Car Registration Quotes

The challenges of sticking to a plan, the inability to resist a new leather jacket or a new project, the forgetfulness (the car registration, making a phone call, paying a bill) and the cognitive slips (the misestimated bank account balance, the mishandled invitation) all happen because of a shortage of bandwidth. There is one particularly important consequence: it further perpetuates scarcity. It was not a coincidence that Sendhil and Shawn fell into a trap and stayed there. Scarcity creates its own trap.

Even now I carry my voter-registration card in my wallet—reminding me of both my privileges and my obligations as an adult citizen in a free country. The card tells me much more than just the location of my voting booth. It’s one of the most powerful talismans of my identity—even more important than a driver’s license. Anybody can drive a car.

Some people believe that it isn’t so much power that is exchanged in TPE, as it is authority. The intrinsic difference between power and authority can best be explained thusly: If we were talking about a car, then power would be what was under the hood. Exercising that power would mean taking the car out for a spin. Having the authority to do so might involve a driver’s license, possessing the keys, or having the title and registration.

Dream cars have no registration plate.

Name? Masked Pseudo-religious Maniac. Organisation? Cult of Ophiuchus. Car registration? Shit, one of yours, actually –

Are you the owner of this car?" A cop has something you don't have, something you gave him earlier. "No, I'm just delivering it to Oklahoma City for a lady. " "Do you have plates for this car?" A cop needn't be vicious, but he can be so, safely. "Just those stickers." "Do you have the registration?" Presidents and premiers can annihilate millions, but only a cop can explain away your solitary murder.

What to Do If Stopped While Driving        •   Pull over safely to the side of the road if you see a police flashing lights behind you        •   If the officer asks where you’re coming from, politely ask why you were stopped—remember, the Supreme Court has ruled that the officer must have a reasonable suspicion based on “specific and articulable facts” that a person who’s been stopped is armed or has committed, is committing, or is about to commit a crime        •   Answer the officer’s questions as succinctly as possible, without embellishment        •   Always have your identification handy; if the officer asks for your license and registration, get his permission to reach for them—you don’t want him thinking you may be reaching for a weapon        •   If they ask for permission to search your car, politely refuse        •   If the officer tells you to get out of the car, do as he says—and if he puts you up against the car, stay there        •   If police insist on searching the vehicle, remain silent while they are doing so        •   Most importantly, even though you will almost certainly be outraged, don’t give the police any attitude or reason to claim you were hostile or belligerent, because that’s the quickest way to escalate the encounter

I was 18 wen I started driving I was 18 the first time I was pulled over. It was 2 AM on a Saturday The officer spilled his lights all over my rearview mirror, he splashed out of the car with his hand already on his weapon, and looked at me the way a tsunami looks at a beach house. Immediately, I could tell he was the kind of man who brings a gun to a food fight. He called me son and I thought to myself, that's an interesting way of pronouncing "boy," He asks for my license and registration, wants to know what I'm doing in this nieghborhood, if the car is stolen, if I have any drugs and most days, I know how to grab my voice by the handle and swing it like a hammer. But instead, I picked it up like a shard of glass. Scared of what might happen if I didn't hold it carefully because I know that this much melanin and that uniform is a plotline to a film that can easily end with a chalk outline baptism, me trying to make a body bag look stylish for the camera and becoming the newest coat in a closet full of RIP hashtags. Once, a friend of a friend asked me why there aren't more black people in the X Games and I said, "You don't get it." Being black is one of the most extreme sports in America. We don't need to invent new ways of risking our lives because the old ones have been working for decades. Jim Crow may have left the nest, but our streets are still covered with its feathers. Being black in America is knowing there's a thin line between a traffic stop and the cemetery, it's the way my body tenses up when I hear a police siren in a song, it's the quiver in my stomach when a cop car is behind me, it's the sigh of relief when I turn right and he doesn't. I don't need to go volcano surfing. Hell, I have an adrenaline rush every time an officer drives right past without pulling me over and I realize I'm going to make it home safe. This time.

There’d been no identification on the crash victim, a woman, probably early thirties. No purse, no wallet. But the vehicle registration and insurance had been in the glove compartment. The car is registered to a Karen Krupp, at 24 Dogwood Drive. She’ll have some explaining to do. And some charges to face. For now, she’s been taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital

