Dave East Quotes

Palestinian and Israeli leaders finally recover the Road Map to Peace, only to discover that, while they were looking for it, the Lug Nuts of Mutual Interest came off the Front Left Wheel of Accommodation, causing the Sport Utility Vehicle of Progress to crash into the Ditch of Despair.

Everything within takes place after Jack died and before my mom and I drowned in a burning ferry in the cool tannin-tinted Guaviare River, in east-central Colombia, with forty-two locals we hadn't yet met. It was a clear and eyeblue day, that day, as was the first day of this story, a few years ago in January, on Chicago's North Side, in the opulent shadow of Wrigley and with the wind coming low and searching off the jagged half-frozen lake.

While the West tends to medicate pain, the East helps us to embrace it.

Plant a stick in the ground and lie down on your back. Looking at the top of the stick like a gun sight, line this up with a star. After several minutes, the star will appear to have moved as the earth has rotated. If the star moves left, you are facing north. If the star moves up, you are facing east. If the star moves right, you are facing south. If it moves down, you are facing west. The

And Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? went on to pull in bigger audiences than EastEnders. And it only happened because Paul Smith stopped expecting his client to understand his idea rationally, and got his client to feel it. Because that’s where the sell happens. Paul Smith moved the sell from what Kahneman calls System Two thinking (the slow, rational mind) to System One thinking (the fast, emotional mind). As in any sell, desire must precede permission

WAS A WIDOWER and lived by myself in New Iberia, a city of twenty-five thousand people on Bayou Teche in the southwestern part of the state. For years I had been a detective with the Iberia Parish Sheriff’s Department and also the owner of a bait shop and boat rental business outside of town. But after Alafair, my adopted daughter, went away to college and the home my father built in 1935 burned to the ground, I sold the baitshop and dock to an elderly black man named Batist and moved into a shotgun house on East Main, on the banks of the Teche, in a neighborhood where the oak and pecan trees, the azaleas, Confederate roses, and philodendron managed to both hide and accentuate the decayed elegance of a bygone era.

Adding to the confusion over why the monument counts as a tourist attraction: according to research by the National Geodetic Survey, it’s actually in the wrong spot. In April 2009, the survey found that the Four Corners monument is a bit over 1,807 feet east of where it should be. Perhaps fearing the wrath of the tourists forced by parents and spouses to pose for embarrassing photographs in a spot now known to be meaningless, the NGS surveyors were quick to point out that since Four Corners has been legally recognized by all four states as the intersection of their borders, its current location, though inaccurate, is still legit. As Dave Doyle, chief geodetic surveyor for the NGS, told the Associated Press, “Where the marker is now is accepted. . . . Even if it’s 10 miles off, once it’s adopted by the states, which it has been, the numerical errors are irrelevant.

Sean deliberately loitered on the patio with his grandmother and the other septuagenarians before going to the kitchen to pour May Ellen and Lily’s drinks. He wanted to give them a bit of privacy. As for me, Sean thought—drawing deep drafts of the scented, heavy Florida night air into his lungs--I need to pull myself together. Because it was happening already: the Lily Effect was at work on his brain. Why in God’s name had he told her he’d be accompanying her and the team on some dives, when that was the last thing he wanted to do . . . especially if he intended to maintain his sanity? Unfortunately, as dumb as he was feeling, Sean had the answer to that one. It pained him to realize that he was still as hung up on Lily as ever—and just as susceptible to her disdain. It had taken her, what, two hours since she waltzed back into Coral Beach to accuse him of crooked politics? Did Lily have any idea of the high-wire act he was attempting by trying to get the reef accurately documented and assessed before he took a public stance on the marina development? No, of course not. Sean might have filled her in, if she hadn’t made it clear she assumed his sole motivation was political gain. Stung, he’d retaliated in kind, implying that Lily might stoop so low as to manipulate the reef study—even though Sean knew the sun would set in the east before Lily Banyon committed an act of professional dishonesty. Her integrity had always been one of the things he admired most about her. That Lily actually fell for his bogus threat merely showed how profound her distrust, her dislike of him was. At the Rusted Keel, Dave had urged him to seize the opportunity to go on the research boat and work on charming Lily. Yeah, Sean thought acidly, as he carried the cocktails toward the living room. He and Lily were off to their usual great start.

Back east, schools began to recruit actively, often offering inducements to promising athletes. In the fall of 1889, former Yale captain Bill “Pa” Corbin telegraphed Camp, who was serving as Yale’s football advisor. The subject was a prospect named Highland Stickney, who, it seems, was in search of a handout. “Stickney wrote,” Corbin reported, “Have received good offers from Harvard and Princeton to play football. What will you give[?]” Apparently, not enough. Stickney landed in Cambridge.

… If one still needs a reason to justify being a militant feminist, then head over to the Middle East. That’s where you’ll find real misogyny, which is propped up by a proper patriarchy. Happy travels!

