Car Suspension Quotes

As the taxi entered the intersection, the two drivers in the attorney general’s entourage slammed on the brakes. Both Suburbans fishtailed out of control. Ducking in the back seat, Blake could smell the burning rubber from tires skidding on the asphalt and hear the pedestrians screaming and car horns sounding off in rebuke.

They came for him near midnight, seven hard-faced men arriving simultaneously in a matching set of Zis 101s, the black-lacquered saloon car so shamelessly modeled on the American Buick Roadmaster, and so capriciously favored by the sinister flying squads of the NKVD. Ironically, the arrest when it came did not shock Batya. He had prepared for it.

Upon arriving at the murder scene, they saw Deputy Sheriff Peewee Stubblefield pacing back and forth on the front walk. He stopped and smirked as Sheriff Roosevelt Baker braked the patrol car. He emitted a noise sounding more like a groan than a sigh.

Hanson got to sleep with you, and I didn't,” he said, his own jaw a little tight. “So I stole his car.

My friend and business partner, Gerald Peyton was 12 minutes late to the funeral. I’d reminded him it started at 2 p.m. “Yeah, yeah, Frank,” he said. “I’ll be there. Just be sure you make it.” Well, here I sat on my thumbs, and he was the no-show. He stopped at a bar and got sloshed, I thought.

Laurel had one thousand year-round residents and our share of bar fights, car accidents, marital disputes, and an occasional breaking and entering.  What we didn't have were missing teenage girls.

Will I see you again?” His grin had lost its wild flair. Instead, it was limp and very small. “Sure you will.” A pause. “In my next movie.” With one last look, he climbed in his car and drove away.

Jack, this is Vance McGruder. I couldn’t find your cell number so I’m taking a chance on reaching you at the cottage. It’s Monday afternoon and I need you here as soon as possible. I’ve arranged for a one-way, first-class ticket on Delta Air Lines on their 3:15pm flight tomorrow afternoon to Atlanta and connecting on to LAX. I’ll have a car and driver at LAX to pick you up. Call me as soon as you get this message.

She watched the clip several times—enough times to know w certainty her father had nothing to do with the crash. He’d done everything in his power to stop the car and avoid the truck. Someone else had been driving.

One feels even in the midst of the traffic, or waking at night, Clarissa was positive, a particular hush, or solemnity; an indescribable pause; a suspense before Big Ben strikes. There! Out it boomed. First a warning, musical; then the hour, irrevocable. The leaden circles dissolved in the air. Such fools we are, she thought, crossing Victoria Street. For Heaven only knows why one loves it so, how one sees it so, making it up, building it round one, tumbling it, creating it every moment afresh; but the veriest frumps, the most dejected of miseries sitting on doorsteps (drink their downfall) do the same; can't be dealt with, she felt positive, by Acts of Parliament for that very reason: they love life. In people's eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment in June.

I got in my car and started it up and sighed. The radio station was about to do some Bartok crap and I couldn’t stand that atonal stuff, so I flipped it off. I’d rather head back to my place in silence.

Random lines, Beyond the Darkness: "Playing 'tag, you're it' against a car is a bad idea.

Some women like to treat a man like a piece of bubble gum. The poor sap thinks everything’s fine. And it is—until the taste runs out. Then she’ll just spit him out the car window of her life and never look back.

Ava reached the highway again. Not a soul was in sight. Not a car, not a bird, and certainly no man. Just one woman walking into a new era of her life, into the hope for a future, another dawn, another day, as the morning sun rose above the mountain crest, painting her face with light.

My life is hard. No one would rob me of that. The clothes I am wearing came out of a knotted up black plastic trash bag from a resale shop downtown. And not the downtown where shiny cars wink at you in the sunlight. If a car winks at you in this area it’s being driven by a person you would be best to avoid. My side of downtown is crumbling and skirted by chain link fences. --Rocky Evans

THERE WAS ALWAYS a boy in your life that common sense and the prayers of parents told you to stay away from: fast talker, fast car, and fast hands. He was the boy your father kept a loaded shotgun by the door for and met on the front porch if he ever thought about venturing onto his property…let alone the threshold. He was the tall, dark, mysteriously handsome, and uncharacter-istically quiet one that made you wonder what was going on in his head, and that little voice in your head said it wasn’t always so honorable. He was the boy you broke all of the rules over because bad-boys equaled excitement and the rebel in you liked the ride.

Suddenly, a car zoomed out of a side street to their right, slamming into the side of the car with a loud metallic crash. Tires screeched. The passenger window shattered, showering glass over Pam as the other car’s momentum pushed them towards the opposite side of the road. Pam shrieked as the car tumbled over the edge of the road into the embankment. The car rolled until it came to a rest in the bottom of the ditch with creaks and groans. Neither Pam nor her mother stirred.

I closed the door and sank into my desk chair. My heart was pounding even harder. I felt like someone who had just staggered out of her car after an accident on a freeway. This was different from the cockroach and the books and the Barbie. I’d been injured. Someone had tried to physically harm me.

Virginia screamed, grabbing for the door handle and nearly throwing herself from the moving car. James swerved to the side of the road, slamming on the brakes before she killed herself trying to escape. As it was, she flung herself from the car, falling to her knees and scrambling to her feet. Then she ran. Took off like a bolt until she rounded the bend and disappeared from view. 'Way to go, slick,' AJ said snarkily, climbing into the front seat. 'You ran her off.

2100 Hours: The lights went out inside the compound. People throughout the auditorium began to shriek. It was chaos.           Then they experienced what felt like a sonic boom. Pack’s vehicle had blown apart, metal fragments hurled a quarter mile away. The CEV had knocked the main gate over as if it were a fist going through papier-mache. Once the explosion had run its course, the car was in flames, which caught some of the crew still wearing the night vision devices off guard.

His cellphone alarm beeped. Now. Who would he nail? A single target tonight. So, a single bullet in the gun. David put the crosshairs on one of the guys walking out of the Quick Trip. Tall man, longish hair, scruffy beard. The guy pulled keys from his pocket and the crosshairs settled on his face. What was next? David pulled the trigger. The back of the guy’s head exploded. A massive wound. The guy’s friend looked around. The pregnant woman screamed. The black guy ran. The girls hugged each other. David pulled the trunk lid back down. Clicked and locked. A gentle walkway wound around the mall. Sol slowly drove away. David’s breaths came fast, almost pants. He then took his black pants off and removed his soiled underwear. He reached in the plastic bag for the fresh pair. Changing in the trunk of a dark and hot and moving car was difficult. Just part of the job now. When he pulled the trigger, he orgasmed. Always did. David slowed his breathing. Taylor series for ex = 1 + x + X2 / 2! + X3 / 3! etc. Yes, that was better. He closed his eyes and let go of the rope and let the rifle roll to one side. That guy’s head exploded. They drove away, below the speed limit. Didn’t want to attract attention. No need to, in no hurry.

It's pretty pathetic when you need to handcuff a woman to get her to stay near you," she said lamely. His eyes glinted suddenly. "Sometimes it's fun." Laila and Dec from Taken By A Navy SEAL

Speed Bump Q. How fast can you hit a speed bump while driving and live? —Myrlin Barber A. Surprisingly fast. First, a disclaimer. After reading this answer, don’t try to drive over speed bumps at high speeds. Here are some reasons: You could hit and kill someone. It can destroy your tires, suspension, and potentially your entire car. Have you read any of the other answers in this book?

There’s an unexpected lull in the traffic about two-thirds of the way to Darmstadt, and I make the mistake of breathing a sigh of relief. The respite is short-lived. One moment I’m driving along a seemingly empty road, bouncing from side to side on the Smart’s town-car suspension as the hairdryersized engine howls its guts out beneath my buttocks, and the next instant the dashboard in front of me lights up like a flashbulb.

She had killed people for a living, left others devastated, and now she had a personal vendetta against the car in front of her. "You do realize it's a crime to plan assassinations in the school drop-off line, right?

