Built Tough Quotes

I was impressed, and also unnerved. Being around Nikolai was always like this, watching him shift and change, revealing secrets as he went. He reminded me of the wooden nesting dolls I'd played with as a child. Except instead of getting smaller, he just kept getting grander and more mysterious. Tomorrow, he'd probably tell me he'd built a pleasure palace on the moon. Tough to get to, but quite a view.

I’m a modern man, a man for the millennium. Digital and smoke free. A diversified multi-cultural, post-modern deconstruction that is anatomically and ecologically incorrect. I’ve been up linked and downloaded, I’ve been inputted and outsourced, I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading. I’m a high-tech low-life. A cutting edge, state-of-the-art bi-coastal multi-tasker and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond! I’m new wave, but I’m old school and my inner child is outward bound. I’m a hot-wired, heat seeking, warm-hearted cool customer, voice activated and bio-degradable. I interface with my database, my database is in cyberspace, so I’m interactive, I’m hyperactive and from time to time I’m radioactive. Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin the wave, dodgin the bullet and pushin the envelope. I’m on-point, on-task, on-message and off drugs. I’ve got no need for coke and speed. I've got no urge to binge and purge. I’m in-the-moment, on-the-edge, over-the-top and under-the-radar. A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary. A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom feeder. I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps and run victory laps. I’m a totally ongoing big-foot, slam-dunk, rainmaker with a pro-active outreach. A raging workaholic. A working rageaholic. Out of rehab and in denial! I’ve got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant and a personal agenda. You can’t shut me up. You can’t dumb me down because I’m tireless and I’m wireless, I’m an alpha male on beta-blockers. I’m a non-believer and an over-achiever, laid-back but fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home, low-rent, high-maintenance. Super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built-to-last! I’m a hands-on, foot-loose, knee-jerk head case pretty maturely post-traumatic and I’ve got a love-child that sends me hate mail. But, I’m feeling, I’m caring, I’m healing, I’m sharing-- a supportive, bonding, nurturing primary care-giver. My output is down, but my income is up. I took a short position on the long bond and my revenue stream has its own cash-flow. I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds and I watch trash sports! I’m gender specific, capital intensive, user-friendly and lactose intolerant. I like rough sex. I like tough love. I use the “F” word in my emails and the software on my hard-drive is hardcore--no soft porn. I bought a microwave at a mini-mall; I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast-food in the slow lane. I’m toll-free, bite-sized, ready-to-wear and I come in all sizes. A fully-equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically- formulated medical miracle. I’ve been pre-wash, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped, vacuum-packed and, I have an unlimited broadband capacity. I’m a rude dude, but I’m the real deal. Lean and mean! Cocked, locked and ready-to-rock. Rough, tough and hard to bluff. I take it slow, I go with the flow, I ride with the tide. I’ve got glide in my stride. Drivin and movin, sailin and spinin, jiving and groovin, wailin and winnin. I don’t snooze, so I don’t lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty and lunch time is crunch time. I’m hangin in, there ain’t no doubt and I’m hangin tough, over and out!

Ego Tripping I was born in the congo I walked to the fertile crescent and built the sphinx I designed a pyramid so tough that a star that only glows every one hundred years falls into the center giving divine perfect light I am bad I sat on the throne drinking nectar with allah I got hot and sent an ice age to europe to cool my thirst My oldest daughter is nefertiti the tears from my birth pains created the nile I am a beautiful woman I gazed on the forest and burned out the sahara desert with a packet of goat's meat and a change of clothes I crossed it in two hours I am a gazelle so swift so swift you can't catch me For a birthday present when he was three I gave my son hannibal an elephant He gave me rome for mother's day My strength flows ever on My son noah built new/ark and I stood proudly at the helm as we sailed on a soft summer day I turned myself into myself and was jesus men intone my loving name All praises All praises I am the one who would save I sowed diamonds in my back yard My bowels deliver uranium the filings from my fingernails are semi-precious jewels On a trip north I caught a cold and blew My nose giving oil to the arab world I am so hip even my errors are correct I sailed west to reach east and had to round off the earth as I went The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid across three continents I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal I cannot be comprehended except by my permission I mean...I...can fly like a bird in the sky...

Trying to get rid of an unwanted habit is a bit like trying not to think about an elephant (the more you try not to think about it, the more you think about it). That’s because what you focus on, grows. Which is why people who put a lot of energy into focusing on what they don’t want, by talking about it, thinking about it, complaining about it, or fretting about it, usually get precisely that unwanted thing. It’s tough to get rid of the habit you don’t want by facing it head on. The way to accomplish it is to replace the unwanted habit with another habit that you do want. And creating new and better habits, ones that empower and serve you, is something you know how to do. You do it the same way you built any habit you have: one step at a time. Baby steps. The slight edge.

How much of the appeal of mountaineering lies in its simplification of interpersonal relationships, its reduction of friendship to smooth interaction (like war), its substitution of an Other (the mountain, the challenge) for the relationship itself? Behind a mystique of adventure, toughness, footloose vagabondage—all much needed antidotes to our culture’s built-in comfort and convenience—may lie a kind of adolescent refusal to take seriously aging, the frailty of others, interpersonal responsibility, weakness of all kinds, the slow and unspectacular course of life itself.… [T]op

Women are tough and rather coarse. They were built for the raw, crude work of bearing children. You'd be amazed at what they can do when they divert that baby-hatching energy into some other enterprise.

From around the blind curve of the trail, the main appeared. He was tall, built, and armed and dangerous, though not to her physical well-being. Nope, nothing about the tough, sinewy, gorgeous forest ranger was a threat to her body. But Matt Bowers was lethal to her peace of mind.

Those who show kindness are built tough.

My grandmother Rose was a tough woman, so tough she'd built the family home with her own hands while my grandpa worked as a tailor in the market. She'd even built the furnace and molded the bricks herself, which is not an easy job, and even today, not the job of a woman.

The energies that make us act out of anger,fear,insecurity and doubt are extremely familiar. They are like an old,dark house we return to whenever things get too hard to handle.It feels risky to leave this house and see what's outside,yet we have to leave if we expect to be loved. So we take the risk.We walk out into the light and offer ourselves to the beloved.This feels wonderful;it's like nothing we have imagined in our old,dark house.But when things get tough,we run back inside,we choose familiarity to fear and lovelessness over the vulnerability of love, until finally we feel safe enough to go back and try love again. This is essentially the rhythm of every intimate relationship-risk and retreat. Over and over we repeat this rhythm,accepting love and pushing it away until finally something miraculous happiness. The old,dark house isn't necessary anymore.We look around, and we have a new house, a house of light. Where did it come from?How did we build it? It was built from the love of the heart.It has silently been weaving our higher and lower natures,blending fear,anger,survival and protection into the energies of devotion,trust,compassion and acceptance.

According to the Turnaround paper, which was written by a consultant named Brooke Stafford-Brizard, high-level noncognitive skills like resilience, curiosity, and academic tenacity are very difficult for a child to obtain without first developing a foundation of executive functions, a capacity for 
self-awareness, and relationship skills. And those skills, in turn, stand atop an infrastructure of qualities built in the first years of life, qualities like secure attachment, the ability to manage stress, and self-regulation.

was tough but fair. You had to be both if you were a woman in the food world. She’d built the catering company after her husband died. A

A relationship is built on trust and faith, and not on rules.

Repetition is the single most powerful lever we have to improve skills, because it uses the built-in mechanism for making the wires of our brains faster and more accurate.

A man needs to feel powerful and respected. Innately within us, as far back as we can remember, we have taught ourselves to grand stand in our abilities to be tough, to conquer, to impress and to win in all aspects of our lives in order to be validated by others and in doing so we have built our conceptual house of self on the sand of societal opinion. Yet, ironically, it’s only when a man finds his true strength in humility, in its purest sense, will he ever experience what genuine power and respect feels like. The man who builds his conceptual house of self on the rock of unpretentious decorum simply needs no validation outside of his creator. He is who he is…and for all intense and purposes that is the only respectable power any man should ever seek.

When you peel away all the layers of masculinity--the cleverness, power, sarcasm, the strength we built (or faked), the toughness (which is really just quiet suffering), white knuckles, bodies covered in boots and beards, muscles, green ink skulls, arrows, and ghosts, hearts surrounded as if by barbed wire--what you see is a sad boy in the dark afraid that he will always be alone because that is the first thing he ever learned about life.

Fuck me. I’m a strong guy. I’m a tough guy. But I was not built to withstand the sight of Jamie Canning stroking himself. The shred of moonlight shining through the gap in the curtains shows him reclining on his back, his far knee cocked wide. His body is perfect—strong and lean on the bed. His palm is cupped over his dick, the fingertips just brushing the cockhead. He takes a deep breath and then pushes it out slowly, his back arching a little ways, his hips rolling a few degrees.

