J Crew Quotes

I’m not particularly keen on writing which exhaustively describes the physical characteristics of the people in the story and what they’re wearing… I can always get a J. Crew catalogue… …So spare me, if you please, the hero’s ‘sharply intelligent blue eyes’ and ‘outthrust determined chin’.

Which is how he ends up in his J. Crew best on a Saturday at the Greenwich Polo Club, wondering what the hell he’s gotten himself into. The woman in front of him is wearing a hat with an entire taxidermied pigeon on it. High school lacrosse did not prepare him for this kind of sporting event.

Listen, they look best on my ass. The J. Crew ones wrinkle all weird. And they’re not khakis, they’re chinos. Khakis are for white people.

The day I graduated from boot camp was the proudest of my life. An entire crew of hillbillies showed up for my graduation—

I watched my friends become slender and beautiful, I watched them get picked and wear J.Crew and step into small boats without fear, but I also watched them starve and harm themselves, get lost and sink. They were picked by bad people, people who hurt them on purpose, eroded their confidence, and kept them trapped in an endless chase. The real scam is that being bones isn't enough either. The game is rigged. There is no perfection.

I’ve come to terms with the fact that in a room full of J.Crews, I’ll always be a Target. I love Target. Let’s see J.Crew try to sell delicious soft pretzels in their store.

Very low. It’s going to be one of the cast or crew, one of the people who worked with her, one of the people she pushed, insulted, threatened.” “Who pushed back.” He got to his feet. “Celebrity murders,” he muttered. “They’ll probably make another goddamn vid.” At Eve’s stunned, slightly horrified expression, he smiled. “You could make book on it,” he said. “Keep me updated. And don’t be late for the media conference.” “Shit,” Eve said when he’d gone out. “Shit. He could be right.” “Who’d play me in this one? I mean, it’s really wild, isn’t it? Somebody playing me investigating the murder of somebody who was playing me. And then there’s—” “Don’t. You’re giving me a headache. Get those runs done.

CAPT. J. W. SIMMONS, master of the steamship Pensacola, had just as little regard for weather as the Louisiana’s Captain Halsey. He was a veteran of eight hundred trips across the Gulf and commanded a staunch and sturdy ship, a 1,069-ton steel-hulled screw-driven steam freighter built twelve years earlier in West Hartlepool, England, and now owned by the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company. Friday morning the ship was docked at the north end of 34th Street, in the company of scores of other ships, including the big Mallory liner Alamo, at 2,237 tons, and the usual large complement of British ships, which on Friday included the Comino, Hilarius, Kendal Castle, Mexican, Norna, Red Cross, Taunton, and the stately Roma in from Boston with its Captain Storms. As the Pensacola’s twenty-one-man crew readied the ship for its voyage to the city of Pensacola on Florida’s Gulf Coast, two men came aboard as Captain Simmons’s personal guests: a harbor pilot named R. T. Carroll and Galveston’s Pilot Commissioner J. M. O. Menard, from one of the city’s oldest families. At

Leave me alone, J!" I shouted. "I just need it in my mouth. Let me put the foot long in my mouth. Stop trying to sandwich block me!

If you like the corporate type of girl, shop conservative at J. Crew or Macy’s. If you like hipster chicks, try vintage shops. Take basic steps to match the vibe your ideal girl has.

I went to my room and put some water on my hair, but you can't really comb a crew cut or anything. Then I tested to see if my breath stank from so many cigarettes and the Scotch and sodas I drank at Ernie's. All you do is hold your hand under your mouth and blow your breath up toward the old nostrils. It didn't seem to stink much, but I brushed my teeth anyway. Then I put on another clean shirt. I knew I didn't have to get all dolled up for a prostitute or anything, but it sort of gave me something to do. I was a little nervous. I was starting to feel pretty sexy and all, but I was a little nervous anyway. If you want to know the truth, I'm a virgin. I really am. I've had quite a few opportunities to lose my virginity and all, but I've never got around to it yet. Something always happens. For instance, if you're at a girl's house, her parents always come home at the wrong time – or you're afraid they will. Or if you're in the back seat of somebody's car, there's always somebody's date in the front seat – some girl, I mean – that always wants to know what's going on all over the whole goddam car. I mean some girl in front keeps turning around to see what the hell's going on. Anyway, something always happens. I came quite close to doing it a couple of times, though. One time in particular, I remember. Something went wrong, though – I don't even remember what any more. The thing is, most of the time when you're coming pretty close to doing it with a girl – a girl that isn't a prostitute or anything, I mean – she keeps telling you to stop. The trouble with me is, I stop. Most guys don't. I can't help it. You never know whether they really want you to stop, or whether they're just scared as hell, or whether they're just telling you to stop so that if you do go through with it, the blame'll be on you not them. Anyway, I keep stopping. The trouble is, I get to feeling sorry for them. I mean most girls are so dumb and all. After you neck them for a while, you can really watch them losing their brains. You take a girl when she really gets passionate, she just hasn't any brains. I don't know. They tell me to stop, so I stop. I always wish I hadn't, after I take them home, but I keep doing it anyway.