Gunfire doesn’t startle real Texans, particularly those from rural towns. Miranda’s children mastered pistols, shotguns, and rifles like magicians master top hats, rabbits, and playing cards. Texas bravado aside, however, fully automatic gunfire wasn’t kosher. Not even close. Mirandites cowered at the ominous sounds of hoodlums firing M-16s and AK-47s from train cars barreling through the town’s arteries on largely secluded tracks. 

Here, you drive," Erik said. "What? Why?" "In case we do have to start shooting; I have a badge and you don't," he explained. "Fine. But for the record, I'm a better shot than you are." "For your information, I was the youngest kid awarded the rifle shooting merit badge in my troop," Erik said, holding the wheel as she climbed across him. "Is that supposed to impress me?" "Just enough to get you back into my bed." She took over the gas pedal and Erik slid out from underneath her. "It takes more than fancy shooting," she said loftily, making a sharp turn. Erik was thrown against the door. "Would you warn me before you do that?" "It's a car chase!

One glance at the way he looked at her, and Sam knew exactly what he was. A lethal habit, she thought. The accelerator on a race car. A halo jump on a crystal clear day. The best possible rush with the worst possible consequences.

I’m going to fuck you until you’re seeing stars, Ava.” His voice is harsh as he grinds his hips against me. I whimper. “You won’t be going to work tomorrow because you won’t be able to walk. Get in the car.” I would, but I already can’t walk. Suspense has rendered me immobile.

The sound of running footsteps made them all start. Then the refectory door opened and the round, freckled face of Sister Belinda appeared. She was breathing heavily, and her veil was crooked, showing short tufts of red hair sprouting around her glowing face like unruly weeds in a parched garden. “Excuse me, Mother, Sisters,” she said. “But there is a police car waiting at the gate and what looks like the Black Maria behind it. Also, another car approaching from the farm and a uniformed constable coming in via the beach path. It would appear that the filth have us surrounded.

As Ian popped the lock and opened the car door, he turned to Phoebe. “Can you do me a favour?” She immediately stepped toward him, fully embracing their new mature relationship. “Of course.” Ian looked pointedly over his own shoulder and said, “Tell me the truth. Does this car make my glowing ass look fat?” She’d naturally followed the direction of his gaze, but now she looked up, hard, into his eyes. And she smiled back at him despite herself. She even laughed. “You’re an idiot.” “When things get too serious, I get a rash.” She pointedly looked back down at his nether regions, despite the fact doing so made her blush. Still, she spoke coolly, dryly. “Not on your ass.” If Ian believed in love, that would’ve been it for him. Instantly. Enthrallingly. Eternally. Instead, he just laughed. “Thank God for that. See if there’s anything remotely clothinglike in the backseat or the trunk.

What else do you assess during these test drives?" He felt electricity, every nerve in his body firing at once, this attraction raw and unexpected. "Tires?" As one, they slowed a few feet before the sidewalk, stopping in the shadows as if neither of them wanted to step into the glare of the lights. She turned to face him, her gaze dipping to his shoes. "They do seem to be in good working order." "Suspension?" He took a step closer and heard her breath catch in her throat. "A little bit stiff." She licked her lips. "I think we're in for a rough ride." "Acceleration?" Jay shoved the warning voice out of his head and cupped her jaw, brushing his thumb over her soft cheek. Her gaze grew heavy and she sighed. Or was it a whimper? He could barely hear over the rush of blood through his ears. "A little too fast," she whispered, leaning in. She pressed one palm against his chest, and in that moment he knew she wanted him, too. "Maybe I should test the handling." Dropping his head, he brushed soft kisses along her jaw, feathering a path to the bow of her mouth as he slid one hand under her soft hair to cup her nape. He felt like he'd just trapped a butterfly. If he didn't hold on tight, she might fly away. "Or the navigation." She moaned, the soft sound making him tense inside. His free hand slid over her curves to her hip and she ground up against him, a deliciously painful pressure on his already-hard shaft. "Navigation it is." He breathed in the scent of her. Wildflowers. A thunderstorm. The rolling sea.

Luz leaned her head against the window. The bus was already on the outskirts of Mexico City and the endless urban landscape had never seemed so gray and or so harsh. Most of the city was nothing like the old money enclave of Lomas Virreyes where the Vegas lived or Polanco where the city’s most expensive restaurants and clubs catered to the wealthy. The bus passed block after block of sooty concrete cut into houses and shops and shanties and parking garages and mercados and schools and more shanties where people lived surrounded by hulks of old cars and plastic things no one bothered to throw away. Sometimes there wasn’t concrete for homes, just sheets of corrugated metal and big pieces of cardboard that would last until the next rainy season. It was the detritus of millions upon millions of people who had nowhere to go and nothing to do and were angry about it. The Reforma newspaper had reported a few weeks ago that the city’s population was in excess of 28 million--more than 25 percent of the country’s entire population--and Luz believed it. All of those people were clawing at each other in a huge fishbowl suspended 7500 feet above sea level, where there was never enough oxygen and the air was thin and dirty. The city was hemmed in by mountains on all sides; mountains like Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl that sometimes spewed smoke and ash and prevented the contaminatión from cars and factories and sewers from escaping. Luz privately thought of it as la sopa--a white soup that often blotted out the stars and prevented the night sky from getting dark. The bus slowed in traffic. As they crept along Luz saw a car stopped on the side of the road, pulled over by a transito traffic cop. As Luz watched, the driver handed the cop a peso bill from his wallet. The transito accepted it but kept talking, gesturing at the car. The motorist handed him another bill. La mordida--the bite--of the traffic cop, right under her nose. Los Hierros was crap.

Something was in her mouth. Sami's tongue slid along the edges of something plastic. Flat, low ridges, holes-an adjustable strap. A baseball cap? Another taste. Hair spray. Gross. Someone had stuffed her baseball cap in her mouth, and from the feel of it they had taped it in place. Her arms were tied behind her and she lay face down on the floor-of what? Her car. The carpeting scraped her cheek every time they hit a bump. Panic flooded Sami's senses. She came instantly awake. Inhaling deeply through her nose, she willed herself to calm down. Her working motto flashed through her brain, panic never accomplished anything. Of course she had never been kidnapped and tied up before. In the dim light of passing cars, she glimpsed things-paper gum wrappers, an old straw, one whopper wrapper, a CD cover. That's where Sting went. Been looking for that for days. Man did she need to vacuum this car out. A metallic scent hit her nose. She'd recognize that smell until the day she died. Blood. And by the odor, someone had lost a great deal of it.

Take it all, all of it!" Greg cried out. "These things here...I've been making them better, fixing them. It doesn't matter...they don't matter. I've been here before." He paused to try to collect himself. "It's my past, my present...these things--" He lifted a hand out to the objects around him. "These things are me." Now whispering, "Can't you see me?

It’s quiet in the suburbs. It’s too cold for people to be in their gardens; and it’s not a thoroughfare so few cars drive by. I look past decaying roses and through the first flush of Michelmas daisies, blazing a glorious purple, into the darkened windows of the houses we walk by. Who lives here? Are they watching us? Did one of our neighbours do something seven years ago that he now regrets? How little we know of the people who surround us.

So how many tattoos do you have exactly?" she asked as Travis met her at the front of her car. It was a question she'd been dying to ask but she couldn't believe she'd just blurted it out all of a sudden. What was it about this man that made her so nervous that she spoke before she thought? He'd been blowing on the top of the travel mug that she'd let him use, but he stopped and faced her, his eyes darkening. "I'll let you find out on your own." There was a sensual note in his voice that she felt all the way to her toes.

Starla and Conner ambled to his car, knowing each deliberate footstep meant the road to parting was nearer. He leaned his back against the door pulling her within inches of his face, their personal space evaporating like dew steeped in the warmth of the morning sun. She tilted her head sideways, searching his eyes with hers. Straightening the collar of his shirt she said, “If I’m too bold forgive me, but you fill a void in my life . . . you’re like finding that stray earring I’ve been trying to find for ages and now that I have, it scares me.

