Decal Quotes

Isabelle was holding an umbrella. It was clear plastic, decorated with decals of colorful flowers. It was one of the girliest things Simon had ever seen, and he didn’t blame Alec for ducking out from under it and taking his chances with the rain.

The roar of an engine blasted from his left—and a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with flame decals jumped the sidewalk in front of him. A small crowd of travelers scattered. "How do you say, 'You jerk!' in Turkish?" Jake asked. "Erasmus!" Dan cried with relief. Jake balled his fist angrily and shouted, "Erasmus!"

I think it would be funny to have one of those family decals showing a really skinny teenage girl barfing into a little chalk-outline bag (the bulimic in the family) or the dad figure dressed in the woman's underwear that he truly enjoys slipping into when no one's looking. Or the wife figure smiling with her exaggerated curly hair and tennis skirt, clutching a racket in one hand and a bottle of Stoli' in the other.

I’m here,” I told him, picking at the taxi company decal on the interior of the car window.“My face is relaxed and content. My lips are curved upward.” Sam did not laugh, because he was immune to my charms. “Have you been to the place you’re staying yet? Is it okay?” “I’m fine, Mother,” I replied. “I haven’t been yet. I’m going to go see Baby now.

Look," Adam said. He rubbed a finger over the dust of the back window. Next to a Blink-182 sticker was an Aglionby decal.

The glow dies down, and she's standing at the end of my bed--the one who's been following me around leaving feather messages. I take in the torn fishnets, plaid mini-kilt, shiny, riveted breastplate with leather straps at the sides and a worn Great Temolo decal near the left shoulder. Her wings are a crazy black-and-white-checkered pattern, like they've been spray-painted at a body shop to look like hipster sneakers.

Here is my room, in the yellow lamplight and the space heater rumbling: Indian rug red as Cochise's blood, a desk with seven mystic drawers, a chair covered in material as velvety blue-black as Batman's cape, an aquarium holding tiny fish so pale you could see their hearts beat, the aforementioned dresser covered with decals from Revell model airplane kits, a bed with a quilt sewn by a relative of Jefferson Davis's, a closet, and the shelves, oh, yes, the shelves. The troves of treasure. On those shelves are stacks of me: hundreds of comic books- Justice League, Flash, Green Lantern, Batman, the Spirit, Blackhawk, Sgt. Rock and Easy Company, Aquaman, and the Fantastic Four... The shelves go on for miles and miles. My collection of marbles gleams in a mason jar. My dried cicada waits to sing again in the summer. My Duncan yo-yo that whistles except the string is broken and Dad's got to fix it.

Some lessons you learn gradually and some you learn in a sudden moment, like a flash going off in a dark room. I sift and rake and dig around in my vivid recollections of young Sean on the floor in summer, and I try to see what makes him tick, but I know a secret about young Sean, I guess, that he kind of ends up telling the world: nothing makes him tick. It just happens all by itself, tick tick tick tick tick, without any proximal cause, with nothing underneath it. He is like a jellyfish adrift in the sea, throbbing quietly in the warm waves of the surf just off the highway where the dusty white vans with smoked windows and indistinct decals near their wheel hubs roll innocently past.

Modesty is a learned adaptation. It’s stuck on like decals. As soon as life slams a modest person against the wall, that modesty will fall off faster than a G-string will fall off a stripper.

People, and not only Americans, are losing their sons, husbands, brothers, and fathers for no other reason than the profits of US armaments corporations, and the gullible American people seem proud of it. Those ribbon decals on their cars, SUVs and monster trucks proclaim their naive loyalty to the armaments industries and to the whores in Washington who promote wars.

Key to women’s ascent was the typewriter. Invented in 1867 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the original model was decorated with floral decals and mounted on a treadle table, like a sewing machine; promoters proclaimed it perfect for a woman’s “nimble fingers.

On the back cover of his checklist binder is an old cracked decal showing a flying Pegasus circled with the acronym NKAWTG, which means Nobody kicks ass without tanker gas!