Quels sont les premiers pas susceptibles d'engager cette conformation interculturelle d'une humanité une et multiple ? Un premier registre, minimal, est celui du respect mutuel entre des manières d'être et de penser distinctes, entre des cultures et des constellations épistémiques différentes. Cette coexistence respectueuse implique la proportionnalité, c'est-à-dire la reconnaissance par chaque collectif de ses limites, de son propre espace et de celui qui correspond à d'autres collectifs. Telle est la base de toute rencontre et de toute coopération entre les multiples collectifs qui composent la mosaïque planétaire. Encore peut-on souhaiter aller au-delà de la simple acceptation respectueuse de l'autre, pour passer à une reconnaissance de la valeur de l'autre. S'ouvre alors la possibilité d'un dialogue, dans lequel aucun collectif n'aurait de raison de s'engager s'il ne percevait dans le monde de l'autre une chance et une occasion pour transformer son propre monde et l'enrichir, ne serait-ce qu'en le faisant exister en regard d'autres possibles humains et non humains. Un tel dialogue présuppose que l'altérité de l'autre ne demeure pas absolue, totalement impénétrable. La capacité d'écoute, prédisposition à faire place, en soi, à l'altérité de l'autre, s'avère ici éminemment précieuse, sans qu'on puisse garantir qu'elle suffise à déjouer les embûches et les malentendus qui parsèment nécessairement un tel cheminement. Il y faut aussi un effort patient de compréhension - comme saisie de ce qui était jusque-là insaisissable et incorporation de ce qui était étranger - afin d'élaborer des plages de traductibilité entre univers culturels distincts. Mais encore convient-il d'assumer la conscience d'une incomplétude, car c'est dans la reconnaissance de l'inachèvement de soi comme de la perfectibilité du collectif auquel on appartient que l'ouverture à l'altérité peut avoir quelque chance de s'opérer. C'est depuis l'autre en soi, depuis le non-soi de soi, que s'amorce la rencontre avec l'altérité de l'autre. (p. 138-139)

My time as a doorman was quite volatile and bloody, no door registration schemes or training courses could have prepared you for what it was like back then. You didn’t have vanloads of police patrolling up and down the town then, you were lucky if you even seen a couple of bobbies in a car, never mind on foot.

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Myron dialed furiously and hit the send button. At that exact moment, he heard a sound like a twig breaking and then static. The goon with the Yankees cap had snapped off his antenna. This wasn’t good. Myron kept himself low. He opened the glove compartment and reached inside. Nothing but maps and registration. His eyes searched the floor anxiously for some sort of weapon. The only thing he saw was the car cigarette lighter. Somehow he doubted that it would be effective against two armed goons. Maps, registration card, cigarette lighter. Unless Myron suddenly became MacGyver, he was in serious trouble. He

Not Exactly Speeding A cop was watching the traffic on Highway 22 when he saw a car puttering along at way below the speed limit. “Well,” he said, “they’re not exactly speeding, but driving that slow is just as dangerous.” So he turned on the flashing lights and pulled the car over. Inside were five little old ladies, two in front and three in the back. All of them looked scared and shaken up. After getting the license and registration of the driver, the police officer explained that while they certainly weren’t speeding, it was also dangerous for them to drive a lot slower than the speed limit and he had to write them a ticket for that. “Slower than the speed limit?” the driver asked. “Officer, I don’t understand. We were going exactly the speed limit – twenty-two miles an hour.” The officer suppressed a laugh at their expense and explained politely that twenty-two was the route number, not the speed limit, and the speed limit was actually sixty-five. The driver seemed to understand and promised to do better in the future, and the police officer decided to let them off with a warning. As they were about to drive away, he asked, “Ma’am, are all of you ladies all right?” because they seemed so frightened and shaken. “Oh, we’ll be fine in a few minutes, officer, don’t worry,” the driver said. “We just got off of Highway 118.

My brain is a l l o v e r the place. Grief will do that to you. Today I sat in my car in my own driveway for twenty minutes staring blankly at my glove compartment. My mind d r i f t e d   o f f. Grief will do that to you. I found myself wondering why we still call this thing a “glove compartment” when no one keeps driving gloves, or any gloves for that matter, in there anymore. As a society, we are always talking about progression. We are renaming TV stations and street names—but can’t rename this storage box within our cars. Don’t fix what ain’t broken, I guess. Something broke me, and I need to be fixed. Grief will do that to you. What else would we call it? Crumpled tissue holder. Registration and insurance safe. I question everything now, even things that don’t matter. Grief will do that to you.

Eugen Ionescu, de même que tous les intellectuels roumains de l'entre-deux-guerres, cultive les auteurs français faute de pouvoir continuer à les étudier à l'ombre de la Sorbonne et du Palais-Royal, car les conditions de change très sévères interdisent pour la majorité d'entre eux des voyages à l'étranger. Le retour au pays de ceux qui ont la chance d'étudier à Paris est le plus souvent amer. « Un jour il a fallu prendre le train pour la Roumanie et être professeur dans une ville de province dénuée de tout charme – se plaint Anton Holban, ami d'Eugen Ionescu, qui enseigne le français dans un lycée de Galați. Il a fallu considérer comme importants les changements politiques de la bourgade, le registre, les notes des élèves. Compter les récréations et rire de tout cœur aux plaisanteries salées de mes collègues. » (p. 13)