As the Pensacola’s twenty-one-man crew readied the ship for its voyage to the city of Pensacola on Florida’s Gulf Coast, two men came aboard as Captain Simmons’s personal guests: a harbor pilot named R. T. Carroll and Galveston’s Pilot Commissioner J. M. O. Menard, from one of the city’s oldest families.

One also, in our milieu, simply didn't meet enough Americans to form an opinion. And when one did—this was in the days of crew-cuts and short-legged pants—they, too, often really did sport crew-cuts and trousers that mysteriously ended several inches short of the instep. Why was that? It obviously wasn't poverty. A colleague of my father's had a daughter who got herself married and found that an American friend she had met on holiday had offered to pay the whole cost of the nuptial feast. I forget the name of this paladin, but he had a crew-cut and amputated trouser-bottoms and a cigar stub and he came from a place called Yonkers, which seemed to me a ridiculous name to give to a suburb. (I, who had survived Crapstone… ) Anyway, once again one received a Henry Jamesian impression of brash generosity without overmuch refinement. There was a boy at my boarding school called Warren Powers Laird Myers, the son of an officer stationed at one of the many U.S. Air Force bases in Cambridgeshire. Trousers at The Leys School were uniform and regulation, but he still managed to show a bit of shin and to buzz-cut his hair. 'I am not a Yankee,' he informed me (he was from Norfolk, Virginia). 'I am a CON-federate.' From what I was then gleaning of the news from Dixie, this was unpromising. In our ranks we also had Jamie Auchincloss, a sprig of the Kennedy-Bouvier family that was then occupying the White House. His trousers managed to avoid covering his ankles also, though the fact that he shared a parent with Jackie Kennedy meant that anything he did was accepted as fashionable by definition. The pants of a man I'll call Mr. 'Miller,' a visiting American master who skillfully introduced me to J.D. Salinger, were also falling short of their mark. Mr. Miller's great teacher-feature was that he saw sexual imagery absolutely everywhere and was slightly too fond of pointing it out [...]. Meanwhile, and as I mentioned much earlier, the dominant images projected from the United States were of the attack-dog-and-firehose kind, with swag-bellied cops lying about themselves and the political succession changed as much by bullets as by ballots.

In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous [dead looking] and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his iron claw.

He made the mistake of booking first-class passage on the maiden voyage of the Titanic. When that liner struck an iceberg, the crew asked him, because of his sailing expertise, to row a lifeboat full of passengers to safety. He was an honorable man—the president of the Standard Chemical Company and a major in the Queen’s Own Rifles—and he was doing a heroic deed.

He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different caste from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said of him that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour.

Don't take another fucking step near my Bond or I'll rip your fucking throat out with my bare teeth." I wonder which one of the crew has been stupid enough to try to approach us because he cannot be talking to one of the Dravens like that, but then Nox says, snark dripping down his words, "She's my Bond as well." Atlas scoffs. "No, she's your punching bag, your favorite victim. She's the default villain in every one of your stories. You move even an inch closer and I'll take the whole fucking plane out to stop you. No more warnings.

Don’t take another fucking step near my Bond or I’ll rip your fucking throat out with my bare teeth.” I wonder which one of the crew has been stupid enough to try to approach us because he cannot be talking to one of the Dravens like that, but then Nox says, snark dripping down his words, “She’s my Bond as well.” Atlas scoffs. “No, she’s your punching bag, your favorite victim. She’s the default villain in every one of your stories. You move even an inch closer and I’ll take the whole fucking plane out to stop you. No more warnings.

