Collector Car Quotes

Max dances around in a circle with one leg pulled up, and people move away as if he's mentally unstable. He and I are the only collectors that like to remain visible to the living. The other four roll incognito. Max finishes his dance and brushes his shoulders off. "What the hell was that?" I ask. "My new move," he says matter-of-factly. My fellow collector is six years older than me but acts like he's thirteen. We met a couple of years ago after he kicked the bucket and came onboard. He talks so fast, I have trouble understanding him sometimes. I like to think he was the World's Best Car Salesman before he croaked.

I get out of the car and move to stand in front of them. Over their slobbing bodies, I say, "Seriously?" I scratch my head. "I mean, seriously?

Autumn is always a time of Fear and Greed and Hoarding for the winter coming on. Debt collectors are active on old people and fleece the weak and helpless. They want to lay in enough cash to weather the known horrors of January and February. There is always a rash of kidnapping and abductions of schoolchildren in the football months. Preteens of both sexes are traditionally seized and grabbed off the streets by gangs of organized perverts who traditionally give them as Christmas gifts to each other to be personal sex slaves and playthings. Most of these things are obviously Wrong and Evil and Ugly — but at least they are Traditional. They will happen. Your driveway will ice over, your furnace will blow up, and you will be rammed in traffic by an uninsured driver in a stolen car. But what the hell? That's why we have Insurance, eh? And the Inevitability of these nightmares is what makes them so reassuring. Life will go on, for good or ill. But some things are forever, right? The structure may be a little Crooked, but the foundations are still strong and unshakable.

(Sebastian, for all his moodiness, at times devised some piece of ghoulish fun, as when in a crowded tramcar he had the ticket-collector transmit to a girl in the far end of the car a scribbled message which really ran thus: I am only a poor ticket-collector, but I love you);

At that moment Sonny noticed that the other car had not kept going but had parked a few feet ahead, still blocking his way. At that same moment his lateral vision caught sight of another man in the darkened tollbooth to his right. But he did not have time to think about that because two men came out of the car parked in front and walked toward him. The toll collector still had not appeared. And then in the fraction of a second before anything actually happened, Santino Corleone he knew he was a dead man. And in that moment his mind was lucid, drained of all violence, as if the hidden fear finally real and present had purified him.

Today the man who has the courage to build himself a house constructs a meeting place for the people who will descend upon him on foot, by car, or by telephone. Employees of the gas, the electric, and the water- works will arrive; agents from life and fire insurance companies; building inspectors, collectors of radio tax; mortgage creditors and rent assessors who tax you for living in your own home.

I hate the uneducated and the ignorant. I hate the pompous and the phoney. I hate the jealous and the resentful. I hate the crabbed and mean and the petty. I hate all ordinary dull little people who aren't ashamed of being dull and little.I hate what G.P. calls the New People, the new-class people with their cars and their money and their tellies and their stupid vulgarities and their stupid crawling imitation of the bourgeoisie. I love honesty and freedom and giving. I love making, I love doing. I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart.

My archive project is a multiedged sword. It is something I love doing, but it raises some questions about my motives in doing it. A writer accused me of building my archives just to further my own legend, whatever that is. I hope you don't believe that. What a shallow existence that would be! I remember reading that article saying that about me. It pissed me off. It's my life, and I am a collector. I collect everything: cars, trains, manuscripts, photographs, tape recordings, records, memories and clothes, to name a few. The fact that I want to create a chronological history of my recordings and supporting work is proof positive that I am an incurable collector, confronted with an amazingly detailed array of creations that I have painstakingly rat-holed over the years.

Here is revelation bright as the evening star: Jesus comes for sinners, for those as outcast as tax collectors and for those caught up in squalid choices and failed dreams. He comes for corporate executives, street people, superstars, farmers, hookers, addicts, IRS agents, AIDS victims, and even used-car salesmen. Jesus not only talks with these people but dines with them—fully aware that His table fellowship with sinners will raise the eyebrows of religious bureaucrats who hold up the robes and insignia of their authority to justify their condemnation of the truth and their rejection of the gospel of grace.

Simply put, within AS, there is a wide range of function. In truth, many AS people will never receive a diagnosis. They will continue to live with other labels or no label at all. At their best, they will be the eccentrics who wow us with their unusual habits and stream-of-consciousness creativity, the inventors who give us wonderfully unique gadgets that whiz and whirl and make our life surprisingly more manageable, the geniuses who discover new mathematical equations, the great musicians and writers and artists who enliven our lives. At their most neutral, they will be the loners who never now quite how to greet us, the aloof who aren't sure they want to greet us, the collectors who know everyone at the flea market by name and date of birth, the non-conformists who cover their cars in bumper stickers, a few of the professors everyone has in college. At their most noticeable, they will be the lost souls who invade our personal space, the regulars at every diner who carry on complete conversations with the group ten tables away, the people who sound suspiciously like robots, the characters who insist they wear the same socks and eat the same breakfast day in and day out, the people who never quite find their way but never quite lose it either.

