Camcorder Quotes

Can you stand? (Aimee) I’m not helpless. (Fang) Oh, look! Mr. Macho is back in all his glory. Hello, Mr. Macho, it’s so not good to see you again. But you know, Mr. Macho, that you’ve been bedridden to the point that your legs aren’t used to carrying your weight and you’re not really human. So if you want to get up and fall, gods forbid I do anything to stop it. After all, I live for America’s Funniest Home Videos. Should I fetch a camcorder now? (Aimee)

There were so many of these moments that could never be captured accurately, even in the camcorder, only in the heart.

Witness testimony is always flawed. It's better than circumstantial evidence, sure, but people aren't camcorders; they don't record every action and reaction, and the very act of remembering involves chosing words, actions and images. In other words, any witness who was supposed to be giving a court facts is really just giving them a version of fiction.

Why did Acheron tell you not to talk to Zarek? (Astrid) I don’t know. That redheaded bitch-goddess got all angry when he told me to come protect you. It went like this. (She flashed to Acheron’s form.) Protect Zarek and Astrid. Now. (She flashed to Artemis’s form.) No! You can’t let her go, she’ll tell Zarek everything. (Simi, looking like Artemis, put her hand against her cheek and whispered loudly to Astrid.) This the part where the redheaded goddess went on and on about what happened in Zarek’s village and akri got all upset at her. Don’t know why he won’t let me kill her and get it over with, but finally he say…(She flashed to Acheron’s form.) Simi, don’t speak to Zarek but make sure Thanatos doesn’t kill either one of them. (She flashed into her own form.) So I said okay and here I am not talking to Zarek. (Simi) Wow. She’s a camcorder, too. How convenient. (Zarek)

In winter this town is freezing. You step out your door in the morning and the whole place looks like one of those nature specials in which a guy brings a camcorder to the North Pole and then the camera cuts out and you hear on the news that he got eaten by a bear

It is miserably clear that the video has been shot by a third conspirator who is burdened with a consumer-grade camcorder and reeling from some kind of inner-ear disease that he or she would like to share with others.

Please, please, you have to, I never ask you for anything, please just do it." "What are you talking about? You always ask me for everything." "Okay, then, but you always do it, so don't change the rules now." He knows its true. That's just the way they work. As much as he grouses and sneers and makes a big show of authority, he can't deny the kid a thing. If he wants a vintage Aston Martin so he can play at being James Bond, he gets one. If he wants to go one top, he can. He says he's never been to Africa and Lindsay goes online and books flights that same day to Morocco because he wants to see the smile when he presents Valentine with tickets. When the kid suggests setting a camcorder up in the bedroom so they can watch the tape back later and laugh at their stupid sex-faces, Lindsay goes along with it, wincing all the way, because he always says no and he never really means it in the end. This is love, he supposes, and it's mental.

Me, I'm hanging back, working the camcorder, videoing it all. For some reason, it helps. Maybe I'm like the observer, not the participant?" "Interesting." Sherman makes a note of this, as if it were useful advice: You could self-treat by carrying a goddamn camcorder around for the rest of your life.

For four hours, I listen to Tyler's voice, endlessly whispering and quietly laughing. He tells the camcorder about the first time we met. He talks about all the things he loves about me, some of which are habits and mannerisms that even I've never noticed before. He talks and talks and talks, hardly ever pausing and without a single second of hesitation at all as he reflects on the moments we've shared together. Of conversations and kisses, trespassing and parties.

Well before she became famous — or infamous, depending on where you cast your vote — Loftus's findings on memory distortion were clearly commodifiable. In the 1970s and 1980s she provided assistance to defense attorneys eager to prove to juries that eyewitness accounts are not the same as camcorders. "I've helped a lot of people," she says. Some of those people: the Hillside Strangler, the Menendez brothers, Oliver North, Ted Bundy. "Ted Bundy?" I ask, when she tells this to me. Loftus laughs. "This was before we knew he was Bundy. He hadn't been accused of murder yet." "How can you be so confident the people you're representing are really innocent?" I ask. She doesn't directly answer. She says, "In court, I go by the evidence.... Outside of court, I'm human and entitled to my human feelings. "What, I wonder are her human feelings about the letter from a child-abuse survivor who wrote, "Let me tell you what false memory syndrome does to people like me, as if you care. It makes us into liars. False memory syndrome is so much more chic than child abuse.... But there are children who tonight while you sleep are being raped, and beaten. These children may never tell because 'no one will believe them.'" "Plenty of "Plenty of people will believe them," says Loftus. Pshaw! She has a raucous laugh and a voice with a bit of wheedle in it. She is strange, I think, a little loose inside. She veers between the professional and the personal with an alarming alacrity," she could easily have been talking about herself.

