Gucci Quotes

I would rather carry around a plastic bag with five thousand Euro inside, than carry around a Louis Vuitton/Gucci/Prada bag with only one hundred Euro inside!

If a man does not have sauce, then he is lost. But the same man can get lost in the sauce.

I hate Gucci,' said Francis. 'Do you?' said Henry, glancing up from his reverie. 'Really? I think it's rather grand.' 'Come on, Henry.' 'Well, it's so expensive, but it's so ugly too, isn't it? I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity.' 'I don't see what you think is grand about that.' 'Anything is grand if it's done on a large enough scale,' said Henry.

I wouldn't miss this fake-homo show for all the Gucci Shoes on Rodeo Drive.

I change clothes at least three times a day. It's the only way I can justify all the shopping I do. Prada to the grocery store? Yes! Gucci to the dry cleaner's? Why not? Dolce & Gabbana to the corner deli? I insist!

Ambition makes you look pretty ugly Kicking, squealing, gucci little piggy

[Quoting Miss Harty:] "People come here from all over the country and fall in love with Savannah. Then they move here and pretty soon they’re telling us how much more lively and prosperous Savannah could be if we only knew what we had and how to take advantage of it. I call these people ‘Gucci carpetbaggers.

If you keep lookin' back, you gon' trip going forward.

Free Gucci Mane.

I remembered that as low as my lows had gotten, I always had faith in myself. That I always knew if I could get past those temporary moments, eventually I’d be up again. Jail couldn’t beat me. Lean couldn’t beat me. No situation could beat me. I was the only one who could beat me.

Not to be impolite, but you guys bore me to death. Cole, go tell Vaughn to come here.” Busy scanning the room for Luna, Knight’s neck is still cranned as he answers her. “Damn.” He pats the pockets of his jeans, then checks the pockets of his golden Gucci jacket. “I can’t find it.” “Can’t find what?” Esme blinks. “The memo where I started taking orders from your sorry ass.

With him big Phil from Notting Hill an old "face" from the sixties a pin up gangster with a "mars bar" weal scraping his left cheek and of course two "wag" slags in tow trussed up like French Poodles with "Bratz babe" stares and Gucci Handbags

You’re just lucky you got your bag back,” said Cruz gravely. Megan snorted,“ Cruz is more impressed with Gucci than he is with a supernatural being! ” “Honey,” Cruz snapped, “Gucci is supernatural!

Looks like the devil really does wear Gucci.” He snorts. “I already told you I’m a vampire, not a devil—though I suppose you could be forgiven for confusing the two, since you know my wayward little brother. Also, to be clear, this is Armani.

As far back as I can remember, I really just wanted to get me some money.

A slave ship of the skies.

girl, before you say "what are those" to me, make sure you can afford the shoes i'm wearing. i'm gucci, you're walmart. i'm prada, you're nada.

Any plan that takes us to Gucci is a good plan to me.

I don’t know why you’re wearing Gucci to go to war,

Does it really matter if I choose the bus over a BMW, and generic over Gucci? Because the car, the wardrobe, the zip code-those are just nouns, things that are fun to have around, sure, but in the end, they have nothing to do with the real me. Nothing to do with who I really am.

What’s the best practical joke you’ve ever played on another camper? Connor: The golden mango! Travis: Oh, dude, that was awesome. Connor: So anyway, we took this mango and spray painted it gold, right? We wrote: “For the hottest” on it and left it in the Aphrodite cabin while they were at archery class. When they came back, they started fighting over it, trying to figure out which of them was the hottest. It was so funny. Travis: Gucci shoes were flying out the windows. The Aphrodite kids were ripping each other’s clothes and throwing lipstick and jewelry. It was like a rabid herd of wild Bratz. Connor: Then they figured out what we’d done, and they tracked us down. Travis: That was not cool. I didn’t know they made permanent makeup. I looked like a clown for a month. Connor: Yeah. They put a curse on me so that no matter what I wore, my clothes were two sizes too small and I felt like a geek. Travis: You are a geek.

There are some things in life you can never completely walk away from, as badly as you might want to.

Life’s going to stomp you no matter what. Wouldn’t you rather get stomped here, in a mansion, surrounded by champagne and hors d’oeuvres? If they’re going to own you one way or the other, why not enjoy it? Lean in, Shay. Look at me, in this Gucci dress. These bruises? They’re Gucci bruises. It’s the VIP option, trust me. All the other options are this, but worse.

Elegance is like manners,” he used to say. “You can’t be polite only on Wednesday or Thursday. If you are elegant, you should be every day of the week. If you are not, then it’s another matter.

Here I am in Barneys (RIP), as the impatient, high-powered career woman on her lunch break; that’s me, too, at Saks, the indecisive middle manager who only recently started buying luxury; at Gucci, the flighty trophy wife; at Louis Vuitton, the spoiled heiress; and here at Nordstrom, my favorite of them all, I am the down-to-earth stay-at-home mom, which is to say, more or less myself.