A cowboy is someone who loves his work. Since the hours are long—ten to fifteen hours a day—and the pay is $30 he has to. What's required of him is an odd mixture of physical vigor and maternalism. His part of the beef-raising industry is to birth and nurture calves and take care of their mothers. For the most part his work is done on horseback and in a lifetime he sees and comes to know more animals than people. The iconic myth surrounding him is built on American notions of heroism: the index of a man's value as measured in physical courage. Such ideas have perverted manliness into a self-absorbed race for cheap thrills. In a rancher's world, courage has less to do with facing danger than with acting spontaneously—usually on behalf of an animal or another rider. If a cow is stuck in a bog hole he throws a loop around her neck, takes his dally (a half hitch around the saddle horn), and pulls her out with horsepower. If a calf is born sick, he may take her home, warm her in front of the kitchen fire, and massage her legs until dawn. One friend, whose favorite horse was trying to swim a lake with hobbles on, dove under water and cut her legs loose with a knife, then swam her to shore, his arm around her neck lifeguard-style, and saved her from drowning. Because these incidents are usually linked to someone or something outside himself, the westerner's courage is selfless, a form of compassion.

Kind of,” I said, “still, think about this. Everyone’s built the same. It’s like we’re all riding together on a broken airplane. Of course there are lucky people, there are also unlucky people. There’re tough people, and weak people, rich people, and poor people. However, not a single person’s broken the mold with his toughness. We’re all the same. Everyone who has something is afraid of losing it, and people with nothing are worried they’ll forever have nothing. Everyone is the same. The sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll want to get stronger. Even if you’re just pretending. Don’t you think?

We should therefore, with grace and optimism, embrace NOMA's tough-minded demand: Acknowledge the personal character of these human struggles about morals and meanings, and stop looking for definite answers in nature's construction. But many people cannot bear to surrender nature as a "transitional object"--a baby's warm blanket for adult comfort. But when we do (for we must), nature can finally emerge in her true form: not as a distorted mirror of our needs, but as our most fascinating companion. Only then can we unite the patches built by our separate magisteria into a beautiful and coherent quilt called wisdom.

Permanence: This one is tough, because thinking that our struggle will never end is built in to the experiences of despair and hopelessness. This is the “Tomorrow will be no different from today” thinking. One way to build resilience is to practice thinking about the temporary nature of most setbacks as a part of how we look at adversity on a daily basis.

Times were tough and the people were harsh and the clergy were cruel-cruel, and you know it! The most natural thing in the world is giving birth; you built your whole religion around it. And yet you poured pitch onto girls like me and sold us into slavery and took our humanity away from us twice, a third time, as often as you could. I was lucky, Father. I was only sent away. A decade earlier and where would I have been? I might have died in your asylums, me with the smart mouth. I killed one man but you would have killed me in the name of your god, wouldn't you? How many did you kill? How many lives did you destroy with your morality and your Seal of Confession and your lies? Now. For the absolution. Once God knows you're sorry he lets you off the hook, isn't that right? Me? Oh, Father. I know I'm sorry. What about you? Bless me Ireland for I have sinned. Go on, boy. No wonder you say infinitely God is brimming with the clemency, for how else would any of you bastards sleep at night?

Hanford, says Marshall, “was a tough town. There was nothing to do after work except fight, with the result that occasionally bodies were found in garbage cans the next morning.”1902 Du Pont built saloons with windows hinged for easy tear-gas lobbing. Eventually some 5,000 construction workers struggled in the desert dust and Du Pont built more than two hundred barracks to house them. Meat rationing stopped at the edge of the reservation; there were no meatless Tuesdays in the vast Hanford mess halls, a significant enticement for recruiting

Twenty years of being in the classroom have taught me that 90% of ‘emotional problems’ in the classroom are manipulation tactics. Why is it that so many students who exhibit emotional problems in other classes are miraculously able to make them disappear in mine? Well, either I have eight advanced psychology degrees I haven’t told you about, or the student knows they have to face a consequence they don’t want. 4. Self-esteem is not built by pow-wows in class about connections and cultural understanding, but by honest, hard work. Education theorists and other ‘professionals’ whose salaries are dependent on a dysfunctional system will tell you a teacher’s job is part psychologist, part parent, blah blah blah. This is opinion, not fact. The truth is, the best teachers spend their time doing their job—teaching. The best thing you can do for your students is to teach them your subject matter—and the best way to do that is with a classroom that is quiet, attentive, focused, and on task. To achieve that you need leverage—consequences that count for those who do not comply with your behavior standards.

The best units, according to Lartéguy, while officially built on high ideals, are, in fact, products of such deep bonds of brotherhood and familiarity that the world outside requires a dose of “cynicism” merely to stomach. As one Green Beret once wrote me, “There are no more cynical soldiers on the planet than the SF [Special Forces] guys I work with, they snort at the platitudes we are expected to parrot, but,” he went on, “you will not find anyone who gets the job done better in tough environments like Iraq.” In fact, in extreme and difficult situations like Iraq, cynics may actually serve a purpose. For in the regular army there is a tendency to report up the command chain that the mission is succeeding, even if it isn’t. Cynics won’t buy that, and will say so bluntly. Lartéguy immortalizes such soldiers.

Rashid Bey Beydoun, a stylish Shia notable who wore his fez at a rakish angle and seemed free of the timidity of his people, set out to give himself and his sect a place in the city. He built a secondary school and a mosque for his people in West Beirut; he established a philanthropic association. The ambitious politician knew his city. He assembled a group of qabadayat, street toughs, who were ready to do his bidding. Such were the rules of the city: if Basta, the Sunni quarter, had its qabadayat, so would Rashid Beydoun and his people. He gave his men a grand name: talaya, the vanguard. They had more bark than bite, the boys of the talaya. But the timid men and women of the hinterland saw in Beydoun and his men and his school the beginning of their emancipation. It was in the school established by Rashid Bey Beydoun that Abbas was to enroll.

Paley’s book Boys and Girls is about the year she spent trying to get her pupils to behave in a more unisex way. And it is a chronicle of spectacular and amusing failure. None of Paley’s tricks or bribes or clever manipulations worked. For instance, she tried forcing the boys to play in the doll corner and the girls to play in the block corner. The boys proceeded to turn the doll corner into the cockpit of a starship, and the girls built a house out of blocks and resumed their domestic fantasies. Paley’s experiment culminated in her declaration of surrender to the deep structures of gender. She decided to let the girls be girls. She admits, with real self-reproach, that this wasn’t that hard for her: Paley always approved more of the girls’ relatively calm and prosocial play. It was harder to let the boys be boys, but she did. “Let the boys be robbers,” Paley concluded, “or tough guys in space. It is the natural, universal, and essential play of little boys.” I’ve been arguing that children’s pretend play is relentlessly focused on trouble. And it is. But as Melvin Konner demonstrates in his monumental book The Evolution of Childhood, there are reliable sex differences in how boys and girls play that have been found around the world. Dozens of studies across five decades and a multitude of cultures have found essentially what Paley found in her midwestern classroom: boys and girls spontaneously segregate themselves by sex; boys engage in much more rough-and-tumble play; fantasy play is more frequent in girls, more sophisticated, and more focused on pretend parenting; boys are generally more aggressive and less nurturing than girls, with the differences being present and measurable by the seventeenth month of life. The psychologists Dorothy and Jerome Singer sum up this research: “Most of the time we see clear-cut differences in the way children play. Generally, boys are more vigorous in their activities, choosing games of adventure, daring, and conflict, while girls tend to choose games that foster nurturance and affiliation.

I'm not the only person who carries a lot of assumptions when I read the Bible, and it can be tough to entertain the idea that the Word of God has different perspectives in it. Biblical apologists spend all their time weaving these different viewpoints into a single frame, in an effort that often looks like squids playing Twister: fascinating, appalling, and hard to follow. We've seen what this approach to history can sow: a destructive oversimplification of the Church's past. Americans treat their national narrative in much this way, too. We simplistically teach a single story in our history classrooms, of brave rebels who left cultures of tyranny and heroically crossed the Atlantic to found a nation built on freedom and justice. When we speak of our national sins, such as the genocide committed on Nation Americans or the brutal, longterm economic extraction of wealth from black bodies via slavery and segregation, we seem to dismiss these troubling matters as things that happened in the remote past but that have been resolved today.

