Greg House Quotes

Here's something else to think about: calling when you say you're going to is the very first brick in the house you are building of love and trust. If he can't lay this one stupid brick down, you ain't never gonna have a house baby, and it's cold outside.

We overvalue nonessentials like a nicer car or house, or even intangibles like the number of our followers on Twitter or the way we look in our Facebook photos. As a result, we neglect activities that are truly essential, like spending time with our loved ones, or nurturing our spirit, or taking care of our health.

Did you come for my feelings? Because I left 'em in my other pants. -Greg House

I don't ask why patients lie, I just assume they all do. -Greg House

I teach you to lie, cheat, and steal, and as soon as my back's turned you wait in line? -Greg House

Wake up, my guest / You have slept long / In the house of my ribs, / The House of my heart / Wake up now, / See through my eyes, / Walk with my feet, / Yush, my old friend

When we are unclear about our real purpose in life—in other words, when we don’t have a clear sense of our goals, our aspirations, and our values—we make up our own social games. We waste time and energies on trying to look good in comparison to other people. We overvalue nonessentials like a nicer car or house, or even intangibles like the number of our followers on Twitter or the way we look in our Facebook photos. As a result, we neglect activities that are truly essential, like spending time with our loved ones, or nurturing our spirit, or taking care of our health.

What do you think he saw?" Damn--I regret the awed way I phrased that and the hushed voice I used. As if I think acid is a "religious" experience, a visionary thing. "Himself," Josh says. "You always see your true self on acid. You just usually see more than you want to see. So it all seems disorted." See what I mean? He's not your normal stoner. The guy should become a poet, a psychologist, a scientist. We pull up near Greg's house and stare at it like it's a damn fortress. "You don't think he needs to go to the hospital?" I ask. "Nope," Josh says. "For a while, I thought maybe, yeah. But he's good now, he's off it, he's not hallucinating anymore." "You're sure?" "Yeah." "'Cuz you can die on LSD-" "That's such anti-drug propaganda bullshit, Dan," Josh interrupts. "Nobody's ever died from an LSD overdose. Ever. As long as you keep people from doing stupid things while they're tripping, it's all good man, man. Why do you think I babysat him?" He reaches into the backseat and punches my shoulder. "LSD isn't your dad's smack. So stop worrying." I scrunch down in the seat. How'd he know about that? "Right. What's the plan?" "I'd ask him if ther was a key hidden under a rock," Josh says, "but he's not gonna be much help. Watch." He pokes Greg in the leg, prods him on the shoulder, grabs his cheeks and smushes them together, the way parents do to a baby, and says, " Ootchi googi Greggy, did ums have a good trippy? Did ums find out itty-bitty singies about oos-self zat oos didn't likeums?" Yup... Greg was in his own little world...

There was a short pause before Elizabeth gasped, finally understanding his meaning, “You did that? You put up those pictures of that senator? The naked selfies on the house dot gov main page?” “I did no such thing.” Greg sounded and looked insulted, then added, “Alex did it. I was merely the Pinky to his Brain.

Max watched his meal turning in the microwave. He knew exactly how it felt.

Often sweeps Death. The houses of living, A menial task, That brings into her fair, dark eyes. A sparkle of joy. At the little things she finds there.

she believed that houses were meant to be thought of as vehicles – physically fixed, but logically mobile

Greg Lippmann was now blasting Vinny and Danny with all sorts of negative information about the housing market, and, for the first time, Vinny and Danny began to hide the information from Eisman. “We were worried he’d come out of his office and shout, ‘Do a trillion!’” said Danny. In

Greg and Emily are an example of an introvert-extrovert couple who love and madden each other in equal measure. Greg, who just turned thirty, has a bounding gait, a mop of dark hair continually falling over his eyes, and an easy laugh. Most people would describe him as gregarious. Emily, a mature twenty-seven, is as self-contained as Greg is expansive. Graceful and soft-spoken, she keeps her auburn hair tied in a chignon, and often gazes at people from under lowered lashes. Greg and Emily complement each other beautifully. Without Greg, Emily might forget to leave the house, except to go to work.

Who are you?” Greg asks. Claudine steps inside the house without waiting for an invitation. “Who am I?” she asks. “I’m the motherfucking welcoming committee, bitch. That’s who the fuck I am.” She comes and stands inside, holding a cupcake with chocolate frosting. She drops it, the frosted side hitting the hardwood floor. Then she steps on it, mashing it into the floor.

