Cue Stick Quotes

[I] threw open the door to find Rob sit­ting on the low stool in front of my book­case, sur­round­ed by card­board box­es. He was seal­ing the last one up with tape and string. There were eight box­es - eight box­es of my books bound up and ready for the base­ment! "He looked up and said, 'Hel­lo, dar­ling. Don't mind the mess, the care­tak­er said he'd help me car­ry these down to the base­ment.' He nod­ded to­wards my book­shelves and said, 'Don't they look won­der­ful?' "Well, there were no words! I was too ap­palled to speak. Sid­ney, ev­ery sin­gle shelf - where my books had stood - was filled with ath­let­ic tro­phies: sil­ver cups, gold cups, blue rosettes, red rib­bons. There were awards for ev­ery game that could pos­si­bly be played with a wood­en ob­ject: crick­et bats, squash rac­quets, ten­nis rac­quets, oars, golf clubs, ping-​pong bats, bows and ar­rows, snook­er cues, lacrosse sticks, hock­ey sticks and po­lo mal­lets. There were stat­ues for ev­ery­thing a man could jump over, ei­ther by him­self or on a horse. Next came the framed cer­tificates - for shoot­ing the most birds on such and such a date, for First Place in run­ning races, for Last Man Stand­ing in some filthy tug of war against Scot­land. "All I could do was scream, 'How dare you! What have you DONE?! Put my books back!' "Well, that's how it start­ed. Even­tu­al­ly, I said some­thing to the ef­fect that I could nev­er mar­ry a man whose idea of bliss was to strike out at lit­tle balls and lit­tle birds. Rob coun­tered with re­marks about damned blue­stock­ings and shrews. And it all de­gen­er­at­ed from there - the on­ly thought we prob­ably had in com­mon was, What the hell have we talked about for the last four months? What, in­deed? He huffed and puffed and snort­ed and left. And I un­packed my books.

Is she pleasing to the eye?" Gabriel went to an inset sideboard to pour himself a brandy. "She's bloody ravishing," he muttered. Looking more and more interested, his father asked, "What is the problem with her, then?" "She's a perfect little savage. Constitutionally incapable of guarding her tongue. Not to mention peculiar: She goes to balls but never dances, only sits in the corner. Two of the fellows I went drinking with last night said they'd asked her to waltz on previous occasions. She told one of them that a carriage horse had recently stepped on her foot, and she told the other that the butler had accidentally slammed her leg in the door." Gabriel took a swallow of brandy before finishing grimly, "No wonder she's a wallflower." Sebastian, who had begun to laugh, seemed struck by that last comment. "Ahhh," he said softly. "That explains it." He was silent for a moment, lost in some distant, pleasurable memory. "Dangerous creatures, wallflowers. Approach them with the utmost caution. They sit quietly in corners, appearing abandoned and forlorn, when in truth they're sirens who lure men to their downfall. You won't even notice the moment she steals the heart right out of your body- and then it's hers for good. A wallflower never gives your heart back." "Are you finished amusing yourself?" Gabriel asked, impatient with his father's flight of fancy. "Because I have actual problems to deal with." Still smiling, Sebastian reached for some chalk and applied it to the tip of his cue stick. "Forgive me. The word makes me a bit sentimental.

In Ecuador the Indian mate was too poor to buy Polaroid glasses but he saw the caudal fins of marlin long before my perfect eyes noticed anything. Benny played pool as if the cue stick emerged from his body. Not my alcohol & geometry. She was an asshole and I couldn't have loved her at gunpoint.

How ably you can explain a text is an excellent cue for judging comprehension, because you must recall the salient points from memory, put them into your own words, and explain why they are significant—how they relate to the larger subject.

Durable, robust learning requires that we do two things. First, as we recode and consolidate new material from short-term memory into long-term memory, we must anchor it there securely. Second, we must associate the material with a diverse set of cues that will make us adept at recalling the knowledge later. Having effective retrieval cues is an aspect of learning that often goes overlooked. The task is more than committing knowledge to memory. Being able to retrieve it when we need it is just as important.

Far from being empty, space is more like a snooker table. Stars explode or collide and that’s the white ball being smacked with the cue stick. Individual atoms go flying off at close to the speed of light. Regardless of how small they are, anything traveling that fast is dangerous. Even though space is a vacuum, given enough time, atoms will eventually collide with each other and—bang—the cosmic game of snooker just got interesting. Protons, neutrons and electrons scatter again, speeding along until they hit something else. If that something else happens to be alive, that’s bad—destroying cell walls and damaging DNA.

It’s your fault that I’ve been reduced to such behavior,” he continued. “I assure you, I myself find it appalling that the only pleasure I obtain these days is chasing after you like an adolescent lordling with a housemaid.” “Did you chase after the housemaids when you were a boy?” “Good God, of course not. How could you ask such a thing?” Sebastian looked indignant. Just as she felt a twinge of guilt and began to apologize, he said smugly, “They chased after me.” Evie raised a cue stick as if to crown him with it. He caught her wrist easily in one hand and pried the stick from her fingers. “Easy, firebrand. You’ll knock out the few wits I have left—and then of what use would I be to you?” “You would be purely ornamental,” Evie replied, giggling. “Ah, well, I suppose there’s some value in that. God help me if I should ever lose my looks.” “I wouldn’t mind.” He gave her a quizzical smile. “What?” “If…” Evie paused, suddenly embarrassed. “If anything happened to your looks…if you became…less handsome. Your appearance wouldn’t matter to me. I would still…” She paused and finished hesitantly, “…want you as my husband.” Sebastian’s smile faded slowly. He gave her a long, intent stare, her wrist still clasped in his hand. Something strange crossed his expression…an undefinable emotion wrought of heat and vulnerability. When he answered, his voice was strained from the effort to sound cavalier. “Without a doubt, you’re the first one who’s ever said that to me. I hope you won’t be such a pea goose as to endow me with characteristics that I don’t have.” “No, you’re endowed enough as it is,” Evie replied, before the double meaning of the statement occurred to her. She burned a brilliant scarlet. “Th-that is…I didn’t mean…” But Sebastian was laughing quietly, the odd tension passing, and he pulled her against him. As she responded to him eagerly, his amusement dissolved like sugar in hot liquid. He kissed her longer, harder, his breath striking her cheek in rapid drives. “Evie,” he whispered, “you’re so warm, so lovely…oh, hell. I’ve got two months, thirteen days and six hours before I can take you to my bed. Little she-devil. This is going to be the death of me.