Je me dis : si tu dois parler, parle, et viens-en immédiatement au fait, sans points de suspension. Du coup, lorsque des dialogues en réclament – car c’est surtout là qu’ils s’imposent –, je fais tout mon possible pour les éviter et, si je n’y parviens vraiment pas, je préfère les réduire de trois à un, interrompant brusquement le discours. Je privilégie « j’aimerais te revoir, mais. » plutôt que « j’aimerais te revoir, mais… ». Il faut payer le prix d’une phrase tronquée et supporter sa laideur si l’on veut apprendre à aller toujours, au moins avec les mots, droit au but.

From Flood, Flash, and Pheromones--coming soon: In the torrential downpour with water swirling that threatened to pull her down, she didn’t see the voice’s owner. The hurricane had blessed the entire city with a surprise drenching. All weather reports had predicted it to pass over with sporadic rainfall but that didn’t happen. The storm settled over Houston as if it had no intention to move on. Cassie flailed in panic as the roof of her car disappeared under the water twenty feet beyond. She prayed once more that the container in it was watertight. And that she’d see her car again. Then she concentrated on living. Where had the voice come from?

There’s an unexpected lull in the traffic about two-thirds of the way to Darmstadt, and I make the mistake of breathing a sigh of relief. The respite is short-lived. One moment I’m driving along a seemingly empty road, bouncing from side to side on the Smart’s town-car suspension as the hairdryersized engine howls its guts out beneath my buttocks, and the next instant the dashboard in front of me lights up like a flashbulb. I twitch spasmodically, jerking my head up so hard I nearly dent the thin plastic roof. Behind me the eyes of Hell are open, two blinding beacons like the landing lights on an off-course 747. Whoever they are, they’re standing on their brakes so hard they must be smoking. There’s a roar, and then a squat, red Audi sports coupe pulls out and squeezes past my flank close enough to touch, its blonde female driver gesticulating angrily at me. At least I think she’s blonde and female. It’s hard to tell because everything is gray, my heart is trying to exit through my rib cage, and I’m frantically wrestling with the steering wheel to keep the roller skate from toppling over. A fraction of a second later she’s gone, pulling back into the slow lane ahead of me to light off her afterburners. I swear I see red sparks shooting out of her two huge exhaust tubes as she vanishes into the distance, taking about ten years of my life with her.

Austin?" she whispered, not sure what to do. He turned to her and pulled her into his arms. Her mouth opened in surprise and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her. His mouth was warm against here. At first, she was too stunned to react. But after a moment, she put her arms around his neck and lost herself in the kiss. As the headlights of the sheriff's car washed over them, the golden glow seemed to warm the night because she no longer felt cold. She let out a small helpless moan as Austin deepened the kiss, drawing her even closer. As the sheriff's card went on past, she felt a pang of regret. Slowly, Austin drew back a little. His gaze locked with hers, and for a moment they stood like that, their quickened warm breaths coming out in white clouds. "Sorry." She shook her head. She wasn't sorry. She felt...light-headed, happy, as if helium filled. She thought she might drift off into the night if he let go of her.

A bad guy? He smothered a smile at the naiveté of the question. “Do you wish I was your heroic rescuer? That’s cute.” “You didn’t do any rescuing. That part was all me.” “I’m no one’s hero anyway. Most label me an abomination. It’s my lot in life. I do scary things beyond what you could even imagine. It’s why you’re best off if you get out of the car. Go your own way.” “You do scary things? Like pick up a girl and murder her on the side of the road?” “Are you frightened?” “I’m terrified,” she said sarcastically without a hint of fear. “You lumped us together earlier when you said ‘our kind,’ so I assume I also do bad things.” “You killed that guy in the club.” “You mean the one who planned to shoot you in the heart?” “I’m not saying I feel bad for him. Just pointing out murder’s not exactly a heroine move.” “So I’m a bad girl? You like that, don’t you?” She stared out the window, her lips compressed against a smile. “I like it.” Holy shit, she was incredible. He dealt with the deadliest of preternatural creatures on a daily basis. His servitude to the Crown required he hunt down and destroy paranormal threats bent on power, greed, or world domination. But he’d never encountered someone like her.

I am assured that this is a true story. A man calls up his computer helpline complaining that the cupholder on his personal computer has snapped off, and he wants to know how to get it fixed. “Cupholder?” says the computer helpline person, puzzled. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m confused. Did you buy this cupholder at a computer show or receive it as a special promotion?” “No, it came as part of the standard equipment on my computer.” “But our computers don’t come with cupholders.” “Well, pardon me, friend, but they do,” says the man a little hotly. “I’m looking at mine right now. You push a button on the base of the unit and it slides right out.” The man, it transpired, had been using the CD drawer on his computer to hold his coffee cup. I bring this up here by way of introducing our topic this week: cupholders. Cupholders are taking over the world. It would be almost impossible to exaggerate the importance of cupholders in automotive circles these days. The New York Times recently ran a long article in which it tested a dozen family cars. It rated each of them for ten important features, among them engine size, trunk space, handling, quality of suspension, and, yes, number of cupholders. A car dealer acquaintance of ours tells us that they are one of the first things people remark on, ask about, or play with when they come to look at a car. People buy cars on the basis of cupholders. Nearly all car advertisements note the number of cupholders prominently in the text. Some cars, like the newest model of the Dodge Caravan, come with as many as seventeen cupholders. The largest Caravan holds seven passengers. Now you don’t have to be a nuclear physicist, or even wide awake, to work out that that is 2.43 cupholders per passenger. Why, you may reasonably wonder, would each passenger in a vehicle need 2.43 cupholders? Good question. Americans, it is true, consume positively staggering volumes of fluids. One of our local gas stations, I am reliably informed, sells a flavored confection called a Slurpee in containers up to 60 ounces in size. But even if every member of the family had a Slurpee and a personal bottle of

THE IRIS OF THE EYE WAS TOO BIG TO HAVE BEEN FABRICATED AS A single rigid object. It had been built, beginning about nine hundred years ago, out of links that had been joined together into a chain; the two ends of the chain then connected to form a loop. The method would have seemed familiar to Rhys Aitken, who had used something like it to construct Izzy’s T3 torus. For him, or anyone else versed in the technological history of Old Earth, an equally useful metaphor would have been that it was a train, 157 kilometers long, made of 720 giant cars, with the nose of the locomotive joined to the tail of the caboose so that it formed a circular construct 50 kilometers in diameter. An even better analogy would have been to a roller coaster, since its purpose was to run loop-the-loops forever. The “track” on which the “train” ran was a circular groove in the iron frame of the Eye, lined with the sensors and magnets needed to supply electrodynamic suspension, so that the whole thing could spin without actually touching the Eye’s stationary frame. This was an essential design requirement given that the Great Chain had to move with a velocity of about five hundred meters per second in order to supply Earth-normal gravity to its inhabitants. Each of the links had approximately the footprint of a Manhattan city block on Old Earth. And their total number of 720 was loosely comparable to the number of such blocks that had once existed in the gridded part of Manhattan, depending on where you drew the boundaries—it was bigger than Midtown but smaller than Manhattan as a whole. Residents of the Great Chain were acutely aware of the comparison, to the point where they were mocked for having a “Manhattan complex” by residents of other habitats. They were forever freeze-framing Old Earth movies or zooming around in virtual-reality simulations of pre-Zero New York for clues as to how street and apartment living had worked in those days. They had taken as their patron saint Luisa, the eighth survivor on Cleft, a Manhattanite who had been too old to found her own race. Implicit in that was that the Great Chain—the GC, Chaintown, Chainhattan—was a place that people might move to when they wanted to separate themselves from the social environments of their home habitats, or indeed of their own races. Mixed-race people were more common there than anywhere else.

