Chandler Friends Quotes

Are you lost?" I turned around. "Excuse me?" Two guys were sprawled on a bench close to the sidewalk. The one who had spoken wore tattered shorts and a colonial three-cornered hat-nothing else. He had wide shoulders and long, muscular legs. He stretched dramatically, then lay his tanned arm along the back of the bench. "You look lost," he said. "Can I help you find something?" "Uh, no, thanks. I was just looking." He grinned. "Me too." "Oh?" I glanced around, thinking I'd missed something. "At what?" He and his friend burst out laughing. Way to go, Lauren, I thought. He had been looking at me!

The other part of me wanted to get out and stay out, but this was the part I never listened to. Because if I ever had I would have stayed in the town where I was born and worked in the hardware store and married the boss's daughter and had five kids and read them the funny paper on Sunday morning and smacked their heads when they got out of line and squabbled with the wife about how much spending money they were to get and what programs they could have on the radio or TV set. I might even get rich - small-town rich, an eight-room house, two cars in the garage, chicken every Sunday and the Reader's Digest on the living room table, the wife with a cast-iron permanent and me with a brain like a sack of Portland cement. You take it, friend. I'll take the big sordid dirty crooked city.

Knowledge is power; and power is best shared among friends.

He's on a bus to Las Vegas. He has a friend there who will give him a job." She brightened up very suddenly. "Oh- to Las Vegas? How sentimental of him. That's where we were married." "I guess he forgot," I said, "or he would have gone somewhere else.

Sometimes love started with bewildering passion and then grew deeper through friendship; sometimes it started with deep friendship and surprised everybody-especially the two "best friends-with it's sudden romantic fire. Either way, love seemed both meant to be and a miracle.

Actually, I came because I have a last-minute invitation. My friend Erika Gill is having a big party tomorrow night, one of those all-out birthday bashes that girls like. Want to go?" ---------------------------------------- "No. Sorry." "Since it's a catered thing, at a restaurant, I'll pick you up at- what did you say?" "I'm sorry. I can't do it." ---------------------------------------- "You're busy?" "I just can't do it," I said.

Hammett was the ace performer... He is said to have lacked heart; yet the story he himself thought the most of [The Glass Key] is the record of a man's devotion to a friend. He was spare, frugal, hard-boiled, but he did over and over again what only the best writers can ever do at all. He wrote scenes that seemed never to have been written before.

Hope is a pleasant acquaintance, but an unsafe friend.

No one really knows. He’s like Chandler from Friends,” Naomi said.

You have to stop the Q-Tip when there is resistance

One of the best things about Ardie was that she could be just a little bit mean exactly when Sloane needed her to be. Sloane's most closely held tenet was that women could not be real friends unless they were willing to talk shit together. It was the closest thing she knew to a blood pact that didn't involve knives.

Novelist Raymond Chandler once explained his writing discipline to his friend Alex Harris. Chandler wrote in a letter, “Either write or nothing…. I find it works. Two very simple rules, a: you don’t have to write. b: you can’t do anything else.

Steve Scott, a friend of mine, consistently makes $30–60K in passive income each month from his books, so there’s definitely a way to make a living off of only book revenue if that’s your goal. Self-published authors are currently making more than the big 5 published authors combined!

I was living in rehab when Monica and Chandler got married. It was May 17, 2001.

...there is no question that precision is difficult to achieve. Imprecision is easier. Imprecision is available in a wide variety of attractice and user-friendly forms: cliches, abstractions and generalizations, jargon, passive constructions, hyperbole, sentimentality, and reassuring absolutes. Imprecision minimizes discomfort and creates a big, soft, hospitable place for all opinions; even the completely vacuous can find a welcome there. So the practice of precision not only requires attentiveness and effort; it may also require the courage to afflict the comfortable and, consequently, tolerate their resentment.

My opinion means nothing. It happens every day. The most unlikely people commit the most unlikely crimes. Nice old ladies poison whole families. Clean-cut kids commit multiple holdups and shootings. Bank managers with spotless records going back twenty years are found out to be long-term embezzlers. And successful and popular and supposedly happy novelists get drunk and put their wives in the hospital. We know damn little about what makes even our best friends tick.

But, you see, I can’t say yes to that question “Why?” when I feel like I’m not enough. You can’t give away something you do not have. And most of the time I have these nagging thoughts: I’m not enough, I don’t matter, I am too needy. These thoughts make me uncomfortable. I need love, but I don’t trust it. If I drop my game, my Chandler, and show you who I really am, you might notice me, but worse, you might notice me and leave me. And I can’t have that. I won’t survive that. Not anymore. It will turn me into a speck of dust and annihilate me. So, I will leave you first. I will fabricate in my mind that something went wrong with you, and I’ll believe it. And I’ll leave. But something can’t go wrong with all of them, Matso. What’s the common denominator here?