A miscue,” Sebastian remarked, deftly catching the cue ball in his hand and repositioning it. “Whenever that happens, reach for more chalk, and apply it to the tip of the cue stick while looking thoughtful. Always imply that your equipment is to blame, rather than your skills.

After Evie had finished her plate, Sebastian tugged her to the billiards table and handed her a cue stick with a leather tip. Ignoring her attempts to refuse him, he proceeded to instruct her in the basics of the game. “Don’t try to claim this is too scandalous for you,” he told her with mock severity. “After running off with me to Gretna Green, nothing is beyond you. Certainly not one little billiards game. Bend over the table.” She complied awkwardly, flushing as she felt him lean over her, his body forming an exciting masculine cage as his hands arranged hers on the cue stick. “Now,” she heard him say, “curl your index finger around the tip of the shaft. That’s right. Don’t grip so tightly, sweet…let your hand relax. Perfect.” His head was close to hers, the light scent of sandalwood cologne rising from his warm skin. “Try to imagine a path between the cue ball—that’s the white one—and the colored ball. You’ll want to strike right about there”—he pointed to a place just above center on the cue ball—“to send the object ball into the side pocket. It’s a straight-on shot, you see? Lower your head a bit. Draw the cue stick back and try to strike in a smooth motion.” Attempting the shot, Evie felt the tip of the cue stick fail to make proper contact with the white ball, sending it spinning clumsily off to the side of the table. “A miscue,” Sebastian remarked, deftly catching the cue ball in his hand and repositioning it. “Whenever that happens, reach for more chalk, and apply it to the tip of the cue stick while looking thoughtful. Always imply that your equipment is to blame, rather than your skills.” Evie felt a smile rising to her lips, and she leaned over the table once more. Perhaps it was wrong, with her father having passed away so recently, but for the first time in a long while, she was having fun. Sebastian covered her from behind again, sliding his hands over hers. “Let me show you the proper motion of the cue stick—keep it level—like this.” Together they concentrated on the steady, even slide of the cue stick through the little circle Evie had made of her fingers. The sexual entendre of the motion could hardly escape her, and she felt a flush rise up from the neck of her gown. “Shame on you,” she heard him murmur. “No proper young woman would have such thoughts.” A helpless giggle escaped Evie’s lips, and Sebastian moved to the side, watching her with a lazy smile. “Try again.

Pay attention to the cues you’re using to judge what you have learned. Whether something feels familiar or fluent is not always a reliable indicator of learning. Neither is your level of ease in retrieving a fact or a phrase on a quiz shortly after encountering it in a lecture or text. (Ease of retrieval after a delay, however, is a good indicator of learning.) Far better is to create a mental model of the material that integrates the various ideas across a text, connects them to what you already know, and enables you to draw inferences.

A habit happens when a context cue is sufficiently associated with a rewarded response to become automatic, to fade into that hardworking, quiet second self. That’s it. Cue and response. Notice that there’s no room in that mechanism for, well, you. You’re not a part of it, not as you probably think of yourself. You—your goals, your will, your wishes—don’t have any part to play in habits. Goals can orient you to build a habit, but your desires don’t make habits work. Actually, your habit self would benefit if “you” just got out of the way.

She walked around the edge of the table to position her next shot. As she pulled her cue back she was confident that she would only need one more shot after this. But as she started her forward motion, Ben leaned over. "Look at this picture," he said softly. "A long stick, hard balls, you bent over the table..." She missed.

When practice conditions are varied or retrieval is interleaved with the practice of other material, we increase our abilities of discrimination and induction and the versatility with which we can apply the learning in new settings at a later date. Interleaving and variation build new connections, expanding and more firmly entrenching knowledge in memory and increasing the number of cues for retrieval. Trying to come up with an answer rather than having it presented to you, or trying to solve a problem before being shown the solution, leads to better learning and longer retention of the correct answer or solution, even when your attempted response is wrong, so long as corrective feedback is provided.

Denning says that the idea of telling stories initially violated his intuition. He had always believed in the value of being direct, and he worried that stories were too ambiguous, too peripheral, too anecdotal. He thought, “Why not spell out the message17 directly? Why go to the trouble and difficulty of trying to elicit the listener’s thinking indirectly, when it would be so much simpler if I come straight out in an abstract directive? Why not hit the listeners between the eyes?” The problem is that when you hit listeners between the eyes they respond by fighting back. The way you deliver a message to them is a cue to how they should react. If you make an argument, you’re implicitly asking them to evaluate your argument—judge it, debate it, criticize it—and then argue back, at least in their minds. But with a story, Denning argues, you engage the audience—you are involving people with the idea, asking them to participate with you.

A rumble is a discussion, conversation, or meeting defined by a commitment to lean into vulnerability, to stay curious and generous, to stick with the messy middle of problem identification and solving, to take a break and circle back when necessary, to be fearless in owning our parts, and, as psychologist Harriet Lerner teaches, to listen with the same passion with which we want to be heard. More than anything else, when someone says, “Let’s rumble,” it cues me to show up with an open heart and mind so we can serve the work and each other, not our egos.

No one in their right mind would argue that passion and perseverance are unimportant, or that a bad day is a cue to quit. But the idea that a change of interest, or a recalibration of focus, is an imperfection and competitive disadvantage leads to a simple, one-size-fits-all Tiger story: pick and stick, as soon as possible. Responding to lived experience with a change of direction, like Van Gogh did habitually, like West Point graduates have been doing since the dawn of the knowledge economy, is less tidy but no less important. It involves a particular behavior that improves your chances of finding the best match, but that at first blush sounds like a terrible life strategy: short-term planning.