ONCE YOU’VE HOOKED readers, your next task is to put your early chapters to work introducing your characters, settings, and stakes. The first 20-25% of the book comprises your setup. At first glance, this can seem like a tremendous chunk of story to devote to introductions. But if you expect readers to stick with you throughout the story, you first have to give them a reason to care. This important stretch is where you accomplish just that. Mere curiosity can only carry readers so far. Once you’ve hooked that sense of curiosity, you then have to deepen the pull by creating an emotional connection between them and your characters. These “introductions” include far more than just the actual moment of introducing the characters and settings or explaining the stakes. In themselves, the presentations of the characters probably won’t take more than a few scenes. After the introduction is when your task of deepening the characters and establishing the stakes really begins. The first quarter of the book is the place to compile all the necessary components of your story. Anton Chekhov’s famous advice that “if in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired” is just as important in reverse: if you’re going to have a character fire a gun later in the book, that gun should be introduced in the First Act. The story you create in the following acts can only be assembled from the parts you’ve shown readers in this First Act. That’s your first duty in this section. Your second duty is to allow readers the opportunity to learn about your characters. Who are these people? What is the essence of their personalities? What are their core beliefs (even more particularly, what are the beliefs that will be challenged or strengthened throughout the book)? If you can introduce a character in a “characteristic moment,” as we talked about earlier, you’ll be able to immediately show readers who this person is. From there, the plot builds as you deepen the stakes and set up the conflict that will eventually explode in the Inciting and Key Events. Authors sometimes feel pressured to dive right into the action of their stories, at the expense of important character development. Because none of us wants to write a boring story, we can overreact by piling on the explosions, fight sequences, and high-speed car chases to the point we’re unable to spend important time developing our characters. Character development is especially important in this first part of the story, since readers need to understand and sympathize with the characters before they’re hit with the major plot revelations at the quarter mark, halfway mark, and three-quarters mark. Summer blockbusters are often guilty of neglecting character development, but one enduring exception worth considering is Stephen Spielberg’s Jurassic Park. No one would claim the film is a leisurely character study, but it rises far above the monster movie genre through its expert use of pacing and its loving attention to character, especially in its First Act. It may surprise some viewers to realize the action in this movie doesn’t heat up until a quarter of the way into the film—and even then we have no scream-worthy moments, no adrenaline, and no extended action scenes until halfway through the Second Act. Spielberg used the First Act to build suspense and encourage viewer loyalty to the characters. By the time the main characters arrive at the park, we care about them, and our fear for their safety is beginning to manifest thanks to a magnificent use of foreshadowing. We understand that what is at stake for these characters is their very lives. Spielberg knew if he could hook viewers with his characters, he could take his time building his story to an artful Climax.

The value of using models rather than the real thing in experimentation is twofold. First, it can reduce the cost of an experiment-it can be much cheaper to crash a simulated BMW than a real one. Second, it can make experimental results clearer by making them simpler or otherwise different than real life. If one is trying to test the effect of a small change on car safety, for example, it can be helpful to remove everything not related to that change from the experiment. For example, if one is testing the way a particular wheel suspension structure deforms in a crash, one does not have to know (or spend time computing) how a taillight lens will react in the crash. Also, in a real crash things happen only once and happen very fast. In a virtual crash executed by computer, on the other hand, one can repeat the

Kalinske then described what made the videogame industry unique, what made it superbly unpredictable, and what tomorrow might or might not bring. But along this wild roller-coaster ride, there was one thing that would not change. “Suspension of disbelief. It’s always been the fundamental component of diversion, whether that diversion is books, movies, or the theater. Advances in gaming mean we will come to supply that component more effectively than any other medium. The interactive entertainment business is going to allow the Walter Mitty in all of us to finally realize our dreams. We are going to become great football players, race car drivers, or aviators. We are going to move into and occupy new worlds that were formerly only available to us in dreams.

There was something about that cypress-lined track that drew me to it, tempted me further along it, in spite of the rough road surface that strained the car’s suspension to the limit. I began to feel strangely elated, my early tiredness slipping away. I unwound the window to let the dusty air bring the scents of spring woodland to me and I laughed out loud. It was like being on a ride at the fair, bumping over stones and swerving around the torturous bends while breathing in unfamiliar scents and a general air of excitement. I came to a fork in the road and stopped, unsure which direction to take. As I hesitated, an old woman stepped into view, startling me as she emerged from a half-hidden track in the undergrowth. She stared at me piercingly with clear blue eyes set in a maze of sun-baked wrinkles. She looked such a part of the landscape, in her faded brown dress, her white hair shimmering in the sun like fluffy dandelion seed, and I was so taken aback by her sudden appearance, that I just sat and returned her stare. The sound of the engine idling quietly seemed to echo the beat of my heart.

Don't do anything quickly, Tag had told him. And whatever you do, don't hit your brakes. You'll end up in the ditch. He caught something in his headlights. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing before his heart took off at a gallop. A car was upside down in the middle of the highway, its headlights shooting out through the falling snow toward the river, the taillights a dim red against the steep canyon wall. The overturned car had the highway completely blocked.

A crack of lightning beamed from the sky, leaving a hole in the ground. Smoke elevated from it. Within seconds, I was covered in rain, drenched, unsteady, and cold, I half stumbled, half crawled back towards my car.

She turned on the radio. Christmas music filled the car. She turned it off with a groan. "It's not going to turn you into an elf if you listen," he promised and liked the smile that played at the corner of her lips, wiggling the small mole that kept drawing his attention. She glanced at him. "Do you believe in Christmas?" "I do," he said without hesitation. "Even after all you've seen and done overseas?" "Especially because of that...

Of more angst to drivers are the customer ratings systems imposed by the app companies. While most drivers do not have a problem with the notion of being rated, they are concerned that they will receive poor marks for circumstances beyond their control. Customers can give even the most earnest drivers bad ratings for any reason such as bumpy rides over pothole strewn roads, traffic congestion and passengers underestimating how much time they need to reach their destinations. Miscommunication between passengers and drivers can occur because passengers cannot speak the local language, are drunk, or fall asleep and cannot direct the driver to their remote destinations. Perhaps some passengers just do not like the ethnic group to which some drivers appear to belong. Circumstances such as these are clearly the fault of passengers who may rate drivers poorly nonetheless. Drivers with low ratings can be expelled from on-demand taxi services. This unfairness is compounded to the extent that drivers make large investments in their cars, insurance and fuel. Making drivers, who basically invested in a franchise, vulnerable to expulsion from a system because of unfair ratings seems to me to be a potential source of dissention or even litigation. Another concern associated with the taxi app business model is that drivers only have 15 seconds to respond to notices of pick up opportunities. Drivers that fail to respond in such tight windows lose the business. Repeat failures to make timely responses can result in temporary suspensions. This pressure, and related distractions associated with interacting with handsets, is applied simultaneously with all of the challenges of navigating traffic in a variety of weather conditions. Foremost, this is a driving hazard that imperils everyone in the vicinity. It also ties in with the ratings systems because drivers are only rated on the rides they complete. Drivers who claim rides but abandon the customer if it looks like the pickup will be delayed have no ratings risk. Paradoxically, no ratings result in the worst customer service as passengers end up stranded.

What would I do if I could go back in time and be in a position to change the way some automobile was made? I mean, we all sit here and b*tch about how GM should have done this or that with the Vega , or that AMC should have done  this or that with the Pacer , assuming that with a few changes this or that model would have been AWESOME. So here is your challenge, Car Lust readers: If you could go back in time and inhabit some auto executive's or designer's or engineer's body for some length of time and change the course of history for one model, what would it be? And how would you go about it? No need to be super detailed ("Yeah, I'd lengthen the trailing arms on the front by 6.8 mm, and then bore the cylinder out another 0.5 mm. . . .") but give enough detail that we get an idea how it would change things. This might be a big thing, like, say, to give an example of something really dumb that would never happen in any sane universe, decide not to assemble cars in a separate country by flying them back and forth across the globe on 747s , or maybe something more modest, such as changing the suspension somewhat and avoiding the resulting bad press (misguided though it was). 