The way Sunny dressed was also meant to telegraph affluence, though not necessarily taste. He wore white designer shirts with puffy sleeves, acid-washed jeans, and blue Gucci loafers. His shirts’ top three buttons were always undone, causing his chest hair to spill out and revealing a thin gold chain around his neck. A pungent scent of cologne emanated from him at all times. Combined with the flashy cars,

But apart from that single expensive item, she stayed away from the high-dollar racks. Luxury was all well and good for a Fae prince, but what would she do with a pair of six-hundred-dollar Gucci boots? She'd be afraid to walk in them. Probably trip and break an ankle or something, and wasn't there some old fairy tale about stolen shoes that punished the thief? She knew better than most people that fairy tales had a twisted way of coming true. She slipped into jeans and laced up tennis shoes. A sturdy pair of hiking boots went into the satchel. She was done before he was. Figured. And when he returned, he was wearing dark, tattooed Armani jeans, with a sheer white silk tee and six-hundred dollar Gucci boots. Which also figured.

Menulis memerlukan ruh. Tanpa ruh, tulisan akan jadi kosong. Dan tulisan yang kosong takkan dapat menyentuh jiwa.

How am I supposed to believe you when you're obviously carrying a fake monogram Gucci Bag?

Above all, remember that the most important thing you can take anywhere is not a Gucci bag or French-cut jeans; it’s an open mind.—GAIL RUBIN BERENY

I hate Gucci. It's so expensive, but it's so ugly too, isn't it? I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity.

Bally, Gucci, eat your heart out. This is great stuff.

This man, who looked like Gucci made suits just because he existed, groaned because of me. This

The loafer also found its way onto the feet of lawmakers and lobbyists in Washington, D.C., earning the halls of Congress the nickname “Gucci Gulch.

all the big designer brands that go to extreme lengths to hide the fact they manufacture in China: your Pradas and Guccis and Louis Vuittons.

I should probably back out now before this blows up in my face. Then again, I look good with char marks on me. Yup, I’m so lighting this fuse. - Gucci, from "The Tiebreaker

You don’t know what to do. Because she’s not some blonde puck bunny named Kelsey who wants to marry him and have his 2.5 babies that she’ll dress in Gucci onesies.

My father used to say that if you keep looking back you’re going to trip going forward. That in life, sometimes you reach a fork in the road and you have to make a decision. Which direction will it be? Left or right? To be firm in that decision you can’t keep looking back. You have to make peace with the past. It doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time for wounds to heal.

When we were little, Mamá was our queen, looking like a million bucks in Gucci heels while scrubbing grilled cheese off the floor. Never mind that the Gucci was thrift store and the grilled cheese bought with food stamps.

I’m not here for a man,” Trisha mumbled, her mood turning sour. “Heard that too and you’re wrong.” Cindy huffed behind her. “I bet my new Gucci purse you’ll be riding a cowboy and saving a horse before this trip is over.

Paranoid Android Please could you stop the noise, I’m trying to get some rest From all the unborn chicken voices in my head What’s that…? (I may be paranoid, but not an android) What’s that…? (I may be paranoid, but not an android) When I am king, you will be first against the wall With your opinion which is of no consequence at all What’s that…? (I may be paranoid, but no android) What’s that…? (I may be paranoid, but no android) Ambition makes you look pretty ugly Kicking and squealing gucci little piggy You don’t remember You don’t remember Why don’t you remember my name? Off with his head, man Off with his head, man Why don’t you remember my name? I guess he does…. Rain down, rain down Come on rain down on me From a great height From a great height… height… Rain down, rain down Come on rain down on me From a great height From a great height… height… Rain down, rain down Come on rain down on me That’s it, sir You’re leaving The crackle of pigskin The dust and the screaming The yuppies networking The panic, the vomit The panic, the vomit God loves his children, God loves his children, yeah!

I learned a lot watching James Franco do his thing. The whole way he approached his character was superimpressive. He was all in, fully immersed as Alien. He played the hell out of that role. He knew his craft like I knew the rap game.