A pool game mixes ritual with geometry. The slow spaciousness of the green felt mirrors some internal state you get to after a few beers. Back at school, I’d been trying to read the philosophy of art, which I was grotesquely unequipped to do but nonetheless stuck on. I loved the idea that looking at a painting or listening to a concerto could make you somehow “transcend” the day-in, day-out bullshit that grinds you down; how in one instant of pure attention you could draw something inside that made you forever larger. In those days the drug culture was pimping “expanded consciousness,” a lie that partly descended from the old postindustrial lie of progress: any change in how your head normally worked must count as an improvement. Maybe my faith in that lie slid me toward an altered state that day. Or maybe it was just the beer, which I rarely drank. In any case, walking around the pool table, I felt borne forward by some internal force or fire. My first shot sank a ball. Then I made the most unlikely bank shot in history to drop two balls at once after a wild V trajectory. Daddy whistled. The sky through the window had gone the exact blue of the chalk I was digging my cue stick in, a shade solid and luminous at once, like the sheer turquoise used for the Madonna’s robe in Renaissance paintings. Slides from art history class flashed through my head. For a second, I lent that color some credit, as if it meant something that made my mind more buoyant. But that was crazy.

The harder it is to do something, the harder it is to do it impulsively, so inconvenience helps us stick to good habits. There are six obvious ways to make an activity less convenient: Increase the amount of physical or mental energy required (leave the cell phone in another room, ban smoking inside or near a building). • Hide any cues (put the video game controller on a high shelf). • Delay it (read email only after 11:00 a.m.). • Engage in an incompatible activity (to avoid snacking, do a puzzle). • Raise the cost (one study showed that people at high risk for smoking were pleased by a rise in the cigarette tax; after London imposed a congestion charge to enter the center of the city, people’s driving habits changed, with fewer cars on the road and more use of public transportation). • Block it altogether (give away the TV set).

As the pair of them kept talking, Rhage sucked the white stick clean and found himself sizing up the Shadow. Cutting into the convo, he demanded, “Why don’t you come to Last Meal anymore.” V’s diamond-hard glare swung around. “My brother, focus.” “No, I’m serious.” He propped his hip on the black wall. “What’s up, Trez. I mean, our food not good enough for you?” Cue the throat clearing on the Shadow’s side. “Oh, no, yeah, I’m just … busy, you know. Opening this…” “And when was the last time you fed? You look like shit.” Vishous threw up his hands. “Hollywood, will you get in the game—” “You know, I used Selena tonight and her blood is amazing—” It all happened so fast. One minute V was jawing at him while he was bringing up the very salient point that the Shadow needed to take a vein. The next, Trez’s racket-size palm was locked on his neck, cutting off all his air supply. While the guy bared his teeth and snarled like Rhage was the enemy. In the blink of an eye, and in spite of that nasty shoulder wound, Vishous counter-attacked the Shadow, tackling him in a total body slam as Rhage grabbed at that thick wrist to pull the grip free. Incredibly, it got them nowhere.

Christopher Cerf has been composing songs for Sesame Street for twenty-five years. His large Manhattan townhouse is full of Sesame Street memorabilia – photographs of Christopher with his arm around Big Bird, etc. ‘Well, it’s certainly not what I expected when I wrote them,’ Christopher said. ‘I have to admit, my first reaction was, “Oh my gosh, is my music really that terrible?” ’ I laughed. ‘I once wrote a song for Bert and Ernie called “Put Down The Ducky”,’ he said, ‘which might be useful for interrogating members of the Ba’ath Party.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. ‘This interview,’ Christopher said, ‘has been brought to you by the letters W, M and D.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. We both laughed. I paused. ‘And do you think that the Iraqi prisoners, as well as giving away vital information, are learning new letters and numbers?’ I said. ‘Well, wouldn’t that be an incredible double win?’ said Christopher. Christopher took me upstairs to his studio to play me one of his Sesame Street compositions, called ‘Ya! Ya! Das Is a Mountain!’ ‘The way we do Sesame Street,’ he explained, ‘is that we have educational researchers who test whether these songs are working, whether the kids are learning. And one year they asked me to write a song to explain what a mountain is, and I wrote a silly yodelling song about what a mountain was.’ Christopher sang me a little of the song: Oompah-pah! Oompah-pah! Ya! Ya! Das is a mountain! Part of zee ground zat sticks way up high! ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘forty per cent of the kids had known what a mountain was before they heard the song, and after they heard the song, only about twenty-six per cent knew what a mountain was. That’s all they needed. You don’t know what a mountain is now, right? It’s gone! So I figure if I have the power to suck information out of people’s brains by writing these songs, maybe that’s something that could be useful to the CIA for brainwashing techniques.’ Just then, Christopher’s phone rang. It was a lawyer from his music publishers, BMI. I listened into Christopher’s side of the conversation: ‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘I see . . . Well, theoretically they have to log that and I should be getting a few cents for every prisoner, right? Okay. Bye, bye . . .’ ‘What was that about?’ I asked Christopher. ‘Whether I’m due some money for the performance royalties,’ he explained. ‘Why not? It’s an American thing to do. If I have the knack of writing songs that can drive people crazy sooner and more effectively than others, why shouldn’t I profit from that?’ This is why, later that day, Christopher asked Danny Epstein – who has been the music supervisor of Sesame Street since the very first programme was broadcast in July 1969 – to come to his house. It would be Danny’s responsibility to collect the royalties from the military if they proved negligent in filing a music-cue sheet.

In Britain, it’s kind of an old-guy thing to do,” I explain as she gleefully chalks up a cue stick. “You’re kidding! We have them in all the bars where I live.” She pantomimes a big theatrical wink. “Not that I’ve been in any, of course. Here, I’ll teach you to play pool. Though ‘snooker’ is a really cool word. Snooker!” she says, and it sounds hilarious in her accent. Who’d have thought it--me and Paige. If not BFFs, we’re certainly BFTs. Best Temporary Friends. I certainly didn’t see that coming. But we’re united, at least, in refusing to withdraw into the kind of slump that both Kendra and Kelly are indulging in. It may be unfair of me, but I think it’s selfish of them. We’re all in this together, away from home, and though the group could cope with one of the four throwing a wobbly, two is unquestionably a downer. Thank goodness, Paige teaching me pool is a lot of fun, especially as she keeps showing me how guys put their arms around girls from behind to do what I call copping a feel and she calls doing a booty rub. We laugh, a lot. We laugh so much that Paige’s mobile rings four times before we hear it, and she only just answers it before it goes to voice mail. “Hey, Ev! No, I wasn’t ignoring you--Violet and I were playing pool. She calls it snooker! Isn’t that such a great word?