Dame Aline, somewhat younger than her husband, was a short, sturdily built woman with fair hair beneath a white lace coif, small square hands, a merry giggle. She had a mask of light freckles across her face that on feast days she hid beneath a powder of rice mixed with dried white rose-petal: a faint scent of rose hung about her even tonight, when she wore no powder. Her cheeks were full, making Hob think at first of a squirrel with acorns in its cheeks. He thought her plain, especially next to the ivory perfection of Lady Isabeau. As the evening wore on, though, she seemed more appealing to him, by reason of her blithe chatter, her delight in each jest, and above all the contrast she made with the dire ominous bulk of her husband. He sat beside her and cut her meat, as was polite: men cut for women, the younger for the elder, the lesser for the greater. When he had done, she placed her hand on his arm affectionately; she smiled in his face. Her rounded cheek, her easy laugh, lent her a childlike prettiness, and Hob wondered that she had no fear of the sinister castellan, who made even the tough-as-gristle sergeant Ranulf uneasy.

The rain-sifted light was weaker now, coming in through the transom windows in pallid silver and dark rainbow dapples. Through heavy-lidded eyes, she watched the play of muted color and shadow across Tom's shirt. Eventually, his long-boned, eloquent hands slid up over her knees and beneath the legs of her drawers. He untied her white lace garters and rolled her silk stockings down into neat circles. After dropping them to the floor, he unfastened his shirt and discarded it, taking his time, letting her look her fill. His body was beautiful, built with the long, efficient lines of a rapier, every inch wrought with tough muscle. A light furring of hair covered his chest and narrowed down toward his midriff. Cassandra sat up on the mattress and touched the black fleece, her fingertips as shy and fleet as a hummingbird in flight. Still standing by the side of the bed, Tom reached out to gather her against his chest. Cassandra shivered at the feel of being surrounded by so much bare skin and body hair, so much hardness. "Did you ever imagine we would be doing this?" she said in a wondering tone. "Sweet darling... I imagined it about ten seconds after we met, and I haven't stopped since.

I knew my father… It is true what my uncle said, yeah my father was a brute. He was, he was tough. But also he built and he acted. And there are many people out there who will always tell you ‘No’… and there are a thousand reasons – I mean there always are – a thousand reasons not to. To not act. But he was never one of those. He had a… you know, he had a vitality, a force… that could hurt and it did. But my God, the sheer… the, the… I mean look at it: the lives and the livings and the things that he made… And the money… yeah, the money. The lifeblood, the oxygen of this this… wonderful civilization… The money, the corpuscles of life gushing around this nation… filling men and women all around with desire, quickening their ambition… I mean great geysers of life he willed, of buildings he made stand, of ships, steel hulls… amusements, newspapers, shows and films and life. Bloody, complicated life. He made life happen… and yes he had a terrible force to him and a fierce ambition that could push you to the side… but it was only that human thing, the will to be and to be seen and to do. And now people might want to tend and prune the memory of him to denigrate that force, that magnificent awful force of him but my God I hope it’s in me because if we can’t match his vim, then god knows the future will be sluggish and grey.

I knew my father… It is true what my uncle said, yeah my father was a brute. He was, he was tough. But also he built and he acted. And there are many people out there who will always tell you ‘No’… and there are a thousand reasons – I mean there always are – a thousand reasons not to. To not act. But he was never one of those. He had a… you know, he had a vitality, a force… that could hurt and it did. But my God, the sheer… the, the… I mean look at it: the lives and the livings and the things that he made… And the money… yeah, the money. The lifeblood, the oxygen of this this… wonderful civilization… The money, the corpuscles of life gushing around this nation… filling men and women all around with desire, quickening their ambition… I mean great geysers of life he willed, of buildings he made stand, of ships, steel hulls… amusements, newspapers, shows and films and life. Bloody, complicated life. He made life happen… and yes he had a terrible force to him and a fierce ambition that could push you to the side… but it was only that human thing, the will to be and to be seen and to do. And now people might want to tend and prune the memory of him to denigrate that force, that magnificent awful force of him but my God I hope it’s in me because if we can’t match his vim, then god knows the future will be sluggish and grey.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 118 My conversation with NASA about the water reclaimer was boring and riddled with technical details. So I'll paraphrase it for you: Me: "This is obviously a clog. How about I take it apart and check the internal tubing?" NASA: (after five hours of deliberation) "No. You'll fuck it up and die." So I took it apart. Yes, I know. NASA has a lot of ultra-smart people and I should really do what they say. And I'm being too adversarial, considering they spend all day working on how to save my life. I just get sick of being told how to wipe my ass. Independence was one of the qualities they look for when choosing Ares astronauts. It's a thirteen-month mission, most of it spent light-minutes away from Earth. They wanted people who would act on their own initiative. If Commander Lewis were here, I'd do whatever she said, no problem. But a committee of faceless bureaucrats back on Earth? Sorry, I'm just having a tough time with it. I was really careful. I labeled every piece as I dismantled it, and laid everything out on a table. I have the schematics in the computer so nothing was a surprise. And just as I'd suspected, there was a clogged tube. The water reclaimer was designed to purify urine and strain humidity out of the air ( you exhale almost as much water as you piss). I've mixed my water with soil making it mineral water. The minerals built up in the water reclaimer. I cleaned out the tubing and put it all back together. I completely solved the problem. I'll have to do it again someday, but not for a hundred sols or so. No big deal. I told NASA what I did. Our (paraphrased) conversation was: Me: "I took it apart, found the problem, and fixed it." NASA: "Dick.

FACING THE MUSIC Many years ago a man conned his way into the orchestra of the emperor of China although he could not play a note. Whenever the group practiced or performed, he would hold his flute against his lips, pretending to play but not making a sound. He received a modest salary and enjoyed a comfortable living. Then one day the emperor requested a solo from each musician. The flutist got nervous. There wasn’t enough time to learn the instrument. He pretended to be sick, but the royal physician wasn’t fooled. On the day of his solo performance, the impostor took poison and killed himself. The explanation of his suicide led to a phrase that found its way into the English language: “He refused to face the music.”2 The cure for deceit is simply this: face the music. Tell the truth. Some of us are living in deceit. Some of us are walking in the shadows. The lies of Ananias and Sapphira resulted in death; so have ours. Some of us have buried a marriage, parts of a conscience, and even parts of our faith—all because we won’t tell the truth. Are you in a dilemma, wondering if you should tell the truth or not? The question to ask in such moments is, Will God bless my deceit? Will he, who hates lies, bless a strategy built on lies? Will the Lord, who loves the truth, bless the business of falsehoods? Will God honor the career of the manipulator? Will God come to the aid of the cheater? Will God bless my dishonesty? I don’t think so either. Examine your heart. Ask yourself some tough questions. Am I being completely honest with my spouse and children? Are my relationships marked by candor? What about my work or school environment? Am I honest in my dealings? Am I a trustworthy student? An honest taxpayer? A reliable witness at work? Do you tell the truth . . . always? If not, start today. Don’t wait until tomorrow. The ripple of today’s lie is tomorrow’s wave and next year’s flood. Start today. Be just like Jesus. Tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

I said to myself, This is going to be quick. I also thought: I’ll take the epidural now! Because the contractions were starting to demonstrate what the pain of birth is all about. The obstetrician came in. I smiled, ready for my shot. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” she said. “Your platelets are really, really low.” “Okay,” I said. I knew what platelets were-blood cells whose job it is to stop bleeding-but I had no idea why that was significant. “So, my epidural?” “You can’t have any medications.” “Come again?” “No drugs, no medications,” she said. “No epidural. I’ve called around to different anesthesiologists, and no one will touch you.” “No epidural?” “Nothing.” There are girls from third-world countries who do it with no drugs, I reminded myself. My mother elected for natural childbirth. How bad can it be? I got this. It started to hurt. I thought to myself, I am not going to cuss. Hell no! I am about to be a mother. I am bringing our baby into a positive environment and must be a good role model. Wow! The contractions built up quickly. My pristine vision of perfect, calm, quiet childbirth disappeared. A banshee snuck into the room and took over my body. Arrrgggh!!! No cursing! There was a rocking chair in the birth room. I went over and sat in it and began moving back and forth. Chris put on a CD by Enya that we’d brought to listen to: peaceful, pleasant music. I took a deep breath. Jeez, Louise! That one was a monster! Then, a breather. I’m doing goooooood! Breathe. Breathe… Wow! Then I said some other things. The banshee had a mind of her own. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I apologized to the nurses as I recovered from the surge of the contraction. “It’s okay,” said Chris. The pain surged again. Dang! Jiminy! And other things. Chris would watch the monitor. Suddenly he’d turn to look at me. “What?” I asked. “That was a strong one.” “Uh-huh.” The funny thing is, the stronger the contractions were on the monitor, the less they seemed to hurt. Maybe when things are really bad you focus more on being tough. Or perhaps my brain’s pain mechanism simply went on strike when the agony got too much.

