Carole King Quotes

I wonder if my first breath was as soul-stirring to my mother as her last breath was to me

After I read them, I sat in the living room by our record player and put on Carly Simon and sobbed. Then I moved on to Daisy Jones and Carole King. All so easy to cry to, if you’re in the mood.

You've got to get up every morning with a smile on your face, And show the world all the love in your heart, then people gonna treat you better. You're gonna find, yes, you will, That you're beautiful as you feel.

If you crawl to live, stand and die.

Of course they had more chains on him than Scrooge saw on Marley's ghost, but he could have kicked up dickens if he'd wanted. That's a pun, son.

I still believe that everyone is beautiful in some way and by seeing the beauty in others we make ourselves more beautiful.

I just want to give it all that I got. I just don't want to waste it...

Being alone gave me a chance to process what my senses took in without having to factor in other people’s opinions.

Merely because I was black, it seemed, I was supposed to listen to Hugh Maskela instead of Carole King, just as I was expected to be a radical, not a conservative. I no longer cared to play that game ... The black people I knew came from different places and backgrounds - social, economic, even ethnic - yet the color of our skin was somehow supposed to make us identical in spite of our differences. I didn't buy it. Of course we had all experienced racism in one way or another, but that did not mean we had to think alike

Daisy was Carole King, she was Laura Nyro. Hell, she could have been Joni Mitchell. And they wanted her to be Olivia Newton-John

There were carollers singing beside King’s College Chapel as we passed, their breath smoking with the song.

Performing wasn’t something to fear; it was a merely a larger circle of collaboration. The more I communicated my joy to the audience, the more joy they communicated back to me.

Then I moved on to Daisy Jones and Carole King.

For a generous deed lives longer than a great battle or a king’s decree or a scholar’s essay, because it spreads and leaves its mark on all nature and endures through many generations.

the Lisbon girls “Candle in the Wind,” Elton John us “Wild Horses,” The Rolling Stones the Lisbon girls “At Seventeen,” Janice Ian us “Time in a Bottle,” Jim Croce the Lisbon girls “So Far Away,” Carole King

Rodgers and Hart, Gershwin, Bob Dylan, Ray Charles, Carole King, The Beach Boys, Stevie Wonder, Kyu Sakamoto’s “Sukiyaki Song,” “Blue Velvet,” “Green Fields.” Sometimes she would close her eyes and nod or hum to the melody.

Carole King sings on the radio. A white cop beams a light through the window. The little boy’s father is dragged out of the car.” He yells, punching the wind with his words. “Crunching. Beating. Screaming. ‘Shut the fuck up, Injun, go back to your land!’ ‘This is my land!’ ‘Don’t you talk back to us!’” Pools of sweat drip from his forehead. “More screaming. Crunching. Beating. The little boy crawls in the back seat, curls up, cries. The cops drive away. A huge dust cloud blows all around the father and son. The little boy opens the back door. He looks down. His father lies in a river of blood. His eyes, dilated. The little boy’s superhero was dead.

Without missing a beat I continue to play our black Baldwin Acrosonic spinet piano and say, “Not now! Mommy and Daddy are working!” The girls get the message and withdraw.

Carol's shoulder was ugly, but not as bad as Bobby had feared. Perhaps few things were once you were looking right at them.

I feel like this is all," she said. "Either all brains or all cunt," Carol said with brittle good humor. "Doesn't leave room for much else, does it?

I know it's a bad time for boys in uniforms," Stoke said, then lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes. But a good time to be a girl, Carol had said. 1966 was a good time to be a girl.

The couple could have been a poster on the wall of the travel agency where Carol Feeny worked, that was how perfect they were. Except, that was, for the fact they were both wearing glasses.

I have learned that there exist a word, onsra, in Bodo, a language spoken by the Bodo people in parts of northeastern India, that is used to describe the poignant emotion a person experiences when that person realizes that the love they have been sharing with another is destined not to endure. This word, which has no equivalent in English, has been translated as "to love for the last time." Misleading. Most English-speaking people would probably take "to love for the last time" to mean to have at long last found one's true love, enduring love. For example, in a song composed by Carole King called "Love for the Last Time." But when I first learned this translation of onsra I thought it meant something else entirely. I thought it meant to have experienced a love so overwhelming, so fierce and deep, that you could never ever ever love again.