Se necesitan políticas para un crecimiento sostenible, equitativo y democrático. Esta es la razón del desarrollo. El desarrollo no consiste en ayudar a unos pocos individuos a enriquecerse o en crear un puñado de absurdas industrias protegidas que solo benefician a la elite del país; no consiste en traer a Prada y Benetton, Ralph Lauren o Louis Vuitton para los ricos de las ciudades, abandonando a los pobres del campo de su miseria. El que se pudieran comprar bolsos de Gucci en los grandes almacenes de Moscú no significo que el país se había vuelto una economía de mercado. El desarrollo consiste en transformar las sociedades, mejorar las vidas de los pobres, permitir que todos tengan la oportunidad de salir adelante y acceder a la salud y a la educación. Este tipo de desarrollo no tendrá lugar si sólo unos pocos dictan las políticas que deberá seguir un país. Conseguir que se tomen decisiones democráticas quiere decir garantizar que un abanico de economistas, funcionarios y expertos de los países en desarrollo estén activamente involucrados en el debate. También implica una amplia participación que va bastante más allá de los expertos y los políticos. Los países en desarrollo deben tomar las riendas de su propio porvenir. Pero nosotros en occidente no podemos eludir nuestras responsabilidades

Forever, Tom thought. Maybe he’d never go back to the States. It was not so much Europe itself as the evenings he had spent alone, here and in Rome, that made him feel that way. Evenings by himself simply looking at maps, or lying around on sofas thumbing through guidebooks. Evenings looking at his clothes - his clothes and Dickie’s - and feeling Dickie’s rings between his palms, and running his fingers over the antelope suitcase he had bought at Gucci’s. He had polished the suitcase with a special English leather dressing, not that it needed polishing because he took such good care of it, but for its protection. He loved possessions, not masses of them, but a select few that he did not part with. They gave a man self-respect. Not ostentation but quality, and the love that cherished the quality. Possessions reminded him that he existed, and made him enjoy his existence. It was as simple as that. And wasn’t that worth something? He existed. Not many people in the world knew how to, even if they had the money. It really didn’t take money, masses of money, it took a certain security. He had been on the road to it, even with Marc Priminger. He had appreciated Marc’s possessions, and they were what had attracted him to the house, but they were not his own, and it had been impossible to make a beginning at acquiring anything of his own on forty dollars a week. It would have taken him the best years of his life, even if he had economised stringently, to buy the things he wanted. Dickie’s money had given him only an added momentum on the road he had been travelling. The money gave him the leisure to see Greece, to collect Etruscan pottery if he wanted (he had recently read an interesting book on that subject by an American living in Rome), to join art societies if he cared to and to donate to their work. It gave him the leisure, for instance, to read his Malraux tonight as late as he pleased, because he did not have to go to a job in the morning. He had just bought a two-volume edition of Malraux’s Psychologic de I’art which he was now reading, with great pleasure, in French with the aid of a dictionary.

I hate Gucci,” said Francis. “Do you?” said Henry, glancing up from his reverie. “Really? I think it’s rather grand.” “Come on, Henry.” “Well, it’s so expensive, but it’s so ugly too, isn’t it? I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity.

I want to live simple. I want orange and red leaves and high school football and small town life. I want to erase the days lived in the hollow and free my mind and body from the trickery of a fast life. I am throwing out the Gucci shoes and Prada bags and the heavy burden and the in crowd.

What you have to understand about the Guccis,” Jenny told a journalist in 1994, “is that they are all completely mad, incredibly manipulative, and not very clever. They have to be in control, but as soon as they get what they want, they crush it! They are destroyers, it’s as simple as that!

Whenever the sadness got too much, I would hire a rickshaw and go to the Upper Bazaar. Those little rickshaw trips to the market and back, shopping for lipsticks and imitation Gucci bags and wind-chimes and what not, are some of my happiest memories today. You know, one day, during one of those trips, I sold all my well-thumbed copies of ‘Inside Outside’ to the Tibetan guy who ran the old book store on Netaji Road for seventy rupees, six Tintins and a disarming smile. And all of a sudden, that moment, standing at the corner of Netaji road, I found out who I was.’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

The row of shoes on the floor of his closet caught Tom’s eye. All shined to perfection! All lined up like soldiers! He had never seen such a gleam on the Gucci loafers, such a deep glow in the cordovans. Even his patent leather evening slippers, with their silly grosgrain bows, had new highlights.

Studs Terkel was waiting for a number 146 bus alongside two well-groomed business types. "This was before the term yuppie was used," he explains. "But that was what they were. He was in Brooks Brothers and Gucci shoes and carrying the Wall Street Journal under his arm. She was a looker. I mean stunning - Bloomingdales and Neiman Marcus and carrying Vanity Fair." Terkel, who is 95, has long been a Chicago icon, every bit as accessible and integral to the cultural life of the Windy City as Susan Sontag was to New York. He had shared the bus stop with this couple for several mornings but they had always failed to acknowledge him. "It hurts my ego," he quips. "But this morning the bus was late and I thought, this is my chance." The rest of the story is his. "I say, 'Labour Day is coming up.' Well, it was the wrong thing to say. He looks toward me with a look of such contempt it's like Noel Coward has just spotted a bug on his collar. He says, 'We despise unions.' I thought, oooooh. The bus is still late. I've got a winner here. Suddenly I'm the ancient mariner and I fix him with my glittering eye. 'How many hours a day do you work?' I ask. He says, 'Eight.' 'How comes you don't work 18 hours a day like your great-great-grandfather did? You know why? Because four guys got hanged in Chicago in 1886 fighting for the eight-hour day ... For you.

