Graham Bar Quotes

I’m not at peace anymore. I just want him like I used to in the old days. I want to be eating sandwiches with him. I want to be drinking with him in a bar. I’m tired and I don’t want anymore pain. I want Maurice. I want ordinary corrupt human love. Dear God, you know I want to want Your pain, but I don’t want it now. Take it away for a while and give it me another time.

Graham had stared through the bars for about five seconds when Lecter opened his eyes and said, “That’s the same atrocious aftershave you wore in court.” “I keep getting it for Christmas.

When you feel unable to change your bar you have become old.

The adversarial system,” that’s what it was called. The attorneys on each side did their best to win, no-holds-barred—and whatever emerged from the mess of broken limbs was called justice.

Only stupid Indians brush past a bunch of hard-handed white dudes, each of them sure that seat you had in the bar, it should have, by right, been theirs. They’re cool with the Chief among them being the chain monkey, but when it comes down to who has an eyeline on the white woman, well, that’s another thing altogether, isn’t it?

Many a criminal has finally given himself over to the authorities because the accusations of a guilty conscience were worse than prison bars.

And it’s not just Freddy to watch for in a place like this. Wishmaster could step into the passage between the two cells, use his drug dealer voice to ask her if she’d like to walk through these solid bars to freedom, and if Jade was tired enough, she might not remember to word this wish with utmost care, and end up being pulled like taffy through the steel bars. No thank you.

Back inside, his fire was crackling away. "okay." he actually rubbed his hands together. "Action." In two minutes, he'd pulled cushions and a couple throws from the two sofas and made a sort of nest in front of the fire. Then he grabbed his backpack. "Refreshments." I half expected to see a bottle of wine or someting similar. Instead, he pulled out a thermos.Followed by a bag of marshmellows, a box of graham crackers, and, absolutely, enough Hershey's chocolate bars to feed a small army. "S'mores!" I said happily. "And cocoa.Sit." He waited until I was in the middle of the nest, then disappeared through a doorway. I heard a few squeaks and rattles. When he came back,he was carrying a tray, loaded with mugs,napkins, and real, three-pointed skewers. "You're kidding," I teased when he handed me one. "You actually own s'mores implements." "Roast,then laugh.

It was the sort of pub Alan liked, furnished with wall- to-wall forty-five-year-old gin-and-tonic drinkers. A notice on the wall behind the bar read: Please do not ask for credit, as a punch in the mouth often causes offence.

The bar was crowded with theorizing Sherlockians, who in the absence of any actual evidence had created grand machinations to explain the crime. Minor points of canonical disagreement became reasons for brutal murder. Some tried to piece together their theories in small groups, hoping that with enough brainpower and expertise they might arrive at a solution. Others jumped straight over the “investigation” phase and landed square at the end of the story they were creating, instantly accusing the man across the table of some vile treachery. And, moreover, actually employing phrases like “vile treachery” in doing so. Everyone was a suspect. But at the world’s largest Sherlockian gathering, everyone was a detective as well.

I was working as a radio producer and Douglas was doing things like writing with Graham Chapman—an absolutely bizarre experience, as they used to get phenomenally drunk. Graham had a room in his house entirely devoted to gin: it was just gin bottles (he later went on the wagon) that lined the walls, and occasionally when I was working in BBC Radio I’d go up there at lunchtime. They’d have a few gins before lunch, then they’d go to the pub and do all the crosswords in every paper. Then they’d get roaring drunk, and usually Graham would take his willy out and put it on the bar… it was quite entertaining.

He took another swallow of beer. “Are things as bad as they seem? Or have I just gotten old like my da, and now everything tastes a little bitter compared to when I was a boy?” Kote wiped at the bar for a long moment, as if reluctant to speak. “I think things are usually bad one way or another,” he said. “It might be that only us older folk can see it.” Graham began to nod, then frowned. “Except you’re not old, are you? I forget that most times.” He looked the red-haired man up and down. “I mean, you move around old, and you talk old, but you’re not, are you? I’ll bet you’re half my age.” He squinted at the innkeeper. “How old are you, anyway?” The innkeeper gave a tired smile. “Old enough to feel old.