The Great Crack hadn't gone so well. Someone had decided that glow sticks were preferable to candles on Christmas Eve, at least for the 5:00 PM service when the most children were present. Everyone was to take a glow stick, snap it on cue, and wave it aloft during the singing of Silent Night, bathing the sanctuary in a warm, nuclear green glow. Unfortunately, this same someone had left all the sticks outside on the steps until five minutes before she needed them, and since the temperature was hovering just above zero, the goo had gone quite solid. The sticks did crack — “exploded” would be a better description — and green chunks of glowing ice sprayed across the congregation. Several parents took their kids over to the ER in Boone, not sure if they'd ingested any of the chemicals or not. No one showed any lasting effects though.

The harder it is to do something, the harder it is to do it impulsively, so inconvenience helps us stick to good habits. There are six obvious ways to make an activity less convenient: · Increase the amount of physical or mental energy required (leave the cell phone in another room, ban smoking inside or near a building). · Hide any cues (put the video game controller on a high shelf). · Delay it (read email only after 11:00 a.m.). · Engage in an incompatible activity (to avoid snacking, do a puzzle). · Raise the cost (one study showed that people at high risk for smoking were pleased by a rise in the cigarette tax; after London imposed a congestion charge to enter the center of the city, people’s driving habits changed, with fewer cars on the road and more use of public transportation). · Block it altogether (give away the TV set).

Amid all this, I read Good Habits, Bad Habits: The Science of Making Positive Changes That Stick, a fascinating book by Wendy Wood, a psychology professor at the University of Southern California, who argues that habits change when they’re harder to practice. Addiction isn’t about rational decisions, she wrote. If it were, Americans would have quit smoking soon after 1964, when the US Surgeon General issued his first report on its risks. American nicotine addicts kept smoking, knowing they were killing themselves, because nicotine had changed their brain chemistry, and cigarettes were everywhere. We stopped smoking, Wood argues, by making it harder to do—adding “friction” to the activity. In other words, we limited access to supply. We removed cigarette vending machines, banned smoking in airports, planes, parks, beaches, bars, restaurants, and offices. By adding friction to smoking, we also removed the brain cues that prompted us to smoke: bars where booze, friends, and cigarettes went together, for example.

A rumble is a discussion, conversation, or meeting defined by a commitment to lean into vulnerability, to stay curious and generous, to stick with the messy middle of problem identification and solving, to take a break and circle back when necessary, to be fearless in owning our parts, and, as psychologist Harriet Lerner teaches, to listen with the same passion with which we want to be heard. More than anything else, when someone says, “Let’s rumble,” it cues me to show up with an open heart and mind so we can serve the work and each other, not our egos. Our research led to a very clear, very hopeful finding: Courage is a collection of four skill sets that can be taught, observed, and measured. The four skill sets are: Rumbling with Vulnerability Living into Our Values Braving Trust Learning to Rise

Pausing at the threshold of the billiards room, she peered around the doorframe as gentlemen milled lazily around the table with drinks and cue sticks in hand. The clicks of ivory balls provided an arrhythmic undertone to the hum of masculine conversation. Her attention was caught by the sight of Matthew Swift in his shirtsleeves, leaning over the table to execute a perfect bank shot. His hands were deft on the cue stick, his blue eyes narrowed as he focused on the layout of balls on the table. Those ever-rebellious locks of hair had fallen over his forehead once more, and Daisy longed to push them back. As Swift sank a ball neatly into a side pocket, there was a scattering of applause, some low laughs, and a few coins changing hands. Standing, Swift produced one of his elusive grins and made a remark to his opponent, who turned out to be Lord Westcliff. Westcliff laughed at the comment and circled the table, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth as he considered his options. The air of relaxed masculine enjoyment in the room was unmistakable. As Westcliff rounded the table, he caught sight of Daisy peeking around the doorframe. He winked at her.

The meeting started well enough. Balsillie explained how BlackBerry could be synchronized with a user’s desktop computer calendar and contacts. You just have to put the device in this cradle, he said, pointing to a prototype. Normally, the cradle would have had a cable connecting it to the computer, but the cord was missing from the demonstration. One Intel executive, Sean Maloney, VP of worldwide sales, was confused. “What are you saying, how does it do that?” Maloney asked. Klimstra saw why the Intel executive was puzzled. He doesn’t realize there’s supposed to be a cable connecting the cradle to the computer, he thought. Balsillie appeared stumped too, saying nothing. To Klimstra, the lengthy silence that followed was agonizing. This must be my cue, he thought. Clearing his throat, Klimstra piped up: “That cradle is just a mock-up.” Maloney nodded as Klimstra explained it would normally have a cable attached. Balsillie turned to Klimstra. “Eric,” he said, growing cold with fury. “Don’t you ever, ever, ever, ever”—Klimstra’s stomach twisted with each “ever”—“interrupt me in a meeting again.” After an awkward silence, Balsillie continued the presentation. As they filed out after the meeting, Maloney’s eyes met Klimstra’s. The young evangelist could read the look: “Kid, I’m sorry if I got you fired.” Outside, Balsillie was unapologetic. “Never interrupt me when I’m in the zone,” he said. “I was very specific in directing them in a certain way and I didn’t want to go down any other path.” It wasn’t that Klimstra had said anything wrong. What bothered Balsillie was that he had said anything at all. “He could have been about to take us over a cliff” by inadvertently blurting out a corporate secret as he explained how the system worked, Balsillie says of his strict stick-to-the-script rule.