At all these European shows there are autograph collectors who stand outside for sound check and before the show and sometimes at the hotel. I don’t even know if they know who I am. At Gateshead, I signed autographs going in to the show, when I came out this little guy came up to me. Cathy said, “You already signed for him.” He said, “No! I wasn’t here before.” He was irate. Anyway, Cathy and I got in the car and went to the hotel that was about ¼ mile away. The guy beat the car there. I told him (he was Irish) that he’d just broken the Irish 200 meter record. I signed and invited him up to the room to spend the night. I love great athletes.

As illusions go, this one is pretty stubborn. When you’re obsessed with efficiency and productivity, it’s difficult to see the real value of education and care. Which is why so many politicians and taxpayers alike see only costs. They don’t realize that the richer a country becomes the more it should be spending on teachers and doctors. Instead of regarding these increases as a blessing, they’re viewed as a disease. Yet unless we prefer to run our schools and hospitals as if they were factories, we can be certain that, in the race against the machine, the costs of healthcare and education will only go up. At the same time, products like refrigerators and cars have become too cheap. To look solely at the price of a product is to ignore a large share of the costs. In fact, a British think tank estimated that for every pound earned by advertising executives, they destroy an equivalent of £7 in the form of stress, overconsumption, pollution, and debt; conversely, each pound paid to a trash collector creates an equivalent of £12 in terms of health and sustainability.

Never get in the back of a car with doors you can't open," Grandma tells Shelly, holding her hand as they may their way down the sidewalk. "You be polite to the police, but you stay out of that car." (pg. 42)

There was an accident," she says. "I'm sorry." Grandma knows what Jenny means right away. She freezes up in the doorway like someone hit pause. It takes Shelly a little longer. What Jenny means is the car was so old is could only play tapes. She means the brakes needed replacing. She means the weather was bad and the world was dark. She means Shelly's mother was tired and coming off a long shift. She means there was an accident and Shelly's mom didn't walk away from it. (Pg. 61-62)

Chinese family businesses instinctively thought of ways of hiding income from the tax collector. The situation is quite different in Japan, where the family is weaker and individuals are pulled in different directions by the various vertical authority structures standing above them. The entire Japanese nation, with the emperor at the top, is, in a sense, the ie of all ies, and calls forth a degree of moral obligation and emotional attachment that the Chinese emperor never enjoyed. Unlike the Japanese, the Chinese have had less of a we-against-them attitude toward outsiders and are much more likely to identify with family, lineage, or region as with nation. The dark side to the Japanese sense of nationalism and proclivity to trust one another is their lack of trust for people who are not Japanese. The problems faced by non-Japanese living in Japan, such as the sizable Korean community, have been widely noted. Distrust of non-Japanese is also evident in the practices of many Japanese multinationals operating in other countries. While aspects of the Japanese lean manufacturing system have been imported with great success into the United States, Japanese transplants have been much less successful integrating into local American supplier networks. Japanese auto companies building assembly plants in the United States, for example, have tended to bring over with them the suppliers in their network organizations from Japan. According to one study, some ninety percent of the parts for Japanese cars assembled in America come from Japan or from subsidiaries of Japanese companies in America.43 This is perhaps predictable given the cultural differences between the Japanese assembler and the American subcontractor but has understandably led to hard feelings between the two. To take another example, while Japanese multinationals have hired a great number of native executives to run their overseas businesses, these people are seldom treated like executives at the same level in Japan. An American working for a subdivision of a Japanese company in the United States might aspire to rise within that organization but is very unlikely to be asked to move to Tokyo or even to a higher post outside the United States.44 There are exceptions. Sony America, for example, with its largely American staff, is highly autonomous and often influences its parent in Japan. But by and large, the Japanese radius of trust can be fully extended only to other Japanese.

The abundance of the children’s room must be every parent’s or child’s worst nightmare. “I’m bored.” “I’ve got nothing to play with”—even though the shelves are full to the brim. Dust-collectors, a useless mess. Where is the love for the teddy bear, the doll, the car? The present which was given in love and did not drown in abundance is hard to find. The child does not need the toys—the toy factories need the child.15