In the final episode, you’ll see that I’m wearing a white shirt, and tan slacks, and both look at least three sizes too big for me. (Compare this to the difference in how I look between the final episode of season six and the first of season seven—the Chandler-Monica proposal episodes. I’m wearing the same clothes in the final episode of six and the first of seven [it’s supposed to be the same night], but I must have lost fifty pounds in the off-season. My weight varied between 128 pounds and 225 pounds during the years of Friends.)

The creators took each of us out for lunch, too, to get to know us, so they could incorporate some aspects of our real personalities into the show. At my lunch I said two things: one, that even though I considered myself not unattractive, I had terrible luck with women and that my relationships tended toward the disastrous; and two, that I was not comfortable in any silence at all—I have to break any such moment with a joke. And this became a built-in excuse for Chandler Bing to be funny—perfect for a sitcom—and Chandler wasn’t much good with women, either (as he shouts at Janice as she leaves his apartment, “I’ve scared ya; I’ve said too much; I’m awkward and hopeless and desperate for love!”). But think of a better character for a sitcom: someone who is uncomfortable in silence and has to break the silence with a joke.

You probably didn’t intend it, but you’ve done me a favor. With an assist from Detective Dayton. You’ve solved a problem for me. No man likes to betray a friend but I wouldn’t betray an enemy into your hands. You’re not only a gorilla, you’re an incompetent. You don’t know how to operate a simple investigation. I was balanced on a knife-edge and you could have swung me either way. But you had to abuse me, throw coffee in my face, and use your fists on me when I was in a spot where all I could do was take it. From now on I wouldn’t tell you the time by the clock on your own wall. ” For some strange reason he sat there perfectly still and let me say it. Then he grinned. “You’re just a little old cop-hater, friend. That’s all you are, shamus, just a little old cop-hater.” “There are places where cops are not hated, Captain. But in those places you wouldn’t be a cop.

Indeed a peculiar rule of Hebrew law provided that if the verdict was instantaneous and unanimous it was invalid and could not stand. If the prisoner had not a single friend in court, the element of mercy was wanting in the verdict, said the ancient Hebrews, and the proceedings were regarded in the light of conspiracy and mob violence. A

It wasn’t only the warning that kept us safe but our ability to keep that warning quiet. Like secret agents operating behind enemy lines, we couldn’t afford to get caught. And yet we risked it anyway. With voices hushed, we reached out to each other to offer our knowledge. We tried. Because we’d always wanted the best for each of our friends. We wanted her to dump that loser. We wanted her to stop worrying about losing five pounds. We wanted to tell her she looked great in that dress and that she should definitely buy it. We wanted her to crush the interview. We wanted her to text us when she got home. We wanted her to see what we saw: someone smart and brave and funny and worthy of love and success and peace. We wanted to kill whoever got in her way.

My wife's an incredible woman. She's loving and devoted and caring. And don't tell her I said this, but the woman's always right... I love my wife more than anything in this world. And I... it kills me that I can't give her a baby... I really want a kid. And when that day finally comes, I'll learn how to be a good dad. But my wife... she's already there. She's a mother... without a baby...

We were always looking for the perfect man. Even those of us who were not signed up for the traditional, heteronormative experience were nevertheless fascinated with the anthropological, unicorn-like search for one. Married or single, we were either searching for him or trying to mold him from one we already had. This perfect specimen would consist of the following essential attributes: He shared his food and always ordered dessert. When we recommended a book, he bought it without needing a friend to second our suggestion first. He knew how to pack a diaper bag without being told. He was a Southern gentleman with a mother from the East Coast who fostered his quietly progressive sensibilities. He said “I love you” after 2.5 months. He didn’t get drunk. He knew how to do taxes. He never questioned our feminist ideals when we refused to squish bugs or change oil. He didn’t sit down to put on his shoes. He had enough money for retirement. He wished vehemently for male-hormonal birth control. He had a slight unease with the concept of women’s shaved vaginas, but not enough to take a stance one way or another. He thought Mindy Kaling was funny. He liked throw pillows. He didn’t care if we made more money than him. He liked women his own age. We were reasonable and irrational, cynical and naïve, but always, always on the hunt. Of course, this story isn’t about perfect men, but Ardie Valdez unfortunately didn’t know that yet when, the day after Desmond’s untimely death, Ardie’s phone lit up: a notification from her dating app.

But, you see, I can’t say yes to that question “Why?” when I feel like I’m not enough. You can’t give away something you do not have. And most of the time I have these nagging thoughts: I’m not enough, I don’t matter, I am too needy. These thoughts make me uncomfortable. I need love, but I don’t trust it. If I drop my game, my Chandler, and show you who I really am, you might notice me, but worse, you might notice me and leave me. And I can’t have that. I won’t survive that. Not anymore. It will turn me into a speck of dust and annihilate me.