I was born and raised on steel river I see it all like it was yesterday The ships and bridges they were all delivered From Sydney harbour to the Cisco bay And I met my love down on steel river We served our dreams and spent our childhood days In rainy streets we'd kiss away the shivers And hide from fear inside the latest craze Dancing to Motown Making love with Carole King record playing And oh how I loved you Say goodbye steel river

Marriage, despite the ability of King Henry VIII to achieve divorce twice, and the fact that clergymen could marry after the English Reformation, remained for life. Divorce was frowned upon and incredibly difficult to achieve in Protestant England.

Maybe you have to know the darkness to truly appreciate the light.”—Madeline L’Engle “There is freedom waiting for you on the breezes of the sky. And you ask, What if I fall? Oh, but my darling, what if you fly?” —Erin Hanson “Break the rules. That’s my number one rule. I know the rules [of grammar] and I know how to break them.” “Only I can change my life. No one can do it for me.” – Carol Burnett “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Merger Evers/John F. Kennedy/Malcolm X/Martin Luther King/Robert Kennedy/Che Guevara/Patrice Lamumba/George Jackson/Cynthia Wesley/Addie Mae Collins/Denise McNair/Carole Robertson/Viola Liuzzo It was a decade marked by death. Violent and inevitable. Funerals became engraved on the brain, intensifying the ephemeral nature of life. For many in the South it was a decade reminiscent of earlier times, when oak trees sighed over their burdens in the wind; Spanish moss draggled blood to the ground; amen corners creaked with grief; and the thrill of being able, once again, to endure unendurable loss produced so profound an ecstasy in mourners that they strutted, without noticing their feet, along the thin backs of benches: their piercing shouts of anguish and joy never interrupted by an inglorious fall. They shared rituals for the dead to be remembered.

Legend tells us that the High King of Tara, who ruled supreme over all the Kings of Ireland, looked out from his castle one day during the festival of Eostre and saw a fire blazing away on a far hillside. Furious with this obvious disregard for the law, for which the penalty was death, he sent out soldiers to arrest the guilty party. When the soldiers arrived at the hillside they found St Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland, piling wood onto his fire and immediately seized him. Standing before the King he was asked why he disobeyed the law, and he explained that his fire was a sign that Christ had risen from the dead and was the light of the world. The King so admired Patrick’s courage that he forgave him and became a convert to Christianity!

In the fable the industrious ant was busy storing up for winter while the grasshopper fiddled and frolicked and frittered away his resources. According to Jim, most Conroys were ants. Jim and his brother Mike, both ants, had married outside their species by hooking up with grasshoppers. Their sister Kathy was an ant married to an ant; while brother Tim and sister Carol were ants with their provisions and grasshoppers with other people’s. “You, my dear,” Pat said with a glance my way, “are obviously an ant. I’ve never met an ant who wasn’t proud and pious about it. You’ll fit right in with my family.” “And what are you?” I teased. “Now what do you think? Unlike you stingy, miserly ants hoarding your last dime in your tight little fists, we grasshoppers

David Bowie could not only sing, he could also not act, and appeared in several films, playing the homesick alien title character in E.T., and a sort of Duran Duran fairy king in the family film Muppets Vs The Goblin Crotch. He even took over Christmas, singing a special carol with Bing Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, who’d forgotten the words, and being at the start of that cartoon about the snowman sometimes.

He dialed the hotel he had last seen through the horn-rimmed spectacles of his childhood. Dialing that number, 1-207-941-8282, was fatally easy. He held the telephone to his ear, looking out his study’s wide picture window. The surfers were gone; a couple was walking slowly up the beach, hand in hand, where they had been. The couple could have been a poster on the wall of the travel agency where Carol Feeny worked, that was how perfect they were. Except, that was, for the fact they were both wearing glasses. Gonna getcha, fuckface! Gonna break your glasses!