Jackson shrugged off Gentry’s hand. “You want to worry about drugs in your parish, Agent Broussard, why don’t you check my sister’s bag? Or is it okay for your agents to be racing around with guns while they’re buzzing on painkillers? Is it okay for her to work four months after she tried to slit her wrists with a f**king utility knife?” A chill washed across Jena’s shoulders. Who was this person? The brother she’d known her whole life would never try to throw her under the squad car. “We aren’t talking about your sister, who, by the way, is a skilled law-enforcement agent who took two bullets in the line of duty a few months ago, son.” Gentry’s voice was low, but serious. “We’re talking about you, an unemployed twenty four year old who had almost an ounce of an illegal synthetic drug stashed in his bedroom, not to mention what’s probably still in your system. All we’d need is one simple blood test.” Gentry paused. “We’re talking about jail time, Jackson. Do you understand what kind of trouble you could be in?” Time seemed to stretch into slow motion. Jackson turned like an enraged devil, tightened his fingers around Gentry’s throat, and squeezed. He moved so fast that Gentry wasn’t able to get his hands up to protect himself and was left trying to breathe and pry Jacks’s hands off at the same time. Jackson wasn’t nearly as strong as Gentry, so it had to be the drugs. Jena had heard stories of users having almost superhuman strength. She ran toward them, but Adam got there first. He kicked Jacks’s legs out from beneath him and, by the time her brother hit the floor, Meizel was kneeling on his back, one hand pressing his head against the tile. The handcuffs clicked shut with a loud scrape of metal, and Meizel jerked Jacks to his feet. It was over in a matter of seconds. All four of them stood still for a moment. Until Jacks, his chin bleeding from hitting the floor, began spewing more accusations at Jena, laced with a liberal dose of f-bombs. Then life sped up again. Meizel held one of Jacks’s arms while Gentry held the other. The deputy had started his Miranda by the time they’d gotten Jacks out the front door, shoving him toward the patrol car none too gently.

Phoebe stared into his blue eyes. "What would you do if you ran away from a wedding in a car that didn't belong to you and discovered a body in the trunk about the time a sheriff's deputy rolled up behind you?" She flung her hand in the air, and assumed a high-pitched, sarcastic tone. "Hi, I'm a rich man's daughter with a dead man in my trunk. Could you help me get him out so I can be on my merry way?

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He had watched from across the road, sunk down in his car seat, as the ambulance arrived. Emma had looked so vulnerable, tears flowing down her cheeks, as she was comforted by that back stabbing brother of hers. How he had longed to move closer. But he knew that now wasn’t the right time. Things had to be planned carefully – they couldn’t be rushed. Now,

We are all materialistic. There are different levels of materialism! Some aspire to a fancy car, others only wish to go to bed at night with a full stomach.

For the next two hours, he would toy with her, giving her a chance to repent. Whether she did or not made no difference. He fingered the knife in his pocket. The blade was sharp and tonight she would feel it. Her time would run out an hour before sunrise. As with the others, he would weigh down her body with a cement block. Barely alive, she would struggle against death as they all had. The water would fill her lungs. The last thing she would see on this earth would be his eyes, the eyes of her murderer. How long would it take before her family, her friends reported her missing? A day, possibly two? Surely no longer. Then the search would begin. He would watch the news reports, recording them all on his DVR. In a week or two, some tourist or jogger would spot a floater in the Potomac. All evidence washed away, she would be just another woman executed by the D.C. Killer. He would add her disc to his collection. He whiled away the time thinking about his first kill. She had lounged in her bath, thinking she was alone. When he entered the bathroom, she smiled. The expression on his face made her smile falter. He came at her, grasping her by the shoulders. He pushed her down, holding her struggling body under. Her eyes wide with terror, she tried to plead with her murderer, to ask her husband “Why?” He sank her body in the Potomac, the first victim of the D.C. Killer. The door opened. Shannon Miller stood in the breach, surveying the parking lot. Nervous, she started to go back inside, then changed her mind. She peered toward him, her eyes straining to penetrate the mist and gloom. He was a shadow, invisible to her. Seeing no threat, she stepped out, locked the door and hurried across the deserted lot to her car, a red Toyota with more rust than red. The tap-tap of her high heels pulsated on the cracked asphalt. The beat of her shoes matched the throb of his heart. He could hear her heavy, fearful breathing. He smiled. The moon scurried behind the clouds as if hiding its face in horror. He was an avenger, a messenger of God. His mission was to rid the nation's capital of immoral women. Fearing him, prostitutes now walked the streets in pairs. Even in their terror, they still pursued their wicked trade. At times he saw them huddled in groups of three or four. They reminded him of children in a thunderstorm. Like a spirit, he crept in her direction. The only light was cast by the Miller Lite sign and a distant street lamp. The light in the parking lot had burned out weeks ago, throwing it into darkness. He stalked her as a lion does its prey. He moved slowly, silently, low to the ground, keeping the car between them. His dark running suit blended with the night. He was the Dark Angel, the Angel of Death. In another life, he had passed over Egypt, killing the firstborn of those condemned by God. Her eyes darted in every direction, still she didn't see him. He was invisible. Her hands shook as she tried to get the key in the door. The 11 o'clock news reported that another one had been found. If he stuck with his pattern, the D.C. Killer would strike again tonight. By morning a woman would be dead. She prayed it wouldn’t be her. She fumbled, dropping the key ring. She stooped to pick it up, her head turning in every direction, her ears alert to every sound. Now, without seeing him, she sensed him. She lowered her eyes, trying again, successfully this time. She turned the key. There was a click. She sighed, unaware that she had been holding her breath. The dome light flashed as she opened the door. He was on her in an instant. Their bodies slammed against the door. The light blinked out. He held her in an iron grip with one hand over her mouth and the blade poking into her

Traveling in France in 1899, Edward attended a bicycle race and observed that a spring attached to the front fork helped stabilize the winning cycle. He and his father bought the patent rights, and Edward developed the concept into the shock absorber, soon to become standard on every car. Edward went on to invent brakes, jacks, and other auto components, all of which were produced at the Hartford Suspension Company’s plant in Jersey City, adjacent to Great Atlantic & Pacific’s headquarters.

I closed the doors and turned to tell Clay the disappointing news.  Instead of staying in the living room as I’d thought, he stood right behind me.  All that came out was a strangled “gah.”  He flashed a smile so wide that I saw teeth and couldn’t help but smile back. “Har-har.  I told you no suspense movies.  Life is scary enough without them.  Oh, and false alarm on the cookies.  We’re missing some main ingredients.” He picked up my car keys and dangled them in front of me. “It’s tempting, but unless I want to get a part-time job, I can’t afford to keep spending the money I’ve saved.  I’ve got to stick to the budget so it lasts through till spring.  If we can manage to keep the heat off until November, I should have cookie money for Christmas.  That’s when cookies are best, anyhow.  I’ll just need to start wearing more clothes inside.” I

That was why I enjoyed cars—when you cared for them properly and tuned them up just right, they didn’t ask stupid questions or go around behind your back. They simply purred under the slightest touch and followed orders. Aubrey’s

The feeling was FEAR, she realized... but it was a new type of fear; more sincere than the jitters she felt when it rained and not as piercing as the terror of crashing cars. This fear was darker somehow... mysterious... curious like the retracted paws of an alley cat.

New sounds rustled through her anti-depressant haze; a gentle reverberation from the heart of the home... another creek... another thunk... rapid clicking like the wings of a broken cricket. Then, raindrops on metal... the escalating blare of a car horn... the scream of wet tires and the clink clink clink of showering glass.