Have you ever heard a friend returning from a party describe how merry it was? Unless you're very, very old, I suspect not. The word survives in American usage almost exclusively as a vestigial reminder of certain obligatory feelings of good cheer around Christmastime. But merriment itself seems to belong to a place beyond the looking glass - something we can imagine wistfully as we step into the world of Austen or Dickens, but can't bring back into the milieu of the contemporary cocktail party. Merriment seems to evoke two conditions of community life we have largely lost: a common sense of what there is to laugh about, and a certain mental health - what Williams James would have called "healthy-mindedness" - that understands darkness, but doesn't succumb to cynicism. Merriment has fallen into near extinction by a disuse that both signals and hastens the demise of such attitudes.

Godly grief readily confesses. After seeing your sin, and sorrowing over your sin, the worst thing you can do is to try stuffing your sin, hoping nobody ever finds out who you really are. Turns out, the best way to avoid being found out a fake is just not to be one—to be open with people about your struggles, while being equally as open in your praise of God for what He’s making of you, despite your many messes and problems. This is where the church comes in so beautifully, because it gets us around people who can help us carry the nagging issues of our hearts—people to whom we can confess our battles with sin and confess our need for a Savior—while we’re doing the same for them. When the only person that truly knows all about us is the person who uses our hairbrush, we are easy pickings for the Enemy, ripe for being outmaneuvered and outsmarted. That’s how we remain slaves to our repeated failures, by basically resisting the redeeming love of God and the needed, encouraging support of others. Because even if we’re as much as 99 percent known (or much less, as is more often the case) to our spouse, our friends, our family, and the people around us, we are still not fully known. We’re still hiding out. We’re still covering up. We don’t want them to know everything. But true sorrow over sin begs to be vented—both vertically to God and horizontally to others. So mark this down: You have no shot at experiencing real change in life if you’re habitually protecting your image, hyping your spiritual brand, and putting out the vibe that you’re a lot more unfazed by temptation than the reality you know and live would suggest. Even Satan himself cannot succeed at clobbering you with condemnation when the stuff he’s accusing you of doing is the same stuff you’ve been honestly admitting before God and others and trusting the Lord for His help with. That’s some of the best action you can take against the sin in your life. That’s responsible repentance.

Weston, having been born in Chicago, was raised with typical, well-grounded, mid-western values. On his 16th birthday, his father gave him a Kodak camera with which he started what would become his lifetime vocation. During the summer of 1908, Weston met Flora May Chandler, a schoolteacher who was seven years older than he was. The following year the couple married and in time they had four sons. Weston and his family moved to Southern California and opened a portrait studio on Brand Boulevard, in the artsy section of Glendale, California, called Tropico. His artistic skills soon became apparent and he became well known for his portraits of famous people, such as Carl Sandburg and Max Eastman. In the autumn of 1913, hearing of his work, Margrethe Mather, a photographer from Los Angeles, came to his studio, where Weston asked her to be his studio assistant. It didn’t take long before the two developed a passionate, intimate relationship. Both Weston and Mather became active in the growing bohemian cultural scene in Los Angeles. She was extremely outgoing and artistic in a most flamboyant way. Her bohemian sexual values were new to Weston’s conventional thinking, but Mather excited him and presented him with a new outlook that he found enticing. Mather was beautiful, and being bisexual and having been a high-class prostitute, was delightfully worldly. Mather's uninhibited lifestyle became irresistible to Weston and her photography took him into a new and exciting art form. As Mather worked and overtly played with him, she presented a lifestyle that was in stark contrast to Weston’s conventional home life, and he soon came to see his wife Flora as a person with whom he had little in common. Weston expanded his horizons but tried to keep his affairs with other women a secret. As he immersed himself further into nude photography, it became more difficult to hide his new lifestyle from his wife. Flora became suspicious about this secret life, but apparently suffered in silence. One of the first of many women who agreed to model nude for Weston was Tina Modotti. Although Mather remained with Weston, Tina soon became his primary model and remained so for the next several years. There was an instant attraction between Tina Modotti, Mather and Edward Weston, and although he remained married, Tina became his student, model and lover. Richey soon became aware of the affair, but it didn’t seem to bother him, as they all continued to remain good friends. The relationship Tina had with Weston could definitely be considered “cheating,” since knowledge of the affair was withheld as much as possible from his wife Flora May. Perhaps his wife knew and condoned this new promiscuous relationship, since she had also endured the intense liaison with Margrethe Mather. Tina, Mather and Weston continued working together until Tina and Weston suddenly left for Mexico in 1923. As a group, they were all a part of the cozy, artsy, bohemian society of Los Angeles, which was where they were introduced to the then-fashionable, communistic philosophy.