the Hall of Offerings. Isaac motioned to a wall relief covered in hieroglyphic writing. "Let me show you something I discovered recently," Isaac said. "This hieroglyphic register is a song to Augustus, King of Egypt, heralding him as 'Lord of the Dance,' meaning 'Lord of Life.' I will translate: "The King of Egypt "Pharaoh comes to dance "He comes to sing "See how he dances "See how he sings… "I remember Isaac looked at me to gauge my reaction. In truth I was spellbound. He went on to say, 'The song of Augustus eventually spread to Medieval England where a carol, called "Lord of the Dance," was sung at Christmas and is sung to this day.

was possessed of clear judgement and great discernment. She committed her European experiences to paper in 1942 under the title Athene Palace, the name then of today’s Bucharest Hilton, where she lived and worked for seven months. For years Rumania had had its own violent fascist movement, the Iron Guard. From 1938 the country was ruled by strict anti-Semitic legislation. At the same time, King Carol II was trying to make himself Rumania’s dictator, as Miklós Horthy had done in Hungary in 1920 and Ioannis Metaxas in Greece in 1936. Since spring 1940, Bucharest had been run by a coalition of fascists and generals led by Marshal Ion Antonescu. In September, Germany more or less took over the country, which was crucially important for the Reich’s energy supplies.

Rumania ceded large parts of its territory to Hungary, King Carol abdicated, real power was transferred to Antonescu and the Iron Guard was given free rein and organised one bloody pogrom after another. In June 1941, Rumania committed itself completely by joining Germany’s foray into the Soviet Union. In 1940, however, the country was still neutral, and in June all of Europe was sitting side by side in the lobby of the Athene Palace, as though nothing untoward was going on: the old Rumanian dignitaries, the leaders of the new radical right-wing government, the American journalists and diplomats, the despondent French ambassador. The ‘elegantly bored’ British – diplomats, oil men, journalists and intelligence officers – had their own table, the young Rumanian nobility sat at the bar,

and were willing to suffer pain if necessary.” A young woman in the spring and summer of 1967 was walking toward a door just as that door was springing open. A stage was set for her adulthood that was so accommodatingly extreme—so whimsical, sensual, and urgent—that behavior that in any other era would carry a penalty for the daring was shielded and encouraged. There was safety in numbers for every gorgeous madness; good girls wanting to be bad hadn’t had so much cover since the Jazz Age. San Francisco—glowing with psychedelic mystique, the whole city plastered with Fillmore and Avalon posters of tangle-haired goddess girls—was preparing for a convocation (of hapless runaways from provincial suburbs, it would turn out), the Summer of Love, through which the term “flower children” would be coined, while in harsh, emotion-sparking contrast, helicopters were dropping thousands of U.S. boys into the swamps of Vietnam.

On this side of eternity, Christmas is still a promise. Yes, the Savior has come, and with him peace on earth, but the story is not finished. Yes, there is peace in our hearts, but we long for peace in our world. Every Christmas is still a “turning of the page” until Jesus returns. Every December 25 marks another year that draws us closer to the fulfillment of the ages, that draws us closer to . . . home. When we realize that Jesus is the answer to our deepest longing, even Christmas longings, each Advent brings us closer to his glorious return to earth. When we see him as he is, King of kings and Lord of lords, that will be “Christmas” indeed! Talk about giving Christmas gifts! Just think of this abundance . . . You do not lack any spiritual gift as you eagerly wait for our Lord Jesus Christ to be revealed. (1 Cor. 1:7) And carols? You’re about to hear singing like you’ve never heard before. Listen . . . Then I heard something like the voice of a great multitude and like the sound of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, saying, “Hallelujah! For the Lord our God, the Almighty, reigns.” (Rev. 19:6, nasb) Christmas choirs? Never was there a choir like the one about to be assembled . . . They held harps given them by God and sang . . . the song of the Lamb: “Great and marvelous are your deeds, Lord God Almighty. Just and true are your ways, King of the ages.” (Rev. 15:2–3) True, Main Street in your town may be beautifully decorated for the season, but picture this . . . The twelve gates [of the city] were twelve pearls, each gate made of a single pearl. The great street of the city was of pure gold, like transparent glass. (Rev. 21:21) Oh, and yes, we love the glow of candles on a cold winter’s night and the twinkling of Christmas lights in the dark, but can you imagine this? There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. And they will reign for ever and ever. (Rev. 22:5) Heaven is about to happen. The celebration is about to burst on the scene. We stand tiptoe at the edge of eternity, ready to step into the new heaven and the new earth. And I can hardly wait.