Close your eyes. Be with me. Imagine that I am stepping off of the front stoop of my old apartment building. That I am strolling along the Upper West Side, like always. Just like any other morning. It is a splendid, sunlit day, and I am wearing my brand-new Gucci pumps. Walking across 110th Street, I take the rustic, parkside staircase into the tiled recesses of the Cathedral Parkway station. It may have originally opened in 1904, but for my money it doesn’t look a day over 60. I wonder, sometimes, what it must have been like to be alive back then, when all of this was different. Before the city had made, erased, and remade itself fifty times over. In my fantasy world, everything must have been slower—easier, even. I like to think that if we could somehow slow down the passage of time, if we could eke just a little bit more out of each minute, then we could get more depth out of life. That things might taste a bit richer, more diffuse. That we could experience the fullness of sound. That we could feel things more deeply—and longer.

My decision to pursue music was heavily influenced by my arrest at the Texaco.

If you keep lookin’ back, you gon’ trip going forward.

Quality is remembered long after price is forgotten,” which he

Pada Maryam binti Imran, kita belajar bahawa pada pengharapan dan doa, harus ada mujahadah dan usaha! =']

There’s a certain level of violence in any correctional facility but here it was intrinsic. It lived in the concrete walls. In the steel doors. It was always hanging in the air.

She confessed once in a television interview that she would rather “weep in a Rolls-Royce than be happy on a bicycle.

And as it always did, my stress manifested itself as intense dread and paranoia.

A tall woman with ass-length, honey-blonde hair had entered the lobby and was barking orders at an entourage of men who toted her Gucci leather luggage. Her dog, a white Westie, was barking, adding to the commotion. “Justin!” the woman chastised the man who held the door open for her. “Icky snow on my feet. My Manolo Blahniks. Oh my God! These shoes are a work of art! Do somethinggg!

Since the time of Cain and Abel, family disputes have been marked by the irrational and impulsive decision of those involved, the fierce battles which ensue, and the senseless destruction they cause,

Constantly worrying about money the way that I did messed me up. I would tell myself when I got grown I’d never live with those feelings. Twenty-five years and millions of dollars later I still remember that anxiety.

I hate Gucci," said Francis. "Do you?" said Henry, glancing up from his reverie. "Really? I think it's rather grand." "Come on, Henry." "Well, it's so expensive, but it's so ugly too, isn't it? I think they make it ugly on purpose. And yet people buy it out of sheer perversity." "I don't see what you think is grand about that." "Anything is grand if it's done on a large enough scale," said Henry." this is by god not donna tartt

I followed the changes I’d made to my body by working to strengthen my mind. I was devouring books. A lot of self-help, inspirational stuff. Tony Robbins. Deepak Chopra. Malcolm Gladwell. James Allen. The biographies of Pimp C. and Jimi Hendrix. Mike Tyson’s autobiography.

If you keep lookin’ back you gon’ trip going forward. I’ve taken heed of that. To start a new chapter you’ve got to turn the page on the last one. Still, every now and then I do think it’s okay to stop and look back, just for a moment, before continuing on your way. Especially when it’s a hell of a story.

As we walk away, I hear Whitney comment to the table, “Those boots are slutty.” I know she’s the Queen. I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m not letting her get away with slamming me. She knows I heard. She thinks I don’t have the balls to turn around and call her on it. But guess what? I do. But I’m not going to turn it into a fight. I’m going to pretend it wasn’t a slam. I’m going to kill her with kindness. I turn around, smile big, and point down at my boots. “Oh, Whitney, honey, we really need to work on your designers. These boots aren’t Slutty, they’re Gucci.” Her face turns a bright shade of pink and even Peyton snickers.

During the 1970s, one event dramatically changed Gucci’s ownership structure: Vasco died of lung cancer on May 31, 1974, at the age of sixty-seven. Under Italian inheritance law, his one-third stake in the company passed to his widow, Maria. They had no children. Aldo and Rodolfo proposed to pay her for the shares in order to keep the ownership of the company in the family, and to their relief, she agreed. Aldo and Rodolfo became the sole controlling shareholders of the Gucci empire, with 50 percent each—a shareholding ratio that would profoundly condition Gucci’s future. Rodolfo, still stubbornly pursuing his confrontation with Maurizio, refused to consider sharing company ownership with him, but Aldo felt it was time to bring his boys into the Gucci mother company.