I woke up as the first light began to bring an orange glow to the tops of the whispering pines (and sky) above me at 5:43 but lay still to avoid waking Hope for another half-hour. She had suffered through a tough and mostly sleepless night, and I wanted to give her every second I could as the next week promised to be very stressful for her (and me), and that was if everything went according to plan. At a few minutes after six, she either sensed the growing light or my wakefulness and shifted to give me a wet kiss. We both moved down towards the slit in the bottom of my Hennessy hammock and dropped out and down onto the pine needles to explore the morning. Both of us went a ways into the woods to take care of early morning elimination, and we met back by the hammock to discuss breakfast. I shook out some Tyler kibble (a modified GORP recipe) for me and an equal amount of Hope’s kibble for her. As soon as we had scarfed down the basic snack, we picked our way down the sloping shore to the water’s edge, jumped down into the warm water (relative to the cool morning air at any rate) for a swim as the sun came up, lighting the tips of the tallest pines on the opposite shore. Hope and I were bandit camping (a term that I had learned soon after arriving in this part of the world, and enjoyed the feel of), avoiding the established campsites that ringed Follensby Clear Pond. We found our home for the last seventeen days (riding the cooling August nights from the full moon on the ninth to what would be a new moon tonight) near a sandy swimming spot. From there, we worked our way up (and inland) fifty feet back from the water to a flat spot where some long-ago hunter had built/burned a fire pit. We used the pit to cook some of our meals (despite the illegality of the closeness to the water and the fire pit cooking outside an approved campsite … they call it ‘bandit camping’ for a reason). My canoe was far enough up the shore and into the brush to be invisible even if you knew to look for it, and nobody did/would/had. After we had rung a full measure of enjoyment out of our quiet morning swim, I grabbed the stringer I had anchored to the sandy bottom the previous afternoon after fishing, pulled the two lake trout off, killed them as quickly/painlessly/neatly as I could manage, handed one to Hope, and navigated back up the hill to our campsite. I started one of the burners on my Coleman stove (not wanting to signal our position too much, as the ranger for this area liked morning paddles, and although we had something of an understanding, I didn’t want to put him in an uncomfortable position … we had, after all, been camping far too long in a spot too close to the water). Once I had gutted/buttered/spiced the fish, I put my foil-wrapped trout over the flame (flipping and moving it every minute or so, according to the sound/smell of the cooking fish); Hope ate hers raw, as is her preference. It was a perfect morning … just me and my dog, seemingly alone in the world, doing exactly what we wanted to be doing.

I’m the kind of patriot whom people on the Acela corridor laugh at. I choke up when I hear Lee Greenwood’s cheesy anthem “Proud to Be an American.” When I was sixteen, I vowed that every time I met a veteran, I would go out of my way to shake his or her hand, even if I had to awkwardly interject to do so. To this day, I refuse to watch Saving Private Ryan around anyone but my closest friends, because I can’t stop from crying during the final scene. Mamaw and Papaw taught me that we live in the best and greatest country on earth. This fact gave meaning to my childhood. Whenever times were tough—when I felt overwhelmed by the drama and the tumult of my youth—I knew that better days were ahead because I lived in a country that allowed me to make the good choices that others hadn’t. When I think today about my life and how genuinely incredible it is—a gorgeous, kind, brilliant life partner; the financial security that I dreamed about as a child; great friends and exciting new experiences—I feel overwhelming appreciation for these United States. I know it’s corny, but it’s the way I feel. If Mamaw’s second God was the United States of America, then many people in my community were losing something akin to a religion. The tie that bound them to their neighbors, that inspired them in the way my patriotism had always inspired me, had seemingly vanished. The symptoms are all around us. Significant percentages of white conservative voters—about one-third—believe that Barack Obama is a Muslim. In one poll, 32 percent of conservatives said that they believed Obama was foreign-born and another 19 percent said they were unsure—which means that a majority of white conservatives aren’t certain that Obama is even an American. I regularly hear from acquaintances or distant family members that Obama has ties to Islamic extremists, or is a traitor, or was born in some far-flung corner of the world. Many of my new friends blame racism for this perception of the president. But the president feels like an alien to many Middletonians for reasons that have nothing to do with skin color. Recall that not a single one of my high school classmates attended an Ivy League school. Barack Obama attended two of them and excelled at both. He is brilliant, wealthy, and speaks like a constitutional law professor—which, of course, he is. Nothing about him bears any resemblance to the people I admired growing up: His accent—clean, perfect, neutral—is foreign; his credentials are so impressive that they’re frightening; he made his life in Chicago, a dense metropolis; and he conducts himself with a confidence that comes from knowing that the modern American meritocracy was built for him. Of course, Obama overcame adversity in his own right—adversity familiar to many of us—but that was long before any of us knew him. President Obama came on the scene right as so many people in my community began to believe that the modern American meritocracy was not built for them. We know we’re not doing well. We see it every day: in the obituaries for teenage kids that conspicuously omit the cause of death (reading between the lines: overdose), in the deadbeats we watch our daughters waste their time with. Barack Obama strikes at the heart of our deepest insecurities. He is a good father while many of us aren’t. He wears suits to his job while we wear overalls, if we’re lucky enough to have a job at all. His wife tells us that we shouldn’t be feeding our children certain foods, and we hate her for it—not because we think she’s wrong but because we know she’s right.

O happy age, which our first parents called the age of gold! Not because of gold, so much adored in this iron age, was then easily purchased, but because those two fatal words mine and thine, were distinctions unknown to the people of those fortunate times; for all things were in common in that holy age: men, for their sustenance, needed only lift their hands and take it from the sturdy oak, whose spreading arms liberally invited them to gather the wholesome savoury fruit; while the clear springs, and silver rivulets, with luxuriant plenty, ordered them their pure refreshing water. In hollow trees, and in the clefts of rocks, the laboring and industrious bees erected their little commonwealths, that men might reap with pleasure and with ease the the sweet and fertile harvest of their toils. The tough and strenuous cork-trees did of themselves, and without other art than their native liberality, dismiss and impart their broad light bark, which served to cover these lowly huts, propped up with rough-hewn stakes, that were first built as a shelter against the inclemencies of air. All then was union, all peace, all love and friendship in the world; as yet no rude plough-share with violence to pry into the pious bowels of our mother earth, for she, without compulsion, kindly yielded from every part of her fruitful and spacious bosom, whatever might at once satisfy, sustain, and indulge her frugal children. Then was the when innocent, beautiful young sheperdesses went tripping over the hills and vales; their lovely hairs sometimes plaited, sometimes loose and flowing, clad in no other vestment but what was necessary to cover decently what modesty would always have concealed. The Tyrian dye and the rich glossy hue of silk, martyred and dissembled into every color, which are now esteemed so fine and magnificent, were unknown to the innocent plainness of that age; arrayed in the most magnificent garbs, and all the most sumptous adornings which idleness and luxury have taught succeeding pride: lovers then expressed the passion of their souls in the unaffected language of the heart, with the native plainness and sincerity in which they were conceived, and divested of all that artificial contexture, which enervates what it labours to enforce: imposture, deceit and malice had not yet crept in and imposed themselves unbribed upon mankind in the disguise of truth and simplicity: justice, unbiased either by favour or interest, which now so fatally pervert it, was equally and impartially dispensed; nor was the judge's fancy law, for then there were neither judges nor causes to be judged: the modest maid might walk wherever she pleased alone, free from the attacks of lewd, lascivious importuners. But, in this degenerate age, fraud and a legion of ills infecting the world, no virtue can be safe, no honour be secure; while wanton desires, diffused into the hearts of men, corrupt the strictest watches, and the closest retreats; which, though as intricate and unknown as the labyrinth of Crete, are no security for chastity. Thus that primitive innocence being vanished, the opression daily prevailing, there was a necessity to oppose the torrent of violence: for which reason the order of knight-hood-errant was instituted to defend the honour of virgins, protect widows, relieve orphans, and assist all the distressed in general. Now I myself am one of this order, honest friends; and though all people are obliged by the law of nature to be kind to persons of my order; yet, since you, without knowing anything of this obligation, have so generously entertained me, I ought to pay you my utmost acknowledgment; and, accordingly, return you my most hearty thanks for the same.

Hugh bites her tough as her guts try to turn to jelly and try to evacuate of their own accord except the flush of stimulated stress hormones trips some sort of built-in override,and the panic attack cuts off sharply before it can really get going. Which is a good thing because not only would it be deeply embarrassing to s@#$ herself out here in the open, she’s not sure she has any apparatus with which to do the defecation thing. For all she knows, she might fart rainbows or anodized multi-hue polyhedral dice.

Resolve painful joints. Stop the bleeding before going any further. You now know that working through joint pain means that you are actively fraying connective tissue fibers and damaging nerves. It’s not OK to work through joint pain. Toughing it out is dumb. Plain and simple. So before worrying about your beach body or how you will deadlift 600 pounds, work on establishing a baseline of pain-free movement capability.

Whatever your journey is, be certain you have someone to lean on when things get tough. Because they always do. Someone who is not your grandmother. Someone chosen, not a built-in family member. Someone who’d walk through fire for you.” I smiled bitterly. I only knew one person who would do something like that. Me.