When we get to the door I reach for the doorbell but Carlos steps in front of me, grins and then starts banging on the front door with all of his might. The door shakes and his pounding thunders throughout the house. (...) We must be the world's loudest burglars. I shout, "Why are you pounding so hard?" His grin gets even larger. "If anyone's home, they'll definitely answer that knock. If nobody's home what difference does it make?

Social consciousness has become a gimmick to excuse reprehensible behavior. In fact, put “social” before any word, and it becomes “important” and “compassionate.” At its worst, social consciousness masks evil—it’s flimflam for the foul, a condemnation condom. Social consciousness won Al Sharpton invites to the White House, despite the cad’s ruining countless lives since his garish orgy of racial exploitation that began with the Tawana Brawley case in 1987.

When we are unclear about our real purpose in life – in other words, when we don’t have a clear sense of our goals, our aspirations, and our values – we make up our own social games. We waste time and energies on trying to look good in comparison to other people. We overvalue non-essentials like a nicer car or house, or even intangibles like the number of our followers on Twitter or the way we look in our Facebook photos. As a result, we neglect activities that are truly essential, like spending time with our loved ones, or nurturing our spirit, or taking care of our health.

That wall might or might not be built. But even if it remains only in its phantasmagorical, budgetary stage, a perpetual negotiating chip between Congress and the White House, the promise of a two-thousand-mile-long, thirty-foot-high ribbon of concrete and steel running along the United States’ southern border serves its purpose. It’s America’s new myth, a monument to the final closing of the frontier. It is a symbol of a nation that used to believe that it had escaped history, or at least strode atop history, but now finds itself trapped by history, and of a people who used to think they were captains of the future, but now are prisoners of the past.

One way to protect against this is simply to add a 50 per cent buffer to the amount of time we estimate it will take to complete a task or project (if 50 per cent seems overly generous, consider how frequently things actually do take us 50 per cent longer than expected). So if you have an hour set aside for a conference call, block off an additional thirty minutes. If you’ve estimated it will take ten minutes to get your son to football practice, leave the house fifteen minutes before practice begins. Not only does this relieve the stress we feel about being late (imagine how much less stressful sitting in traffic would feel if we weren’t running late), but if we do find that the task was faster and easier to execute than we expected (though this is a rare experience for most of us), the extra found time feels like a bonus.

Missy I was sixteen and Jason (known on TV as Jase) was eighteen when we started dating. One of my friends--we’ll call her Christy--was actually interested in him, and the two of them had started seeing each other. Jase did not know Christy was already dating someone else and had been for quite some time. He found this out at her house one Sunday afternoon when she ran down the stairs telling him he had to leave immediately. About that time, he heard the screeching of tires from the front of her house. Her boyfriend had arrived. The boyfriend (we’ll call him Greg) was obviously not happy with the current arrangement and was there to set things straight with Jason. He told Jason eh wanted to talk inside his truck. Jase ended up getting into Greg’s vehicle, which he quickly regretted, and Greg proceeded to drive to an undisclosed location to fight it out. Quickly, Jase realized the situation and told Greg that if all of this was over Christy, he could have her. She was not worth it to him. Since Greg did not seem to respond to this direction in the conversation, Jase switched gears and started preaching to him. He proceeded to tell Greg that Jesus died for him and for all the rotten things he had done in his life. He told him God would forgive him if he would turn his life over to Jesus, be baptized for his sins, and start living a life that reflected Jesus’ love for him. Since Greg did not seem to respond to this dialogue either, Jase told him simply, “Just don’t hit me in the face.” Greg stopped the truck, dragged Jase out, roughed him up a bit, and left him at the end of a dead-end road. Jason never threw one punch. Obviously, the relationship between Jason and Christy was officially over.