My dad’s name is Jim, and my mother thought their names starting with the same letter was just further proof that they belonged together. So she named each of her babies a ‘J’ name to fit the mold. She wasn’t terribly original, because in Levan you’ll find families with all ‘K’ names, all ‘B’ names, all ‘Q’ names. You name the letter, and we’ve got it. People even have ‘themes’ for their children’s names - giving them monikers like Brodeo and Justa Cowgirl. I’m not kidding. So in my family we were all J’s - Jim, Janelle, Jacob, Jared, Johnny, and Josie Jo Jensen-the “J Crew.” The only problem with that was that whenever my mom needed one of us she had to run through the litany of ‘J’ names before she stumbled on the right one. I don’t know why I remember this, small as it was, but in the days and weeks before my mom died, I don’t ever remember her tripping over any of our names. Perhaps the distracting details of daily life that had once made her tongue tied dissolved in their insignificance, and she gave her rapt attention to our every word, our every expression, our every move.

Where exactly the Hogwarts Express came from has never been conclusively proven, although it is a fact that there are secret records at the Ministry of Magic detailing a mass operation involving one hundred and sixty-seven Memory Charms and the largest ever mass Concealment Charm performed in Britain. The morning after these alleged crimes, a gleaming scarlet steam engine and carriages astounded the villagers of Hogsmeade (who had also not realised they had a railway station), while several bemused Muggle railway workers down in Crewe spent the rest of the year grappling with the uncomfortable feeling that they had mislaid something important.

On Monday morning, she called me into her bedroom. Her dark hair was tousled, her light robe very feminine against the soft blue of her bed. Her eyes were full of mischief. “Oh, Mr. West,” she whispered in her beguiling child’s voice. “I’ve gotten myself into something. Can you help me get out of it?” “What can I do?” I asked, wondering who was next in line to be fired. “I’ve invited someone to stay here,” she said, “but now we’ve changed our minds.” She cast a glance in the direction of the President’s bedroom. “Could you help us cook up something so we can get out of having her as a houseguest?” Without waiting for a reply, she rushed on, her request becoming a command in mid-breath. “Would you fix up the Queen’s Room and the Lincoln Room so that it looks like we’re still decorating them, and I’ll show her that our guest rooms are not available.” Her eyes twinkled, imagining the elaborate deception. “The guest rooms will be redecorated immediately,” I said, and almost clicked my heels. I called Bonner Arrington in the carpenter’s shop. “Bring drop-cloths up to the Queen’s Room and Lincoln Bedroom. Roll up the rugs and cover the draperies and chandeliers, and all the furniture,” I instructed. “Oh yes, and bring a stepladder.” I called the paint shop. “I need six paint buckets each for the Queen’s Room and the Lincoln Room. Two of the buckets in each room should be empty—off-white—and I need four or five dirty brushes.” I met the crews on the second floor. “Now proceed to make these two rooms look as if they’re being redecorated,” I directed. “You mean you don’t want us to paint?” said the painters. “No,” I said. “Just make it look as if you are.” The crew had a good time, even though they didn’t know what it was all about. As I brought in the finishing touches, ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, Bonner shook his head. “Mr. West, all I can say is that this place has finally got to you,” he said. That evening the President and Mrs. Kennedy entertained a Princess for dinner upstairs in the President’s Dining Room. Before dinner, though, President Kennedy strolled down to the East Hall with his wife’s guest. He pointed out the bedraped Queen’s Room. “… And you see, this is where you would have spent the night if Jackie hadn’t been redecorating again,” he told the unsuspecting lady. The next morning, Mrs. Kennedy phoned me. “Mr. West, you outdid yourself,” she exclaimed. “The President almost broke up when he saw those ashtrays.

You have to get safe and know how to work together with your system of selves before you can work on the memories with all the details and all the feelings. Even then it’s not just letting it all hang out. It’s a long slow process that is designed to overwhelm you as little as possible. We can discuss it in depth at a later time. Right now, your situation reminds me of a bunch of folks on a big sailboat that’s taking on water. No one knows where the life vests are, or how to put them on. Half the crew is below decks refusing to come out, and the other half is fighting with each other. Then someone says, ‘Ooh there’s a hurricane, let’s sail into that!’ Doesn’t sound likely that the ship and the crew are going to do very well there, does it? Sometimes, even if you’re not prepared, a hurricane hits, but that’s different from deliberately sailing into one. ‘The first thing is that everyone needs to work on working together, getting safe from harm to yourselves and others. I really believe, from everything you’ve all said, that you’ve all been hurt enough. You don’t need any more harm coming to any of you or your body. You don’t have to like everyone, love everyone, or even trust everyone inside. It’s just a matter of seeing how you can begin to risk to work together.