Life can be an enchantingly wonderful experience.... but it can also be tough, brutal, and unforgiving... but NOTHING can happen that God hasn't allowed... Don't give up!!! You're built for this... Designed for the victories AND the scars... Wear them with pride and let each day find you better, stronger, and more BADASSSS than ever!

Women are tough and we're built to persevere even when it's really hard and even when it feels like nobody understands us. Lori M. Cornetta

Built like a linebacker, with a square jaw, broad features, and a gray comb-over, Netanyahu was smart, canny, tough, and a gifted communicator in both Hebrew and English. (He’d been born in Israel but spent most of his formative years in Philadelphia, and traces of that city’s accent lingered in his polished baritone.)

I'm learning daily the walk that comes with the talk, can bear a heavy burden. Being a leader, a mentor, a STRONG WOMAN, means you will be tested, challenged, embattled. You don't get to just say you are "tough" and "no-nonsense" and declare you are not taking crap. You better be ready to withstand the shots that come with it. People aren't just gonna get out of your way or respect you simply because you say you are "that chick". You better be ready to defend that crown and protect it too! In the end, when you know you've stood for something, you protected your dignity, you can share the lessons because you live by what you teach, and you inspired someone to be true to who they are and to take control of their destiny and walk into their strength and greatness., you will understand why it is so important for you to shoulder the struggles. Your purpose is greater than the discomfort of hard knocks. In the end, owning all that is empowering is worth the price of admission. Push through Queens. It's what we do. And we are built for it!

Dr. MacDonald was a big heavily-built man in his late forties, with that well-leathered and spuriously tough look you quite often find among a certain section of the unemployed landed gentry who spend a great deal of time in the open air, much of it mounted on large horses in pursuit of small foxes. He

GODMAN QUOTES 13 ***Reliance*** Make all things bigger than yourself and you will have no reason to carry them alone. You are not tough by the amount of load of trouble you carry but the amount you are able to solve. All breakable problems are digestible in the tummy of wisdom. You are a wizard when you give life every reason not to believe you are human. There is no pause in pulse when the beat is meant to be constant. Skip all things and you have nothing. In what you have depended to happen is your hope built on. When something is reliable it becomes the bearer to the hope of the living. If you give your hope to the trust you have, you have given your reliance in the confidence. When there is no disappointment all hope is given with confidence.

Guns are one of the many things which haven't changed as much as everyone thought they would. Sure, there was a period when you saw laser pistols on the streets. Problem was, it was a little too easy to catch a reflection in the heat of the moment and end up slicing your own head off. Also, they were just a bit plasticky. When you go marching into some bad situation you want to be racking a shell into a pump-action shotgun. It feels right. It feels tough. It scares the shit out of the other guy. Nervously fingering a little switch wasn't visceral enough and neither was the sound the lasers made. You don't want something which goes ‘tzzz’ or ‘schvip’. You want something which goes CRACK! or BANG! Trust me; I know what I'm talking about. The manufacturers tried to get round the problem by putting little speakers in the laser which played a sampled bang when you pulled the trigger, but it always sounded a bit tinny. And the ones that played a snatch of Chopin's Death March were just fucking silly. Then there was a phase of guns which had moral qualms. Originally, they came out of the home defence market. The guns had a built-in database of legal precedent, monitored any given situation closely, and wouldn't let you fire unless they were sure you had a good cause for a self-defence plea. Most of these guns had other settings too, like ‘Justifiable Homicide’, ‘Manslaughter’, ‘Murder Two’, and ultimately ‘Murder One’. I kept mine on ‘Murder One’ the whole time. So did everyone else. The whole thing was completely pointless. In the end I threw mine away.

She spots a large army of green ants building a nest between two thin twig branches of a flimsy tree with floppy green leaves. "Look at this, Yukio," Molly whispers, leaning into the tree where a line of ants with amber bodies and glowing jay-coloured abdomens are carrying a white grub along a designated worker road on a branch. "They make their homes out of leaves. Some of the ants are the tough ones who will work together to haul the leaves up, and some of the ants are the clever ones who will weave the leaves together, and some of them are gluers who use that white stuff they're carrying to stick all the leaves in place. Yukio releases a brief sigh of awe. "Hmm." "See the bridge?" Molly asks. The ants had built a bridge out of their own connected bodies to create a shortcut for the gluers wanting to access a branch below them. "I wish that fella Adolf Hitler could see this," Molly whispers. "Hitler?" Yukio echoes confused. "Yeah," Molly says. "We could get Hitler and what's-his-name—Musolino—" "Mussolini," Yukio says. "Yeah! Mussolini," Molly says. "We get Hitler, Mussolini, and Winston Churchill all together and they could come and look at this ant bridge for a while. Calm themselves down a bit. Just watching some green ants working for an hour or two.

When you do a departure along the northerly from Gatwick, you get a real sense of humanity. As you climb out over the city, you can see masses of people down there, all the buildings and all the built-up area are lit up. And at night-time you’ve got the M25, which circles London, and you can see all these little beady lights that are dotted around in a very windy circle and you realize that it’s six o’clock around the M25. Day by day they’re down there and you just think of the effort, all the effort, just to get by. It’s a tough city. All those little dots, those beads of light, like a rosary, all those people, wanting to get in, wanting to get out.

We are built for sprints within an ultramarathon

Stalin faced the fundamental problems of providing enough food for the people and improving their lot through 20th-century industrial methods. He collectivized the farms and he built Russia into one of the four great industrial powers on earth. How well he succeeded was evident in Russia’s world-surprising, strength in World War II. Stalin’s methods were tough, but they paid off.

You’ve been strong for so long, holding it all together like a superhero. But even superheroes need a nap! Let your soul take a breather and heal up before jumping back into the fray. Remember, you’re built tough, but you’re also allowed to kick back and recharge. You’ve got this—you’ll get through it. Just don’t forget to give yourself a break along the way. Rest up, regroup, and then get back to kicking life’s challenges to the curb.

What happens to a billiard ball, say, if you shoot it through a wormhole at its slightly younger self, trying to deflect it off course? A physicist at the Russian Space Institute in Moscow named Igor Novikov worked out the math that would govern a trans-temporal, suicidal (or at least self-inhibiting) billiards game (a sort of cross between billiards and Russian roulette), and he discovered something remarkably reassuring: physical law would actually prevent the billiard ball from inhibiting its past self. In fact, a principle of self-consistency would govern a wormhole-riddled universe. Even if an object could enter a wormhole at some time point B and emerge earlier, at some time point A, it could never actually interfere with its own entry into the wormhole at that later time point B.7 Two of Thorne’s students checked and found that Novikov was right: a time-traveling billiard ball cannot take the place of its younger self.8 (According to physicist Nick Herbert, it is analogous to the exclusion principle discovered by Wolfgang Pauli, which prevents any two electrons from occupying the same states simultaneously—a principle that ultimately makes the world built of tiny probabilistic particles solid.9) More recently, the physicist Seth Lloyd designed and actually conducted such an experiment using a photon and what he called a quantum gun—essentially shooting the photon a few billionths of a second back in time to interfere with its past self. He discovered he couldn’t. “No matter how hard the time-traveler tries, she finds her grandfather is a tough guy to kill.”10 This does not mean that time travel is impossible. Quite the contrary. It means that the time-traveling object encounters and interacts with its earlier self in precisely such a way that its later entry into the wormhole is facilitated rather than impeded. In other words, all possible paths of a billiard ball entering a wormhole would, upon exiting the wormhole earlier, nudge itself into the mouth of the wormhole later, thus completing the causal tautology, or what physicists call the closed-timelike curve. These days, quantum physicists like Lloyd use the idiom of postselection, a kind of informational-causal Darwinism that ensures that the only information that survives its journey into the past is information that does not foreclose its origins in the future. It’s not like there’s a Causality Police stepping in now and again to prevent grandfather paradoxes from occurring, or that time travelers need to step gingerly in the past to avoid disturbing things (a common trope in time-travel stories)—although they may in fact find that funny paranormal experiences impede them in ways they hadn’t expected. Guns might misfire at a crucial moment, for instance. (There’s nothing keeping you from trying to kill your grandfather.) But mainly, it is that time travelers from the future who survive their journey into the past are the ones whose actions somehow lead to the identical future from which they will have been sent back. Time loops, in other words.

The mechanism that pushes an organization’s execution is the accountability built into relationships. Tough conversations that are uncomfortable are a part of building relationships. There is increased accountability when you ask another person to follow up or check in - to share in this accountability with you.

