I Dream Of Jeannie Quotes

Man, this angel crap… it’s so fucking hard to influence anything. I’ve never had a problem with free will before, but for shit’s sake, I wish I could just I Dream of Jeannie you to where you need to be.” As Tohr winced, the angel muttered, “It’s okay, though. We’ll get you there somehow—” “Actually, I’m cringing at the vision of you in a pink harem costume.” “Hey, I have a great ass, I’ll have you know.

Nathaniel suddenly felt as if he’d been plonked into an I Dream of Jeannie episode.

Oh, Jeannie, I am so glad you woke me. I was having the worst nightmare. I felt like I was suffocating. I dreamed the Devil was trying to choke me to death.

The cessation of art is something that can only be accomplished when art disappears into its own excess. And that occasion, according to Baudrillard, has already happened. In fact, "art" disappeared a while back (When? Sometimes in the 70's, probably, when information technologies were electrified and became the dominant way in which Western cultures mediated its self-expressions), and its sublimations into the everyday order of simulation was overlooked. Too busy watching reruns of I dream of Jeannie or betwitched I suppose. What is called "art" now is itself a continuous rerun, a rerun of the image of its own disappearance. But said another way, which I'm sure some would rather it be said (though it makes no difference) art is everywhere one and the same with the image of the everyday, if not actually, then potentially. Under these circumstances, because art and the reality that is supposed to set off aesthetic properties have lost their operational difference, unmusic is everywhere Music is not. However, according to the logic of simulation, Music is everywhere so unmusic is nowhere. Yet being everywhere is the same as being nowhere, therefore Music is nowhere, which makes unmusic everywhere. But this is hyperreality and hyperreality trucks no difference between the real and the unreal (artifice), the musical and the unmusical. Thus unmusic eschews Adorno's dialectical impasse to the extent that it is total nonsense, a byproduct of the hyperreal that supervenes a discourse of contradictions and paradoxes where everything is coming up signs.

It was then Gray wished she could snap her own fingers or nod her head like Barbara Eden in I Dream of Jeannie and teleport herself into the front seat of the Volkswagen Bug.

Barbara Eden Primarily known as the star of the classic 1960s sitcom I Dream of Jeannie, Barbara Eden remains one of television’s most distinguished and identifiable figures. Her feature film credits are also extensive, including Flaming Star in 1960, The Brass Bottle in 1964, and Harper Valley PTA in 1978. She has starred opposite many of Hollywood’s most famous leading men, Elvis Presley and Tony Randall among them. She was very real, but also a little bit magical, like an angel moving around the world helping people wherever she went. And we got to see her children, Prince William and Prince Harry, grow up to young manhood. I know they were very proud of their famous beautiful mom, as I’m sure she was of them. Surely, she was an inspiration to all of us, everywhere. And it may not be generally known, but Diana donated to charity many dresses she had worn on important occasions so they could be sold to raise funds for the needy. She had impeccable taste in her clothes, which often were copied and began global fashion trends of their own, helping the careers of many young British designers.

Barbara Eden Primarily known as the star of the classic 1960s sitcom I Dream of Jeannie, Barbara Eden remains one of television’s most distinguished and identifiable figures. Her feature film credits are also extensive, including Flaming Star in 1960, The Brass Bottle in 1964, and Harper Valley PTA in 1978. She has starred opposite many of Hollywood’s most famous leading men, Elvis Presley and Tony Randall among them. We cannot help but wonder what might have been, how much more she might have accomplished, if granted a different destiny.

The front door was open. Mrs. Seiden was standing there. And next to her, with his fingers digging into her upper arm, was the other man who’d chased him from the car. This guy was a few years older than Art Teacher and wore an ascot. An ascot, for crying out loud. He looked like Roger Healey from the old I Dream of Jeannie show. No

C’mon, they said it about radio and the telephone and TV.” Yeah, it sounds like that argument might be right—but it’s not. Not if you think about it for more than two seconds. I don’t remember lugging a TV under my covers so I could watch Huckleberry Hound until the screen asked me “Are you still watching?” I looked forward to seeing I Dream of Jeannie once a week, but it didn’t throw off my circadian rhythm. I liked McHale’s Navy, but I wasn’t addicted to it; I didn’t watch it when I drove. Radio to TV was a difference in degree; smartphones are a difference in kind—less like TV or radio and more like a pacemaker. Something you can’t live without.

God of the thin places, of dying hope, God of the waters of forgetfulness and waters of remembrance, we remember. Though we remember often only in echoes, fragments of dreams, a half memory turning over and over in our mind, still, we do remember. We will chase the ghost of you, God, even after we have lost all reason to believe in the substance. Oh please, chase our ghost too. In the beginning you moved upon our waters— and we—we filled our lungs with you, willing to drown in your ecstasy. And now the waters are cold, and our voices echo off the endless expanse between I and thou. Can you feel our souls adrift in the poverty of our longing? Have you fallen asleep, God, while we were keeping watch? Awake, Beloved, or if you must rest, rest in our bones and wrap yourself in our weary souls. We need to come home, but for now we wait, adrift in your sleep, waiting for the dream. And that is enough for now. Amen. Jeannie Alexander

popular TV sitcoms sprang up, each a variation on a single theme: something alien is close and secretly among us, and one person is burdened with protecting all others from the unspeakable truth of their presence and power: My Favorite Martian, My Mother the Car, I Dream of Jeannie, The Munsters, Mister Ed, Bewitched—they all pointed to the growing anxiety of middle-class whites that nothing was as it appeared,