They put the same decals on their Bounders and ’Bagos, touting all the peculiar places they’ve visited (I HELPED TRIM THE WORLD’S BIGGEST TREE IN CHRISTMASLAND!),

Modesty is a learned adaptation. It’s stuck on like decals. As soon as life slams a modest person against the wall, that modesty will fall off faster than a G-string will fall off a stripper.” ― Maya Angelou

Sure, we might pick the same color schemes, but if I ever decided to go the whole decal sayings route, I’d go with It takes forty-two muscles to frown, twenty-eight muscles to smile, but only four muscles to reach out and slap something and It probably could get worse.

Floor-to-ceiling picture windows were filled with the nighttime vista of the gleaming cities of El Paso and Juarez, obscured by large patches of human skin pasted to the glass like self-clinging decals. The odd angles and random placement looked like a macabre Picasso mosaic.

As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait--there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop. My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair. Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.

The face of the movement was the “pro-life and pro-family values” stance of millions, but the blood running through the movement’s veins was the racism and greed of a few. That is how white evangelicals became the most powerful and influential voting bloc in the United States and the fuel of the American white supremacy engine. That’s how evangelical leaders get away with the stunning hypocrisy of keeping their money, racism, misogyny, classism, nationalism, weapons, war, and corruption while purporting to lead in the name of a man who dedicated his life to ending war, serving orphans and widows, healing the sick, welcoming immigrants, valuing women and children, and giving power and money away to the poor. That is also why all a political candidate must do to earn evangelical allegiance is claim to be antiabortion and antigay—even if the candidate is a man who hates and abuses women, who stockpiles money and rejects immigrants, who incites racism and bigotry, who lives in every way antithetical to Jesus’s teachings. Jesus, the cross, and the identity “pro-life” are just shiny decals evangelical leaders slap on top of their own interests. They just keep pushing the memo: “Don’t think, don’t feel, don’t know. Just be against abortion and gays and keep on voting. That’s how to live like Jesus.” All the devil has to do to win is convince you he’s God.

With her purple hair, leather jacket with a decal of two dragons on the back, and tough-as-nails boots, Mal had trouble written all over her—which was precisely what she was going for. The bilious green spray paint spelled out LONG LIVE EVIL. Mal holstered her paint can, reveled in her work, and stepped into the bustling marketplace, where she was quickly swept up in the throng and blended into the sea of haggard, worn faces.

I notice being noticed immediately – I’m a freeway goddess! In the past five minutes of gridlock, I have been checked out by a bald man in convertible Mustang, a cowboy in an F-150, and a body-builder in a Lincoln Navigator. Watch out road warriors! I don’t want to be responsible for any accidents. If only I had a car decal that advertised: Available – if you meet my eligibility criteria!

Alarmed, Odin announced, “This thing says Mazda on it!” The group took a close look at the decal on the back of the car. Thor brought his war hammer over his head, “What is it? Can I smash it?” Odin put his hand up, “No, wait. I don't think that this is a god. Look, there are others named Mazda, too. I think these are used to transport people.

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Thirty-one days later, in the summer of 1981, he became a full-time writer, and the feeling of liberation as he left the agency for the last time was heady and exhilarating. He shed advertising like an unwanted skin, though he continued to take a sneaky pride in his bestknown slogan, “Naughty but nice” (created for the Fresh Cream Cake Client), and in his “bubble words” campaign for Aero chocolate (IRRESISTIBUBBLE, DELECTABUBBLE, ADORABUBBLE, the billboards cried, and bus sides read TRANSPORTABUBBLE, trade advertising said PROFITABUBBLE, and storefront decals proclaimed AVAILABUBBLE HERE). Later that year, when Midnight’s Children was awarded the Booker Prize, the first telegram he received—there were these communications called “telegrams” in those days—was from his formerly puzzled boss. “Congratulations,” it read. “One of us made it.

