Buddies Wisdom Quotes

Don’t meet him. That monster has an agenda. Ren. Yuan’s CRAB forwards the text to his mind. So, he silences it. Why after two decades? Ren. It smells fishy. Ren. Just because he's a childhood buddy, you'll run to him? Ren. Maybe I didn’t see the Apocalypse with you, but I'm your war comrade, too. Ren. The texts stay unread in his CRAB.

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 these things, I swear to you. Not in any real sense, anyway. . . . I started bitching one night before the 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. . . . And don't you know - listen to me, now - don't you know who that Fat Lady really is? . . . Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy." For joy, apparently, it was all Franny could do to hold the phone, even with both hands . . . as if all of what little or much wisdom there is in the world were suddenly hers.

High productivity and a healthy environment are two unconditionally entwined buddies. Our process allows us to abort any attempts toward crucifying either of the two—because as soon as one of them dies, the other follows suit.

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 includes your Professor Tupper, buddy. And all his goddam cousins by the dozens. There isn't anyone anywhere 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 who the Fat Lady really is?...Ah, buddy. Ah, buddy. It's Christ Himself. Christ Himself, buddy." For joy apparently, it was all Franny could do to hold the phone, even with both hands. For a fullish minute or so, there were no other words, no further speech. Then: "I can't talk any more, buddy." The sound of a phone being replaced in its catch followed. Franny took in her breath slightly but continued to hold the phone to her ear. A dial tone, of course, followed the formal break in the connection. She appeared to find it extraordinarily beautiful to listen to, rather as if it were the best possible substitute for the primordial silence itself. But she seemed to know, too, when to stop listening to it, as if all of what little or much wisdom there is in the world were suddenly hers. When she replaced the phone, she seemed to know just what to do next, too. She cleared away the smoking things, then drew back the cotton bedspread from the bed she had been sitting on, took off her slippers, and got into the bed. For some minutes, before she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, she just lay quiet, smiling at the ceiling.

You could defend Ren’s codes. But you didn’t,” Yuan replies. “You wanted an excuse to talk about your source.” “But you said I don’t need defense from Ren Agnello.” Pico uses all its logic. “You said he passes the definitions of ‘friend’ and ‘trustworthy’ and ...” Pico begins a list of keywords. Yuan ignores the keywords. The thin lines on his forehead deepen, the wrinkles near his eyes tighten, and the frown in between his brows grows visible. These days, the word Source is coming frequently, ever since that man asked to meet. Don’t meet him. That monster has an agenda. Ren. Yuan’s CRAB forwards the text to his mind. So, he silences it. Why after two decades? Ren. It smells fishy. Ren. Just because he's a childhood buddy, you'll run to him? Ren. Maybe I didn’t see the Apocalypse with you, but I'm your war comrade, too. Ren. The texts stay unread in his CRAB.

The human eye has three kinds. One type excels at detecting red and associated wavelengths. One is tuned to blue. The other optimally perceives light of two colors: purple and yellow. The human eye is superbly equipped to detect these colors and send a signal pulsing to the brain. This doesn’t explain why I perceive them as beautiful, but it does explain why that combination gets my undivided attention. I asked my artist buddies about the power of purple and gold, and they sent me right to the color wheel: these two are complementary colors, as different in nature as could be. In composing a palette, putting them together makes each more vivid; just a touch of one will bring out the other. In an 1890 treatise on color perception, Goethe, who was both a scientist and a poet, wrote that “the colors diametrically opposed to each other . . . are those which reciprocally evoke each other in the eye.” Purple and yellow are a reciprocal pair.

The book treats, in fantastical terms, the dread problems of excessive specialization, lack of communication, conformity, cupidity, and all the alarming ills of our time. Things have gone from bad to worse to ugly. The dumbing down of America is proceeding apace. Juster’s allegorical monsters have become all too real. The Demons of Ignorance, the Gross Exaggeration (whose wicked teeth were made “only to mangle the truth”), and the shabby Threadbare Excuse are inside the walls of the Kingdom of Wisdom, while the Gorgons of Hate and Malice, the Overbearing Know-it-all, and most especially the Triple Demons of Compromise are already established in high office all over the world. The fair princesses, Rhyme and Reason, have obviously been banished yet again. We need Milo! We need him and his endearing buddies, Tock the watchdog and the Humbug, to rescue them once more. We need them to clamber aboard the dear little electric car and wind their way around the Doldrums, the Foothills of Confusion, and the Mountains of Ignorance, up into the Castle in the Air, where Rhyme and Reason are imprisoned, so they can restore them to us.

asked my artist buddies about the power of purple and gold, and they sent me right to the color wheel: these two are complementary colors, as different in nature as could be. In composing a palette, putting them together makes each more vivid; just a touch of one will bring out the other.

