David Slack Quotes

Without slack there is no tactical agility in the business.

centerless pop-culture country full of marginalized subnations that are themselves postmodern, looped, self-referential, self-obsessed, voyeuristic, passive, slack-jawed, debased.

I do nothing all day, but I am tired. Lethargy has settled into me. I feel slack and languid. Does this mean I am starting to accept this life?

You need slack to enable continuous improvement. In order to have slack, you must have an unbalanced value stream with a bottleneck resource. Optimizing for utilization is not desirable.

God said to David, "Be not too intimate with men; for two kinds of persons are excluded from My presence: those who are earnest in seeking reward and slack when they obtain it, and those who prefer their own thoughts to the remembrance of Me. The sign of My displeasure is that I leave such to themselves." In

You need slack to enable continuous improvement. You need to balance demand against throughput and limit the quantity of work-in-progress to enable slack.

Two dry mouths bumping at each other, trying to kiss, his self-conscious thoughts twisting around on themselves like a snake on a stick while he bucked and snorted dryly above her, his swollen eyes red and his face sagging so that its slack folds maybe touched, limply, the folds of her own loose sagging face as it sloshed back and forth on his pillow, its mouth working dryly. The thought was repellent.

I noticed my mother’s face assume an expression she reserved for unspeakable horror. I had seen this look only twice before: once when she was caught in the path of a charging, rabid pig and then again when I told her I wanted a peach-colored velveteen blazer with matching slacks.

He’s a going out with the tide,’ said Mr. Peggotty to me, behind his hand. My eyes were dim and so were Mr. Peggotty’s; but I repeated in a whisper, ‘With the tide?’ ‘People can’t die, along the coast,’ said Mr. Peggotty, ‘except when the tide’s pretty nigh out. They can’t be born, unless it’s pretty nigh in—not properly born, till flood. He’s a going out with the tide. It’s ebb at half-arter three, slack water half an hour. If he lives till it turns, he’ll hold his own till past the flood, and go out with the next tide.’ We remained there, watching him, a long time—hours. What mysterious influence my presence had upon him in that state of his senses, I shall not pretend to say; but when he at last began to wander feebly, it is certain he was muttering about driving me to school. ‘He’s coming to himself,’ said Peggotty. Mr. Peggotty touched me, and whispered with much awe and reverence. ‘They are both a-going out fast.’ ‘Barkis, my dear!’ said Peggotty. ‘C. P. Barkis,’ he cried faintly. ‘No better woman anywhere!’ ‘Look! Here’s Master Davy!’ said Peggotty. For he now opened his eyes. I was on the point of asking him if he knew me, when he tried to stretch out his arm, and said to me, distinctly, with a pleasant smile: ‘Barkis is willin’!’ And, it being low water, he went out with the tide.

It ascended by levels: Da's cameo recessed against the glow of the tuner's parade,the drawer of utensils withdrawn past its fulcrum, the disembodied face of my brother miming and distorting my desperate attempt by expression alone to make Mum look up from me and see him, I no longer feeling my features' movements so much as seeing them on that writhing white face against the pantry's black, the throttle-popped eyes and cheeks ballooning against the gag's restraint, Mum squatting chairside to even my ears, my face before us bother farther and farther from my own control as I saw in his twin face what all lolly-smeared hand-held brats must see in the fun-house mirror- the gross and pitiless sameness, the distortion in which there is, tiny, at the center, something cruelly true about the we who leer and woggle at stick necks and and concave skulls, goggling eyes that swell to the edges- as the mimicry ascended reflected levels to become finally the burlesque of a wet hysteria that plastered cut strands to a wet white brow, the strangled man's sobs blocked by cloth, storm's thrum and electric hiss and Da's mutter against the lalation of shears meant for lambs, an unseen fit that sent my eyes upward again and again into their own shocked white, knowing past sight that my twin's face would show the same, to mock it- until the last refuge was slackness, giving up the ghost completely for a blank sack gagged mask's mindless stare-un seen and seeing- into a mirror I could not know or feel myself without. No not ever again.

Then she turned away before anybody caught her slack-jawed with admiration. He was not the one, that was her DNA talking, looking for a high-class sperm donor. Every woman in the room with a working ovary probably looked at him and thought, This one. Well, biology was not destiny. The amount of damage somebody that beautiful could do to a woman like her was too much to contemplate. She took another drink to cushion the thought, and said, "He's pretty." "No," Liza said. "That's the point. He's not pretty. David is pretty. That guy looks like an adult." "Okay, he's full of testosterone," Min said.