Curious, Amy asked Absalom how anarchists celebrated the holidays. The girl explained her family exchanged radical pamphlets and gelignite recipes while dining on a roast swan her father had specifically poached from a royal estate. Instead of carols around a tree, they sang revolutionary songs in front of a fire into which they threw straw dollies made in the image of kings, presidents, colossi of finance and secret police chiefs. Absalom and her sisters nibbled biscuits decorated with red sugar stars and slogans of the struggle.

It was cold but she could handle it. It was light she missed, light that would’ve made things better – fuck the festive season, light was all anyone with half a brain wanted – the only good thing about all the fuss, the commercialism, the consumerism, the churchy crap with the kid in a manger and the we-three-wise-ass-kings: it was all just people looking for light.

Ashley and I glanced at each other. We saw Tony King at a concert last summer. We got his autograph, too, so we stood close to him. No way was that man Tony King, even without the beard! Boy, Natasha had a wild imagination. Last night, she told us that another man was an escaped prisoner. She’d seen his picture on the TV show Criminals on the Loose. Later, Ashley and I found out the man was the assistant manager of the lodge.

wish I had the words to explain how deeply I need you, but I'm a fuckin' biker, so I'm going to try and put my feelings in a way you'll understand. The cut stands for my pride, my surrogate family, my self-worth, my career, my life. That piece of leather is everything I thought I ever needed, but I'd give it up right now if you asked me to, because I've realized that you're my cut.

Alison Krauss, Lauryn Hill, Norah Jones. She added vintage Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Carole King. She rounded it out with some edge: Fiona Apple, Courtney Love, Alanis Morissette.

Songs that felt like Wyatt: “Iris” by Goo Goo Dolls “A Murder of One” by Counting Crows “Take It Easy on Me” by Little River Band “Hold You in My Arms” by Ray LaMontagne “Wild Horses” by The Rolling Stones “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran “Yellow” by Coldplay Songs that took me to the beach: “Watermelon Sugar” by Harry Styles “Sunshine on My Shoulders” by John Denver “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” by The Beach Boys Songs to make Sam cry: “Who Knew” by Pink “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus “1 Step Forward, 3 Steps Back” by Olivia Rodrigo “So Far Away” by Carole King “Romeo and Juliet” by Dire Straits “Stay” by Rihanna “Sam, I Am” by Missy McGee

The Gemini were twin brothers named Castor and Pollux. They were warriors and one of them, Castor, was killed. Pollux missed his brother so badly, he begged Jupiter, the king of the gods, to be permitted to give his own life as a ransom for his brother. Jupiter was moved to pity - sometimes, if you efface yourself enough and get them in the right mood, the old-bastard gods come through - and allowed Castor and Pollux both to live, but not at the same time. Castor lived one day in the heavens, while Pollux was in Hades, or hell; then Pollux lived one day in the heavens, while Castor was in hell. They alternated life and death but they didn't see each other. Then Jupiter took pity on them again. He rewarded their love for each other by placing them up there in the stars together. See? The Gemini. Forever.

Be careful not to lose yourself in a world you have created with magic, for it is in our own imagination that reality can sometimes become the illusion. ~ Drakondia ~ Sleeping Sands

Arianwyn

look at her. She froze, staring at the slitted silver eyes. Jagged ridges lined the top of the dragon’s eyes, sweeping back into a crest on its head. The crest grew into a bony mane down the back of its neck. They ended in front of the wings and picked up again behind the wing joint to the tip of the dragon’s tail.

Elyse

Although the dragon’s skin glimmered like silver, it was soft and pliable, reminding Arianwyn of the little lizards she used to chase as a child.