A more dubious form of positive procrastination was identified by Robert Benchley, one of the deadline-challenged members of the Algonquin Round Table. (His colleague Dorothy Parker gave her editor at The New Yorker the all-time best excuse for an overdue piece: “Somebody was using the pencil.”) In a wry essay, Benchley explained how he could summon the discipline to read a scientific article about tropical fish, build a bookshelf, arrange books on said shelf, and write an answer to a friend’s letter that had been sitting in a pile on his desk for twenty years. All he had to do was draw up a to-do list for the week and put these tasks below his top priority—his job of writing an article. “The secret of my incredible energy and efficiency in getting work done is a simple one,” Benchley wrote. “The psychological principle is this: anyone can do any amount of work, provided it isn’t the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment.” Benchley recognized a phenomenon that Baumeister and Tice also documented in their term-paper study: Procrastinators typically avoid one task by doing something else, and rarely do they sit there doing nothing at all. But there’s a better way to exploit that tendency, as Raymond Chandler recognized.

They minded their own business to the point of nodding hello as if you didn’t have a huge taloned alien walking with you, or politely asking your friend’s acquaintance while ignoring the unimportant detail he had feathers.

I need something to distract me so I switch it on and flick through the channels until I find some old reruns of Friends. My mom loved this show, and we used to watch it with her all the time. It’s like chicken soup TV and despite my circumstances, I smile as Chandler and Joey ride into Monica and Rachel’s apartment on that hideous white dog.

I think I might’ve watched every episode of Friends in 2013. I decided I was a Chandler.

The story goes that a Frenchman who was a friend of the King of France ran away to America to live. There was a war in France and he escaped. He was shot accidently right near here. My great-grandfather, Running Deer, hid him and took care of him until he died. The Frenchman had a great leather bag with things in it which he expected to sell. But when he died, he gave the bag to my great-grandfather for taking care of him.

Or Friends. I think I might've watched every episode of friends in 2013. I decided I was Chandler.

The other part of me wanted to get out and stay out, but this was the part I never listened to. Because if I ever had I would have stayed in the town where I was born and worked in the hardware store and married the boss's daughter and had five kids and read them the funny paper on Sunday morning and smacked there heads when the get out of line and squabbled with the wife about how much spending money they were to get and what programs the could have on the radio or TV set. I might even have got rich -small town rich- an eight-room house, two cars in the garage, chicken every Sunday and the Reader's Digest on the living room table, the wife with cast iron permanent and me with a brain like a sack of Portland cement. You take it, friend. I'll take the big sordid dirty crooked city.

I had no choice: I began staying home. Day after day, night after night, I sat around eating takeaway, watching 24. Or Friends. I think I might’ve watched every episode of Friends in 2013. I decided I was a Chandler.

I can't say yes to that question, "Why?" when I feel like I'm not enough. You can't give away something you do not have. And most of the time, I have these nagging thoughts: I'm not enough, I don't matter, I am too needy. These thoughts make me uncomfortable. I need love, but I don't trust it. If I drop my game, my Chandler, and show you who I really am, you might notice me, but worse, you might notice me and leave me. And I can't have that. I won't survive that. Not anymore. It will turn me into a speck of dust and annihilate me.

When the person you’re attracted to goes through something difficult, it is evidence of her humanity if she is sad, stressed, or wounded. But what she does with that sadness, stress, and woundedness makes all the difference between someone who treasures Christ as supreme and satisfying and one who is her own god, who lives with a sense of entitlement and worships comfort. If you are seeking a romantic relationship, be wise and keep things with a prospective partner in the “friend zone” until you have seen how he handles the stress of a broken and fallen world.

Emerson was accused of vagueness, inconsistency, impiety, nonsense, infidelity, blasphemy, and “foulest atheism.” His friend and successor at Boston’s Second Church, Chandler Robbins, now editor of the Christian Register, waffled helplessly, editorializing about Emerson as a good man and valuable friend despite his “unphilosophical and erroneous speculations.” Henry Ware, Jr., delivered and published a response critical of Emerson’s address but did it graciously and the two remained friends.

But I think your grandchildren have helped her see that people are friendly if you only give them a chance.

THE HIDDEN PAINTING THE AMUSEMENT PARK MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE MIXED-UP ZOO THE CAMP-OUT MYSTERY THE MYSTERY GIRL THE MYSTERY CRUISE THE DISAPPEARING FRIEND MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE SINGING GHOST MYSTERY IN THE SNOW THE PIZZA MYSTERY THE MYSTERY HORSE THE MYSTERY AT THE DOG SHOW THE CASTLE MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE LOST VILLAGE THE MYSTERY ON THE ICE THE MYSTERY OF THE PURPLE POOL THE GHOST SHIP MYSTERY THE MYSTERY IN WASHINGTON, DC THE CANOE TRIP MYSTERY THE MYSTERY OF THE HIDDEN BEACH THE MYSTERY OF THE MISSING CAT THE MYSTERY AT SNOWFLAKE INN THE MYSTERY ON STAGE THE DINOSAUR MYSTERY T

Stop, you boys,” cried Henry. “Don’t fight the minute you meet.” “Well, Mike started it,” shouted Benny. “I did not! You started it,” shouted Mike. “Boys!” said Henry. “Stop this minute. Aren’t you friends?” “We’re friends,