All these processes are helped along by another friend of the earth, dematerialization. Progress in technology allows us to do more with less. An aluminum soda can used to weight three ounces; today it weighs less than half an ounce. Mobile phones don't need miles of telephone poles and wires. The digital revolution, by replacing atoms with bits, is dematerializing the world in front of our eyes. The cubic yards of vinyl that used to be my music collection gave way to cubic inches of compact disks and then to the nothingness of MP3s. The river of newsprint flowing through my apartment has been stanched by an iPad. With a terabyte of storage on my laptop I no longer buy paper by the ten-ream box. And just think of all the plastic, metal, and paper that no longer go into the forty-odd consumer products that can be replaced by a single smartphone, including a telephone, answering machine, phone book, camera, camcorder, tape recorder, radio, alarm clock, calculator, dictionary, Rolodex, calendar, street maps, flashlight, fax, and compass--even a metronome, outdoor thermometer, and spirit level.

As planned The Three Wise Women meet at 3WW HQ for debriefing. Angelina extracted the small camera from her lapel and downloaded it onto a laptop. She then expertly digitally scanned the Polaroid into her electronic file on James. Ava had just missed Sean who had given his camcorder and photographs of himself and Patrick to Angelina. It had been digitally downloaded and formatted onto Patrick’s pc file. A back-up of all data was done on the Company server but it was heavily encrypted and written in Angelina’s own program Borrow and used her own software Gotya, so only the very best could break her code and that would take months

After the attack, it was again the image of the country, rather than the well-being of those who had been caught up in the violence, that seemed to take precedence. Knowing that a picture speaks a thousand words, the government forces, according to eyewitnesses widely quoted at the time, put most of their effort into finding and confiscating camcorders and cameras from everyone in the vicinity, lest an image of one of the acts of butchery carried out by the terrorists—they shot the tourists and then hacked them to pieces—found its way to a Western media outlet, and thus perhaps tarnish Egypt's carefully cultivated image abroad once and for all. Hundreds of tourists had been at the site during the attack. Almost all of them presumably had cameras. But not a single image of the atrocity has since become available, even on the Web.

I purchased an infrared camcorder to video record my sleeping. Much to my horror, I discovered I move about every 20 minutes during the night.

Buff: Hey, I've been making these tapes, you know, video tapes. I ripped off a camcorder up at the mall and I thought, you know, it could be something that I do, be a video artist, you know. Tim: Ladies and gentlemen, Buff, the postmodern idiot savant. He will outdo us all.

mounted a battery-operated video camera on the living room wall near the fireplace. From this angle, it got all of the living room and some of the kitchen in a wide shot. When Fran was ready to begin telling her story, he was also going to film with his handheld camcorder, moving around to get different angles. Maybe they would even tour the cabin as she told her story.

his camcorder still rolling. Fran got out of the truck and stared at the cabin for a long moment. She couldn’t believe she was actually here after all of these years. A sense of light-headedness and unreality washed over her.

Sam snapped his fingers and crooked a finger his way. “Get over here, Michael. This is your niece.” Michael joined the group. His gait was slightly unsteady, though not because of any lingering effects of the accident. Those were pretty much gone. He intended to be point guard this year, and he intended to be a starter. No, the shakiness had to do with the sense of witnessing awesome things in the here and now. Without a thought to the camcorder, he stared down at the baby.

The CES is the world's largest annual trade show for consumer technology, with more than 140,000 attendees. Many innovative products have debuted at the CES, including the videocassette recorder in 1970, the camcorder in 1981, digital satellite TV in 1994, HDTV in 1998, Microsoft Xbox in 2001, and Blu-ray in 2003. The show is the epicenter of electronics launches in the world.

said. "Let's remember that half the people in this state have camcorders, and they'd just love a chance to earn ten grand selling the tabloids pictures of one of us whacking some coon upside the head.

The Japanese cameras that used to proliferate in these places have almost all been replaced by camcorders. Like a magic lamp, the camcorder swallows the palace and sucks in the pond in front. In these tourists' minds, the Belvedere is reduced into an unfocused square image, cast with a bluish tint. The present is re-created to immortalize memories. It's pathetic, but that's human tendency now.

Um ein Programm jedoch optimal einsetzen zu können, ist die Kenntnis seiner Leistungsfähigkeit nötig und auch die Routine im Umgang. Das bedeutet in der Praxis, daß man Stunden am Computer verbringt, die vielleicht besser draußen in der Natur mit dem Camcorder genutzt wären.

Camera goes direct to a camcorder with an LCD display.

You bet. Camera goes direct to a camcorder with an LCD display.