Interestingness is the instigator, the hardy carrier pigeon that can carry your message most anywhere. Interestingness makes a message get heard above the noise. Money can't buy interestingness, yet vivid comparisons can create them. To make your self-label stick it must be more interesting than others' labels for you. The good news and the bad is that reputations can be ruined or lifted by how most anyone labels something or someone - as long the label is as vividly indelible as India ink. More than money, title or even good looks, your capacity to craft the most vivid characterization will make it bob, like a cork, to the top of the water of alternative messages. A janitor can become more famous and credible than a CEO. Use the "Compared to What?" cue to stick your label in other's minds, whether they intended to remember or not. Make your comparison: • Spark a specific mental picture • Evoke a positive emotion • Be unexpected • Be Brief

FOR MY SPIRITUAL LIFE... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to help others... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my relationship with God... ? FOR MY PHYSICAL HEALTH... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to achieve my diet goals... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to ensure that I exercise... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to relieve my stress... ? FOR MY PERSONAL LIFE... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my skill at ________... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to find time for myself... ? FOR MY KEY RELATIONSHIPS... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my relationship with my spouse/partner... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my children’s school performance... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to show my appreciation to my parents... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make my family stronger... ? FOR MY JOB... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to ensure that I hit my goals... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my skills... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to help my team succeed... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to further my career... ? FOR MY BUSINESS... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make us more competitive... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make our product the best... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make us more profitable... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve our customer experience... ? FOR MY FINANCES... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to increase my net worth... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my investment cash flow... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to eliminate my credit card debt... ? BIG IDEAS So how do you make The ONE Thing part of your daily routine? How do you make it strong enough to get extraordinary results at work and in the other areas of your life? Here’s a starter list drawn from our experience and our work with others. Understand and believe it. The first step is to understand the concept of the ONE Thing, then to believe that it can make a difference in your life. If you don’t understand and believe, you won’t take action. Use it. Ask yourself the Focusing Question. Start each day by asking, “What’s the ONE Thing I can do today for [whatever you want] such that by doing it everything else will be easier or even unnecessary?” When you do this, your direction will become clear. Your work will be more productive and your personal life more rewarding. Make it a habit. When you make asking the Focusing Question a habit, you fully engage its power to get the extraordinary results you want. It’s a difference maker. Research says this will take about 66 days. Whether it takes you a few weeks or a few months, stick with it until it becomes your routine. If you’re not serious about learning the Success Habit, you’re not serious about getting extraordinary results. Leverage reminders. Set up ways to remind yourself to use the Focusing Question. One of the best ways to do this is to put up a sign at work that says, “Until my ONE Thing is done—everything else is a distraction.” We designed the back cover of this book to be a trigger —set it on the corner of your desk so that it’s the first thing you see when you get to work. Use notes, screen savers, and calendar cues to keep making the connection between the Success Habit and the results you seek. Put up reminders like, “The ONE Thing = Extraordinary Results” or “The Success Habit Will Get Me to My Goal.” Recruit support. Research shows that those around you can influence you tremendously. Starting a success support group with some of your work colleagues can help inspire all of you to practice the Success Habit every day. Get your family involved. Share your ONE Thing. Get them on board. Use the Focusing Question around them to show them how the Success Habit can make a difference in their school work, their personal achievements, or any other part of their lives.

Each time you teach your dog a new skill or cue, use the same hand. Dogs like consistency, and they learn better when the things they’re being asked to do look the same every single time. Get into the habit of being as consistent as possible with every lesson. I prefer to use my left hand because that’s how I was taught. I give treats with my left hand, and I always have my dogs walk on my left side. In many training programs the left side is considered the correct side—you’ll see that in dog shows almost all dogs are on the handler’s left side—but either side is okay, just as long as you make a choice and stick with it while your dog becomes fluent (learning stage #2) for each new skill. After

The off cue means “don’t touch.” It teaches your dog to stop a certain behavior, such as sticking her nose in the garbage, carrying your favorite shoe, crossing the threshold of a door that you just opened, or hoarding the Kong you gave her a couple of minutes ago. Off is a clear way to tell your dog that certain boundaries are not to be crossed without your permission.

I was already crouched, so it made sense to throw the uppercut. It’s never been my strongest punch – I’m more a stick-and-move guy, despite being close to a heavyweight, so I favor my hook. But I had a substantial tactical advantage, and I came up hard, nailing him with my right hand pretty much flush on the button, that helpful cluster of nerves at the end of the chin. His knees buckled, his eyes rolled backwards, and he crumpled like a pup tent in heavy wind, the pool cue clattering to the ground and rolling away. It hadn’t taken more than about fifteen seconds for the whole fight, including the time it had taken me to tap the cue swinger on the shoulder. But everyone in the dingy pool hall had stopped to stare, and the only sound was the blaring tune. Light streamed into the room from the wall of windows overlooking the strip

The Patriots’ quarterback, Tom Brady, had scored touchdowns in far less time. Sure enough, within seconds of the start of play, Brady moved his team halfway down the field. With seventeen seconds remaining, the Patriots were within striking distance, poised for a final big play that would hand Dungy another defeat and crush, yet again, his team’s Super Bowl dreams. As the Patriots approached the line of scrimmage, the Colts’ defense went into their stances. Marlin Jackson, a Colts cornerback, stood ten yards back from the line. He looked at his cues: the width of the gaps between the Patriot linemen and the depth of the running back’s stance. Both told him this was going to be a passing play. Tom Brady, the Patriots’ quarterback, took the snap and dropped back to pass. Jackson was already moving. Brady cocked his arm and heaved the ball. His intended target was a Patriot receiver twenty-two yards away, wide open, near the middle of the field. If the receiver caught the ball, it was likely he could make it close to the end zone or score a touchdown. The football flew through the air. Jackson, the Colts cornerback, was already running at an angle, following his habits. He rushed past the receiver’s right shoulder, cutting in front of him just as the ball arrived. Jackson plucked the ball out of the air for an interception, ran a few more steps and then slid to the ground, hugging the ball to his chest. The whole play had taken less than five seconds. The game was over. Dungy and the Colts had won. Two weeks later, they won the Super Bowl. There are dozens of reasons that might explain why the Colts finally became champions that year. Maybe they got lucky. Maybe it was just their time. But Dungy’s players say it’s because they believed, and because that belief made everything they had learned—all the routines they had practiced until they became automatic—stick, even at the most stressful moments. “We’re proud to have won this championship for our leader, Coach Dungy,” Peyton Manning told the crowd afterward, cradling the Lombardi Trophy. Dungy turned to his wife. “We did it,” he said.

Studies of people who have successfully started new exercise routines, for instance, show they are more likely to stick with a workout plan if they choose a specific cue, such as running as soon as they get home from work, and a clear reward, such as a beer or an evening of guilt-free television.

Research on dieting says creating new food habits requires a predetermined cue—such as planning menus in advance—and simple rewards for dieters when they stick to their intentions.2.14

Studies of people who have successfully started new exercise routines, for instance, show they are more likely to stick with a workout plan if they choose a specific cue, such as running as soon as they get home from work, and a clear reward, such as a beer or an evening of guilt-free television.2.13 Research on dieting says creating new food habits requires a predetermined cue—such as planning menus in advance—and simple rewards for dieters when they stick to their intentions.