It’s a great place, baby. A great neighbourhood. It’s got a huge garden,” he says, nodding to the right. “There’s a two-bed guesthouse in the garden, which is where Stuart will live.” “Stuart’s not going to live with us anymore?” I pout. “Well, we talked, baby, and we decided it was time he move out and get his own place. He’s all grown up, ready to face the world. We have to let him go sometime. We can’t keep him forever.” Jake gives me a grave look, clearly taking the piss. “You’re an idiot.” “Takes one to know one.” “That it does.” I smile warmly. He rubs his nose against mine, Eskimo-style. “I just thought it would be good to have our privacy, and Stuart gets his too. Also, I no longer have to run the risk of catching him making out with a dude.” “You love it really.” “What? Catching Stuart making out with a guy?” Pressing my lips together, suppressing a smile, I nod. “Sweetheart, nothing could kill my hard-on quicker, believe me. I like the person I’m with to be soft and warm.” He runs his fingertips down my bare arm. “I want her made to fit around me.” “Like me?” I scratch my fingernails over the denim covering his pert behind. “Exactly like you.” Jake bends his head down to mine and kisses me softly. “Will you miss him?” “Are we still talking about Stuart?” “I’m just worried he’ll think my being here is pushing him out.” “Sweetheart, he works for me, and it’s not like he’s going far.” “I know he works for you, but he’s your friend too. You guys have lived together for such a long time. You’re like Joey and Chandler. Except you’d probably have been Joey, and Chandler was never gay. Oh God, would that make me Monica or Rachel?” “What the fuck are you talking about?” He laughs. “Friends.” “I’m gonna have to watch this show, aren’t I, just so I can figure out what the fuck you’re talking about half the time.” “Yes, Pervy Perverson, you are. Honestly, I have no clue how you haven’t. I’ll buy the first season on Blu-ray and we can watch it together.” “Can’t wait.” “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Wethers

The customer was middle-aged, handsomely dressed, and drunk. He wanted to talk and he couldn’t have stopped even if he hadn’t really wanted to talk. He was polite and friendly and when I heard him he didn’t seem to slur his words much, but you knew that he got up on the bottle and only let go of it when he fell asleep at night. He would be like that for the rest of his life and that was what his life was. You would never know how he got that way because even if he told you it would not be the truth. At the very best a distorted memory of the truth as he knew it. There is a sad man like that in every quiet bar in the world.

While most of the town were settling down to their dinners that evening, Hannah, a raven-haired servant girl, hurried across the marketplace and up the path to the ordinary, where she knocked on the door. Candlelight gleamed through the cracks in the closed shutter after a second knock; the door opened and she slipped inside. Tears started down her cheeks as soon as she tried to speak. “What is it?” said the widow Jennison, keeper of the establish¬ment. “What on earth is wrong?” “Tobias is in trouble.” Hannah sat at one of the trestle tables. Sniffing back her tears, she told the story of her lover’s misadventure. They’d been planning for several months to break away from their servitude and look for a better situation in the West Indies. He’d taken to theft to raise money for the trip, but his master, the tallow chandler Aaron Tuck, discovered his transgressions, and Tobias went into hiding. “There’s men a-lookin’ for him now,” Hannah said as tears came to her eyes again. “We can’t stay here another week. People are sayin’ dreadful things about us that just ain’t true.” “Where is Tobias now?” Nancy asked. “On the neck somewheres. I’m supposed to meet him at midnight.” The widow touched her friend’s hand. She herself had been in trouble years before, so she understood the errors to which the girl’s turbulent feelings were likely to bring her. “Yes, life must seem a prison to you. I can see why you want to leave.” “We’ve gut to leave!” Hannah said. “Just tonight they arrested Marthy Hubbard. Mr. Ridley may want to use us for an example, too.” Nancy went to the cupboard for a pitcher of cider. “I don’t like what’s happened to Martha either. I’ll help you, but you’ll have to promise to be patient and not make things worse.” “What do you mean?” Hannah looked around the dusky room with a frightened glance. Experience had taught her that her elders often resorted to compromise when they meant to help. “I’m going to talk with Governor Willoughby. Now don’t fret, child. He’ll be more sympathetic than you think. Besides, you don’t have any choice but to wait unless you want to live in the woods. There won’t be a ship headed south till next month.” Hannah frowned and took a quick swallow of cider. The two friends talked for a while longer by the light of an iron betty lamp, then Hannah went outside to look for Tobias. But all her hopes went for naught. The constable’s men found him just before midnight on the slender strip of marsh and pasture that connected the Botolph peninsula to the mainland. Now happy that they would get to bed at a decent hour, the men in the search party brought Tobias to the guard-house on the edge of town, where he sat till dawn on a slat bench, dozing or clutching his head in his hands.