This neighborhood was mine first. I walked each block twice: drunk, then sober. I lived every day with legs and headphones. It had snowed the night I ran down Lorimer and swore I’d stop at nothing. My love, he had died. What was I supposed to do? I regret nothing. Sometimes I feel washed up as paper. You’re three years away. But then I dance down Graham and the trees are the color of champagne and I remember— There are things I like about heartbreak, too, how it needs a good soundtrack. The way I catch a man’s gaze on the L and don’t look away first. Losing something is just revising it. After this love there will be more love. My body rising from a nest of sheets to pick up a stranger’s MetroCard. I regret nothing. Not the bar across the street from my apartment; I was still late. Not the shared bathroom in Barcelona, not the red-eyes, not the songs about black coats and Omaha. I lie about everything but not this. You were every streetlamp that winter. You held the crown of my head and for once I won’t show you what I’ve made. I regret nothing. Your mother and your Maine. Your wet hair in my lap after that first shower. The clinic and how I cried for a week afterwards. How we never chose the language we spoke. You wrote me a single poem and in it you were the dog and I the fire. Remember the courthouse? The anniversary song. Those goddamn Kmart towels. I loved them, when did we throw them away? Tomorrow I’ll write down everything we’ve done to each other and fill the bathtub with water. I’ll burn each piece of paper down to silt. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll do it again. And again and again and— — Hala Alyan, “Object Permanence

... It's just so' - she frowned, hunting for the right word - 'relentless. You think you're getting on top of it. You scoop up a few villains, get a result or two, make a night of it in the bar, then next morning you wake up and start all over again. It never bloody stops... She described the pressures from headquarters, and from her own divisional Superintendent. The never-ending demands to beat performance target after performance target. The blizzards of paperwork. The fact that no one really knew what their political masters were after. They claimed to have priorities, lots of priorities, but in the end you got to realise there were so many that absolutely nothing got to the top of the heap. When it came to working out what politicians wanted, really wanted, she'd finally sussed the truth: that they were all equally clueless.

When I came up from Brighton by the train’: a rich Guinness voice, a voice from a public bar.

2½ cups crushed graham cracker crumbs 1 cup melted Grade A butter 1 cup peanut butter 2½ cups powdered sugar 1 cup milk chocolate chips with 1 teaspoon Grade A butter Mix together the graham cracker crumbs, melted butter, peanut butter, and sugar. Pat into a greased 9-by-13-inch pan. Melt the chips and butter and spread them on top of the bars. Set in the refrigerator until firm. Cut into bars.  • • •

That,” he said in a booming voice, “was a damn fine pie.” A thin woman with a pinched face stood next to him. “Don’t you cuss, Elias,” she said sharply. “There’s no call for that.” “Oh honey,” the big man said. “Don’t get yourself in a twit. Damfine is a kind of apple, innit?” He grinned around at the folks sitting at the bar. “Sort of foreign apple from off in Atur? They named it after Baron Damfine if I remember correct.” Graham grinned back at him. “I think I heard that.” The woman glared at all of them.

From the vantage of a mid-1970's consensus that regarded the United States as having entered a post-Protestant era, the rise of a Religious Right dominated not only by Protestants but by fundamentalists was not the way the story was supposed to go. People like Jerry Falwell looked like party crashers who, rather than slikinking from bar to buffet in hopes of going unnoticed, demanded that the vegetarian, alcohol-imbibing hosts serve meat and tell the bartender to go home.

Sir Graham walked to the window, very aware of two worshipful pairs of young eyes on his back. He knew well how to make himself noticed; he knew well how to draw a lady’s eye, and with this in mind—and despite the heat—he had purposely and cunningly exchanged his seagoing frock coat for his finest full-dress uniform. The dark blue coat was carefully brushed, with bright gold bars of lace at sleeve and lapel, more lace at collar, cuffs, and pockets, and the epaulets with the single star winking proudly from each shoulder; the waistcoat and breeches were snowy white, and a cocked hat was framed with even more gold trim. Uniforms—especially full-dress ones usually reserved for formal occasions—were a sure bet for winning female hearts and with this in mind, the admiral turned just so, knowing that the sunlight would—move a little more to starboard, Gray—he heard one of the girls gasp—yes, that's it—touch upon the gold fringe of his epaulets with blinding brilliance. With a private, wicked smile, he struck a deliberate pose, relaxed yet commanding all at once;

2½ cups crushed graham cracker crumbs 1 cup melted Grade A butter 1 cup peanut butter 2½ cups powdered sugar 1 cup milk chocolate chips with 1 teaspoon Grade A butter Mix together the graham cracker crumbs, melted butter, peanut butter, and sugar. Pat into a greased 9-by-13-inch pan. Melt the chips and butter and spread them on top of the bars. Set in the refrigerator until firm. Cut into bars.  •