Steve Jobs knew from an early age that he was adopted. “My parents were very open with me about that,” he recalled. He had a vivid memory of sitting on the lawn of his house, when he was six or seven years old, telling the girl who lived across the street. “So does that mean your real parents didn’t want you?” the girl asked. “Lightning bolts went off in my head,” according to Jobs. “I remember running into the house, crying. And my parents said, ‘No, you have to understand.’ They were very serious and looked me straight in the eye. They said, ‘We specifically picked you out.’ Both of my parents said that and repeated it slowly for me. And they put an emphasis on every word in that sentence.” Abandoned. Chosen. Special. Those concepts became part of who Jobs was and how he regarded himself. His closest friends think that the knowledge that he was given up at birth left some scars. “I think his desire for complete control of whatever he makes derives directly from his personality and the fact that he was abandoned at birth,” said one longtime colleague, Del Yocam. “He wants to control his environment, and he sees the product as an extension of himself.” Greg Calhoun, who became close to Jobs right after college, saw another effect. “Steve talked to me a lot about being abandoned and the pain that caused,” he said. “It made him independent. He followed the beat of a different drummer, and that came from being in a different world than he was born into.” Later in life, when he was the same age his biological father had been when he abandoned him, Jobs would father and abandon a child of his own. (He eventually took responsibility for her.) Chrisann Brennan, the mother of that child, said that being put up for adoption left Jobs “full of broken glass,” and it helps to explain some of his behavior. “He who is abandoned is an abandoner,” she said. Andy Hertzfeld, who worked with Jobs at Apple in the early 1980s, is among the few who remained close to both Brennan and Jobs. “The key question about Steve is why he can’t control himself at times from being so reflexively cruel and harmful to some people,” he said. “That goes back to being abandoned at birth. The real underlying problem was the theme of abandonment in Steve’s life.” Jobs dismissed this. “There’s some notion that because I was abandoned, I worked very hard so I could do well and make my parents wish they had me back, or some such nonsense, but that’s ridiculous,” he insisted. “Knowing I was adopted may have made me feel more independent, but I have never felt abandoned. I’ve always felt special. My parents made me feel special.” He would later bristle whenever anyone referred to Paul and Clara Jobs as his “adoptive” parents or implied that they were not his “real” parents. “They were my parents 1000%,” he said. When speaking about his biological parents, on the other hand, he was curt: “They were my sperm and egg bank. That’s not harsh, it’s just the way it was, a sperm bank thing, nothing more.

She then, unprompted, offered to arrange a meeting with Australia’s high commissioner to the United Kingdom (a term used instead of ambassador among members of the British Commonwealth). Even that title understated Alexander Downer’s stature: the scion of a dynastic political family in Australia, he had been the country’s foreign minister until 2007, finishing an eleven-year term that was longer than any in the country’s history. His father had also been high commissioner to the United Kingdom, and his grandfather was one of the signatories of Australia’s constitution, a document that was partly drafted in 1897 in a ballroom of the family’s North Adelaide estate, a landmark still known as Downer House. “He’s a great contact,” Thompson said. “He’s

They came in two teams, leapfrogging out of the city, Isaacs and Ireland in a plain Toyota van and Shapiro and Littell in a four-wheel-drive Subaru. Greg Isaacs got out of the lead car about twenty-five yards from the big gate and immediately started through the thick woods up the mountain. At thirty-eight he was in the best physical shape of the four CIA legmen, so he’d been volunteered for this part of the mission. The others waited on the main road, one car well above the gate, the other retreating to the highway at the bottom of the valley about four miles away. Isaacs carried a powerful pair of binoculars, a sound amplifier with a small parabolic pickup dish, and a walkie-talkie. The first hundred yards were relatively easy, but then the slope sharply steepened, and until he finally made it to the crest of the defile Isaacs wasn’t sure he could do it without mountain-climbing equipment. At the top he found himself at one end of a long ledge, the mountains rising in the back and a sheer cliff plunging five or six hundred feet in the front. A big house was perched at the edge of the dropoff about two hundred yards away. Isaacs raised his binoculars and saw McGarvey seated with another man on a veranda. Isaacs keyed his walkie-talkie. “I have him.

Cohen-Watnick noticed that unmasking requests weren’t being reviewed by lawyers before they were submitted, nor was anyone keeping detailed records at the White House of who was asking for names of Americans and why. Requests were approved seemingly routinely, almost never denied, under long-standing policies that seemed surprisingly lax.

when approached about signing the October 7 statement, Comey refused. The reason he cited—that the White House had waited too long and it was now too close to the election for the FBI director to be speaking publicly about anything related to the election—would in hindsight be hard to understand, particularly given the news he was about to make in two weeks’ time regarding Clinton’s emails.

it now, Tucker was the only living creature in our house who wasn’t feeling sad, and perhaps that’s why he established himself so easily in our hearts and minds. When he wagged his tail and acted content, he reminded

Funny how I ended up here at her house.” He winked at me just as Greg appeared in the living room doorway.

The task of the apologist is not simply to show that there is no hope of eternal salvation outside of Christ, but also that the unbeliever has no present intellectual hope outside of Christ. It is foolish for him to build his house on the ruinous sands of human opinion, instead of the verbal rock of Christ (Matt. 7:24-27). He needs to see that those who suppress the truth of God in unrighteousness inescapably "become vain in their reasoning… Professing themselves to be wise, they become fools" (Rom. 1:21-22). Their opposition to the faith amounts to no more than a "knowledge falsely so called" (1 Tim. 6:20-21), by which they actually "oppose themselves" in ignorance (2 Tim. 2:23, 25).