The customer was middle-aged, handsomely dressed, and drunk. He wanted to talk and he couldn’t have stopped even if he hadn’t really wanted to talk. He was polite and friendly and when I heard him he didn’t seem to slur his words much, but you knew that he got up on the bottle and only let go of it when he fell asleep at night. He would be like that for the rest of his life and that was what his life was. You would never know how he got that way because even if he told you it would not be the truth. At the very best a distorted memory of the truth as he knew it. There is a sad man like that in every quiet bar in the world. I

Queer how that was always cropping up. Here she was highly respectable, married, mother of a small boy, and, in spite of all that, knowing all that, these people took one look at her and immediately got that now-I-wonder look. Apparently it was an automatic reaction of white people—if a girl was colored and fairly young, why, it stood to reason she had to be a prostitute. If not that—at least sleeping with her would be just a simple matter, for all one had to do was make the request. In fact, white men wouldn't even have to do the asking because the girl would ask them on sight. She grew angrier as she thought about it. Of course, none of them could know about your grandmother who had brought you up, she said to herself. And ever since you were big enough to remember the things that people said to you, had said over and over, just like a clock ticking, 'Lutie, baby, don't you never let no white man put his hands on you. They ain't never willin' to let a black woman alone. Seems like they all got a itch and a urge to sleep with 'em. Don't you never let any of 'em touch you.' Something that was said so often and with such gravity it had become a part of you, just like breathing, and you would have preferred crawling in bed with a rattlesnake to getting in bed with a white man. Mrs. Chandler's friends and her mother couldn't possibly know that, couldn't possibly imagine that you might have a distrust and a dislike of white men far deeper than the distrust these white women had of you. Or know that, after hearing their estimation of you, nothing in the world could ever force you to be even friendly with a white man. And again she thought of the barrier between her and these people. The funny part of it was she was willing to trust them and their motives without questioning, but the instant they saw the color of her skin they knew what she must be like; they were so confident about what she must be like they didn't need to know her personally in order to verify their estimate.

Sometimes, when she was going to Jamaica, Mrs. Chandler would go to New York. And they would take the same train. On the ride down they would talk—about some story being played up in the newspapers, about clothes or some moving picture. But when the train pulled into Grand Central, the wall was suddenly there. Just as they got off the train, just as the porter was reaching for Mrs. Chandler's pigskin luggage, the wall suddenly loomed up. It was Mrs. Chandler's voice that erected it. Her voice high, clipped, carrying, as she said, 'I'll see you on Monday, Lutie.' There was a firm note of dismissal in her voice so that the other passengers pouring off the train turned to watch the rich young woman and her colored maid; a tone of voice that made people stop to hear just when it was the maid was to report back for work. Because the voice unmistakably established the relation between the blond young woman and the brown young woman. And it never failed to stir resentment in Lutie. She argued with herself about it. Of course, she was a maid. She had no illusions about that. But would it hurt Mrs. Chandler just once to talk at that moment of parting as though, however incredible it might seem to anyone who was listening, they were friends? Just two people who knew each other and to whom it was only incidental that one of them was white and the other black? Even while she argued with herself, she was answering in a noncommittal voice, "Yes, ma'am.

She and Bub went to live with Pop in that crowded, musty flat on Seventh Avenue. She hunted for a job with a grim persistence that was finally rewarded, for two weeks later she went to work as a hand presser in a steam laundry. It was hot. The steam was unbearable. But she forced herself to go to night school—studying shorthand and typing and filing. Every time it seemed as though she couldn't possibly summon the energy to go on with the course, she would remind herself of all the people who had got somewhere in spite of the odds against them. She would think of the Chandlers and their young friends—'It's the richest damn country in the world.' Mrs. Chandler wrote her a long letter and Jim forwarded it to her from Jamaica. 'Lutie dear: We haven't had a decent thing to eat since you left. And Little Henry misses you so much he's almost sick—' She didn't answer it. She had more problems than Mrs. Chandler and Little Henry had and they could always find somebody to solve theirs if they paid enough.

The next day's papers said that a 'burly Negro' had failed in his effort to hold up a bakery shop, for the proprietor had surprised him by resisting and stabbed him with a bread knife. She held the paper in her hand for a long time, trying to follow the reasoning by which that thin ragged boy had become in the eyes of a reporter a 'burly Negro.' And she decided that it all depended on where you sat how these things looked. If you looked at them from inside the framework of a fat weekly salary, and you thought of colored people as naturally criminal, then you didn't really see what any Negro looked like. You couldn't, because the Negro was never an individual. He was a threat, or an animal, or a curse, or a blight, or a joke. It was like the Chandlers and their friends in Connecticut, who looked at her and didn't see her, but saw instead a wench with no morals who would be easy to come by. The reporter saw a dead Negro who had attempted to hold up a store, and so he couldn't really see what the man lying on the sidewalk looked like. He couldn't see the ragged shoes, the thin, starved body. He saw, instead, the picture he already had in his mind: a huge, brawny, blustering, ignorant, criminally disposed black man who had run amok with a knife on a spring afternoon in Harlem and who had in turn been knifed.