The Blasters proved to be the most prominent and popular of these acts by far. Originally a quartet, the band was bred in Downey, just down the freeway from East L.A. In their teens, brothers Phil and Dave Alvin were bitten by the blues bug; they became habitués of the L.A. club the Ash Grove, where many of the best-known folk and electric blues performers played, and they sought out the local musicians who could teach them their craft, learning firsthand from such icons as Big Joe Turner, T-Bone Walker, and Little Richard’s saxophonist Lee Allen (who would ultimately join the band in the ’80s). But the Blasters’ style was multidimensional: they could play R&B, they loved country music, and they were also dyed-in-the-wool rockabilly fans who were initially embraced by the music’s fervent L.A. cultists. Their debut album, 1980’s American Music, was recorded in a Van Nuys garage by the Milan, Italy–born rockabilly fanatic Rockin’ Ronnie Weiser, and released on his indie label Rollin’ Rock Records, which also issued LPs by such first-generation rockabilly elders as Gene Vincent, Mac Curtis, Jackie Waukeen Cochran, and Ray Campi. By virtue of Phil Alvin’s powerful, unmannered singing and Dave Alvin’s adept guitar playing and original songwriting, the Blasters swiftly rose to the top of a pack of greasy local bands that also included Levi and the Rockats (a unit fronted by English singer Levi Dexter) and the Rockabilly Rebels (who frequently backed Ray Campi). Los Lobos were early Blasters fans, and often listened to American Music in their van on the way to their own (still acoustic) gigs. Rosas says, “We loved their first record, man. We used to play the shit out of that record. Dave [Hidalgo] was the one who got a copy of it, and he put it on cassette.

The band could not have known that the Alvin brothers were already well aware of Los Lobos, and had been for more than five years, for they had seen the band’s TV debut on La Cultura in 1975. “The first time we had ever heard of them,” says Dave Alvin, “Phil and I were at home, and we watched a thing on the local PBS station, channel 28. It was a half-hour documentary on this band from East L.A. that played traditional acoustic Mexican music from all of the various states.” Phil Alvin adds that the Lobos’ example in fact had an impact on the genre-defying way in which the Blasters conceived of their own music: “I remember watching it and really being just impressed, particularly about the way they talked about Mexican music and the variety of it. When we went down to Rockin’ Ronnie’s and he kept pressuring us to say we played rockabilly and stuff like that, I remember thinking of those guys when I [told him]

There wasn’t any limit, no boundary at all, to the future. And it would be so a man wouldn’t have room to store his happiness. JOHN STEINBECK East of Eden

five-and-dime, bawling for Dave at the top of his lungs. The Judge held on to the steering wheel grimly, trying to pretend there was no such thing as arthritis, and if there was, he didn’t have it, and if he did have it, it never bothered him in damp weather. He didn’t try to take it any further because the rain was a fact, a pure-d fact, as his father would have said, and there was no hope but Mount Hope. He wasn’t getting too far with the rest of the fantasy, either. He had been running through rain for the last three days. It sometimes backed off to a drizzle, but mostly it had been nothing more or less than a good old solid downpour. And that was also a pure-d fact. The roads were on the point of washing out in some places, and by next spring a lot of them were going to be flat impassable. He had thanked God for the Scout many times on this little expedition. The first three days, struggling along I-80, had convinced him that he wasn’t going to raise the West Coast before the year 2000 if he didn’t get off onto the secondary roads. The Interstate had been eerily deserted for long stretches, and in places he had been able to weave in and out of stalled traffic in second gear, but too many times he had been forced to hook the Scout’s winch on to some car’s back bumper and yank it off the road to make himself a hole he could crawl through. By Rawlins, he’d had enough. He turned northwest on I-287, skirted the Great Divide Basin, and had camped two days later in Wyoming’s northwest corner, east of Yellowstone. Up here, the roads were almost completely empty. Crossing Wyoming and eastern Idaho had been a frightening, dreamlike experience.

ordered from one of the fake documents guys in Bremerhaven. Four hundred marks paid. Name requested, Faraj Mansoor. Ring any bells?’ ‘No,’ said Armstrong. ‘Probably just some illegal migrant who wants to rent a car. Or some poor sod who’s been banned from driving. You can’t shout terrorist every time.’ ‘Six reckons there could be an ITS invisible on the move.’ ‘Where from?’ ‘One of the North West Frontier Province camps.’ ‘Definitely?’ ‘No. Just smoke.’ She saved the message and scrabbled the mouse to check her messages. The office door swung open and a hard-faced young man in an Aryan Resistance T-shirt strolled in. ‘Yo, Barney!’ said Dave. ‘How’s the world of the Far Right? I take it from the haircut and the utility footwear that you’ve got a social engagement later on?’ ‘Yeah. In East Ham. A lecture on the European Pagan Tradition.’ ‘Which is?’ ‘New Age Hitler-worship, basically.’ ‘Excellent!’ ‘Isn’t it just? I’m trying to look nasty enough to get alongside our man, but not so bloody horrible