I have never seen someone consistently stick to positive habits in a negative environment. A more reliable approach is to cut bad habits off at the source. One of the most practical ways to eliminate a bad habit is to reduce exposure to the cue that causes it.

One thing I forgot to mention”—I snap the stick into the cue ball, sending the solid blue one across the table into the pocket—“is that I did used to play.” I walk past Charlie to line up my next shot. “And here I thought I was just a really good teacher,” he says flatly. I pocket the green ball next, and then miss the burgundy one. When I chance a glance at him, he looks not only unsurprised but downright smug. Like I’ve proven a point. He pulls the cue from my hands and circles the table, eyeing several options for his first shot before choosing the green-striped ball and getting into position. “And I guess I should’ve mentioned”—he taps the cue ball, which sends the green-striped ball into a pocket, the purple-striped ball sinking right behind it—“I’m left-handed.

He drops the cue stick on the table without care. “Taco Bell? I think I love you.” I look away quickly. I know that’s drunk talk, but why the hell does my heart skip a beat?

TAKEAWAYS FOR TEACHING YOUR DOG Provide a long pause. When you see your dog noticing your modeling or noticing the buttons, turn your routine interactions into language-facilitating opportunities. The greatest cue we can provide is a long, silent pause to give the AAC user a chance to process what is happening and try exploring her words. When you see your dog communicate through a gesture or vocalization, stay quiet for at least ten to fifteen seconds. At the end of fifteen seconds, if your dog looks like she might be walking toward her buttons or is looking at them, continue staying quiet. If you have not seen an indication that she might try saying a word, add a naturalistic cue. Your dog may need cues for a little while before using words independently. Keep providing a long pause, pointing at the button, asking a general question such as “What do you want?” or standing near the button to support your dog’s emerging vocabulary. Even after you’ve heard your dog’s first words, your dog will likely need support before using words independently and regularly. Model words in different contexts to support generalization. Your dog will learn to use words in different ways if she sees and hears you using words in multiple ways. Remember that your dog is intrinsically motivated to communicate. Resist the desire to offer a treat for saying a word (unless the word is treat). This will keep your dog from learning the actual meaning of the word. Stick to providing the appropriate response to your dog’s word. Think about other communication functions besides requesting. Your dog might be trying to label an object or activity in her environment or talk about what is happening.

This…exemplifies how trans-exclusionary feminism uses the experience of rape. Drawing on the radical feminist idea of the penis as a weapon, it ‘sticks’ this organ to trans women through an obsession with their surgical status. The ‘threat’ posed by the trans woman is then juxtaposed with the threatened (white) femininity of the abuse survivor. Cue outrage.

Habit stacking increases the likelihood that you’ll stick with a habit by stacking your new behavior on top of an old one. This process can be repeated to chain numerous habits together, each one acting as the cue for the next.

The temple drum is as big as a barrel, and it sits on a tall wooden platform. When you play it, you stand in front, facing the stretched hide, trying to control your breathing, which is jumping all over the place because you are so nervous. The priests and nuns are chanting by the big altar, and you listen for your cue, which is getting closer and closer. Then, at just the right moment, you take a big breath, raise your sticks, draw back your arms, and You have to get the timing just right, and even though I was scared to make a mistake in front of all those people, I think I did a pretty good job. I really like drumming. While I’m doing it, I am aware of the sixty-five moments that Jiko says are in the snap of a finger. I’m serious. When you’re beating a drum, you can hear when the BOOM comes the teeniest bit too late or the teeniest bit too early, because your whole attention is focused on the razor edge between silence and noise. Finally I achieved my goal and resolved my childhood obsession with now because that’s what a drum does. When you beat a drum, you create NOW, when silence becomes a sound so enormous and alive it feels like you’re breathing in the clouds and the sky, and your heart is the rain and the thunder. Jiko says that this is an example of the time being. Sound and no-sound. Thunder and silence.

By separating habitual cues from conscious awareness, the study showed that we eat in response to available cues: as long as there’s food on our plate, we keep going.

Day after day, the curtain rises on a stage of epic proportions, one that has been running for centuries. The actors wear the costumes of their predecessors and inhabit the roles assigned to them. The people in these roles are not the characters they play, but they have played the roles long enough to incorporate the roles into their very being, to merge the assignment with their inner selves and how they are seen in the world. The costumes were handed out at birth and can never be removed. The costumes cue everyone in the cast to the roles each character is to play and to each character’s place on the stage. Over the run of the show, the cast has grown accustomed to who plays which part. For generations, everyone has known who is center stage in the lead. Everyone knows who the hero is, who the supporting characters are, who is the sidekick good for laughs, and who is in shadow, the undifferentiated chorus with no lines to speak, no voice to sing, but necessary for the production to work. The roles become sufficiently embedded into the identity of the players that the leading man or woman would not be expected so much as to know the names or take notice of the people in the back, and there would be no need for them to do so. Stay in the roles long enough, and everyone begins to believe that the roles are preordained, that each cast member is best suited by talent and temperament for their assigned role, and maybe for only that role, that they belong there and were meant to be cast as they are currently seen. The cast members become associated with their characters, typecast, locked into either inflated or disfavored assumptions. They become their characters. As an actor, you are to move the way you are directed to move, speak the way your character is expected to speak. You are not yourself. You are not to be yourself. Stick to the script and to the part you are cast to play, and you will be rewarded. Veer from the script, and you will face the consequences. Veer from the script, and other cast members will step in to remind you where you went off-script. Do it often enough or at a critical moment and you may be fired, demoted, cast out, your character conveniently killed off in the plot. The social pyramid known as a caste system is not identical to the cast in a play, though the similarity in the two words hints at a tantalizing intersection. When we are cast into roles, we are not ourselves. We are not supposed to be ourselves. We are performing based on our place in the production, not necessarily on who we are inside. We are all players on a stage that was built long before our ancestors arrived in this land. We are the latest cast in a long-running drama that premiered on this soil in the early seventeenth century.

my policy is simple: No repeats. Ever. No matter how much I want to. Side note: I want to. Badly. Which is reason alone to stick to the policy.