I was debating what I might have in my deep glassy lake to use—Barrons had slurped down my crimson runes like truffles—when Ryodan called down, “Let her up.” I tipped my head back. The urbane owner of the largest den of sex, drugs, and exotic thrills in the city stood behind the chrome balustrade, big hands closed on the chrome railing, thick wrists cuffed by silver, features darkened by a convenient shadow. He looked like a scarred Gucci model. Whatever kind of life these men had lived before they’d become whatever they were, it had been violent and hard. Like them. “Why?” Lor demanded. “I said so.” “Not time for the meeting yet.” “She wants to see her parents. She’s going to insist.” “So?” “She thinks she has something to prove. She’s feeling pushy.” “Gee, this is nice. I don’t even have to talk,” I purred.

Forbes cost of living extremely well index (CLEWI) An amazing thing I came across while researching the question of just what it is that very very rich people do with their money. As Forbes says, the CLEWI is to the very rich what the CPI is to “ordinary people.” There are forty items on it, and they are hilarious, though perhaps you shouldn’t show them to your left-wing aunt if she’s suffering from high blood pressure: Russian sable fur coats from Bloomingdale’s, shirts from Turnbull and Asser, Gucci loafers, handmade John Lobb shoes, a year at Groton boarding school, a yacht, a horse, a pool, a Learjet, a Roller, a case of Dom Perignon, forty-five minutes at a psychiatrist’s on the Upper East Side (!), an hour’s estate planning with a lawyer, and, amusingly/annoyingly, a year at Harvard.36 In 2012, the CLEWI went up 2.6 percent but the CPI went up only 1.4 percent.

For myself, I wouldn't have lifted a finger to own a Rolex, a pair of Nikes or a BMW Z3; in fact, I had never succeeded in identifying the slightest difference between designer goods and non-designer goods. In the eyes of the world, I was clearly wrong. I was aware of this: I was in a minority, and consequently in the wrong. There had to be a difference between Yves Saint-Laurent shirts and other shirts, between Gucci moccasins and Andre moccasins. I was alone in not perceiving this difference; it was an infirmity which I could not cite as grounds for condemning the world. Does one ask a blind man to set himself up as an expert on post-impressionist painting? Through my blindness, however involuntary, I set myself apart from a living human reality powerful enough to incite both devotion and crime. These youths, through their half-savage instincts, undoubtedly discerned the presence of beauty; their desire was laudable, and perfectly in keeping with social norms; it was merely a question of rectifying the inappropriate way in which it was expressed.

How I Got That Name Marilyn Chin an essay on assimilation I am Marilyn Mei Ling Chin Oh, how I love the resoluteness of that first person singular followed by that stalwart indicative of “be," without the uncertain i-n-g of “becoming.” Of course, the name had been changed somewhere between Angel Island and the sea, when my father the paperson in the late 1950s obsessed with a bombshell blond transliterated “Mei Ling” to “Marilyn.” And nobody dared question his initial impulse—for we all know lust drove men to greatness, not goodness, not decency. And there I was, a wayward pink baby, named after some tragic white woman swollen with gin and Nembutal. My mother couldn’t pronounce the “r.” She dubbed me “Numba one female offshoot” for brevity: henceforth, she will live and die in sublime ignorance, flanked by loving children and the “kitchen deity.” While my father dithers, a tomcat in Hong Kong trash— a gambler, a petty thug, who bought a chain of chopsuey joints in Piss River, Oregon, with bootlegged Gucci cash. Nobody dared question his integrity given his nice, devout daughters and his bright, industrious sons as if filial piety were the standard by which all earthly men are measured. * Oh, how trustworthy our daughters, how thrifty our sons! How we’ve managed to fool the experts in education, statistic and demography— We’re not very creative but not adverse to rote-learning. Indeed, they can use us. But the “Model Minority” is a tease. We know you are watching now, so we refuse to give you any! Oh, bamboo shoots, bamboo shoots! The further west we go, we’ll hit east; the deeper down we dig, we’ll find China. History has turned its stomach on a black polluted beach— where life doesn’t hinge on that red, red wheelbarrow, but whether or not our new lover in the final episode of “Santa Barbara” will lean over a scented candle and call us a “bitch.” Oh God, where have we gone wrong? We have no inner resources! * Then, one redolent spring morning the Great Patriarch Chin peered down from his kiosk in heaven and saw that his descendants were ugly. One had a squarish head and a nose without a bridge Another’s profile—long and knobbed as a gourd. A third, the sad, brutish one may never, never marry. And I, his least favorite— “not quite boiled, not quite cooked," a plump pomfret simmering in my juices— too listless to fight for my people’s destiny. “To kill without resistance is not slaughter” says the proverb. So, I wait for imminent death. The fact that this death is also metaphorical is testament to my lethargy. * So here lies Marilyn Mei Ling Chin, married once, twice to so-and-so, a Lee and a Wong, granddaughter of Jack “the patriarch” and the brooding Suilin Fong, daughter of the virtuous Yuet Kuen Wong and G.G. Chin the infamous, sister of a dozen, cousin of a million, survived by everbody and forgotten by all. She was neither black nor white, neither cherished nor vanquished, just another squatter in her own bamboo grove minding her poetry— when one day heaven was unmerciful, and a chasm opened where she stood. Like the jowls of a mighty white whale, or the jaws of a metaphysical Godzilla, it swallowed her whole. She did not flinch nor writhe, nor fret about the afterlife, but stayed! Solid as wood, happily a little gnawed, tattered, mesmerized by all that was lavished upon her and all that was taken away!