1How lovely is your dwelling place, O LORD of Heaven’s Armies. 2I long, yes, I faint with longing to enter the courts of the LORD. With my whole being, body and soul, I will shout joyfully to the living God. 3Even the sparrow finds a home, and the swallow builds her nest and raises her young at a place near your altar, O LORD of Heaven’s Armies, my King and my God! 4What joy for those who can live in your house, always singing your praises.

man.” 25But they wouldn’t listen to him. So the Levite took hold of his concubine and pushed her out the door. The men of the town abused her all night, taking turns raping her until morning. Finally, at dawn they let her go. 26At daybreak the woman returned to the house where her husband was staying. She collapsed at the door of the house and lay there until it was light. 27When her husband opened the door to leave, there lay his concubine with her hands on the threshold. 28He said, “Get up! Let’s go!” But there was no answer.* So he put her body on his donkey and took her home. 29When he got home, he took a knife and cut his concubine’s body into twelve pieces. Then he sent one piece to each tribe throughout all the territory of Israel.

In February 2022, in Nashville, Tennessee, Pastor Greg Locke accused six members of his Global Vision Bible Church of being quite literally “devil-worshipping Satanist witches,” two of them in the ladies’ Bible study group. In a video shared on social media, he screamed accusations of “pharmakeia” (witchcraft with drugs, poisons, and remedies), burning sage (a Native American cleansing practice), being Freemasons, and bewitching fellow worshippers. He has also made QAnon-inspired accusations that then House of Representatives speaker Nancy Pelosi was a “demon baby-killing pedophile” and former secretary of state and first lady Hillary Clinton a “high priestess in the Satanic church.” These claims were also made by those responsible for the Capitol riot of 2021 and an attack on Nancy Pelosi’s husband in 2022.

In 2016,” he says, “after Trump was elected, I realized that America had declined to the point that we were willing to put a complete idiot in the White House. A con man with almost no objective qualifications for the office. Trump had obviously racist beliefs, criminal tendencies, serious problems with women, repeated business failures, no ethics whatsoever, no conscience, no remorse. He even despised the military. Yet white America, in its panic, wrapped their arms around the guy and rode him all the way into Washington. Even the evangelicals went with him. And why? Because he personified all their secret hopes and fears and prejudices. He gave them permission to be their real selves. Their worst selves. In essence, he was a living ‘Fuck you’ to everyone who ever made a rube feel stupid, or small, less than the next guy. He still is. He’s the white O.J. Simpson, Penn. His supporters know he’s guilty—of all of it—but they don’t give a shit. That’s not the point for them. Anyway, the myth of my grade-school years was finally true: anybody could become president! Anybody with sufficient fame, and the willingness to say and do anything necessary to win, that is.” Bobby turns and scans the bluff once more, from habit probably,

As I lay on the polished stone porch of Attica, it struck me that, had Robert F. Kennedy, Sr., lived to be president, the teenage Ebony Swan might not have died hanging from the lamp hook of an antebellum plantation house in Mississippi fifty-five years later.

Jim said she would go to prison for sure because of the amount she had stolen, and there was probably more. “I can bring over dinner if you want.” “I’m just going to pack and go to bed. I hate that early flight,” Tallie said, smiling back at her. And every time she did now, it felt false. She was used to getting up early to be on the set, so even that was a lie. Everything was now. Everything Tallie said to her felt wrong, and everything Brigitte had done had been worse. Brigitte gave her a hug as they left each other, and Tallie hugged her back, feeling her insides cringe when she did. “Give Max my love.” “Have fun in Mexico!” Tallie called out as she left. Brigitte had said she was going to Palmilla, but she hadn’t said with whom, and Tallie didn’t care. It made Tallie wonder, as she walked to her car, when and how she was going to fire her. She called Greg Thomas from the car. She wanted to discuss it with him, and she told him everything that had been happening, and that the FBI were going to make the arrest in the next week. “I’ve been waiting to fire her until they told me I could. The special agent in charge of the case called me today and told me. He’s coming by tonight. So what do I do about her?” “I’d like to notify her by letter and e-mail,” Greg said quietly. “I don’t want you doing it face-to-face. This could get nasty, or even dangerous for you. Do you think she could get violent?” He was worried about Tallie, especially since she was alone at the house now that Hunt was gone. “I don’t think so. I hope not.” Tallie hadn’t really thought about it. They had been so busy getting evidence

Her nod was grudging. “Do you think Downing killed her and ran?” “There is no evidence of that.” He pulled up to her building. “One last question,” he said. “Was Greg involved in anything unsavory?” “Like what?” “Like is there any reason thugs would be after him?” Again her excitement was palpable. The woman was like an electric current. “What do you mean? What thugs?” “A couple of thugs were watching Greg’s house.” Her face was positively glowing. “Thugs? You mean like professional gangsters?” “Probably. I don’t know for sure yet. Can you think of anything that would connect Greg to thugs or for that matter, the murder of this woman? Drugs maybe?” Audrey shook her head immediately. “It can’t be drugs.