Seven Layer Cookie Bars This is a recipe that my best friend Rose’s Mom used to make as a treat.  It’s an oldie but goodie. Ingredients 1/2 cup unsalted butter 2 cups Graham crackers 1 can (14 ounces) sweetened condensed milk 6 ounces butterscotch chips 6 ounces chocolate chips 3 1/2 ounces flaked coconut 1 cup chopped pecans

I’ve programmed in all kinds of languages, said the tough old hacker as he eased up to the bar, and it don’t matter which you use... This is nonsense, of course. There is a world of difference between, say, Fortran I and the latest version of Perl or for that matter between early versions of Perl and the latest version of Perl. But the tough old hacker may himself believe what he’s saying. It’s possible to write the same primitive Pascal-like programs in almost every language. If you only ever eat at McDonald’s, it will seem that food is much the same in every country.

Pain is just a place that I go to get the bars from Anxiety's a drug that I use to get the job done

A further subtlety of a histogram which distinguishes it from the bar chart is that the widths of its bars (which correspond to the class intervals) need not all be the same.

Dylan came back to sit across the table from me. He set the platter between us and took off the lid, revealing neat piles of graham crackers, chocolate bars, and marshmallows. “I’ve always wanted to try to make s’mores with a candle. Shall we?” “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?” I said, simultaneously reaching for a marshmallow and popping a graham cracker in my mouth. “Well, I tried.” Dylan smiled. Then his expression grew slightly more serious. “I swear I’ll win your heart in the end, Max.” I coughed out graham cracker crumbs. My cheeks flushed and I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. Suddenly I felt squirmy and smoldering and turbulent inside, like a million hot coals had been poured into my stomach. But to be honest, it wasn’t such a bad feeling.

Quoting page 150-151: Political camouflage, needed by legislators eager to please civil rights and minority organizations while avoiding punishment by voters for supporting racial quotas, was provided by the bureaucratic obscurity of the government’s procurement process. Voters did not understand the complexities of government contracting and agency regulation. … The weaknesses of minority set-asides were chiefly two. First, they were indubitably racial and ethnic quotas, and hence were politically controversial. As government benefits tied to ancestry, they violated the classic liberal creed that Americans possessed equal individual rights. … Nonminority contractors were barred by their ancestry or their skin color from even bidding on contracts paid for by taxpayer dollars, including their own. Second, and less obviously, set-aside programs produced a common set of flaws in implementation. The most severe problem was the concentration of set-aside contracts on a few successful firms. Agency officials, needing to spend a large amount of money on minority procurement contractors every fiscal year, found very few minority contractors able to do the job. Four-fifths of all certified minority firms had no employees, their personnel roster consisting solely of the owner of the enterprise. As a consequence, agency set-aside contracts were typically concentrated on only a few firms large enough and sufficiently experienced to meet the terms of the contracts, providing constructing, street paving, computer services, military uniforms, or other goods and services. In 1990, for example, only fifty firms, representing less than 2 percent of the certified minority firms in the 8(a) program, accounted for 40 percent of the $4 billion awarded. … such firms never seemed to “graduate” from the set-aside program, weaned from the incubator and ready to compete in the normal marketplace of competitive government contracting. … Almost all the contracts were awarded on a no-bid or “sole source” basis; in fiscal 1991, for example, only 1.9 percent of the 4,576 contracts in the 8(a) program were awarded on a competitive basis.

Malice toward none” was hardly a popular slogan. Consider the words of Henry Ward Beecher, as popular and influential in his day as Billy Graham has been in his. “I charge the whole guilt of this war,” Beecher said in 1864, “upon the ambitious, educated, plotting political leaders of the South . . . A day will come when God will reveal judgment, and arraign at his bar these mighty miscreants.” Beecher looked forward to the day when “these most accursed and detested of all criminals” would be “caught up in black clouds full of voices of vengeance and lurid with punishment” and “plunged downward forever in an endless retribution.” “Endless retribution”—now there was a phrase that people would rally behind. What Lincoln sought to forestall would in fact come to pass. A vengeful reconstruction policy, the backlash it provoked, and the failure to provide adequately for the well-being of four million freed slaves had ramifications that would last to the present day. The pain of the Civil War sank into many fields.

Attract women like that. I’ve got the hot new bod. And yet that girl’s not coming after me.” Zoe eyed his plate warily. “Maybe it’s because you’re eating s’mores with bacon in them.” Murray had, in fact, combined bacon with chocolate, marshmallow, and graham crackers. And then he’d sprinkled gummy bears on top. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” he said. He attempted to take a bite, but the entire concoction collapsed in his hand, leaving him with a huge brown smear down the front of his Farkle Fiesta T-shirt. “Yeah, it’s hard to see why the girls aren’t beating your door down,” Zoe said sarcastically. “It looks like you wiped your butt with your shirt.” Murray didn’t bother to argue—or to clean his shirt off. Instead, he returned to the dessert bar to rebuild his sandwich.