Monty küçük tuvaletin kapısını kilitleyip, klozetin kapalı kapağının üstüne oturdu. Biri tuvalet kağıdı rulosunun takılı olduğu plastiğin üzerine, cehenneme kadar yolunuz var, yazmıştı. Kesinlikle diye düşündü o da. Ama senin de cehenneme kadar yolun var. Herkesin. Kapıdaki Fransız kadının, şarap içerek yemek yiyenlerin, siparişleri alan garsonların, hepinizin canı cehenneme. Bu kentin ve içindeki herkesin canı cehenneme. Sokak köşelerinde sırıtarak dilenen serserilerin, türbanlı Sihlerin, sarı taksileriyle birbiriyle yarışan yıkanmak bilmez Pakistanlıların da. Göğüs kıllarını alıp, memelerini büyüten Chelsea'li ibnelerin de. Hepsinin canı cehenneme. Aşırı pahalı meyvelerinden piramitler yapan Koreli manavların, onların plastik ambalajlara sarılı lale ve güllerinin de. Beşinci Cadde'de sahte Gucci satan beyaz cübbeli Nijeryalıların da. Brighton Sahili'nde küp şekerleri dişlerinin arasında tutarak çaylarını cam bardaklardan içen Rusların da. Hepsinin canları cehenneme. 47. Cadde'de elmas satan şapkalı, kirli gabardin takımlı, Mesih'in gelmesini beklerken sürekli para sayıp duran Yahudilerin de. Sokaklarda sürtenlerin, yaşlıların ve de spastiklerin de. Kendini beğenmiş, metrolarda sürekli gazete okuyan, kolonya sürünmüş Wall Street borsacılarının da. Hepsinin canı cehenneme. Washington Square Park'ta, bellerinden cüzdan zincirleri sarkan patenli punkçıların, her yere bayrak asan, otomobillerinin açık camlardan dinledikleri müziği bangır bangır herkese dinleten Porto Rikoluların da. Naylon eşofmanları ve St. Anthony madalyonlarıyla gezip, saçlarına durmadan briyantin süren Bensonhurst İtalyanlarının da. Enginarı Balducci'den, eşarbı Hermes'ten alan, büzük dudaklı, asık suratlı ev kadınlarının da. Asla pas vermeyi bilmeyen, savunma yapmayan, her turnikeye girişte bir adım fazladan atan varoş çocuklarının da. Babaları Tokyo'ya iş gezisine giderken mutfakta oturup esrar çeken okullu uyuşturucu müptelalarının da. Mavi giysileri içinde kabadayılık taslayarak dolaşan, kalın enseli, Krispy Kreme'e giderken bile kırmızı ışığı takmayan polislerin de. Knicks'in, Indiana'ya karşı oyunu nedeniyle Patrick Ewing'in, Charles Smith ve onun Chicago maçındaki başarısız uzaktan atışlarının, John Starks'ın Houston maçındaki korkunç şutlarının da canı cehenneme. Jordan'ı hiç yenemedikleri için cehennemin dibine kadar yolları var. Sürekli söylenip duran bücür Jakob Elinsky'nin de canı cehenneme. Hep sevgililerimin kıçlarına bakıp duran Frank Slattery'nin de canı cehenneme. Ben gidince özgürlüğünü ilan edecek Naturelle Rosariao'nun da canı cehenneme. Güvendiğim ama beni gammazlayan Kostya Novotyny'in de. Karanlık odasında film banyo edip duran babamın da. Karlar altında çürüyen annemin de. Bu kadar çabuk kurtulan İsa'nın da canı cehenneme. Çarmıhta yalnızca birkaç saat, cehennemde bir hafta sonu sonra melek ordusuyla eğlence. Bu şehrin ve içindeki her şeyin canı cehenneme. Astoria'daki tek katlı evlerden Park Avenue'daki dublekslere, Brownsville'deki projelerden, Soho'daki mağazalara, Bellevue Hastanesi'nden Alphabet City'deki meskenlere, Park Slope'un kahverengi taşlarına kadar her şeyin canı cehenneme. Bırakın Araplar her tarafı bombalasınlar, bırakın sular yükselsin ve bu fare delikleri yok olsun, depremler yıksın tüm bu yüksek binaları, alevler sarsın her yanı. Yaksın, yıksın, bitirsin. Ve senin de canın cehenneme Montygomery Brogan. Her şeyi mahveden asıl sensin.