Now, I'm not claiming to have won any intelligence contests lately. I say lately because the last time I actually entered an intelligence contest was like seven years ago. It was pretty easy to sign up. I just had to send this guy two thousand dollars and answer some pretty tough questions from memory. They were mainly about my family history and some of my personal information--- stuff like my social security number and whatnot. I don't like to brag, but I aced it. The guy even sent me a framed certificate that now proudly hangs in the new office I built after we declared bankruptcy due to some random identity theft. You think a fifth grader could do all that? I doubt it. Who are smarter now?

SPECIAL AGENT ODYSSEUS CARR looked up at the graying tiles of his boss’s ceiling and began counting to ten. He almost made it to three. “What do you mean, I can’t brief my men? They’re putting their lives at risk, commander. Big risk. These aren’t stone-throwers you’re asking us to kill. These are the guys who took out the World Trade Center.” Commander Potchak stood. He was a head shorter than Odi but built like a fireplug, and every bit as tough. “What’s your point?” Odi leaned forward and rested predatory palms on the edge of Potchak’s metal desk. “My point, sir, is that we’re giving up a crucial advantage if we don’t rehearse. I want to give my men every available advantage. They deserve no less.” Potchak did not twitch or blink. He just stared back cold and hard for a couple seconds and then said, “If you’re not up to it, Agent Carr, I’ll give Echo Team to Waslager. He’s been itching to go international. You can sit this one out—in isolation of course.” Odi wanted to leap over the desk, grab his boss

The team spent several years working on Glitch, but it never caught on with a mainstream audience. The game was shut down in 2012 due to a lack of traction. Butterfield and his team had spent nearly four years working on a failed project. It was a painful setback—but it wasn’t “game over.” While working on Glitch, the team had built an internal productivity tool to streamline communication, and it was very effective. Instead of shutting down Tiny Speck, Butterfield decided to refocus the company around the productivity tool. They would polish and retool their internal app for external distribution, selling it to other companies with a SAAS (Software as a Service) pricing model. They called the new product Slack. The early traction for Slack was outstanding. In 2014, the company (now also known as Slack) raised $42.8 million in a new round of funding from several top tier venture firms. Later that year, they raised another $120 million, valuing the company at over $1 billion.[33] Your project might fail. But if your project fails, you don’t necessarily need to abandon your underlying passion. It’s like driving. When your car stops running, you don’t give up on the prospect of ever driving again—you get a new car so you can get back on the road. Butterfield knew he had a passion for startups, and he knew that startups were tough. When his vehicle broke down, he didn’t stop driving. He took his broken car to the dump, got a new one (with far more horsepower), and slammed his foot back down on the gas pedal.

Types of Advertising or as they say the flowchart of it goes as: Ensure to mark their presence Elicit the presence felt Emphasize on the presence making Execute on the presence gained Excel at the final attention The 5 Es takes you to the 6th E- Excellence. The step by step process brings you close enough to your customer or audience’s emotional aspect which eventually is the deciding factor in the buying-selling course. This short version of selling is tough because when you fall at one step, the chain breaks. It’s a series of strategies built to be chased in an order.

Toughness is a good thing, yet it is considered good only in men. When a woman is tough, men can't stand it. I like being tough and smart.

FATHER OF THE COMPUTER Alan Turing was sneered at for not being a tough guy, a he-man with hair on his chest. He whined, croaked, stuttered. He used an old necktie for a belt. He rarely slept and went without shaving for days. And he raced from one end of the city to the other all the while concocting complicated mathematical formulas in his mind. Working for British intelligence, he helped shorten the Second World War by inventing a machine that cracked the impenetrable military codes used by Germany’s high command. At that point he had already dreamed up a prototype for an electronic computer and had laid out the theoretical foundations of today’s information systems. Later on, he led the team that built the first computer to operate with integrated programs. He played interminable chess games with it and asked it questions that drove it nuts. He insisted that it write him love letters. The machine responded by emitting messages that were rather incoherent. But it was flesh-and-blood Manchester police who arrested him in 1952 for gross indecency. At the trial, Turing pled guilty to being a homosexual. To stay out of jail, he agreed to undergo medical treatment to cure him of the affliction. The bombardment of drugs left him impotent. He grew breasts. He stayed indoors, no longer went to the university. He heard whispers, felt stares drilling into his back. He had the habit of eating an apple before going to bed. One night, he injected the apple with cyanide.

Edinburgh For those who like walking, Edinburgh reigns supreme. The Royal Mile runs through the centre of the tourist area connecting Edinburgh Castle with Holyrood Palace. It’s a little over a mile and, in addition to passing old Edinburgh historic sites, it is lined with independent shops, cafes and pubs along the way. For this is Edinburgh’s Old Town, all cobbled streets beneath the lofty castle. The New Town is less than ten minutes walk away and it’s far from new. Instead New Town is Georgian, built by the wealthy residents in the 18th century. Its wide streets and perfect proportions create a visual joy for walking. It’s tough to name Edinburgh’s main sites, but here goes: the castle, continuously occupied for more than 1000 years; Holyrood Palace, the Queen’s official residence in Scotland; Mary King’s Close, a preserved 18th century tenement on the Royal Mile and; the Grassmarket, a network of cobbled lanes with independent shops and cafes. I could go on. Edinburgh is particularly busy during the festival that takes place from August to early September. It began as a military tattoo, developed into a fairly high brow arts festival and has expanded to host off‐stage events from the clever to the bizarre. Edinburgh also hosts a massive Hogmanay, or New Year, celebration with music and dancing in the streets all through the night and often into the next day. The city is at its busiest during the August festival and again at New Year. Public transport by bus and tram is available from the airport to the city centre. Downside: It is an expensive place to visit at peak periods and it can be tough to find a place to stay. Your first visit should be at quieter times. To read: Edinburgh is a literary city and so many novels have

If that sounds cultish, I’m unapologetic. When organizations talk about creating an innovative business culture, a lot of people focus on the external symbols. The ping-pong and foosball tables in the office, the team-building Thursday beers after work, the company ski weekends, and the anything-goes dress code. At TMHQ we have all those things. But they are marginal to what we are really about. A culture is built up over months and years of good practice, questioning, and improvement. Of doing things the right way and having anyone who comes into the group or participates in an event recognize what that means. Culture is all the things that happen in an organization when the boss isn’t looking. Tony Hsieh describes, in his book Delivering Happiness, how he built his online shoe business Zappos by concentrating on service and integrity above all else. “Your personal core values define who you are,” he argued, “and a company’s core values ultimately define the company’s character and brand. For individuals, character is destiny. For organizations, culture is destiny.” I think that’s true, and doubly so when you are “delivering happiness” as an experience that asks people to take on and display some of the virtues of that culture themselves. In this sense, we believed, in our initial phase of recruiting, that a candidate’s previous career path and qualifications were less important than his or her willingness to embrace our credo. Though we had no experience in event management, the plan was never to go out and hire people from the event industry. We had obstacles where participants jump through flames and we feared the first thing an outside event person might instinctively do was pull out a fire extinguisher.

Leaving the Connecticut River March 8, 1704 Temperature 40 degrees They marched until the captives could not take another step. Eben dragged Eliza half the way and Sarah dragged her the rest. Mercy and Joseph took turns hauling Ruth. That night they slept like rocks, and in the morning Mercy understood why bears spent the whole winter sleeping. It sounded good to Mercy. Perhaps it sounded good to the Indians too, because they did not leave camp. Instead, they built two fires, gathering an enormous woodpile. Joseph was stripped of his English clothes. Too torn and filthy to bother with, they were tossed into the woods. He was given a long deerskin shirt and leggings that hung from thigh to ankle, held up by cords strung to a belt. Then came coat, hat and mittens, all Indian. How dark Joseph’s hair was. How tan his skin. Joseph looked like a young brave. In a moment, the Indians did the same with Eben, whose coloring was very English, ruddy cheeks and straw-yellow hair. He did not look at all Indian, but in deerskin, he looked tough and strong and much older. The girls were nervous. They did not want their clothes stripped off their bodies, no matter how torn and filthy. But Eben’s Indian, Thorakwaneken, hoisted a flintlock musket and looked questioningly at each girl. Mercy could not imagine what he was asking of her. Eliza did not notice him or the gun. And Ruth was the last person to whom a sensible Indian would hand a weapon. Sarah, however, nodded. “I’m a good shot.” She took the musket from Thorakwaneken. Food was such a problem that even Joseph and Eben would be armed and sent forth to hunt. The girls would stay by the fire with enough wood to last for days, and Sarah to fend off wolves.