The clouds broke in a shower and drove them in, and they stood a minute in the window of the parlor watching the big drops pattering on the leaves of the lilac tree, staining them dark. When rain came suddenly, Demelza still had the instinct to go see if Julia were sleeping outside. She thought of saying this to Ross but checked herself. The child’s name was hardly ever mentioned. Sometimes she suspected that Julia was a bar between them, that though he tried his utmost not to, the memory of her courting infection to help at Trenwith still rankled.

Every time we were at Billy's, AJ got the banana cupcake with cream cheese frosting, a house specialty. I usually felt it my duty to try something new- like the Hello Dolly, a graham-cracker-crusted bar, layered with a tooth-achingly sweet mélange of chocolate chips, pecans, butterscotch, and coconut, perhaps a big old slice of German chocolate cake, or just a modest sugar-dusted snickerdoodle. But today- out of alliance or nervousness, I wasn't sure- I had also ordered a banana cupcake: a wise choice, as it was especially spongy and fresh.

Wonder Cookie Bars Recipe Ingredients 1-1/2 cups graham cracker crumbs ½ cup melted butter 1 (14 oz) can of sweetened condensed milk 2 cups (12 oz package) semi-sweet chocolate chips or butterscotch chips 1-1/3 cup flaked coconut 1 cup chopped walnut or pecans Directions Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Coat a 13x9 inch glass baking dish with no-stick cooking spray Mix graham cracker crumbs and melted butter.  Press into the bottom of the greased baking dish. Pour sweetened condensed milk over top of graham cracker mixture, making sure to cover evenly. Sprinkle chocolate chips over graham cracker crust. Sprinkle coconut over chocolate chips.

What else should you watch for? Most fund buyers look at past performance first, then at the manager’s reputation, then at the riskiness of the fund, and finally (if ever) at the fund’s expenses.8 The intelligent investor looks at those same things—but in the opposite order. Since a fund’s expenses are far more predictable than its future risk or return, you should make them your first filter. There’s no good reason ever to pay more than these levels of annual operating expenses, by fund category: Taxable and municipal bonds: 0.75% U.S. equities (large and mid-sized stocks): 1.0% High-yield (junk) bonds: 1.0% U.S. equities (small stocks): 1.25% Foreign stocks: 1.50%9 Next, evaluate risk. In its prospectus (or buyer’s guide), every fund must show a bar graph displaying its worst loss over a calendar quarter. If you can’t stand losing at least that much money in three months, go elsewhere. It’s also worth checking a fund’s Morningstar rating. A leading investment research firm, Morningstar awards “star ratings” to funds, based on how much risk they took to earn their returns (one star is the worst, five is the best). But, just like past performance itself, these ratings look back in time; they tell you which funds were the best, not which are going to be. Five-star funds, in fact, have a disconcerting habit of going on to underperform one-star funds. So first find a low-cost fund whose managers are major shareholders, dare to be different, don’t hype their returns, and have shown a willingness to shut down before they get too big for their britches. Then, and only then, consult their Morningstar rating.10 Finally, look at past performance, remembering that it is only a pale predictor of future returns. As we’ve already seen, yesterday’s winners often become tomorrow’s losers. But researchers have shown that one thing is almost certain: Yesterday’s losers almost never become tomorrow’s winners. So avoid funds with consistently poor past returns—especially if they have above-average annual expenses.

By pouring continuous data about stocks into bars and barbershops, kitchens and cafés, taxicabs and truck stops, financial websites and financial TV turned the stock market into a nonstop national video game. The public felt more knowledgeable about the markets than ever before. Unfortunately, while people were drowning in data, knowledge was nowhere to be found. Stocks became entirely decoupled from the companies that had issued them—pure abstractions, just blips moving across a TV or computer screen. If the blips were moving up, nothing else mattered.

Lovely faces looked out of dim interiors, brown eyes, dark hair, Spanish and high yellow: beautiful buttocks leant against the bars, waiting for any life to come along the sea-wet street. To live in Havana was to live in a factory that turned out human beauty on a conveyor-belt.

Luke approached the bar—and the man who had apparently been dead for a very long time—ready to learn what he could from the “remnant” or “remaining spirit,” as many preferred over being called “ghosts.