Şiddete meyyalim, vallahi dertten. Hakkımda yanılttılar milleti cidden. Soğukkanlıyımdır genellikle. Caddeleri kellerle donattığımda şıppadak sivilleşir, evcilleşirdi hattâ bıkkın hippi, tüccar molla, ayyaş gerilla. Çilli , Gucci'li fettanın illegal güzelliği, Tebessümündeki şebboy molekülleri; Yutturdu habbeyi, çökertti kubbemi, zannederim ağlattı tıbben annemi. Okkalı sillesini patlattı mukadderat Iddiayı kaybettim müreffeh kentte Misilleme hakkım yitti düello bitti... Mütevekkil gettomun ninnisi hüzzam Inşallah cennette yıllanırız vesselam...

a web of interstate highways connecting cities in every direction. A Spaghetti Junction. Long story short, Atlanta’s got a history of moving people and things. Drug trafficking is a natural part of that history.

back in the day, my father sold heroin and coke, but by the time he entered my life in Atlanta he was a full-fledged con artist. Every penny he made came by way of tricking somebody else out of theirs.

See, James Sr. had always fancied himself a dresser. He loved him some nice clothes and expensive leather shoes. He’d spent time in Italy during his years in the service, which is where he fell in love with the Gucci brand.

calling my father the “Gucci Man.

On Bouldercrest I’m sellin’ dope at Texaco And Mr. Kim keep sayin’ “Get ’way from sto!” No, I can’t get ’way from sto, I got so much blow, it gotta go —“I’m a Star” (2008)

GUCCI LIFE, ANKARA POCKET I discovered this thing about we youths of nowadays; “we actually want to live a “Gucci” life, but with an “Ankara” pocket”, that is; we want to live large but we are not financially qualified to do so; and that is where immorality comes in. Obviously, our insatiable desire for money and other worldly things will definitely leads to us getting involved in immoral acts such as; cyber crime, armed robbery, kidnapping, terrorism etc. Therefore, we have to look for ways to curb or eradicate this, and that is one of the purposes of this association. We need a lot of “Abraham Lincoln”, “Karl Marx”, “Mahatma Gandhi”, “Nelson Mandela”, “Lee Kwan Yew”, “Martin Luther King”, “Gani Fawehinmi”, etc, in our midst to actually make this work. Those who fight for the masses, people who are not self-centred......we have to think of better ways to make things work in this country, but first we have to kill the “Gucci life, Ankara pocket” mentality.

This was life; shit happens. You either dealt with it and went back to wearing Gucci, or you curled up in a ball and waited to die. Only the strong survived.

Brooklyn, like the West Village, again makes me think of gentrification's ability to erase collective memory. I cannot imagine what people who aren't from New York think when they move to Brooklyn. Do they know they're moving into neighborhoods where just ten years ago you wouldn't have seen a white person at any time of day? Do they know that every apartment listed on Craigslist as 'newly renovated' was once inhabited by someone else who likely made a life there before the ground under their feet became too valuable? It's hard not to feel guilt living here, and I wonder if other gentrifiers feel the same way. I represent the domino effect. I was priced out of Manhattan, but I know my existence in this borough comes at the cost of the erasure of others' cultures and senses of home. I know the woman with the Gucci bag in the West Village elicits the same kind of angst within me as my presence does for a native Brooklynite. I try to stay away from the hippest joints and I try to support long-established businesses, but I often fail at doing these things, and I know that even when I'm successful at trekking this increasingly narrow path, I've only done so much. Brooklyn, like the West Village, is irrevocably changed, and I know I'm part of that. The question is, how do I stop it when the process is so much larger than me and has already progressed so far? Mass displacement means that there are fewer and fewer people coming to Brooklyn now know only that it's hip and expensive and has good brunch. As Sarah Schulman writes, gentrifiers 'look in the mirror and think it's a window, believing that corporate support for and inflation of their story is in fact a neutral and accurate picture of the world.' It's a circular logic that dictates Brooklyn is Brooklyn because it's Brooklyn - the brand mimicked by hipsters all over the world and mocked in hundreds of tired late-night parodies. What gentrifier sees Brooklyn not as it is but as the consequence of a powerful and violent system?

I turned my attention to three dresses that were definitely not made for dining. They were going-out things, dancing looks. One was a swingy black dress made of a wet suit-like material, with a high neck and stiff A-line skirt. Alexander McQueen. Another was a red Gucci with little loops of textured fringe. It should have looked Elmo-like, but the sophisticated shape overrode the thought. I twisted the dress on the hanger, and the skirt rose and fell like the swelling of the ocean. The last dress was surprisingly heavy even though it was the shortest, narrowest, lowest-cut garment in that day's shipment. The tag said Hervé Léger and the dress was ribbed like a mummy, a very tight, shiny, green-and-gold mummy.