Watching trips driving under the influence of alcohol, details Since a randomized control the peaks. From the perspective of travel between the armed forces and the strategy for the enforcement of the initiation of a hasty road block using the techniques that are considered disturbing the police only with unauthorized functions this movement control points on the basis of many DUI action initiated. Every time the checkpoints suspicious driver drunk driving, Kits, laws applications traversing the streets to protect the driver. Then, when the driver suspected of driving under the influence of alcohol, it would be towards getting a DUI lawyer to be soon after fertilization. DUI prices could the lives of sick people are taken in the context concerned, so that the money really is removed before use. To clarify this point, it is important to achieve the experience in DUI legal knowledge based on track to use to get rid of costs. General address is to escape unnoticed a trip to the environment in which they can find through future target for it to rotate too slowly. In many situations, under the influence of alcohol, driving, fast that the driver Checkpoint see some time, immediate auto or truck and escapes through the information on the screen. Show information about the tours, the driver will have the opportunity not only to avoid the checkpoint. The decrease is the result of a DUI is a criminal offense, or the great nations. Suspension of driver's license penalty for a crime, loved. Large trigger additional sanctions crime and that if all packets death only a misdemeanor. Unlike the provisions in relation to the position of DUI in the direction of the nation. DUI attorney knows all the DUI laws, the only country. So it is very good in the sense speaks DUI lawyer immediately after his arrest, stay away from most of the impact. If the driver can be caught in DUI checkpoints on the road licenses are revoked. If the error in transit, these people are in high demand because of a drunk driver, it is more important. Asked the pilot, from the breath alcohol tests and inspections. If the driver refuses, blood test or breathing difficulties, law enforcement agencies, including the authority to proceed under the influence of alcohol to manage directly in the driver's driving. Control or DUI checkpoints to protect positions of police officers, the general requirements of each tram and to check that the driver may influence the direction of the excitation. This type of set up checkpoints to travel a few hours in the morning or at the weekend overnight when the possibility of impaired drivers generally. Experience driver search on the phone all alcoholic breath test and operation of a one-car conveyor belt. Again, a simple test is not available, the agenda requires sophisticated. The driver stopped and should work out of the car and then seriously consider. He is seriously considering an indication of the psychological stability and capacity. If the driver is not necessary to work the sober to catch your breath.

Q. How fast can you hit a speed bump while driving and live? —Myrlin Barber A. Surprisingly fast. First, a disclaimer. After reading this answer, don’t try to drive over speed bumps at high speeds. Here are some reasons: You could hit and kill someone. It can destroy your tires, suspension, and potentially your entire car. Have you read any of the other answers in this book?

The window glass was cold as Jude touched his nose to its surface. He looked north over the centre of Tirana and drank in the thrill of the panorama. From a restaurant in the Sky Tower he could see down over the lush, green square of land criss-crossed with paths that was Rinia Park. He had arranged to meet Edona there at 3pm. To his left the apartment blocks clustered densely away to the horizon in colours of mustard, olive and denim blue. Ahead he could make out the rouge and yellow government ministry buildings on the edge of Skanderbeu Square, and the white needle of the Et’hem Bey Mosque. His eyes turned to the east past the black glass panelled Twin Towers and concrete Pyramid to the traffic flowing up the Gjergj Fishta Boulevard, where the harsh mid-day sunlight was glinting off car roofs and windscreens. Beyond that, through a haze of heat and light smog, Mount Dajti rose up to the blue, utterly cloudless sky.

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Really man? Now you’re the one calling the shots?” Willow had taken off his helmet and finally turned off the bike. “Bringing Robert here to be the getaway driver? If you’re looking for escalation this isn’t it, you prick. I call the shots and the rest fall in line. I love you brother, but this isn’t the move.” A door had opened loudly at the distant motel, an odd-looking fellow had stepped out of the kiosk and was walking briskly towards them, muttering to himself out of earshot. Willow had taken this for even more leverage against his outcrying subordinate, “It’s people like this,” pointing at the approaching motel employee, “That gets us locked up. If we get the cops called on us again, he is the first witness to see us with the car or even the kids if he starts yelling and gets them to come out.

Why did I throw in with him? I suppose we Irish had a mule-headed loyalty baked into our DNA. I could rely on one bedrock truth. Gerald had my back, no matter how lopsided the odds turned. No truer measure of friendship existed to my way of thinking.

The window glass was cold as Jude touched his nose to its surface. He looked north over the centre of Tirana and drank in the thrill of the panorama. From a restaurant in the Sky Tower he could see down over the lush, green square of land criss-crossed with paths that was Rinia Park. He had arranged to meet Edona there at 3pm. To his left the apartment blocks clustered densely away to the horizon in colours of mustard, olive and denim blue. Ahead he could make out the rouge and yellow government ministry buildings on the edge of Skanderbeu Square, and the white needle of the Et’hem Bey Mosque. His eyes turned to the east past the black glass panelled Twin Towers and concrete Pyramid to the traffic flowing up the Gjergj Fishta Boulevard, where the harsh mid-day sunlight was glinting off car roofs and windscreens. Beyond that, through a haze of heat and light smog, Mount Dajti rose up to the blue, utterly cloudless sky. (From 'The Silencer').

The good news for the national team, at least, was that now the distraction of Solo’s legal issues was in the past and the team could focus on the Women’s World Cup, which was now only a few months away. But that didn’t quite happen. On January 19, 2015, Solo made headlines again. She was at the national team’s annual January camp outside of Los Angeles when she allowed her visiting husband, Jerramy Stevens, to drive a U.S. Soccer–rented car. Stevens had been drinking and was pulled over after police allegedly saw the car swerving off the road. Stevens was arrested on DUI charges, and Solo, who was the passenger, was reported to have been “belligerent” toward the arresting officers. The federation didn’t know about the incident until celebrity tabloid TMZ reported the news. After the federation had been slammed by the media for not punishing Solo throughout the episode surrounding her arrest, there was little choice this time. Solo was suspended from the team for 30 days. Her suspension was scheduled to end about four months before the World Cup was set to start.

Thirty-five years later, I can look back on an eventful, fruitful career – one spent designing cars and asking myself the same series of simple questions. How can we increase performance? How can we improve efficiency? How can we do this differently? How can I do this better? GLOSSARY ACTIVE SUSPENSION Discussed in depth elsewhere, the short version is that it’s an electronically controlled, hydraulically powered system used as a means of maximising downforce by keeping the height of

Tarantula sat down in the empty seat next to Skyler. A round plate with a red tangled mess in the center was placed before her. Her nasal slits contracted as repulsive fumes rose from the steaming heap. For some reason, Skyler’s sibling was nudging her arm with a round wooden bowl filled with shreds of green material covered by an oily sheen. Tarantula immediately passed it on to Skyler. How could humans have such problems with obesity? The greasy loaf of sliced bread festering in a basket in the middle of the table required evasive action as well. She pretended to take a sip of her water. “Well, Tula, tell us all about yourself,” Skyler’s mother chirped as she jabbed her fork into the mound on her plate and began twisting away. “My parents died in a car crash and I’m here living with my uncle.” There was a silence around the table. Had she said something wrong? Skyler’s sister raised her eyebrows while staring at her plate. Skyler glared at her mother. “Yes, Skyler shared that with me, I am so sorry for your loss,” her mother said uncomfortably, “but tell me, what are your plans?” “To get my GED.” “Yes, dear, but what are your hopes and dreams?” How satisfying it would be to explain to this prying human the true intentions she harbored for her precious daughter while throwing the contents of her plate across the table and into her face.