Cody sat in embarrassed silence although his heart was racing and the comforting buzz of alcohol coursed through his blood stream. Home was a beige two-story ranch with a double garage, on a block lined with beige two-story homes in a new development on the north side of Helena. So new, that he could still see the seams of grass sod on the front lawns and all the cue-stick-sized tree trunks were secured with wires to T-posts so the wind wouldn’t blow them away. Justin swung into his driveway and nearly kissed bumpers with Jenny’s car, missing it by inches.

Sawyer: Are you at home? I slowly lifted my eyes to meet Beau’s. “It’s Sawyer asking if I’m at home.” Beau put his cue stick up and reached for mine. “Tell him I’m taking you home now.” I didn’t want to go home right then, but there was no other explanation I could give Sawyer. I texted him back. “Beau’s taking me home now.” Beau nodded toward the door. “Come on, let’s go.” He didn’t reach for my hand or touch my back the way he used to when we left the bar. Instead he walked beside me, not touching me or looking at me. I got another text message. Sawyer: Tell him to bring you to my house. Everyone’s in bed, and I’m in the pool house. Come see me. I’ll take you home. That wasn’t something I could ask Beau to do. He’d been wonderful after our fight tonight. Asking him to drop me off at Sawyer’s was too much. Once we were in the truck, I fiddled with my phone, trying to decide what to tell Sawyer. “What is it, Ash? What did he say to make you start chewing your bottom lip?” I sighed and kept my eyes on the phone in my lap. “He wants you to bring me to his pool house. I don’t want you to do that.” Beau pulled the truck off the side of the road and then turned to look at me. “Why?” I glanced up at him. “Because,” I replied. Beau let out a growl and slammed his palms against the steering wheel, causing me to jump. “I can’t do this, Ash. It’s killing me. Having you this close and not touching you is driving me insane. You’re his, Ash. You’re his. You made your choice, and I understand why you chose him. I don’t hold it against you, but dammit, Ash, it hurts.” My chest felt as if it had been ripped open again. “I’m so sorry, Beau. I’m sorry I did this to you. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry I can’t make it better. I’m sorry.” “Stop it, Ash. You got nothing to be sorry for. I started this, and I’m the one who needs to end it. I just can’t seem to bring myself to stay away from you.” I slid over and straddled the stick shift and laid my head on his shoulder. He slipped his arm around me and pulled me tight up against him. I closed my eyes as he kissed the top of my head. Neither of us knew what to say. We sat in silence, holding each other until my phone alerted us of another text message. I started to pull away, but Beau held me against his side and cranked the truck. “Just let me hold you a little longer,” he whispered hoarsely as he pulled back onto the road. When we pulled onto Sawyer’s street, Beau kissed my head one more time. “You better move over now.

Horses are not just smart; they are learning machines. They scout for cues everywhere and soak up information. Once acquired, new knowledge sticks to a horse’s brain like superglue. If there’s a problem with equine learning, it’s that horses learn too quickly—and forget too poorly—to accommodate human errors.

Here’s the punch line: You can break a habit, but you’re unlikely to forget it. Once the mental grooves of habit have been carved into your brain, they are nearly impossible to remove entirely—even if they go unused for quite a while. And that means that simply resisting temptation is an ineffective strategy. It is hard to maintain a Zen attitude in a life filled with interruptions. It takes too much energy. In the short-run, you can choose to overpower temptation. In the long-run, we become a product of the environment that we live in. To put it bluntly, I have never seen someone consistently stick to positive habits in a negative environment. A more reliable approach is to cut bad habits off at the source. One of the most practical ways to eliminate a bad habit is to reduce exposure to the cue that causes it. ■ If you can’t seem to get any work done, leave your phone in another room for a few hours. ■ If you’re continually feeling like you’re not enough, stop following social media accounts that trigger jealousy and envy. ■ If you’re wasting too much time watching television, move the TV out of the bedroom. ■ If you’re spending too much money on electronics, quit reading reviews of the latest tech gear. ■ If you’re playing too many video games, unplug the console and put it in a closet after each use.

One of the early discoveries in neuroscience that helped to rekindle the field’s interest in habit came from a 1990s study that separated habit learning in humans from conscious understanding. Twenty participants had Parkinson’s disease, which attacks motor control systems in the basal ganglia, especially the putamen, and impedes the ability to learn new habits (even non-motor ones) and to activate old ones. Twelve participants were patients with amnesia who had dysfunction in a different brain area (the hippocampus), one that interfered with their ability to remember recent events. Parkinson’s patients could explain the task and the instructions. They knew consciously what to do. But it didn’t matter how much they practiced. They could not learn the connections between cues (cards) and rewarded responses (rain/sun forecast). They could not form a habit. In contrast, the amnesiacs acquired habits more readily as they practiced the task. After taking fifty chances at predicting the weather, they could make accurate forecasts based on the cards. But when they were asked about what they were doing, they could not remember the instructions or details of what they had seen. This research provided some of the first insights into the neural mechanics of habit formation. It suggested that, in humans, habit learning isn’t superseded or subordinated by more thoughtful learning systems, as assumed by many researchers during the cognitive revolution. Habits live in resilient, deep-seated neural structures—ones that are fundamental to mammalian life.

She angled her chin haughtily. “I already know how to play. Litton taught me. What do I gain if I win?” “What would you like?” “For you to leave immediately.” He furrowed his brow. “The room?” “The manor, the estate, the shire.” She knew the challenge was now in her gaze, and she could see him considering it, perhaps wondering how truly skilled she was. “And if I win?” he asked, his voice thrumming with an undercurrent that should have frightened her off. “What do I receive?” “Our last night here there is to be another ball. A dance. Whichever one you want. I shall let you sign my card first.” He picked up her cue stick and studied it as though he were trying to determine how it had been made. “A kiss.” He shifted his gaze over to her and captured her as though he’d suddenly wrapped his arms around her. “As soon as I sink my last ball.” “That would be entirely inappropriate.” He gave her a devilish grin. “Which is why I want it.” “You always struck me as quite the gentleman.” A shadow crossed his features. “Not tonight. I’ve spent too much time contemplating past mistakes.

A habit happens when a context cue is sufficiently associated with a rewarded response to become automatic, to fade into that hardworking, quiet second self. You’re not a part of it, not as you probably think of yourself. You—your goals, your will, your wishes—don’t have any part to play in habits. Goals can orient you to build a habit, but your desires don’t make habits work. Actually, your habit self would benefit if “you” just got out of the way.