School friends are like the bijou of friends. School friends were and are the sorcerers of real happiness. Happiness that once thrived through us, by virtue of the fact that we were untouched by the ways of the world. And happiness that comes through them even today, however sporadic, by the virtue of the fact that the pure and unadulterated impressions of buddy-love that were left on us then, could not be eroded by time or too much awareness or too many new friends.

prophetic and scarily pertinent to late-nineties urban living. The book treats, in fantastical terms, the dread problems of excessive specialization, lack of communication, conformity, cupidity, and all the alarming ills of our time. Things have gone from bad to worse to ugly. The dumbing down of America is proceeding apace. Juster’s allegorical monsters have become all too real. The Demons of Ignorance, the Gross Exaggeration (whose wicked teeth were made “only to mangle the truth”), and the shabby Threadbare Excuse are inside the walls of the Kingdom of Wisdom, while the Gorgons of Hate and Malice, the Overbearing Know-it-all, and most especially the Triple Demons of Compromise are already established in high office all over the world. The fair princesses, Rhyme and Reason, have obviously been banished yet again. We need Milo! We need him and his endearing buddies, Tock the watchdog and the Humbug, to rescue them once more. We need them to clamber aboard the dear little electric car and wind their way around the Doldrums, the Foothills of Confusion, and the Mountains of Ignorance, up into the Castle in the Air, where Rhyme and Reason are imprisoned, so they can restore them to us.

Despite being the "Most Likely" on a list of "The Rock Stars Most Likely to Croak ...," Keith has outlasted ex-bandmates, ex-drug buddies and, so he claims, several of his own doctors. Yet as the man himself observes, "Every day of my life is show business." Start him up ...

Texas Wisdom for All Y'Allz When I was a youngin' I boasted to my pals how much older I looked than them. Now that I'm old, I boast to my golf buddies about how younger I look. I reckon when I'm dead, I'll boast to the Devil about how much I use to love boastin'.

The body is the bottle, self-conceit is the wine, and desire is the company of drinking buddies. The glass of the mind’s longing is filled to overflowing with falsehood; the Messenger of Death is the bartender. Drinking in this wine, O Nanak, one takes on countless vices and corruption. So make spiritual wisdom your molasses, and the Praise of God your bread; let the Fear of God be the dish of meat. O Nanak, this is the true food; let the True Name be your only Support.  || 2 ||   If the human body is the

Cut wrong buddies from your agenda; otherwise, the treasure you gathered for decades will fade away in the blink of an eye.

Beakwing turned to him. “Greetings, Master’s Buddy, Wolverine, Mistress’s Lovey Cuddle Muffin, Woofy.” The griffin bowed. “And worthy foe. My duties are to Master Nate, Mistress Milia, and to the strengthening of this land. When the master needs me, I will be ready. I will be ready before he even steps out here and looks at me. My protection extends to his newest human disciple, Harmony, and to anyone he takes in.” Wolverine howled in approval. “Good. I hope the next disciple our master takes will be as capable as you.” Beakwing laughed. “I don’t deserve such kind words. I must prove myself when the time comes, even for the smallest things Master or Mistress asks of me.” Wolverine nodded. “Naturally, I agree with you. We’ll make them so proud, they’ll shower us with treats and belly rubs.” Beakwing hopped up in excitement, tail wagging. “Belly rubs! I love belly rubs! I love pats too.” “They are the way of life, my friend,” Wolverine said. “But like many golden rewards, they must be earned.” Beakwing bowed. “Thank you for your wisdom, Master’s Buddy, Wolverine, Mistress’s Lovey Cuddle Muffin, Woofy.” Wolverine barked once in approval. “You’re always welcome, new friend. We will defy the heavens in the master and mistress’s names! It is always a pleasure to hear common goals, Disciple Beakwing Wingy. May you earn your title through honor and perseverance!

School friends are like the bijou of friends. School friends were and are the sorcerers of real happiness. Happiness that once thrived through us, by virtue of the fact that we were untouched by the ways of the world. And happiness that comes through them even today, however sporadic, by the virtue of the fact that the pure and unadulterated impressions of buddy-love that were left on us then, could not be eroded by time or too much awareness or too many new friends.