Improve performance through process improvements introduced with minimal resistance. Deliver with high quality. Deliver a predictable lead time by controlling the quantity of work-in-progress. Give team members a better life through an improved work/life balance. Provide slack in the system by balancing demand against throughput. Provide a simple prioritization mechanism that delays commitment and keeps options open. Provide a transparent scheme for seeing improvement opportunities, thereby enabling change to a more collaborative culture that encourages continuous improvement. Strive for a process that enables predictable results, business agility, good governance, and the development of what the Software Engineering Institute calls a high-maturity organization.

That’s the feeling behind the album. Scratch the surface of English suburbia and you’ll see a bored bloke looking back at you asking what you’re up to. We’re not talking David Lynch here, it’s not as lurid as that. But that makes it all the more interesting. Like, why is that person peering out of his window so early in the morning anyway? It seemed to me that people started spending an unusual amount of hours meddling with their lawns and privets. Rinsing the paving and touching up the paintwork on their window frames. I’d be walking around wondering how I could finance everything and there’d be a fellow in an ill-fitting pair of slacks adding dabs of white paint to the white paint that was already there. Killing time. Or I’d be sat in the pub and grown men would suddenly start talking loudly about their plans for an extension or how the new curtains are looking.

Always, before, whenever one culture went into decline, there were others ready to take up the slack. If Rome toppled, there was light shining in Constantinople, then the Baghdad Caliphate and in China. If Philippine Spain turned repressive, Holland welcomed both refugees and science. When most of Europe went mad, in the mid–twentieth century, the brightest minds moved to America. When America grew self-indulgent and riven by new civil war, that migration sloshed and shifted East.

A 2010 Los Angeles Opera production of Wagner’s Ring Cycle cost $31 million to produce.24 Broadway shows don’t usually cost that much, unless you’re talking about the recent Spider-Man debacle. U2’s last concert-tour budget might be in that range, but those were stadium shows attracting huge numbers of people. And in those latter two instances, the people who wrote the music are still alive, and presumably they get paid a piece out of every ticket sold, which is part of what keeps those production costs up. Wagner has been dead for a long time, so one assumes it’s not his agent who is charging the moon and driving up the cost of these Ring productions. (Granted, it is a four-part epic.) The Los Angeles Opera ended up with a $6 million deficit due to “slack demand for expensive tickets.

Just then someone called his name and he turned and saw the torn and colorless polo shirt, the slacks that couldn’t be patched any more. He saw the sunken-cheeked cadaver, the living waste of time and effort that added up to the face and body of his younger brother.

She didn't look like she would hold up to much. She was petite---thin, really, except for the store-bought breasts; attractive, but in a way that didn't appeal to him. It wasn't any one thing. She was dressed well in camel slacks and a rust-colored silk blouse. She was nicely made-up. But there was something about her that made him think cheap. Something in the gaunt hollows of her long face, the shape and set of her eyes, the limp blond hair shagged off at shoulder length. Or maybe it was just that Kovac had taken an instant hatred to her because he had it in his head that this was the woman David Moore had been screwing while his wife was lying in a hospital bed.

But unemployment statistics suggest instead that there isn’t much slack in the workforce,” Hiltzik smugly wrote. “At 4.4%, the unemployment rate is at about the point economists judge to be full employment.”83 Hiltzik was just as confident Trump would have no success turning productivity around. Thankfully, the naysayers lost. Under Trump, wages rose for the first time in two decades.84 In November 2018, unemployment dropped to its lowest rate in a half century. Black unemployment reached its lowest recorded level in May 2018, at 5.9 percent, and unemployment rates for Latino, young, and low-skilled workers are lower than they’ve been in years. Unemployment for Americans with disabilities also reached an all-time low.85 In the same year women’s unemployment reached its lowest rate in sixty-five years. By the close of 2018 there were more job openings in America than unemployed people for the first time in this nation’s history. More than five million jobs had been created since Trump took office.

It's a very sad thing, to be in no hurry, and I would not be so free in admitting it, if I were you,' he said, still staring at the bottle. When he wasn't smiling his face looked flabby, slack, and pallid grey. He was unwell, but it was the kind of unwell you have to work at. 'We have saying in Marseilles: a man in no hurry gets nowhere fast. I have been in no hurry for eight years.

They are not alone, she sees. Here is David’s friend Clive. She always rather liked Clive. Sensed he liked her too. And here, standing beside Hanshaw’s news-stand, are two boys. Men, she supposes. Fighting age, but no more than eighteen. They look down at David, sprawled at their feet, one arm outstretched towards them, beseeching. Then, slack-jawed, they turn their faces towards her, as if she’s a mirage: blonde, petite, horn-rimmed spectacles, a grey two-piece, stilettos. The last person they’d expect to be brandishing a firearm. (From At the Stroke of Nine O'Clock by Jane Davis.)