Major life events—starting a new job, moving, getting married, having children—have the same effect, many times over. They take away our habit cues and remove the predictability of life. They shake everything up, and for a moment, all of your behaviors—habitual and otherwise—are in the air, waiting for you to direct their placement. Yes, major life changes are stressful times full of uncertainty. But they are also opportunities to reimagine ourselves and restructure our lives. We are freed up to practice new behaviors without interference from established cues and our habitual responses to them.

Steady there,” he whispered, his lips brushing past my ear as he eased up behind me. His hands settled on my hips, fingers toying with the hem of my shirt. “Focus, Duffy. Are you focusing?” He was trying to distract me. And shit, it was working. I jerked away from him, trying to thrust the back of my pool stick into his gut. But of course he dodged, and I succeeded only in knocking the cue ball in the opposite direction of what I’d intended, sending it right into one of the corner pockets. “Scratch,” Wesley announced. “Damn it!” I whirled around to face him. “That shouldn’t count!” “But it does.” He took the white ball out of the hole and placed it carefully at the end of the table. “All’s fair in love and pool.” “War,” I corrected. “Same thing.” He eased the stick back, staring straight ahead, before shooting it forward again. Half a second later, the eight ball sailed into a pocket. The winning shot. “Asshole,” I hissed. “Don’t be a sore loser,” he said, leaning his stick against the wall. “What did you really expect? I’m obviously amazing at everything.” He grinned. “But, hey, you can’t hold it against me, right? We can’t help the way God makes us.

I’d have thought I was pretty techie. I mean, I literally write Python in my sleep, diagnose a server crash before I’ve finished my morning coffee, and have an entire ecosystem of Raspberry Pi projects running at any given time. I can code my way out of most problems—or so I thought. Because absolutely nothing prepared me for the day my cold storage Bitcoin wallet refused to decrypt after a routine firmware upgrade. 56At first, it was just a minor annoyance. I tried accessing my $540,000 in Bitcoin, and my Ledger wallet greeted me with an error message so cryptic that even my AI-powered chatbot would be speechless. No big deal, I figured. I’d just troubleshoot—after all, that’s what I do for a living. Except, every fix I attempted only made things exponentially worse, like poking a bear with a USB stick. First, I tried the basics: rebooting the device. No dice. Then, I decided to reinstall the firmware, thinking a clean slate might help. Huge mistake: My wallet went full self-destruct mode, wiping itself cleaner than a spy destroying classified evidence. No problem, I thought-I had backups. But when I reached for my trusty SD card containing my seed phrase, I discovered it had corrupted months ago. Cue sheer panic. I had spent hours scouring through online forums, watching tutorial videos by people who sounded equally lost, and even called the manufacturer. Their response? "Sorry, but your Bitcoin is probably gone." Yeah, real reassuring. Enter FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY. I'll be honest, I was skeptical: if a software engineer like me couldn't fix this, how could they? But desperation makes a person open-minded, so I reached out. From the very first conversation, I knew I was in the hands of experts. They assured me they’d dealt with cases like mine before and walked me through their forensic recovery process. Their confidence was reassuring, but what truly impressed me was their transparent communication and sheer technical expertise. Within five days, not only had they fully recovered my Bitcoin, but they also provided me with an in-depth security audit explaining what had gone wrong and how to prevent future disasters. I may know Python, but these guys are wizards on another level. If your cold storage wallet has failed, stop trying to be a hero and call FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY. Trust me, debugging a corrupted wallet is the kind of coding challenge you don't want. WhatsApp:+13612504110

I’d have thought I was pretty techie. I mean, I literally write Python in my sleep, diagnose a server crash before I’ve finished my morning coffee, and have an entire ecosystem of Raspberry Pi projects running at any given time. I can code my way out of most problems—or so I thought. Because absolutely nothing prepared me for the day my cold storage Bitcoin wallet refused to decrypt after a routine firmware upgrade. 56At first, it was just a minor annoyance. I tried accessing my $540,000 in Bitcoin, and my Ledger wallet greeted me with an error message so cryptic that even my AI-powered chatbot would be speechless. No big deal, I figured. I’d just troubleshoot—after all, that’s what I do for a living. Except, every fix I attempted only made things exponentially worse, like poking a bear with a USB stick. First, I tried the basics: rebooting the device. No dice. Then, I decided to reinstall the firmware, thinking a clean slate might help. Huge mistake: My wallet went full self-destruct mode, wiping itself cleaner than a spy destroying classified evidence. No problem, I thought-I had backups. But when I reached for my trusty SD card containing my seed phrase, I discovered it had corrupted months ago. Cue sheer panic. I had spent hours scouring through online forums, watching tutorial videos by people who sounded equally lost, and even called the manufacturer. Their response? "Sorry, but your Bitcoin is probably gone." Yeah, real reassuring. Enter FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY. I'll be honest, I was skeptical: if a software engineer like me couldn't fix this, how could they? But desperation makes a person open-minded, so I reached out. From the very first conversation, I knew I was in the hands of experts. They assured me they’d dealt with cases like mine before and walked me through their forensic recovery process. Their confidence was reassuring, but what truly impressed me was their transparent communication and sheer technical expertise. Within five days, not only had they fully recovered my Bitcoin, but they also provided me with an in-depth security audit explaining what had gone wrong and how to prevent future disasters. I may know Python, but these guys are wizards on another level. If your cold storage wallet has failed, stop trying to be a hero and call FUNDS RECLIAMER COMPANY. Trust me, debugging a corrupted wallet is the kind of coding challenge you don't want. Email:fundsreclaimer@consultant.com WhatsApp:+13612504110

...and CUES THE FINAL NOTE. The whole band roars it out, horns hitting their highest C’s, and Andrew rolling around his drum set like a madman, cymbals and snare and toms and the entire apparatus about to burst, as WE DIVE IN CLOSE TO HIM, his instrument, his sticks, his face, all sweat and eyes about to pop, the next Buddy Rich, the next Charlie Parker-- Fletcher’s only Charlie Parker -- decking the stage with a climactic crash of cymbals right as, on that very last hit of hits, we- SMASH CUT TO BLACK.