When you were out, you were out, and the team, your friends, whatever you were dealing with moved on—as you did.

I'm so glad we're having this rehearsal dinner. You know, I so rarely get to practice my meals before I eat them

The Aldens did not know that soon they would meet a wonderful friend and find some people who were not friendly at all.

They were soon asleep again. They did not know that Joe had asked Mr. Hill to come because he could show them a big black bear. They did not know that Mr. Hill and the bear were good friends. The bear knew that he would find food wherever Mr. Hill was.

You’d think it was their own home paid for out of their purse when you bust something and ask for a repair. They act like we are renters. They’re liable to tell us our experiments are too dangerous to run in this building and cause all kinds of trouble with the administration. They just have no sense of humor if you catch the place on fire, blow out a wall or,” he said, looking up at the hole, “something.

Whitney brought in his friends Edwin Webster, Chandler Hovey, and Albert H. Gordon to take over the company’s name and goodwill.

And, really, she did like Chandler, too. She did. What woman wouldn’t? He was handsome and successful, a member of one of Nashville’s oldest and most prominent families. But she’d never felt anything more than a friendly sort of affection for him, and even that usually only came about after she’d consumed a good, dry Manhattan. Preferably during a two- for- one happy hour. At any rate, she’d never experienced for Chandler the kind of feeling a woman should have for a man she thought about marrying, that breathless kind of wanting, that aching sort of yearning, that endless, ferocious passion, that insistent, frenzied, needy demand, that hot, sweaty, wanton arousal that made a woman just want to rip off her clothes and wrap her naked body around a man and feed herself to him whole, that...that… Ah, where was she? Oh, yes. At any rate, she’d never experienced that sort of, um, feeling for Chandler that a woman should have for a man with whom she intended to spend the rest of her life.

One of the best things about Ardie was that she could be just a little bit mean exactly when Sloane needed her to be. Sloane’s most closely held tenet was that women could not be real friends unless they were willing to talk shit together.

Stamp was also innovative about his assembly line, setting up his factory in Chandler so that the satellites were built horizontally instead of vertically. That meant the assemblers could work at waist level, whereas on military satellites, the technicians stood on ladders and leaned over. He trained Lockheed Martin in the new technique, then later bragged about it to his friends at Khrunichev in Moscow, only to be told, “We’ve done it that way for forty years.

I'll Be There For You These words are etched on our hearts. but they're so much more than just words, they're a complete emotion. But it's all just an illusion, a utopia, for which we long. we trade in drinking coffee on a couch, with drinking at a bar. we utter more words to Alexa and Siri, than to people face to face. we can never have six people in one room without anyone looking at their phones. we trade in memories with pictures. we actively look for reasons to not be around people. a Chandler is considered too mean and sarcastic, Ross has too much baggage, who has the energy to deal with that. Phoebe is too quirky to handle. Rachel, that spoilt and entitled bitch. no way. Joey is the fuck boy that will cause you nothing but pain, and Monica with her OCD, that's way too high maintenance. no, we don't say these things when we watch the show, we say these about people around us who bear similar characteristics. we adore these characters, we envy their friendship, their bond, their love. we long for nothing else, yet when confronted with them in real life, we belittle, avoid, cut-off, ignore. we don't want to disturb the utopia, are terrified of bursting the bubble, because if we start recognizing the flaws in our fantasies, we'll be forced to recognize our own. we love to live an à la carte life, wherein we pick and choose the qualities and personalities of a person that we wish to see, and the ones that may simply be brushed away. Generation after generation, will watch that show and call it their utopia, and each will give up hope of ever attaining that, alas! It was a different time! what we long for doesn't require a time machine to achieve, it doesn't need for mobile phones to not exist, or for less bars to exist, or to live away from your parents. it's only as complicated as we try to make it, when it can be as simple as, "I'll be there for you, 'cause you're there for me too

I'll Be There For You" These words are etched on our hearts. but they're so much more than just words, they're a complete emotion. But it's all just an illusion, a utopia, for which we long. we trade in drinking coffee on a couch, with drinking at a bar. we utter more words to Alexa and Siri, than to people face to face. we can never have six people in one room without anyone looking at their phones. we trade in memories with pictures. we actively look for reasons to not be around people. a Chandler is considered too mean and sarcastic, Ross has too much baggage, who has the energy to deal with that. Phoebe is too quirky to handle. Rachel, that spoilt and entitled bitch. no way. Joey is the fuck boy that will cause you nothing but pain, and Monica with her OCD, that's way too high maintenance. no, we don't say these things when we watch the show, we say these about people around us who bear similar characteristics. we adore these characters, we envy their friendship, their bond, their love. we long for nothing else, yet when confronted with them in real life, we belittle, avoid, cut-off, ignore. we don't want to disturb the utopia, are terrified of bursting the bubble, because if we start recognizing the flaws in our fantasies, we'll be forced to recognize our own. we love to live an à la carte life, wherein we pick and choose the qualities and personalities of a person that we wish to see, and the ones that may simply be brushed away. Generation after generation, will watch that show and call it their utopia, and each will give up hope of ever attaining that, alas! It was a different time! what we long for doesn't require a time machine to achieve, it doesn't need for mobile phones to not exist, or for less bars to exist, or to live away from your parents. it's only as complicated as we try to make it, when it can be as simple as, "I'll be there for you, 'cause you're there for me too