Eventually my father bought a vacation house for us in Port Saint Lucie, Florida. My dad's friend had died, so my father bought the house from his widow. We would go down there once a year, and my father believed that he had bought a good investment property. Twelve years later he would sell it at a loss. Almost immediately after the sale, Club Med built a resort there near where the New York Mets would set up their spring training camp soon after. I've tracked articles since then about how Port Saint Lucie has had the fastest growing home prices in the country. When I told my friends at Rye Country Day that we had bought a second home in Florida, they were unimpressed because it was not Palm Beach. When I told my friends in Tarrytown that we had bought a house in Florida, they were sad and asked me when my family was moving. Gosh, poor people can be really dumb sometimes.

Neither man argued. Greg stared out the window at the house, probably conjuring up unspeakable horrors. Myron’s left leg started jackhammering. It often did when he was tense. Stan reached for the door handle. That

Not far away lay the big cannons that had held Ulysses Grant at bay for fifty siege days while the citizens of the town ate rat flesh and clung to their long-cherished beliefs. How many had died in that lost cause? Dr. Tarver wondered. Fifty thousand casualties at Gettysburg alone, and for what? To free the slaves who built this house? To preserve the Union? Had Stonewall Jackson died to create a nation of couch potatoes ignorant of their own history and incapable of simple mathematics? If those brave soldiers in blue and gray had seen what lay in the future, they would have laid down their muskets and walked home to their farms.

We do a similar thing in our personal lives as well. When we are unclear about our real purpose in life – in other words, when we don’t have a clear sense of our goals, our aspirations, and our values – we make up our own social games. We waste time and energies on trying to look good in comparison to other people. We overvalue non-essentials like a nicer car or house, or even intangibles like the number of our followers on Twitter or the way we look in our Facebook photos. As a result, we neglect activities that are truly essential, like spending time with our loved ones, or nurturing our spirit, or taking care of our health.

She stepped back into the house. “I want to show you something.” Trying to get his legs back, his head wobbly, and his internal referee still giving him the eight count, Myron followed her silently up the stairway. She led him down a darkened corridor lined with modern lithographs. She stopped, opened a door, and flipped on the lights. The room was teenage-cluttered, as if someone had put all the belongings in the center of the room and dropped a hand grenade on them. The posters on the walls—Michael Jordan, Keith Van Horn, Greg Downing, Austin Powers, the words YEAH, BABY! across his middle in pink tie-dye lettering—had been hung askew, all tattered corners and missing pushpins. There was a Nerf basketball hoop on the closet door. There was a computer on the desk and a baseball cap dangling from a desk lamp. The corkboard had a mix of family snapshots and construction-paper crayons signed by Jeremy’s sister, all held up by oversized pushpins. There were footballs and autographed baseballs and cheap trophies and a couple of blue ribbons and three basketballs, one with no air in it. There were stacks of computer-game CD-ROMs and a Game Boy on the unmade bed and a surprising amount of books, several opened and facedown. Clothes littered the floor like war wounded; the drawers were half open, shirts and underwear hanging out like they’d been shot mid-escape. The room had the slight, oddly comforting smell of kids’ socks.

Bryant lived in a two-story Malibu beach house elevated above the surf on pylons. A lot of celebrities insisted on living in this pretty part of town, and every few years their houses were swallowed by the sea or consumed by fires in the canyons, or swept down the hills in mudslides. They would come on television, looking stylishly disheveled, and proclaim how they weren't going to let misfortune break their spirits, and how they were going to rebuild, and Daniel would throw a shoe at the TV.

Aw, can't we have breakfast, at least?" Moth moaned as Daniel rushed them past Roscoe's House of Chicken N Waffles. Cassandra made a face. "I fine the combination dubious." "The waffles are substandard," Moth allowed, "but the chicken is delectable. They elevate each other." Cassandra would not be convinced. "I don't believe chicken and waffles can have viable offspring.

