anyways when we had that chat. Oh, I forgot to say that a girl was peeing behind a car when looking out. It kind of slipped my mind. It’s a cold night, those intents better have a snuggle buddy to stay warm, and a good sleeping bag. Maddie and Liv catch a glimpse of her walking by, and their mouths both drop open. ‘What the… hell… is that relay Karly little sister?’ Jenny and her boy turn to see what we’re both them staring at. I see Shy- looking to form the steps. Jenny goes ashen at first-she looks afraid, which is beyond strange, for her… because of her- the type to say you’re never too young to go down and get down. She loves to see young girls fall to their knees; I call it- ‘Fallen too You.’ It’s when you get up everything for a boy, like your dignity, pride, and justice.

Sometimes, looking into the distance, one may fail to notice things under one's feet and stumble.

Make the solution as your buddy, like one problem does not end, others are ready

You're Church, knowing other people just waters down the experience. Live the dream buddy!