There’s a lot of water in the sea,* so probably no one will mind if you borrow a little. If your pool is below sea level, and you don’t mind a saltwater pool, this might be an option. All you need to do is dig a channel and let the sea flow in. This has actually happened in real life, by accident, very dramatically. Malaysia was once the world’s largest producer of tin. One of the mines that produced this tin was constructed near the western coast, just a few hundred feet from the ocean. After the tin market collapsed in the 1980s, the mine was abandoned. On October 21, 1993, the water broke through the narrow barrier separating the mine from the sea. The ocean rushed in, filling the mine in a matter of minutes. The lagoon created by the flood remains to this day, and can be seen on maps at 4.40°N, 100.59°E. The cataclysm was recorded by a bystander with a camcorder, and the footage has since been uploaded to the internet. Despite its low quality, it’s one of the most jaw-dropping pieces of video ever recorded.

. Recommendation: One avenue for ensuring that all civilian CCTV equipment is SCORPION STARE compatible by 2006 is to exploit an initiative of the US National Security Agency for our own ends. In a bill ostensibly sponsored by Hollywood and music industry associations (MPAA and RIAA: see also CDBTPA), the NSA is ostensibly attempting to legislate support for Digital Rights Management in all electronic equipment sold to the public. The implementation details are not currently accessible to us, but we believe this is a stalking-horse for requiring chip manufacturers to incorporate on-die FPGAs in the one million gate range, re-configurable in software, initially laid out as DRM circuitry but reprogrammable in support of their nascent War on Un-Americanism. If such integrated FPGAs are mandated, commercial pressures will force Far Eastern vendors to comply with regulation and we will be able to mandate incorporation of SCORPION STARE Level Two into all digital consumer electronic cameras and commercial CCTV equipment under cover of complying with our copyright protection obligations in accordance with the WIPO treaty. A suitable pretext for the rapid phased obsolescence of all Level Zero and Level One cameras can then be engineered by, for example, discrediting witness evidence from older installations in an ongoing criminal investigation. If we pursue this plan, by late 2006 any two adjacent public CCTV terminals—or private camcorders equipped with a digital video link—will be reprogrammable by any authenticated MAGINOT BLUE STARS superuser to permit the operator to turn them into a SCORPION STARE basilisk weapon. We remain convinced that this is the best defensive posture to adopt in order to minimize casualties when the Great Old Ones return from beyond the stars to eat our brains.

On October 21, 1993, the water broke through the narrow barrier separating the mine from the sea. The ocean rushed in, filling the mine in a matter of minutes. The lagoon created by the flood remains to this day, and can be seen on maps at 4.40°N, 100.59°E. The cataclysm was recorded by a bystander with a camcorder, and the footage has since been uploaded to the internet. Despite its low quality, it’s one of the most jaw-dropping pieces of video ever recorded.

In the 1970s, memory researcher Elizabeth Loftus was one of the first to dismember the camcorder–wax stamp notion, proving that eyewitness accounts were wildly unreliable and subject to suggestibility. In one groundbreaking experiment, Loftus showed it was possible to get people to create memories of something that had never happened by proposing to them that they’d gotten lost in a mall; she later listened to her unwitting subjects confidently detail the discombobulating incident that had not, in fact, occurred.

Later, I sat down drunk on the corner of Carondelet and Canal Streets, listening for the rumble of the streetcar that would take me back uptown to my apartment, watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prostitutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the wall spinning every color of daiquiri, lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters, spangers (spare change beggars), gutter punks with dogs, kids tap-dancing with spinning bike wheels on their heads, the golden cowboy frozen on a milk crate, his golden gun pointed at a child in the crowd, fortune-tellers, psycho preachers, mumblers, fighters, rock-faced college boys out for a date rape, club chicks wearing silver miniskirts, horse-drawn carriages, plastic cups piling against the high curbs of Bourbon Street, jazz music pressing up against rock-and-roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying cockroaches the size of pocket rockets, rats without fear, men in drag, business execs wandering drunk in packs, deciding not to tell their wives, sluts sucking dick on open balconies, cops on horseback looking down blouses, cars wading across the river of drunks on Bourbon Street, the people screaming at them, pouring drinks on the hood, putting their asses to the window, whole bars of people laughing, shot girls with test tubes of neon-colored booze, bouncers dragging skinny white boys out by their necks, college girls rubbing each other’s backs after vomiting tequila, T-shirts, drinks sold in a green two-foot tube with a small souvenir grenade in the bottom, people stumbling, tripping, falling, laughing on the sidewalk in the filth, laughing too hard to stand back up, thin rivers of piss leaking out from corners, brides with dirty dresses, men in G-strings, mangy dogs, balloon animals, camcorders, twenty-four-hour 3-4-1, free admission, amateur night, black-eyed strippers, drunk bicyclers, clouds of termites like brown mist surrounding streetlamps, ventriloquists, bikers, people sitting on mailboxes, coffee with chicory, soul singers, the shoeless, the drunks, the blissful, the ignorant, the beaten, the assholes, the cheaters, the douche bags, the comedians, the holy, the broken, the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town.