I'll Be There For You These words are etched on our hearts. but they're so much more than just words, they're a complete emotion. But it's all just an illusion, a utopia, for which we long. we trade in drinking coffee on a couch, with drinking at a bar. we utter more words to Alexa and Siri, than to people face to face. we can never have six people in one room without anyone looking at their phones. we trade in memories with pictures. we actively look for reasons to not be around people. a Chandler is considered too mean and sarcastic, Ross has too much baggage, who has the energy to deal with that. Phoebe is too quirky to handle. Rachel, that spoilt and entitled bitch. no way. Joey is the fuck boy that will cause you nothing but pain, and Monica with her OCD, that's way too high maintenance. no, we don't say these things when we watch the show, we say these about people around us who bear similar characteristics. we adore these characters, we envy their friendship, their bond, their love. we long for nothing else, yet when confronted with them in real life, we belittle, avoid, cut-off, ignore. we don't want to disturb the utopia, are terrified of bursting the bubble, because if we start recognizing the flaws in our fantasies, we'll be forced to recognize our own. we love to live an à la carte life, wherein we pick and choose the qualities and personalities of a person that we wish to see, and the ones that may simply be brushed away. Generation after generation, will watch that show and call it their utopia, and each will give up hope of ever attaining that, alas! It was a different time! what we long for doesn't require a time machine to achieve, it doesn't need for mobile phones to not exist, or for less bars to exist, or to live away from your parents. it's only as complicated as we try to make it, when it can be as simple as, I'll be there for you, 'cause you're there for me too

He wore a goatee, the sort only seen on people with enough money and pride to avoid honest friends.

I saw it on a rerun of Friends, when Joey wore Chandler’s clothes and did lunges while goin’ commando. Did I say it wrong?

And most of the time I have these nagging thoughts; I am not enough, I don't matter, I'm too needy. These thoughts make me uncomfortable. I need love but I don't trust it. If I drop my game, my Chandler, and show you who I really am you might notice me and leave me. And I can't have that. I won't survive that. Not anymore. It will turn me into a spec of dust and annihilate me. So I will leave you first. I will fabricate in my mind that something went wrong with you, and I'll believe it. And I'll leave.

But legend has it that when Sir John, or JohnJohn as he was known to friends, signed the country into existence, he eloquently defined what it meant to be a Canadian. Unfortunately, the next day, crippled from the sauce, nobody could remember what it was he said. "I remember it was jolly good," said Sir Edward Barron Chandler. "Mais oui," said Sir Jean-Charles Chapais. "Magnifique!" They then had a round of straighteners and started all over again. The answer to what it means to be Canadian was lost to the ages. For his part Macdonald had no recollection of signing anything important, let alone saying anything profound. In fact, he only learned he'd helped form a country when he read about it in a day-old newspaper on the train home. That's a hell of a thing to find out you've done while you're nursing a hangover. Also, he was missing a shoe. Personally, I blame this prime ministerial blackout for the fact that, 150 years later in 2004, nobody had answered the question yet.

And that, she thought, is the root of the problem right there. Eddie was absolutely bored. The mischief he and his friends had gotten into at the beginning of the summer with one of their bots, might turn out to be the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. Bored kids found ways to get into trouble. No matter how smart they were. “Yeah. That pretty much sums it up. It

She had some really good news,” Lee said. “The Deep Space Explorer Early Bird out of Fargone has made Derfhome orbit and is inquiring how to register a world claim from their voyage on our list instead of proceeding to Earth.” “Was she off in the beyond away from Earth?” Jeff wondered. He privately hoped they hadn’t named the world Worm…

a meth addict, she had no real “friends.” But she’d used with, slept with, fought with, and lived with meth addicts she thought were her friends.

I need love, but I don’t trust it. If I drop my game, my Chandler, and show you who I really am, you might notice me, but worse, you might notice me and leave me. And I can’t have that. I won’t survive that. Not anymore. It will turn me into a speck of dust and annihilate me. So, I will leave you first. I will fabricate in my mind that something went wrong with you, and I’ll believe it. And I’ll leave.

why should I be so scared of fear when it has slept with me in bed, eaten my breakfast, It has told me like a friend what it tells me to avoid because of it's worry of my pain, and agony.