Madison had covered one side of the hall without success, and was just bending down to check the first locker on the other side, when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. “Looking for lunch money?” Jeremy asked. Madison’s face turned beet red. She slowly turned to look at Jeremy, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching her. “Of course not,” she said. “Lunch is over.” “Then what are you looking for?” he asked, strolling toward her. She folded her arms and stood her ground. “That’s none of your business.” “Actually, it is my business,” Jeremy replied. “That’s my locker.” “What?” Madison spun to look at the locker. There was no way she could have known. “Well, it’s not what you think. I-I’m not planning on stealing from you,” she stammered. “I’m just…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to think of a logical explanation for why she was standing alone in the hall with her hand on his locker. Jeremy leaned his shoulder against his locker and grinned. He looked like the cat who had eaten the canary. “You’re just what?” Madison gulped and looked up at the I’M STUCK ON MADISON sticker on Jeremy’s locker door. A lightbulb went on in her brain, and she tilted her chin in defiance. “I’m just removing this sticker from your locker.” She reached up and tore the decal off the locker. As she did, she spotted the phone number on the back and screamed, “I found it!” Jeremy jumped back two feet in alarm. “Could you shout a little louder?” he cracked. “I don’t think the hall monitor heard you.” “So what are you doing lurking out here?” Madison asked, cradling the sticker with Blue’s number in her hand, so Jeremy wouldn’t see it. Jeremy leaned in until his face was only inches from hers, and whispered, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.

I am the presence standing here at this juncture of Time & Space—who else? & that night in my sand-colored 1987 Ford van with the American flag decal covering the rear window cruising Cedar Street, Dale Springs & parked in shadow & with my binoculars trained to the mostly shaded or darkened windows I thought, If this is where I am this is who I am. & so it was.

Hayworth, the former Margarita Carmen Cansino, was, of course, one of the brightest stars of the forties and early fifties, so much so that the crew of the Enola Gay is rumored to have used her pinup decal as “nose art” for either the bomber or its payload, Little Boy, before dropping it on Hiroshima. Welles

We agreed we’re both troubled by the stiff-minded emphasis on the flag that grips much of the country these days. A flag, after all, is still only a cloth symbol. You don’t show patriotism by showing blank-eyed love for a bit of cloth. And you can be deeply patriotic without covering your car with flag decals.

Jesus, the cross, and the identity “pro-life” are just shiny decals evangelical leaders slap on top of their own interests. They just keep pushing the memo: “Don’t think, don’t feel, don’t know. Just be against abortion and gays and keep on voting. That’s how to live like Jesus.” All the devil has to do to win is convince you he’s God.

4B, Sofia announced. Who lived here? Mrs. Sanchez, she was a very nice lady. She was nice? Yes. 4C. Who lived here. The Kleins. Were they nice? They were old. The apartment doors, once oak, were now all single slabs of siege-mentality sheet metal, their numbers, in his time screwed-in brass, nothing more than hardware-store decals. But he couldn’t care less about these particular outrages against memory, because in the end the information they provided was the same information as twenty years ago, and any way you cut it the doors and their numbers would always tell the same story. 4D. Who lived here?

On the back cargo door, there was an oval magnetic decal with the name of their town written in black, a seemingly perquisite automotive tribal tattoo in suburbia nowadays.

The Christians had then struck back with a decal of a larger fish, labeled “TRUTH,” eating the Darwin fish, which distilled Christianity to its core principle: the ultimate devouring of Science by the giant, horrific Jesus-fish.

how and in what ways, do various cultures show off their flags? In contrast to Swedes, who almost never display their national colors, Norwegians and Canadians generally sport a flag decal on their backpacks, the latter making sure the rest of the world doesn’t mistake them for Americans.)

Also present in Charlottesville was Vanguard America, a group with increasingly strong ties to neo-Nazis. Its members believe that the United States is exclusively for white Americans and not for non-Christians, Jews, Muslims, or people of color. The car used to murder the counterdemonstrator sported a Vanguard America decal.

The driver had recently scraped an 'AMRAK is Love' decal from his back window, leaving a sticky residue of his former beliefs.