Plastic does take one form, recently discovered, that may in fact last if not forever then for a significant amount of geological time. Some washes up on beaches and ends up in bonfires. In 2006, a strange new kind of rock was discovered on some Hawaiian beaches containing melted plastic binding together bits of rock, sand, shell, and other materials. Some of this tough material, now called plastiglomerate, will become buried and last for many millions of years, a new rock type that has suddenly appeared in Earth’s strata, marking the time when people built things of plastic, scattered them widely, and sometimes burned them on beaches for celebration or warmth. The plastic

When you want a comfortable, lightweight, Australian-designed back pack vacuum, you can rely on the legendary long life and reliability of the Polivac ‘Koala’. It’s been built tough, with it’s rotationally moulded housing designed for extra strength. Designed to be comfortable to use and lighter than other commercial backpacks, Koala is built tough for the … Continue reading "KOALA – Backpack Vacuum&quot

Over the years I have built up this tough outer skin around myself, almost like a bubble or a barrier. This has been keeping me safe, but it has not allowed me to feel deeply, to embrace life fully. You were the only one who truly supported me Mary…there was no barrier between you and I. But it is not the same with the rest of the world.’ ‘Have you now removed that barrier?’ ‘I am trying.’ ‘What’s under it?’ ‘Light, pure light

Hawley had met some tough broads over the years, but they were honed that way from rough living. Mabel was something else. Her hardness was built into her very foundation, and she rammed that hardness into others, like an oil tanker barreling through a fleet of rowboats.

Commander Potchak stood. He was a head shorter than Odi but built like a fireplug, and every bit as tough. “What’s your point?

You cannot write the pages you love without writing the pages you hate. Nothing that you write is pointless, useless, or unnecessary. The product requires the process. The good days may be more enjoyable, but the tough ones are the ones they’re built upon.

There are genuine (gin-u-waaane) shitkickers all over America. Alaska; well, you betcha. Utah. That’s your Mormon central command. The word “moron” is built right in. Upset? Tough shit. An entire city and culture centered around a story about a magic angel who transmigrated to upstate New York, 1800 years after the death of Christ, just to reveal the location of some golden plates that would serve to translate a second gospel, like some Mormon Rosetta Stone? Please. And to whom was this revelation made? Joseph Smith. The L. Ron Hubbard of his day. Yeah, that happened, in reality. Because it’s not possible that Smith was either delusional, or a con artist who made it all up.

The foundries were vast, dark castles built for efficiency, not comfort. Even in the mild New England summers, when the warm air combined with the stagnant heat from the machines or open flames in the huge melting rooms where the iron was cast, the effects were overwhelming. The heat came in unrelenting waves and sucked the soul from your body. In the winter, the enormous factories were impossible to heat and frigid New England air reigned supreme in the long halls. The work was difficult, noisy, mind-numbing, sometimes dangerous and highly regulated. Bathroom and lunch breaks were scheduled down to the second. There was no place to make a private phone call. Company guards, dressed in drab uniforms straight out of a James Cagney prison film [those films were in black and white, notoriously tough, weren’t there to guard company property. They were there to keep an eye on us. No one entered or the left the building without punching in or out on a clock, because the doors were locked and opened electronically from the main office.

Whether this arrangement reflected the ecumenism, magnanimity, or pragmatism of the conquerors is tough to say. What is easy to imagine is how the arrangement eventually unravelled, having became a source of embarrassment for the Umayyads. The Muslims of Damascus—which, by the turn of the eighth century, had become the capital of the greatest empire in the world at the time—were squatting in “rented space,” and what is more, “rented space” belonging to their religious rivals. This had to change. Thus it was that the caliph al-Walid I (r. 705–15) razed the church.12 In its place, he built the most magnificent mosque ever seen, abruptly purging Christianity from the city center and establishing Islam as the main show in town. It remains so today.

As a cop, he’d seen too many accidents so he was all for staid, sturdy cars that were built so tough you could drive them through a building and only have to buff out a few scratches.

By the time I returned to Albany that fall, I was committed to turning things around. I marched into the career-planning office and began researching the firms at which I might still have a shot. Most did their main recruiting from the second-year, not the third-year, class, so I was late to the party, and I knew it. One firm, however, did stand out: Bickel & Brewer. They were based in Dallas, with smaller satellite offices in Washington, DC, New York, and Chicago. They liked to hire third-year law students, and at New York salaries. William Brewer bears a decent resemblance to a young Robert Redford. He walks with a strong gait and wears a tan Burberry trench coat over perfectly tailored navy or gray suits. He was also legendary in the halls of Albany Law School, where he had studied law. I researched him and his firm with vigor and soon found that Brewer’s looks weren’t the only thing attractive about this firm. The term “Rambo litigation” was coined there. They took no prisoners. You hired them when you wanted a fight. At twenty-three years old, I loved that. Kill or be killed! We’re not here to make friends, we’re here to win! You sue my client? F— you and your request for an extension! You want a settlement conference? Pound sand! Our offer is screw you! Looking back, this feels a little silly, but as a young gun it sounded very sexy to me. I could enter a frat or a brotherhood of sorts. The bravado naturally appealed to me, given the protective armor I’d built up since being bullied, not to mention the fact that I’d probably always had a bit more testosterone than most girls. Going on the offensive was thrilling, and the more I acted tough, the tougher I felt. Being a litigator was the perfect job; it not only let me hide my insecurities, it felt like a tool for conquering them.

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The astronaut Edgar D. Mitchell said of his experience of viewing Earth from the moon: “You develop an instant global consciousness, a people orientation, an intense dissatisfaction with the state of the world, and a compulsion to do something about it. From out there on the moon, international politics look so petty. You want to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and drag him a quarter of a million miles and say, ‘Look at that, you son of a bitch.’ ” I love this quote for many reasons. One, because it illustrates that all the well-meaning talk of oneness, such as you have found in this book, is built upon an empirical reality. We’re all one, the human family; when you pull back to outer space or dive within to inner space, that becomes clear. I like that traveling to the moon was such an emotional and spiritual experience for Edgar, as I have always thought that astronauts would be tough military types that wouldn’t be given to such profound pronouncements. Mostly, though, I love his violent conclusion that he’d like to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and take him to the moon. Firstly because to grab anyone by the scruff of the neck is an animal and implausible thing to do. I just felt the back of my neck and there’s barely any scruff to grab. Unless this politician had a particularly fat neck, Edgar would have to be content with an inch of skin between his thumb and forefinger, like he was holding a teacup; he might as well have his pinkie finger extended. Then he’d have to kidnap the bloke, presumably from Washington, drag him all the way to Cape Canaveral, Florida, into the NASA HQ, presumably give him some basic space training, put him in a suit, a rocket, strap him in, spend a few days getting to the moon, then finally march him out and admonish him for his lack of perspective. I don’t think he could sustain his indignation for that long. I reckon he’d start to feel a connection to the terrified politician at some point during that journey, possibly in the training section, where they’d have to acclimatize to zero gravity in a swimming pool. Also, surely once Edgar got back to the moon and he looked back to Earth, his love of all the members of the human family would kick back in and he might feel too guilty to lay into the sobbing and vertiginous, undisclosed politician. Among the small number of people who have seen our planet from space this sense of enlightenment is seemingly common. There are loads of comparable quotes that illustrate this strong sense of connection and fraternity. I chose Edgar D. Mitchell’s one because he’s the only astronaut who saw his epiphany as an impetus to snatch a senator and beat him up on the moon like an intergalactic Vito Corleone.

Whatever your journey is, be certain you have someone to lean on when things get tough. Because they always do. Someone who is not your grandmother. Someone chosen, not a built-in family member. Someone who’d walk through fire for you.

I knew my father… It is true what my uncle said, yeah my father was a brute. He was, he was tough. But also he built and he acted. And there are many people out there who will always tell you ‘No’… and there are a thousand reasons – I mean there always are – a thousand reasons not to. To not act. But he was never one of those. He had a… you know, he had a vitality, a force… that could hurt and it did. But my God, the sheer… the, the… I mean look at it: the lives and the livings and the things that he made… And the money… yeah, the money. The lifeblood, the oxygen of this this… wonderful civilization… The money, the corpuscles of life gushing around this nation… filling men and women all around with desire, quickening their ambition… I mean great geysers of life he willed, of buildings he made stand, of ships, steel hulls… amusements, newspapers, shows and films and life. Bloody, complicated life. He made life happen… and yes he had a terrible force to him and a fierce ambition that could push you to the side… but it was only that human thing, the will to be and to be seen and to do. And now people might want to tend and prune the memory of him to denigrate that force, that magnificent awful force of him but my God I hope it’s in me because if we can’t match his vim, then god knows the future will be sluggish and grey.