I was sitting on the living room floor painting my toes and Dee was sitting back on the couch finishing her fingers when I yelled at him to come in. I hear the door click open and his heavy steps down the hallway, looking up I meet the fierce scowl he is famous for. “The fuck? What the hell have I told you two about letting just anyone walk into the f**king house?” He growls, yes growls at us. If this was anyone other than Greg I would be sitting in my own piss right now. “Oh, come on G, we knew it was you.” “Oh really? So, you can see through f**king wood and steel now? I didn’t realize you picked up f**king super powers. Remind me next f**king time to just have you beam me the hell over, sure as f**k will save on the gas.” Oops, guess I didn’t realize big bad protector Greg would be coming out to play.

Any cube can be found on the lawn of the White House.

Greg leans forward from the seat in front of my desk, resting his elbows on his knees. “He’s right. We’ll handle shit here, and if anything new comes up, we’ll call. Just go make sure she’s okay. If you decide to come in tomorrow, then she comes with you.” “You didn’t really think I was going to stay here today? Fuck you very much, Greg. All I had planned was filling you a**holes in before I went home to my woman.” I start packing up my laptop and anything else I think I’ll need should I decide to start working out of my house until this shit is over. There’s only ten more days in the month, so regardless of what we figure out, there’s only a short amount of time before the deadline we’re working against runs out

I think somebody white is burning those houses to start up a second civil war down here. And what I’ve come here today to beg you not to do—is fall into their trap. It’s an old trap, brothers and sisters! They want to stir you up and make you do something they can use to prove to the world you’re everything they claim you are. They want to make you loot a store, or flip a police car, set a convenience store on fire. They want to point at you and say, ‘Look at those animals! They’ve got no respect for property. They don’t value human life the way we do.’ Folks, I know you’re too smart to let yourselves be used like that.

The terrace house, one hundred and forty years old, was shaped like a cereal box; two stories high, but scarcely wide enough for a staircase. It had originally been part of a row of eight; four on one side had been gutted and remodeled into offices for a firm of architects; the other three had been demolished at the turn of the century to make way for a road that had never been built. The lone survivor was now untouchable under some bizarre piece of heritage legislation, and Maria had bought it for a quarter of the price of the cheapest modern flats. She liked the odd proportions -- and with more space, she was certain, she would have felt less in control. She had as clear a mental image of the layout and contents of the house as she had of her own body, and she couldn't recall ever misplacing even the smallest object. She couldn't have shared the place with anyone, but having it to herself seemed to strike the right balance between her territorial and organizational needs. Besides, she believed that houses were meant to be thought of as vehicles -- physically fixed, but logically mobile -- and compared to a one-person space capsule or submarine, the size was more than generous.

Blonde and lank-haired, she could be twenty-five or thirty-five. She has the indeterminate look of hill people everywhere: sallow skin and hard angles, though she is pretty in the way waitresses at the Waffle House can be pretty at four a.m.

Manaus is famous for its hulking Amazonas Theater, an opera house built of Italian marble and surrounded by roads made of rubber so the carriage clatter of late arrivals wouldn’t interrupt the voices of Europe’s best tenors and sopranos.

In 1917, Milton Hershey began work on a sugar mill town outside the city of Santa Cruz, Cuba, which he named Hershey and which, when finished, included American-style bungalows, luxurious houses for staff, schools, a hospital, a baseball diamond, and a number of movie theaters. At the height of the banana boom of the 1920s, one could tour Guatemala, Costa Rica, Panama, Honduras, Cuba, and Colombia and not for a moment leave United Fruit Company property, traveling on its trains and ships, passing through its ports, staying in its many towns, with their tree-lined streets and modern amenities, in a company hotel or guest house, playing golf on its links, taking in a Hollywood movie in one of its theaters, and being tended to in its hospital if sick.

All your life you've done the right thing. All your life you've been the golden boy. But this past year, you've done some things you don't feel good about. Things you probably never thought you'd do." Laurel watched her husband, trying to judge the effect of these words. "Your reasons are your own business," Kyle went on, "but right now, you're overcome with guilt. You think you're about to be exposed. Ruined. You're going to lose the respect of all those patients who think you're Albert Schweitzer. So what do you do? Try to pull the whole house down around you before that happens. You want to show the world that nobody's more disgusted with Warren Shields than Dr. Shields himself." Auster laughed ruefully. "Partner, I know about self-disgust. And I know about confession. I can tell you from experience, it doesn't help the soul one bit. You'll feel better for about five seconds. Then you'll pay for the rest of your life. And if you keep doing what you're doing now, all those bad things you're dreading will come true. Patients won't ever look at you the same way again. You may even lose your right to practice medicine. Is that what you want?