Brennan’s contribution to The Wedding Night (March 8, 1935), starring Gary Cooper and Anna Sten—the Russian beauty Samuel Goldwyn was promoting as the next European import to rival Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich—was of a different order. The anxious producer, worried about Sten’s accent (even though she was playing a Polish American), began to take notice of Brennan in a seemingly forgettable role he nevertheless freshened with his rapid-fire delivery. Brennan is Bill Jenkins, a cackling Connecticut cab driver, spitting tobacco juice (actually licorice) and showing the tobacco fields to Tony Barrett (Gary Cooper), an alcoholic writer modeled on F. Scott Fitzgerald and trying to dry out in a country hideaway. Goldwyn had been much impressed with the velocity of dialogue in It Happened One Night (February 23, 1934) and wanted his actors to perform at the same screwball speed. Brennan manages this feat more deftly than the picture’s ostensible stars, although Cooper perks up when doing scenes with Brennan. Unfortunately Sten did not the have the same opportunity. “I never even met Anna Sten,” Brennan told biographer Carol Easton. When Jenkins drives up to deliver a telegram to Barrett, walking along the road, neither the writer nor Jenkins has a pencil to use to reply to Barrett’s wife, who wants him to return to the city. So Barrett simply gives a verbal response: “My work won’t let me. Love Tony.” Jenkins repeats the message twice to fix it in his mind, but as soon as he drives off the message gets garbled: “My love won’t work me.” He tries again: “My work won’t love me.” Not satisfied, he begins again: “My work won’t love me.” In frustration, he spits, and says, “Gosh, I’m losin’ my memory.” His role is inconsequential, and yet so necessary to the local color that director King Vidor works Brennan into a scene whenever he can. Brennan would have made his character even more authentic if Goldwyn had not complied with a request from the Breen Office, the enforcers of the Production Code, that Brennan’s use of “damn” and “hell” be cut from the film.

fervently

Only a few hardy Westerners learn to speak Thai and even fewer learn to read it. At first glance it seems impossible and on second glance one would much rather not. The alphabet has forty-six wiggly consonants and thirty-one vowels, some of which are not visible to Western eyes. The language is a mixture of Pali, Sanskrit, Cambodian, and is of the Sino-Tibetan family and it seems to embrace the rules of all even when they conflict. King Rama Khamheng devised the alphabet in the thirteenth century and the writing shows the effect of having been born full-blown of kingly whim.

Come home with me a little space And browse about our ancient place, Lay by your wonted troubles here And have a turn of Christmas cheer. These sober walls of weathered stone Can tell a romance of their own, And these wide rooms of devious line Are kindly meant in their design. Sometimes the north wind searches through, But he shall not be rude to you. We’ll light a log of generous girth For winter comfort, and the mirth Of healthy children you shall see About a sparkling Christmas tree. . . . And you may chafe the wasting oak, Or freely pass the kindly joke To mix with nuts and home-made cake And apples set on coals to bake. Or some fine carol we will sing In honor of the Manger-King. . . . These dear delights we fain would share With friend and kinsman everywhere, And from our door see them depart Each with a little lighter heart. Leslie Pinckney Hill

I’m a very spiritual person,” she likes to say, for instance. Like when she’s explaining how she hates religion and all those who practice it. Well, okay, if it makes you feel better, Carol.

A mother who underestimates a little girl can eventually be written off as unsupportive, but a mother who sees her daughter’s best self even before she does is harder to disengage from.

If you ever need to quickly get the attention of a roomful of American musicians, “A-one!” will do it every time. Warning: do not use this command frivolously.

The central thing that Winslow could remember from this tme was the feeling of satisfaction he had, all the ride down with Carole King for company. As far as he could take it. As far as he could go. Something at least would happen next and this part would be over. He could feel the same movement starting up inside him, the same gathering wave, and wondered where it would leave him this time. Nothing to do, though. Nothing to do but wait and see.

Gerry and I were able to keep enough hits flowing out of our Baldwin Acrosonic spinet piano to feel confident about being able to pay our mortgage.

left by train on a Friday morning to arrive at six in the evening in Bucharest. My friend awaited me at the railroad station. As I got off the train, on that snowy late afternoon, I heard newspaper boys hawking an extra newspaper edition: Extra, extra, the new government of Goga, Cuza. Death to the Jews. That was my bone chilling, frightening reception on my first pleasure trip. King Carol II had called on Octavian Goga, a well-know poet and politician and rabid anti-semite and on Alexandru Cuza, a historian, professor at the University of Iassi, infamous for his incitement to pogroms on Jews in that town, to form a new government. Actually, it was a maneuver on the part of the king of Romania, who felt threatened by Ionel Codreanu, the leader of the "Iron Guard," known Fascists and antisemites, who were taking their orders from Hitler.