One of the keys to Tobi’s success: He turned Shopify into a platform that not only allowed merchants to easily set up online stores but also enabled app developers to build specialty stores for merchants. By opening up Shopify in this way, Tobi made a conscious decision to let developers make money off his platform, rather than trying to keep it closed so he could capture all of that app revenue himself. “What we did to get the platform off the ground is to basically leave all the economics for Shopify on the table and give it to the third-party app developers,” Tobi says. This helped him to rapidly attract more and more users to Shopify. And in retrospect, these decisions paved the way for their widespread success. But they were tough calls at the time. “It’s hard to do, because you are leaving a lot of economics that you could easily take for yourself on the table—or actually, you are investing it into your own future by giving it to other people,” Tobi explains. “And that’s very hard to do for most businesses.” The combination of a strong platform, a well-populated app store, and a community of developers helped protect Shopify against competition and built a positive feedback loop that ratcheted up innovation, attracting more users and more developers.

a willingness to be vulnerable will always breed strength. And I'm not talking the kind of flex-yer-muscles, "let's go do some deadlifts bro" kind of strength. I mean an inner strength. A strength only you can see. One built through the simple joy of managing to keep the pedals turning, even when the road ahead is steep and you're always gasping for breath.

This, then, is my life as a fat person. I am expected to absorb the discomfort and outright bias against my body in a world built for thin people. The responsibility is mine and mine alone. Should my body cost an airline more, it is my responsibility to pay them. Should my body cause discomfort for anyone around me, it is my responsibility to apologize and to comfort them. Should I begin to question why my body is forever a problem, it is my responsibility to keep quiet. And should these problems become untenable for me, it is my responsibility to “just lose weight.” The decent thing, after all, is to transform my body for the sake of those around me. It is no one’s responsibility to hear me. It is no one’s responsibility to care for my body. It is no one’s responsibility to ask about my comfort. At times, someone may do me the service of offering “tough love,” berating the body I have always had and the practices they assume created it, but I am never owed consideration, much less an apology. If there is a problem, I caused it with my gluttony and sloth. My body is my original sin. Every road leads back to the penance I must do for the body I have always had. No matter the problem, no matter the actions of an aggressor, the fault is mine. Regardless of the politics or life experience of the person I am talking to, the answer comes like clockwork. I guess if you hate it that much, you should just lose weight.

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The road to success is built on daily habits, not occasional effort

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Dear reader, I wrote this book for a boy I knew who died too young. I wrote this book for "our three winners" whose lives were ended by bigotry. I wrote this book for an inventive kid whose world was turned upside down because he built a clock. In America, we tend to ignore an uncomfortable history- our history. We want our wrongs to stay in the past to bury the truth and see history through rose-colored glasses, but the thing about buried truths? They come back to haunt you. For years, the ghosts of all those this nation has wronged have been rising up clamoring for their stories to be recognized. It's up to us to give voice to those whose voices have been forcibly oppressed or forgotten. We might not be able to give them Justice- because what is Justice to the victims of racism bigotry misogyny- but we can speak truth to power and insist on accountability. When I started writing Hollow Fires in 2019, it was against the backdrop of years of toxic damaging lies from our elected official, from the highest offices of this country. It was in the midst of a societal upheaval of people taking to the streets demanding change, so we could strive for that more perfect union politicians constantly laud. I wrote this book to ask uncomfortable questions and confront hard truths because inside us there's a small voice that says we can do better. We must. These voices need to be a chorus. A song we belt out together. And now as Hollow Fires goes to print, I'm watching heartbreaking images on the news of Afghans trying to flee their country fearful that the Taliban will retaliate against them, journalists, human rights workers and interpreters just like Jawad's father. Unfortunately, the United States has a terrible history of occupying other nations, asking those country's citizens for help, and then all too often ignoring the pleas of local allies and leaving them behind to potentially face imprisonment or torture for aiding the United States. We've witnessed Afghans desperately handing their babies to American soldiers over airport barricades, we've seen images of people trying to jump onto departing US. Military planes, reviving painful memories of Saigon in 1975, yet we hear a cacophony of hate from comfortably situated xenophobic American pundits decrying the potential influx of Afghan refugees. Mind you, these refugees have been forcibly displaced in part because of the actions of the United States and the few who are lucky enough to make it to the United States and get visas, permanent residency and citizenship (make no mistake these are huge hurdles) are sometimes cruelly subjected to bigotry and hate in the communities they land in as Americans. Shouldn't we ask more of ourselves? Isn't that what it means to call on the better angels of our nature? The commentators who scream against allowing in refugees, the same talking heads who think the horrifyingly inhumane treatment of migrants at our border with Mexico is justified buy into a deeply ingrained American myth- that they are always only "winners" and "losers". That war is a zero sum game. That extending a helping hand to a displaced individual somehow means that somewhere some American is getting less, but that binary is a lie. Here's the truth. Giving aid and comfort to a displaced person doesn't mean we can't also help Americans in need. We can and must do both. We have choices to make. Important ones. About our future, about who we are as a nation, as a people and as human beings. One of these choices is to live in a world where we call alternative facts what they really truly are- lies that obfuscate, deceits that give cover to Injustice, tools of cynical politicians. I'm asking us to speak tough truths out loud. To know we can do better and be better. I'm asking us to step forward, to face the truth of all we are, lanterns held high, eliminating the dark. Warmly, Samira Ahmed

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your best interests and the company’s best interests in mind.” Grant adds: “The hardest thing that I struggle to explain to people is that being a giver is not the same as being nice.” When I thought back to some of the most compelling people I’ve interviewed in business, Grant’s words rang true. Intel’s Andy Grove immediately came to mind. Ask Grove a dumb question, I once learned, and he’ll tell you it’s not the right question. He’s the one who largely built Intel’s culture of what the company calls “constructive confrontation,” in which you challenge ideas, but not the people who expound them. It’s not personal. He just wants his point to be understood. The result is that you do your homework. You come prepared. The distinction that needs to be made is this: Jerks, narcissists, and takers engage in behaviors to satisfy their own ego, not to benefit the group. Disagreeable givers aren’t getting off on being tough; they’re doing it to further a purpose. So here’s what we know works. Photograph by Peter Yang Smile at the customer. Take the initiative. Tweak a few rules. Steal cookies for your colleagues. Don’t puncture the impression that you know what you’re doing. Let the other person fill the silence. Get comfortable with discomfort. Don’t privilege your own feelings. Ask who you’re really protecting. Be tough and humane. Challenge ideas, not the people who hold them. Don’t be a slave to type. And above all, don’t affix nasty, scatological labels to people. It’s a jerk move. Jerry Useem has covered business

While Dad was a tough disciplinarian, I knew he loved me too. He isn’t much for hugs, but I hug him often. I’m the only one of my brothers to hug him and call him “Dad.” And even though he didn’t like to come to my school activities or my basketball games, he did take me hunting, starting when I was small. Mom would bundle me up to fight off the damp Louisiana cold that sinks deep into your bones, and Dad would take me along to the duck blind. He built a little step so I could see out, and as soon as I could, I started taking shots. I’ll never forget shooting my first duck. Unfortunately, it was illegal, and we ended up with a gun being pointed back at me.

I didn't know what about him drew me, except that he was kind and concerned about me in a way I hadn't experienced in a long time. Even Bulldog cared about me as fiercely as if I were his own daughter, he never hugged me. He expected me to be tough, like a man. And I always had been. But with Collin...He had a way about him-a tenderness-that seemed to break through the hard walls I'd built around myself.

Growing up on the Atlantic Coast, I spent long hours working on intricate sand castles; whole cities would appear beneath my hands. One year, for several days in a row, I was accosted by bullies who smashed my creations. Finally I tried an experiment: I placed cinder blocks, rocks, and chunks of concrete in the base of my castles. Then I built the sand kingdoms on top of the rocks. When the local toughs appeared (and I disappeared), their bare feet suddenly met their match. Many people see the church in grave peril from a variety of dangers: secularism, politics, heresies, or plain old sin. They forget that the church is built upon a Rock, over which the gates of hell itself shall not prevail.[9]

On a flat clearing, they built a simple dwelling and embarked on a life of extreme hardship, even by their own tough standards. The land was poor, they made their bread from the coarsest barley and in the first year they had to make do with wild herbs and boiled beech leaves. But they persevered and built up their monastery. They named it Clairvaux. Because of Bernard’s charisma, disciples flocked to Clairvaux and by the time he became ill there were over a hundred monks in residence. He missed the union of sleeping with his fellows in the long open dormitory but it was just as well he had agreed to move to a small abbot chamber adjacent to the church. His month-long coughing fits would have deprived the monks of what little sleep they had.

But while Becky put aside household goods for the future, she and Jeremy had far less success with the obvious way to smooth their consumption: building up a financial stockpile in a savings account. During most of the study year, while Jeremy fixed trucks on commission, they could predict reasonably accurately how his paychecks would rise and fall with the seasons. They knew in principle to save during the months with bigger paychecks, but in practice they had little success. Eventually, they simply closed their savings account. “It’s tough for us. I don’t know why,” Becky conceded. “The discipline for us to not dip into that rainy-day fund—for entertainment or something fun—is too much.” So Becky instead built up a rainy-day fund composed of toiletries, frozen pork chops, and boxed cereal and thus avoided the temptation to spend on something fun; you can’t buy movie tickets with eight tubes of toothpaste.

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