Much of official Washington had seemed to come to a standstill. With the Senate, the House of Representatives, and the White House in open conflict now, such petty considerations as budgets had to wait.

Pelosi would create a special House committee to investigate the insurrection. A few weeks later, the House considered a bill to award a Congressional Gold Medal to every officer who defended the Capitol on January 6th. It was a simple, apolitical gesture of recognition. The Congressional Gold Medal bill did not call for any kind of investigation or cast aspersions on anyone. It merely honored the officers who risked their lives to stop a violent insurrection. Even so, twenty-one Republicans voted against it. For the historical record, here are the names of those twenty-one spineless fucks: Andrew Clyde, Paul Gosar, Jody Hice, Lauren Boebert, Barry Moore, Ralph Norman, Matthew Rosendale, Chip Roy, Warren Davidson, Scott Perry, Mary Miller, Andy Biggs, Thomas Massie, Andy Harris, Matt Gaetz, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Louie Gohmert, Michael Cloud, Greg Steube, Bob Good, and John Rose.

The world in all its particularity churns on, and we live in modest houses often slightly off their foundations, cleaning out our past to reduce what weighs down our present—but not by too much, for otherwise we would lose some of the relations, the sustaining memory.

Meanwhile, Comique’s productions had moved from Long Beach to a studio in Edendale, next door to Keystone. Arbuckle was in need of a home nearer his workplace, and Joe Schenck encouraged him to live in a house worthy of a millionaire celebrity. He moved in to the West Adams house, also renting from the Miners.

And profit was generated by what was essentially an elaborate pyramid scheme: at the apex were foreign commercial and financial houses; in the middle stood Brazilian merchants, traders, and a few exporters; and the whole thing rested on the backs of indebted tappers, who, as one critic put it, received goods on credit charged at fifty but in reality worth ten, in exchange for latex that the local merchant assessed at ten but that was actually worth fifty.

Nevertheless, it also means that someone would be passing on. One day later, we were married at the small red brick church, which she went to as a young girl. It was the day at last; it was here; there she was walking down the aisle. With the flower pedals, everywhere. I remember seeing the angel oak trees with their leaves blowing in the breeze; it was the perfect heartwarming day. As I walked into the church. At that time, there were daisy and lily flowers all over the place on the floor, with the colors of white and pink in her bouquet, and some were even in her lovely hair, around the white lace veil, and of course next to the glittery silver princess tiara, which she wore. However, there was no one to give her away, but right before the ceremony, this older gentleman walked up to Kristen, he could barely stand or speak, yet he got up on his own two feet, he was very weak, he said that he was living with lung cancer. Yet he said- ‘I’ll do it for the little lady.’ That gentleman’s name was Greg; he said that he knew Nevaeh, and he knew Kristen’s mom, from way back when, so we both said okay, we all thought that was sweet of him to do. We said our vows, ‘I take you, to be my soul mate, to love what I know of you, and trusting what I do not yet know.’ ‘To love and hold and to grow old, as one soul. To get to be with you all the days of my life. While falling even more in love with you every day, as we pray. To keep you in my life.’ ‘I promise to love, and cherish you through whatever life may bring our way, as we become- us!’ We both quoted a remarkable saying by an astonishing person. ‘Love it is like the cupid's arrow, that hits at the most unlikely times. We chose to be as one forever and ever to never- ever forget that bond… now and forever!’ (We all said –Amen! in the house of the Lord.) You may kiss the bride! Brandon- and I did! Kristen- The kiss was magnificent and sweet. Then we walked out of the church together off into the sunset. Nevaeh- I am glad that I got to be there to see them be married!

Evan was born on June 4, 1990, to a pair of highly successful lawyers. His mother, Melissa Thomas, graduated from Harvard Law School and practiced tax law as a partner at a prominent Los Angeles firm before resigning to become a stay-at-home mother when Evan was young. His father, John Spiegel, graduated from Stanford and Yale Law School and became a partner at Munger, Tolles & Olson, an elite firm started by Berkshire Hathaway’s Charlie Munger. His clients included Warner Bros. and Sergey Brin. Evan and his two younger sisters, Lauren and Caroline, grew up in Pacific Palisades, an upper-class neighborhood bordering Santa Monica in western Los Angeles. John had the kids volunteer and help build homes in poor areas of Mexico. When Evan was in high school, Melissa and John divorced after nearly twenty years of marriage. Evan chose to live with his father in a four-million-dollar house in Pacific Palisades, just blocks from his childhood home where his mother still lives. John let young Evan decorate the new home with the help of Greg Grande, the set designer from Friends. Evan decked out his room with a custom white leather king-size bed, Venetian plaster, floating bookshelves, two designer desk chairs, custom closets, and, of course, a brand new computer.