I want to show you something,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower than usual and causing a shiver to run down my spine. “What?” I asked. “I said show, not tell. You have to come with me.” Curiosity nagged at me and the champagne urged me into recklessness. He’d promised to be nice after all, so why not? And even though I’d said I wanted to go back to the snooze fest party, I didn’t really. Given the choice, I’d just head back to the Academy. “You’d better not be about to whip your junk out again,” I warned. “Because I’ve seen way too much of you for my liking.” “Oh I think you liked it just fine,” he countered and the heat that flooded my cheeks at his tone stopped me from raising any further argument on the subject. He stepped a little closer to me and I fought against the impulse to lean in. “Come on then, don’t keep me in suspense,” I demanded though a little voice in the back of my head wondered if I meant something else by that statement. Darius’s mouth hooked up at one side and he inclined his head to yet another door on the other side of the room. I followed him as he led the way through the manor to a grand atrium before opening the door onto a dark stairwell which led down to what must have been an underground chamber. I eyed him warily but at this point I was pretty sure he’d have attacked me already if he was going to. Darius Acrux may have been a lot of things but it seemed he was a man of his word; he’d promised to be nice to me tonight and that was what he was delivering. I’d have to keep an eye on the time though, at midnight his Cinderella spell might come undone and he’d turn back into an asshole shaped pumpkin. Lights came on automaticaly as we descended and at the foot of the stairs, he opened another door and led me out into into an underground parking lot. I eyed the row of flashy sports cars in every make and model imaginable but he didn’t pause by them, instead leading me to the far end of the lot. A smile tugged at my lips as I spotted the lineup of super bikes. They were all top of the range, ultra-sleek, ultra-beautiful speed machines. My fingers tingled with the desire to touch them as the tempting allure of adrenaline called to me. “You said you could ride,” Darius said, offering me a genuine smile. “So I thought maybe you’d like to see my collection.” Damn, the way he said ‘my collection’ made me want to punch the entitlement right out of him but I didn’t miss the fire burning in his eyes as he looked at the bikes. That was a passion I knew well. He was a sucker for my kind of temptation too. “Have you done any modifications on them?” I asked, reaching out to brush my fingers along the saddle of the closest red beauty. “They’re top of the line,” he said dismissively like I didn’t know what I was looking at. “They don’t need any mods.” I snorted derisively. So he liked to ride the pretty speed machines but he didn’t know how to work on them. “Figures pretty boy wouldn’t know how to get his hands dirty,” I teased. “Maybe the kinds of bikes you’re used to riding need work to make them perform better but this kind of quality doesn’t require any extras. Besides, I could just pay someone to do it for me even if they did.” “Of course you could. That’s not really the point though.” And he was wrong about the kinds of bikes I was used to riding. I spotted four models amongst his collection which I’d ridden within the last six months. The others could easily be mine with a little bit of time and a tool or two. Not that I felt the need to tell him that. “You wanna take one for a ride?” he offered. “You can test your supposed skill against mine; there’s a circuit to the west of the estate.” My eyes widened at that offer. I’d missed riding since coming to the Academy and I hadn’t really thought I’d be able to get out again any time soon. ...

She’d once read that the best place to reflect was either in the car or on the toilet, and she believed it to be absolutely true.

I wasn’t simply coming up with an easy excuse when I mentioned procrastination. There were all sorts of minor and not-so-minor chores I really had been putting off, including taking clothes to the dry cleaner, catching up with some of the routine housework, getting some essentials from the drug store, working with the gardener to change some plants, and scheduling routine car maintenance for my BMW that had indicated it needed to be done nearly ten days ago. I had no legitimate excuse for not doing any of this. Thankfully, I was well. I had no job at the moment, and there was nothing else more important cramming my attention. No one had to explain to me that my lack of enthusiasm was characteristic of deepening depression either. I had read enough about it and the symptomatic behavior which usually centered around obsessive eating or drinking as well as sleeping too much. But as the song says, Along came Jones and – voila! – my depression, although not completely gone, had dissipated considerably.

In a temporary suspension of the Taylorist logic, Ford was forced to double the daily wage of his workers to keep the line staffed. As Braverman writes, this “opened up new possibilities for the intensification of labor within the plants, where workers were now anxious to keep their jobs.”8 These anxious workers were more productive. Indeed, Ford himself later recognized his wage increase as “one of the finest cost-cutting moves we ever made,” as he was able to double, and then triple, the rate at which cars were assembled by simply speeding up the conveyors.

Even though the cut was about twenty minutes longer than the ultimately released movie, Pulp Fiction was an even better movie than Reservoir Dogs. The structure was not only more audacious; the movie was funny as hell and had some extremely intense suspense sequences. Afterward, when Quentin asked me what I thought, remembering the Reservoir Dogs screening, I demurred and bit my tongue. I didn’t want to make a casual comment that might inadvertently influence this great movie. Even though a scene or two might have been tightened I just told him how much I loved it, which was true. As I was walking to my car I looked over and was surprised to find Dennis Hopper walking beside me. Usually I try to give celebrities their space and not bother them in public, but Hopper’s Easy Rider had made a huge impact on me at a very young age and it was hard to contain myself. I decided to keep it simple and just said, “I really loved Quentin’s film.” Hopper stopped in his tracks and suddenly it was like I was standing beside Francis Ford Coppola’s character the “photojournalist,” right out of his Apocalypse Now. Just him and me. “Yeah, man. Quentin really did it, man. I mean really. He really did it.” We both stood there in silent contemplation for a long moment, then wished each other good night and that was that.

Our lives are constantly changing. Every day we deal with disruptions; it is just the extent of the disruption that varies. There are infinite little self-adjustments that we can make, such as shifting our mood or energy, that help us deal with these disruptions. Just like the suspension of a car helps the car weather bumps in the road.

Our lives are constantly changing. Every day we deal with disruptions; it is just the extent of the disruption that varies. There are infinite little self-adjustments that we can make, such as shifting our mood or energy, that help us deal with these disruptions. Just like the suspension of a car helps the car weather bumps in the road.

The Model T was introduced on October 1, 1908. Its purchase price was $825. Breaking all records, the Model T sold over ten thousand copies in that first year. It had several distinctive features, like having the steering wheel on the left, which every other company soon copied. The entire engine and transmission were enclosed; there were four cylinders cast in a solid block, and two semi-elliptic springs were used for the suspension. Best of all, the car was easy to drive, simple to learn, and inexpensive to repair.

I figured he’d gotten caught up in the same traffic jam we had, which in Ponchatoula meant that we got stuck behind one tractor while there was another tractor coming in the other lane and the two streams of cars and trucks behind the tractors couldn’t figure out who had the right of way to pass on a blind curve, so we all just kinda poked along for about fifteen minutes until the tractors and all the lines of cars got past one another and we could move on about our lives. The part of that shit I never understand is why the old fart on the tractor don’t just pull off and drive on the shoulder for a minute. I mean, it’s a tractor, fo god’s sake—it’s designed to drive through grass and dirt. Ain’t like riding on the shoulder of the highway is gonna screw up its suspension.

At the top of the hill, Armand Gamache stopper the car and got out. He looked down at the village and his heart soared. J I won a copy of this book from St. Martin's Press (via Bookreporter.com) in return for an unbiased review. This is the first book I've read by Chevy Stevens, but it will not be the last. Never Let You Go is a well-written, very compelling suspense novel that held my interest throughout. I received it on a Friday, and read the first few chapters the same day. It's evidence of the novel's quality that I immediately continued reading the next day, and stayed up late into the night to finish it. Well before the end, it began to appear that all was resolved and the book was headed for a "happily-ever-after" ending that felt a bit disappointing. But Stevens still had a few more twists to go, and suddenly the suspense and tension ramped up again, not letting go until the very end. 4-1/2 stars. He looked over rooftops and imagined the good, kind, flawed people inside struggling with their lives. People were walking their dogs, raking the relentless autumn leaves, racing the gently falling snow. They were shopping at M. Beliveau's general store and buying baguettes from Sarah's boulangerie. Olivier stood at the Bistro doorway and shook out a tablecloth. Life was far from harried here. But neither was it still.

What kind of car did Michael Honeycutt, banker, drive? What did he look like, how did he sound? I wanted to see him, to weigh the fabric of his suit, smell his cologne, judge his haircut, watch his body language, listen to the way he shaped his vowels.

A round plate with a red tangled mess in the center was placed before her. Her nasal slits contracted as repulsive fumes rose from the steaming heap. For some reason, Skyler’s sibling was nudging her arm with a round wooden bowl filled with shreds of green material covered by an oily sheen. Tarantula immediately passed it on to Skyler. How could humans have such problems with obesity? The greasy loaf of sliced bread festering in a basket in the middle of the table required evasive action as well. She pretended to take a sip of her water. “Well, Tula, tell us all about yourself,” Skyler’s mother chirped as she jabbed her fork into the mound on her plate and began twisting away. “My parents died in a car crash and I’m here living with my uncle.” There was a silence around the table. Had she said something wrong? Skyler’s sister raised her eyebrows while staring at her plate. Skyler glared at her mother. “Yes, Skyler shared that with me, I am so sorry for your loss,” her mother said uncomfortably, “but tell me, what are your plans?” “To get my GED.” “Yes, dear, but what are your hopes and dreams?” How satisfying it would be to explain to this prying human the true intentions she harbored for her precious daughter while throwing the contents of her plate across the table and into her face.