I was standing by the car when two police officers showed up in the alley, very interested in me and the BMW in an alley where car traffic was not allowed at all, sitting there with a Belgian plate tag in the middle of the coffeeshop district, with me, the Hungarian guy, leaning to it smoking a cigarette, obviously waiting for something to happen. They began to examine my IDs and started searching the car. They were looking for drugs, apparently. I had been dealing with them for a few minutes when Adam showed up at the end of the alley. I was the only one looking that way, seeing Adam walking to turn into the alley; the two officers were too busy to notice what I had witnessed. The moment Adam looked up and noticed the officers around me, the moment he was about to turn right towards us into the alley, he made a 180-degree turn, the way a bad kid would do when playing hide and seek. Catching his steps the way Mr. Bean or Benny Hill would do—I could almost hear the music too—was both very funny and very concerning. He was too stupid to be a criminal; he was such a lame criminal that he didn't even think of walking past the alley's entrance like nothing happened instead of turning around and acting so suspiciously and obviously being in the wrong. I began to wonder how the coffeeshop business would work out with this guy if he was suddenly on cocaine all the time before we even opened the club? How would not he get me in trouble when there would be kilograms of marijuana and tons of cash flying around? How could I ever quit this job even if we could manage to run the place and get rich over the next 2-3 years? How would I ever get rid of this embarrassing, childish, dangerously silly criminal guy? By some miracle, in the car—which was used by these junkies and was usually full of smoking accessories—the cops didn't find a cigarette paper either, although they were very, very thorough. Belgian BMW wagon with a Hungarian guy, in an alley in the area full of marijuana clubs. They were sure they had me now, that they would be rewarded for such a catch. But there was nothing in the car. I was able to show them Rachel's Belgian registration and everything, explaining that she was my girlfriend who was in Belgium at that time and we were both working for a company selling smoking accessories; I gave them my business card. I apologized for parking there and even driving into that alley with the car. They fined me regardless. Before we started dealing with the marijuana behalf my name, we were collecting fines attributed to Adam on my name. Talk about being cheap. Apparently, he had started growing a lot of marijuana without my knowledge in a place he did not want me to find out about. As I was driving back to Urgell, we were both very silent. I was calm but he was anxious and I could almost hear the gears spinning in his mind. Perhaps at the same moment, we both realized that if I got arrested for any reason and ended up in jail, Adam could keep the 33% profit of the coffeeshop which I had signed up for and which belonged to me. ‘Thinking quickly. Acting quicker.’ Never quick enough. The sneaker. Adam was usually very slow, whether he was high or low.

All this notwithstanding, the twenties in America were a very good time. Production and employment were high and rising. Wages were not going up much, but prices were stable. Although many people were still very poor, more people were comfortably well-off, well-to-do, or rich than ever before. Finally, American capitalism was undoubtedly in a lively phase. Between 1925 and 1929, the number of manufacturing establishments increased from 183,900 to 206,700; the value of their output rose from $60.8 billions to $68.0 billions.1 The Federal Reserve index of industrial production which had averaged only 67 in 1921 (1923–25= 100) had risen to 110 by July 1928, and it reached 126 in June 1929.2 In 1926, 4,301,000 automobiles were produced. Three years later, in 1929, production had increased by over a million to 5,358,000,3 a figure which compares very decently with the 5,700,000 new car registrations of the opulent year of 1953. Business earnings were rising rapidly, and it was a good time to be in business. Indeed, even the most jaundiced histories of the era concede, tacitly, that times were good, for they nearly all join in taxing Coolidge for his failure to see that they were too good to last.

isn’t a vehicle subscription just another word for a lease? Well, no. A lease still binds you to a specific vehicle, whereas a subscription can potentially offer you access to a range of vehicles. “Simply flip between vehicles via the app as your needs change,” says Porsche on its website. You’re signing up with the company, not the car. Another difference: With subscriptions, all the potentially annoying aspects of owning a vehicle (registration, insurance, maintenance) simply go away. With leases, you still have to get your own insurance. Also, many car subscriptions give you the option to subscribe on a month-to-month basis. As Christina Bonnington of Slate notes, “You could theoretically not have a car for ten months of the year when you’re working and using public transit and then get a car subscription for two months when you’ll be travelling more often.

Cet exercice [un monologue et non pas un récit à plusieurs voix] peut se dissocier du registre dramatique, et surprendre autrement, car le grand acteur roumain Marcel Iureș, mis en scène par Alexandru Dabija, a ébloui lorsqu’il a conté les histoires d’Ion Creangă, en conviant des personnages, en conservant les commentaires de l’auteur, en suscitant un rire libérateur grâce, justement, à l’irrespect de toute frontière. Seul en scène, il animait un monde ! Non pas un monde avec des héros mythiques, mais un monde de gens ordinaires qui, successivement, s’animaient devant nous prenait vie par la force détonante des mots et du génie d’un acteur… seul, conteur parfait ! (p. 235)

I was arrested and charged with conspiracy, grand larceny, and two counts of possession of stolen property (the police viewed the car and the registration as separate entities). The charges, altogether, were punishable by up to ten years in prison. Tony Morano was also arrested. It was a strange arrest. Because of nothing more than an in-house employee/management hassle, I had been slapped with serious felonies. The newspapers and television stations covered it as big news. I was Sonny’s son—a Franzese—so I had to be a mobster. Enhancing that image was the fact that Philly Vizzari, the mildly interested observer, was also arrested under the same charges.