In my restless dreams, I see that town. Silent Hill. You promised me you'd take me there again someday. But because of me, you were never able to. Well, I'm alone there now… In our ”“special place.” Waiting for you… Waiting for you to come to see me. But you never do. And so I wait, wrapped in my cocoon of pain and loneliness. I know I've done a terrible thing to you. Something you'll never forgive me for. I wish I could change that, but I can't. I feel so pathetic and ugly lying here, waiting for you... Every day I stare up at the cracks in the ceiling, and all I can think about is how unfair it all is... The doctor came today. He told me I could go home for a short stay. It's not that I'm getting better. It's just that this may be my last chance... I think you know what I mean... Even so, I'm glad to be coming home. I've missed you terribly. But I'm afraid James. I'm afraid you don't really want me to come home. Whenever you come see me, I can tell how hard it is on you... I don't know if you hate me or pity me... Or maybe I just disgust you.... I'm sorry about that. When I first learned that I was going to die, I just didn't want to accept it. I was so angry all the time, and I struck out at everyone I loved most. Especially you, James. That's why I understand if you do hate me. But I want you to know this, James. I'll always love you. Even though our life together had to end like this, I still wouldn't trade it for the world. We had some wonderful years together. Well, this letter has gone on too long, so I'll say goodbye. I told the nurse to give this to you after I'm gone. That means that when you read this, I'll already be dead. I can't tell you to remember me, but I can't bear for you to forget me. These last few years since I became ill...I'm so sorry for what I did to you, did to us... You've given me so much and I haven't been able to return a single thing. That's why I want you to live for yourself now. Do what's best for you, James. James... You made me happy. “I love you, Mary.” As the car began to slowly sink to the bottom of the lake, James pulled his wife close and gently held her. Their wish had finally come true. They would be together. And now they had an eternity to enjoy their happiness.

Biscuits?" Monica and I declare together. "Yes!" Kenz and Lin are cackling like evil geniuses. "It's supposed to be the hottest, sunniest day of spring break tomorrow. We'll squash biscuit dough all over his car, and then it will rise in the morning sun.

he’s stroking my flanks and spine like a buyer stroking a prize horse, like a collector running his hand along the hood of his new sports car. The touch is owning, possessive, appreciative but selfish.

One thing I don’t see here today is customers. Luxury-car sales are “more lifestyle than automotive,” Christiansen explains. The vehicles follow the money. His team will cosponsor events with private jet manufacturers and fractional ownership services such as NetJets and XOJET, or with San Francisco’s St. Francis Yacht Club, to expose affluent people to vehicles “they don’t even know they want yet.” Customers wander in from time to time, of course. Rocker Sammy Hagar, a Ferrari collector who sold his Cabo Wabo tequila brand to Campari for $91 million, has been known to stop by the sister dealership in San Francisco “in flip-flops, torn shorts, ratted hair, and a T-shirt. You wouldn’t think the guy has two dimes to rub together if you didn’t know who he was,” Christiansen says. Another guy showed up at the Walnut Creek lot dressed like a plumber and configured a $260,000 Bentley. He was, in fact, a plumber—one who owned a thriving plumbing business. He’d arrived in another Bentley, now on consignment.

I wonder if this fantasy of having a ‘harem’ is a disastrous byproduct of men’s conditioning to acquire things, and social structures that treat women as ‘things’. Men are collectors. They buy gadgets they don’t really need, adorn watches that cost more than the monthly income of the majority of the country’s population, and treat their cars as status symbols. As we have seen, men across all ages tend to treat women (girlfriends, wives, escorts or a harem) as trophies that elevate their status in some way. To many men, women continue to be possessions, even if these men may not be controlling or possessive or otherwise abusive.

Usually, when I slept in my van, the sounds of traffic or people getting in and out of their cars kept me awake at all hours. Sometimes it was too hot or cold, and I wound up sweating or shivering too much to actually sleep. Note how I said, ‘usually.’ There was not usually a giant fucking dragon poking my cheek with a single talon as it attempted to draw me from my slumber to demand my assistance. No, really. That’s what I saw when I opened my eyes.

Jeremy George Lake Charles Sports Car Collector His collection includes several Lamborghinis, including one from the late 1960s and early 1970s, as well as a number of other rare models. His collection of 40 cars includes a Porsche 911 GT3 RS, a Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG and a Ferrari 458 Italia. Jeremy George Lake Charles Other cars in his garage include a Ford Mustang, an Aston Martin Vantage, two Porsche 918 Spyders and two Rolls-Royce Phantom IIs. This extraordinary collection of cars included a 1964 Ferrari 488 GTB with Stirling engine and four-speed manual transmission, an original Lotus Elans and an early Ferrari F40. The Boxster is generally a great sports car, but the 718 badge certainly makes it a classic of the future. This collector's car is always the one I see lined up in front of me, and I have seen the owner pull the car out of the car every weekend with a sense of pride. The Type R will probably be a lethal collector's car that we will see for many years to come. He is a collector of cars, which is something I'm not sure what to do. M is for sure it will be in a few years. Jeremy George Lake Charles Another advantage of owning sports cars is that most eventually become collectibles. For the super-rich, though, there are some amazing car collections on the list of collectibles, but I can't remember all of them for that long. It should come as no surprise, then, that Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, the owner of the world's largest collection of sports cars, has 7,000 cars, including cars from brands such as Ferrari, Porsche, Mercedes-Benz, Audi, BMW and Porsche. Sheik Mohammed has taken 19 years to sort through his entire collection because he has to drive different cars every day from now on.