Where are you going?” Quentin asks. “To do my job. You need to start thinking about whether you’ve got what it takes to do yours.” “Hey, don’t—” I slam the door and hurry down the hall. The Brightside Manor Apartments stand like a visual reprimand to every liberal fantasy of government-subsidized housing. The dilapidated buildings look like sets built for a Blaxploitation flick from the seventies, like you could walk up and push them down with your foot. Thirteen big saltboxes grouped on the edge of St. Catherine’s Creek, all centered around a massive square of asphalt crowded with one of the strangest collections of motor transportation in the nation.

He only earns his freedom who daily conquers anew. —Goethe, Faust

The numbers shocked even him. They didn't need to collapse; they merely needed to stop rising so fast. House prices were still rising, and yet default rates were approaching 4 percent; if they rose to just 7 percent, the lowest investment-grade bonds, rated triple-B-minus, went to zero. If they rose to 8 percent, the next lowest-rated bonds, rated triple-B, went to zero. At that moment--in November 2005--Greg Lippmann realized that he didn't mind owning a pile of credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds. They weren't insurance; they were a gamble; and he liked the odds. He wanted to be short.

The numbers shocked even him. They didn't need to collapse; they merely needed to stop rising so fast. House prices were still rising, and yet default rates were approaching 4 percent; if they rose to just 7 percent, the lowest investment-grade bonds, rated triple-B-minus, went to zero. If they rose to 8 percent, the next lowest-rated bonds, rated triple-B, went to zero. At that moment--in November 2005--Greg Lippmann realized that he didn't mind owning a pile of credit default swaps on subprime mortgage bonds. They weren't insurance; they were a gamble; and he liked the odds. He wanted to be short.

Houses near the tracks seem to fly by, while mountains in the distance keep pace with the train over long distances. In etak, the canoe is the train and the stars the mountains. The stars are fixed in the sky. The islands, like the houses, are in motion.

To succeed, this movement will have to change our ideals in fundamental ways. It will have to kill off the traditional American dream, the idea of constant striving for a better future, symbolized by the middle-class goal of a rising income and the purchase of a little house with a yard - not to mention the freedom to move where you please, run your life, and govern your town with your neighbors when you get there. Greg Galluzzo, Obama's mentor and the man who created the grassroots crusade that inspired Building One America, dismisses the American dream as a sham. What really makes Americans move to the suburbs, says Galluzzo, is 'racism and greed.

Some grappled with the mind-bending question of why rates _can't_ go below zero. What if the Fed tried to set a negative interest rate--that is, effectively levying a tax on savings? Said Greg Mankiw, a Harvard economist and former White House adviser, at the Boston conference, "What a depositor is going to do is say, 'Well, if they're going to charge me money to keep my money at the bank, I'm just going to keep my money at home,' and the only thing you'll generate is a demand for safe assets--and by that I mean assets that are safes because they're going to be buying a bunch of safes so that people can put their money in their safes rather than in the bank." He added that one way around that problem suggested by a student, would be to declare currency with certain serial numbers invalid. "I won't say who he was," Mankiw said. "Because he may want to be a central banker one day.

It proved a wet, ungenial summer,” the future Mary Shelley wrote, “and incessant rain often confined us for days to the house.” To entertain themselves, they wrote ghost stories. Mary Shelley’s would become Frankenstein.

They were “galvanized iron bake ovens,” said Carl LaRue, commenting on Fordlandia’s foibles years later. “It is incredible that anyone should build a house like that in the tropics.” Another visitor described them as “midget hells, where one lies awake and sweats the first half of the night, and frequently between midnight and dawn undergoes a fierce siege of heat-provoking nightmares.” They seemed to be “designed by Detroit architects who probably couldn’t envision a land without snow.”19 Ford managers, said the priest, “never really

Just before six, Bee pulled three wineglasses out of the cabinet and uncorked the bottle of white that Greg had selected for us. "Light the candles, dear, will you please?" I reached for the matches and thought about the dinners at Bee's house during my childhood. Bee never served a meal without candles. "A proper supper requires candlelight," she'd told my sister and me years ago. I though it was elegant and exciting, and when I asked my mom if we could start the same tradition at home, she said no. "Candles are for birthday parties," she said, "and those only come once a year.