It’s Simple: Find a person you can trust implicitly. Be prepared to lean on them in times of great stress. Accept both their support and criticism with equal grace. Be a swim buddy to others. Someone out there needs you!

In the summer of 2002, I embarked on a mission that had been a goal of mine for many years. That mission was to write about a group of American servicemen who fought for our country. I was naturally drawn to WWII as a subject. I had read numerous accounts of how America led the effort to defeat the twin evils of Hitler’s Germany and Tojo’s Japan. A visit to a local bookstore, however, opened my eyes to two realities: 1) many books have been written about the heroes of WWII; 2) few books have been written about the heroes of the Vietnam War. The reasons for this discrepancy were obvious to me. Conventional wisdom tells us that the men and women of WWII were heroes who won our last great war. The deeds of our heroes should be recorded for posterity. Conventional wisdom is correct. Yet, that same “wisdom” has two faces. The men of WWII were treated as heroes. The men of the Vietnam War were not. Instead of receiving ticker tape parades, many were greeted with shouts of “baby killer” and “war monger”. Thrown tomatoes, rocks, profanities and,in some cases, being spat on by fellow Americans was a common occurrence. That “wisdom” tells us that the men and women who fought in Vietnam were not heroes. They fought an immoral war, a war which they did not “win”. Not only were they immoral, they were losers as well. The conventional wisdom about the men and women who fought in Vietnam could not be more wrong. The heroes of Vietnam fought for the same reasons as every other American in every other war: for freedom, for country, for family and for the buddy holding the line next to him. That visit to the bookstore opened my eyes. My mission was crystal clear: I was to write a book about the heroes of the Vietnam War. That book was to tell a true account of combat, an account that had been ignored by historians up to that point. I wanted to tell a story that might be lost to posterity forever but for my efforts. The book was to set the record of “conventional wisdom” straight for good: that the men and women of Vietnam were and are heroes who won the war they were told to fight. That, as heroes, their deeds should be recorded for posterity. Conventional wisdom should get it right. Lions of Medina is a true account of Marine courage at its best. Courage in the face of overwhelming odds. Courage that defined the generation of men and women who fought in Vietnam. This book is a tribute to those who fought the Vietnam War, a reminder that freedom is never free, and a testament to the valor of the American soul. Doyle D. Glass May, 2007 Acknowledgments Lions of Medina would not have been possible without the contributions of many dedicated individuals.

Conventional wisdom makes Andrew Jackson out to be a hick Indian-slayer whose backwoods buddies stormed the capital for his inauguration and trashed the White House, tromping their muddy boots across the damask and vomiting all over the flocked wallpaper. The truth, however, is that Jackson wanted to redecorate the executive mansion, but, lacking the funds, he invited guests he could count on to wreck the place and then in the hungover light of the next morning staggered over to Congress to beg for help with cleaning up the mess and buying new furniture, in a subterfuge reminiscent of Judy’s . . .

The most senior butlers were a pair of big, round-bellied Black men with sly senses of humor and the wisdom that comes from having a front-row seat to history. Buddy Carter had been around since the tail end of the Nixon presidency, first caring for visiting dignitaries at Blair House and then moving to a job in the residence. Von Everett had been around since Reagan. They spoke of previous First Families with appropriate discretion and genuine affection. But without saying much, they didn’t hide how they felt about having us in their care. You could see it in how readily Von accepted Sasha’s hugs or the pleasure Buddy took in sneaking Malia an extra scoop of ice cream after dinner, in the easy rapport they had talking to Marian and the pride in their eyes when Michelle wore a particularly pretty dress. They were barely distinguishable from Marian’s brothers or Michelle’s uncles, and in that familiarity they became more, not less, solicitous, objecting if we carried our own plates into the kitchen, alert to even a hint of what they considered substandard service from anyone on the residence staff. It would take us months of coaxing before the butlers were willing to swap their tuxedos for khakis and polo shirts when serving us meals. “We just want to make sure you’re treated like every other president,” Von explained. “That’s right,” Buddy said. “See, you and the First Lady don’t really know what this means to us, Mr. President. Having you here…” He shook his head. “You just don’t know.

Life gives every body a second change: It's called to....grow! Some bodies (or buddies) grow up, others, to the side, but we will all fall down, after

I kick the backs of seats when I don’t get the life I need. Do not block the aisles if I experience absolution. There should be enough room to dance in it. A room the size of all the wisdom I have so far gathered up  but have not yet consistently handled well.