The car was old. Not classic old, just old old. He’d tried to sell it last year but couldn’t interest even the scrapyard in purchasing it. He called it ‘the Zombie’ because, despite bits falling off, the sickly engine and a near-constant groaning noise from the suspension, it inexplicably kept going.

Calling themselves the Slush Pile Brigade as a nod to the unsolicited writings sent to publishing houses, four friends take on the publishing industry and get caught up in dangerous events beyond their control in Samuel Marquis's The Slush Pile Brigade. This high-energy, rollicking misadventure will change the way you look at the publishing industry forever. The plot--complete with car chases and the requisite gun play--is unpredictable and sometimes turns violent; twists and turns and counterturns abound. So, too, does the humor. Numerous references to classic movies, songs, and literature are sprinkled throughout...The dialogue is superb, especially the rat-a-tat round robin responses given when the Slush Pile Brigade members are in discussion. Be prepared to never look at the publishing world in the same way again." Foreword Reviews - Five Stars (******)

Max was fascinated by the woman and more than a little curious about what she might be up to. Sarah Johnson had come from a two-parent, affluent home with a squeaky-clean past. She'd been the golden girl, high school cheerleader, valedictorian and had apparently glided through college without making a ripple, coming out with a bachelor of arts degree in literature. She'd married well, had six children and then one winter night, for some unknown reason, she'd driven her car into the Yellowstone River. Her body was never found. Because there were no skid marks on the highway, it had looked like a suicide. Foul play had never been suspected. That was twenty-two years ago. Now she was back - with no memory of those years or why she'd apparently tried to take her own life. Max wanted this story more than he wanted a hot cup of coffee this morning.

The story doesn’t end here, however. With no car pass and faced with a mile-long walk from the front gate, John came up with an alternative not covered by the regulations. The first day of his suspension, Llewellyn pulled his horse trailer into the parking lot at the Nassau Bay Hotel across from the NASA main gate. Mounting the horse with his leather briefcase, then showing his badge prominently to the surprised guard, Llewellyn galloped through the gate to Mission Control. For the remainder of the week we knew John was in the office or on console when we saw a horse hitched to the bicycle stand. Llewellyn’s legend grew once again.

Often things happen to race cars in the heat of the race. A square-toothed gear in a transmission may break, suddenly leaving the driver without all of his gears. Or perhaps a clutch fails. Brakes go soft from overheating. Suspensions break. When faced with one of these problems, the poor driver crashes. The average driver gives up. The great drivers drive through the problem. They figure out a way to continue racing. Like in the Luxembourg Grand Prix in 1989, when the Irish racer Kevin Finnerty York finished the race victoriously and later revealed that he had driven the final twenty laps of the race with only two gears! To be able to possess a machine in such a way is the ultimate show of determination and awareness. It makes one realize that the physicality of our world is a boundary to us only if our will is weak; a true champion can accomplish things that a normal person would think impossible.

Anxiety is a fact of life! Everyone experiences it. It began in our cave-dweller days as a fight-or-flight response. Think of it this way: If you were walking through the woods and you ran into a bear, it would be normal for your body to activate the fight-or-flight response. Your heart would race, your muscles would tense up, your pupils would dilate, you would breathe more rapidly. The same thing would happen today if you were walking down the street and ran into a mugger. There is a simple, scientific explanation of this response: Your mind and body are preparing to protect you—whether you can feel it happening or not. Let us briefly examine this process. Your nervous system is divided into two basic parts: The voluntary nervous system controls actions that require thought, such as using the different parts of your body to drive a car; the autonomic nervous system, among its many functions, suspends all nonessential activity of the body and increases the physiological activity needed to confront the situation—either by fighting or by fleeing the external threat. Here is what it is responsible for: -increase muscle tension -accelerated heartbeat -rapid breathing -constriction of peripheral blood vessels (this is what causes cold hands) -dilation of the pupils -suspension of the digestive process -dry mouth -a voiding of bladder and bowels In addition, the fight-or-flight response causes a marked increase in the flow of adrenaline through the bloodstream and therefore added strength.

After earning a degree in Marketing at Auburn University, I spent the next five years in the business world, which is a polite way of saying that I had eleven jobs in a five-year period, including door to door sales, skip tracing people who didn’t want to be found, repossessing cars and collecting on defaulted student loans. During this five-year period, I did an in-depth study of abnormal psychology and sociopathic behavior – and then I divorced him.

However, the biggest disappointment was Klay getting pulled over by a cop for a busted car light. The officer smelled marijuana in the vicinity and eventually found some in his car. The aforementioned event led to Klay’s arrest as well as a suspension for a game against the Bruins near the end of the season. Klay’s costly mistake ended up ruining the Cougars’ chance to make it to the NCAA tournament. His father was extremely disappointed in him since he had always taught him to stay away from such things not only in school, but as well as in his professional life. Mychal thought he had made a big enough impact to prevent his son from making foolish choices. Klay quickly regretted the situation and learned from his mistake. The team did qualify for the NIT, which was an exciting opportunity in itself.

they could come in, change the business model, create connected electric cars, change the sales process, and change the way cars were manufactured. “That’s also bollocks,” Palmer concluded, steadily holding my gaze. “Complete bollocks.” “Why?” I asked. “Well, you can’t ignore a hundred and twenty-five years of history. The auto industry didn’t not learn anything.” When you put together a car, most of it is mechanical, and most of it is done by people who have spent a career working out how to do a suspension system, or a door lock, or a steering wheel, Palmer said. “And you can’t ignore that. So you’ve got to buy it. And you either buy it through a consultancy, or you buy it through recruitment, or you buy it through collaboration.” This spelled trouble for the newcomers. “The majority of those start-ups will fail because they’ll be too slow to recognize that they can’t just trash the auto industry, that there’s something relevant that they need.” So why was Jia Yueting different?

Think about it, a hypothetical movie called The Wages of Pleasure, where four handsome men in two Mercedes Benz cars deliver body oils, perfumes and soaps to a coterie of young beautiful woman in a Playboy Mansion somewhere nearby on a paradise beach. A hollow, bland movie devoid of tension, suspense, action, suffering and fear.

... car si la nuit de décembre a inspiré Musset, nous, elle nous a glacé les os ! Presque autant que ceux des deux infortunés qui finissent de roucouler à la morgue.

On the appointed day, I waited in the vestibule of the boardinghouse until his car rolled up the Chermin de Verey, turned around, and parked outside the gate. He disliked my housemistress intensely and refused to park on school property in case he ran into her. I got into the car, and we drove south in silence, over little highways that wiggled precariously through the mountains, on main streets through half-abandoned villages, on back roads past quiet factories with dark eyes shattered into their windowpanes, past geraniums and lace curtains and dingy cafes. My grandfather pointed out monuments to the Resistance along the way, sad gray stones tucked up onto the banks of the road, where bands of men had been denounced, discovered, shot down. Entire villages, he told me, had been massacred because they wouldn't surrender their resistance fighters. Women and children had burned alive because they would not speak. As I listened, I thought of all the times my grandmother complained to me that Americans had no sense of history. Now I understood that she meant Americans had no sense of her history, of our history. Here the past was everywhere, an entire continent sown with memories. For the first time, I wondered if she had sent me back so I could learn what it was like to live in that punishing landscape. I cracked open the window a tiny bit; I felt suffocated. The wind pierced the silence inside the car, whose pneumatic suspension system I imagined pumping more air into itself to hold the weight of those stories. I wondered what life would be like without that load to carry.

There are three groups of old car enthusiasts: people who think a car should be left as much original as possible; the ones who restore it better than factory; and the people who gut them and replace the brakes, engine, and suspension with more modern equipment.