The king felt less endangered by Goga and Cuza than by the young generation, who were looking at the German model. The Romanians had full fledged swastika carrying nationalists well before it became the rage of the 30s. Cuza made the Jews of Iassi tremble before Hitler came to power. King Carol outmaneuvered the Iron Guard with one fast action: he copied the German actions faithfully. He had Codreanu and his clique arrested, led into a forest and shot them in the back. Next day's newspaper headlines read: They were shot while trying to escape. (Auf der Flucht erschossen), the typical Hitlerian method of disposing of political enemies. The king dared to destroy the Iron Guard, showing Hitler that he wouldn't bow to his dictates, yet he put a nationalist, antisemitic regime into power, one based on ethnic nationalism, without foreign models.

Nancy had neither seen nor heard of girls who dressed as boys and could think of no documentation on the topic through all her time in Afghanistan, dating back to the country’s last king, who was ousted in 1973. But she was “not the least bit surprised” by my story of one little girl being brought up as a boy. Similar to Carol’s take on the subject, it made a certain sense to Nancy: “Segregation calls for creativity,” she had told me.

Carol Bell, a British academician, has recently observed that “the strategic importance of tin in the LBA [Late Bronze Age] … was probably not far different from that of crude oil today.”3 At that time, tin was available in quantity only from specific mines in the Badakhshan region of Afghanistan and had to be brought overland all the way to sites in Mesopotamia (modern Iraq) and north Syria, from where it was distributed to points farther north, south, or west, including onward across the sea to the Aegean. Bell continues, “The availability of enough tin to produce … weapons grade bronze must have exercised the minds of the Great King in Hattusa and the Pharaoh in Thebes in the same way that supplying gasoline to the American SUV driver at reasonable cost preoccupies an American President today!

I know that many people including our President insist that it be called the Christmas Season. I’ll be the first in line to say that it works for me however that’s not what it is. We hint at its coming on Halloween when the little tykes take over wandering the neighborhood begging for candy and coins. In this day and age the idea of children wandering the streets threatening people with “Trick or Treat!” just isn’t a good idea. In most cases parents go with them encouraging their offspring’s to politely ask “Anything for Halloween.” An added layer of security occurs when the children are herded into one room to party with friends. It’s all good, safe fun and usually there is enough candy for all of their teeth to rot before they have a chance to grow new ones. Forgotten is the concept that it is a three day observance of those that have passed before us and are considered saints or martyrs. Next we celebrate Thanksgiving, a national holiday (holly day) formally observed in Canada, Liberia, Germany Japan, some countries in the Caribbean and the United States. Most of these countries observe days other than the fourth Thursday of November and think of it as a secular way of celebrating the harvest and abundance of food. Without a hiccup we slide into Black Friday raiding stores for the loot being sold at discounted prices. The same holds true for Cyber Monday when we burn up the internet looking for bargains that will arrive at our doorsteps, brought by the jolly delivery men and women, of FedEx, UPS and USPS. Of course the big days are Chanukah when the Maccabean Revolt against the Seleucid Empire, regained control of Jerusalem. It is a time to gather the family and talk of history and tell stories. Christmas Eve is a time when my family goes to church, mostly to sing carols and distribute gifts, although this usually continued on Christmas day. This is when the term “Merry Christmas” is justified and correct although it is thought that the actual birthday of Christ is in October. The English squeezed another day out of the season, called Boxing Day, which is when the servants got some scraps from the dinner the day before and received a small gift or a dash of money. I do agree that “Xmas” is inappropriate but that’s just me and I don’t go crazy over it. After all, Christmas is for everyone. On the evening of the last day of the year we celebrate New Year’s Evening followed by New Year’s Day which many people sleep through after New Year’s Eve. The last and final day of the Holiday Season is January 6th which Is Epiphany or Three Kings Day. In Tarpon Springs, the Greek Orthodox Priest starts the celebration with the sanctification of the waters followed by the immersion of the cross. It becomes a scramble when local teenage boys dive for the cross thrown into the Spring Bayou as a remembrance of the baptism of Jesus Christ in the Jordan River. This tradition is now over a century old and was first celebrated by the Episcopal Church by early settlers in 1903.

suffuuuuused

Maybe he just saved us so he could watch us,” David said. “So he could be king turd of shit mountain, and there’s no longer any way for anybody to vote him out of office.