Your favorite Books About Brand Product as: Gucci, Michael kors, Diors...?

GUCCI. Label me down with these codes that are commercialed in uniform. Military stripes, commander in chief, veteran in the word play, call it a beast. In plain sight hidden from the mass, where's Waldo? This arsenal I call 'Mind' is highly explosive cargo, a word flow, it's one in a million like solo.

Now a young adult, he was ambitious, thorough and demanding when it came to the products he sold.

Another of Aldo’s successful moves was to reward his best customers with VIP cards that enabled them to visit the exclusive upper section where, without any pushing and shoving, they could pick and choose among new models still waiting to be launched.

Though he knew he was taking a big risk with Ford, he had no choice. He was certain that the company could not get out of its current quagmire without a truly radical change of direction.

I’m the type of person who thinks you have to catch the train when it comes your way. To do that you must be confident in yourself, to know that it can really become your train. If you can overcome the first difficulties, you’ll be able to prove yourself.

The company’s greatest achievement over the past decade has been to win over the young,

Nervously I tried to check my reflection in the opaque window of the front door. I had an idea that equerries to Her Royal Highness the Princess of Wales were several inches taller than me in their Gucci loafers and carried a reassuring air of Labradors and sports cars. They certainly did not lose their cuff links. Summoning up all my stiffening thoughts, I pressed the bell. I could not hear if it had rung, so after several minutes I pressed it again, just as the door opened to reveal the Prince of Wales’s butler. He was about my height and wore a dark blue jacket with the Prince of Wales’s monogram on the lapels. He looked politely unimpressed. “Oh yes,” he said. “Come in.” Later, I came to know Harold Brown well and grew to admire his professionalism. At home and abroad, he quietly bore the hundreds of little stresses that came with dealing with his royal employers at their less attractive moments. His gift as a mimic had me crying tears of laughter into my whiskey on many foreign tours. That afternoon, however, he was every inch the guardian of his master’s privacy and impassively allowed me to follow him to the Equerries’ Room where I was to await the royal summons. Like so much of the apartment, although undeniably comfortable and well appointed, the Equerries’ Room was dark. Clever effects had been achieved with concealed lighting, pastel colorings, and flowers, but the overriding impression was one of pervasive gloom. Two people were already there—the Princess’s lady-in-waiting, Anne Beckwith-Smith, and her current equerry, Richard Aylard. They were there to examine me as a possible recruit to their exclusive way of life. During the last few days they had been examining five others as well, of course, so they were understandably distant, if polite. I was polite too—this was surely part of the selection process—and determined, like the butler, to look unimpressed. But I did need to go to the loo. Badly. Groping in the semigloom of the cloakroom, I became the latest visitor to fumble for the trick light switch on a fiendish trompe l’oeil before finding the real switch on the wall behind me.

Nice outfit,” he said. I knew I looked hot when Jeremy complimented my clothes. He always looked impeccable even in jeans and T-shirt, which he only wore if he absolutely had to be undercover. I’d seen Jeremy do a three-minute mile in Gucci loafers once, chasing a suspect.

The guidebooks aren't wrong; Osaka is not a textbook beautiful city. Not a seamless stretch of civilization, but a patchwork of skyscrapers and smokestacks, Gucci and ghettos, that better approximates life as most of us know it. With all this in mind, it's not surprising that Osaka is a center of casual food culture. Its two most famous foods, okonomiyaki (a thick, savory pancake stuffed with all manners of flora and fauna) and takoyaki (a golf-ball-sized fritter with a single chewy nugget of octopus deposited at its molten core), are the kind of carb, fatty, belly-padding drinking food that can sustain a city with Osaka's voracious appetite for mischief.

I’m an unwavering supporter of labor unions and understand that they are currently in a death struggle with corporate overlords grinding workers’ rights under their tasseled Gucci loafers.

If a man does not have the sauce, then he is lost. But the same man can be lost in the sauce

And the shoes! Who knew Gucci made ostrich loafers with a four-inch heel and a silver toe cap with an etching of the Virgin Mary?

average citizen, skeptical and mistrustful of government, feels that paying taxes is tantamount to throwing money at corrupt politicians for little in return. The American saying—only two things in life are certain: death and taxes—

Guncle Rule number ten: Don’t trust any label you don’t know. Labels should have a good, recognizable name, like Tom Ford, whether it be his own label or his work for Gucci or Yves Saint Laurent.

Excuse me.” I blinked, indignant. “I’m powerless before nothing but Gucci.

I am just as worthy as the next man,” Onorato would think, “even if he is rich or from an important family.

Quality is remembered long after price is forgotten,

If you keep looking back you’re going to trip going forward.