Krey, your king failed you. As his daughter, I’m sorry. I know an apology doesn’t fix anything. But it’s real, and it’s deep.

Both Francis I and Henry VIII were avid mirror collectors and vain monarchs, and always competitive. During their meeting on the Cloth of Gold in 1521 a parade of wealth was displayed to ensure an alliance between France and England (and England’s safety). A later painting of this majestic occasion shows the two kings holding gloves, wearing flat caps decorated with feathers, badges and buttons, with parures – jewellery that matched their clothing. Henry’s codpiece is outlined by the rings on his index finger pointing towards it.

In Stanton, Mott won a devoted convert. Elizabeth recalled: 'It seemed to me like meeting a being from some larger planet, to find a woman who dared to question the opinions of Popes, Kings, Synods, Parliaments, with the same freedom she would criticize an editorial in the London Times, recognizing no higher authority than the judgment of a pure-minded, educated woman. When I first heard from the lips of Lucretia Mott that I had the same right to think for myself that Luther, Calvin, and John Knox had, and the same right to be guided by my own convictions, and would no doubt live a higher, happier life than if guided by theirs, I felt at once a new-born sense of dignity and freedom; it was like suddenly coming into the rays of the noon-day sun, after wandering with a rushlight in the caves of the earth.

Yes, Christmas is famous for sexual exploration.” “It’s in all the best carols. You know ‘We Three Kings’ is about a hot poly hookup.

REWIND OR DIE Midnight Exhibit Vol. 1 Infested - Carol Gore Benny Rose: The Cannibal King - Hailey Piper - Jan. 23 Cirque Berserk - Jessica Guess - Feb. 20 Hairspray and Switchblades - V. Castro - Feb. 20 Sole Survivor - Zachary Ashford - Mar. 26 Food Fright - Nico Bell - Mar. 26 Hell’s Bells - Lisa Quigley - May 28 The Kelping - Jan Stinchcomb - May 28 Trampled Crown - Kirby Kellogg - Jun. 25 Dead and Breakfast - Gary Buller - Jun. 25 Blood Lake Monster - Renee Miller - Jul. 23 The Catcatcher - Kevin Lewis - Jul. 23 All You Need is Love and a Strong Electric Current - Mackenzie Kiera - Aug. 27 Tales From the Meat Wagon - Eddie Generous - Aug. 27 Hooker - M. Lopes da Silva - Oct. 29 Offstage Offerings - Priya Sridhar - Oct. 29 Dead Eyes - EV Knight - Nov. 26 Dancing on the Edge of a Blade - Todd Rigney - Dec. 12 Midnight Exhibit Vol. 2 - Dec. 12

as Billie Jean King tells us, the mark of a champion is the ability to win when things are not quite right—when you’re not playing well and your emotions are not the right ones.

Sorry. I’m just a sentimental guy like that. But Nova sat on that sofa, and so did Carole King and Joan Armatrading. It feels like a part of music history.

Iowa congressman Steve King lamented the passing of "a time in American history when you had to be a male property owner in order to vote." Florida congressional candidate Ted Yoho echoed that sentiment when he also proffered, "You used to have to be a property owner to vote." Of course, after the Great Recession, with African American homeownership lower than it had been during the 1930s and the lowest of all ethnic and racial groups in the United States, the implications of the GOP longings were obvious.

There were carolers singing beside King's College Chapel as we passed, their breath smoking with the song. Christmas was everywhere—in the bright window shops, in the parcels done up with string, the Christmas trees and boughs of holly, the sides of ham and poor drooping geese being carried home on shoulders and bicycles by bright-cheeked passers-by.

Good King Wenceslas tastes great; We might as well eat Stephen, When the brains lay round about, Toasted crisp and bleedin’. Brightly shown the moon that night, Though the virus cruel. When a poor man came in sight, He made fine undead fuel.

One of many legends of the Impaler is that, trapped in a loveless marriage, he wandered the streets of his capital, Tirgoviste, picking up prostitutes on the way. So, too, Carol II Hohenzollern, king of Romania when archaeologists first came looking for Dracula’s grave had his string of mistresses.