She's barely gained consciousness and when she sees me standing over her naked, I can imagine my virtual absence of humanity fills her with mind-bending horror. I've situated the body in front of the new Toshiba Television set and in the VCR is an old tape and appearing on the screen is the last girl I filmed. I'm wearing: a Joseph Abboud suit, tie by Paul Stuart, shoes by J. Crew, a vest by someone Italian and I'm kneeing on the floor beside a corpse eating the girl's brain gobbling it down spreading Grey Poupon over hunks of the pink fleshy meat. "Can you see?" I asked the girl not on the Television set. "Can you see this, are you watching?" I whisper. I try using the power drill on her, forcing it into her mouth but she's conscious enough, has strength to close her teeth clamping them down and even though the drill goes through the teeth quickly it fails to interest me. So I hold her head up, blood dribbling from her mouth and make her watch the rest of the tape. While she's looking at the girl on the screen bleed from almost every possible orifice I'm hoping she realizes that this would've happened to her no matter what. That she would've ended up here lying on the floor in my apartment hands nailed to posts, cheese and broken glass pushed up into her cunt. Her head cracked and bleeding purple no matter what other choice she might have made.

I’d never been with anyone like Marlboro Man. He was attentive--the polar opposite of aloof--and after my eighteenth-month-long college relationship with my freshman love Collin, whose interest in me had been hampered by his then-unacknowledged sexual orientation, and my four-year run with less-than-affectionate J, attentive was just the drug I needed. Not a day passed that Marlboro Man--my new cowboy love--didn’t call to say he was thinking of me, or he missed me already, or he couldn’t wait to see me again. Oh, the beautiful, unbridled honesty. We loved taking drives together. He knew every inch of the countryside: every fork in the road, every cattle guard, every fence, every acre. Ranchers know the country around them. They know who owns this pasture, who leases that one, whose land this county road passes through, whose cattle are on the road by the lake. It all looked the same to me, but I didn’t care. I’d never been more content to ride in the passenger seat of a crew-cab pickup in all my life. I’d never ridden in a crew-cab pickup in all my life. Never once. In fact, I’d never personally known anyone who’d driven a pickup; the boys from my high school who drove pickups weren’t part of my scene, and in their spare time they were needed at home to contribute to the family business. Either that, or they were cowboy wannabes--the kind that only wore cowboy hats to bars--and that wasn’t really my type either. For whatever reason, pickup trucks and I had never once crossed paths. And now, with all the time I was spending with Marlboro Man, I practically lived in one.

In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once.

lay scattered on the shore at Old Harbor. Webber and crew used the motor lifeboat CG 36500 to help the fishermen pull the boats off the beach and reattach them to their moorings before the surf damaged them. It was a mariner’s version of herding cattle, but instead of working under the hot Texas sun, they had to perform their

While these chants were chilling, something else scared me even more. It wasn’t what was there that frightened me, but what wasn’t there. No KKK robes, Nazi-inspired uniforms, or white supremacist paraphernalia were evident. No T-shirts with neo-Nazi slogans were to be seen. Most of the marchers wore neatly pressed khaki pants and smart-looking shirts. Had they not carried flags with swastika-like and white supremacist symbols or the Confederate “stars and bars” and raised their arms in a Nazi-like salute, they might have looked as though they had just walked out of a J.Crew or Brooks Brothers catalog.

The federal air marshal, the passengers, the flight crew, and the pilots are truly the last line of defense. American public spaces and schools need the same approach. Let’s cut the feel-good politics and recognize that by the time someone with dangerous plans reaches your doorstep, it’s too late to ponder root causes of antisocial behavior—it’s time to act! All of the thinking should have been done beforehand. And the level of commitment to stop grotesque violence in its tracks—stone cold dead—has to exceed theirs if protecting the principal is going to succeed.

Event planners dropped the ball on costs. One Rose Garden event required big, rented, air-conditioned tents that ruined the lawn. Landscaping crews and the National Park Service tore up all the dead grass, installed new sod, and sent them the bill. That’s expensive. But you can’t just have a whole White House lawn muddy and looking like crap. “Just get it done,” staffers would say. Party rental companies refused future events until they were paid. The discussions were plain embarrassing, but when I heard them I wasn’t eavesdropping. They were shouted in the hallway. The Clintons believed that a magic royal pot of money somehow existed for their every whim.

It would take another twenty-seven years before the first government-authorized lifesaving stations were erected on Cape Cod. In all, nine stations were built from Race Point in Provincetown to Monomoy Island in Chatham. These two-story wooden structures were put up in the sunbaked dunes away from the high-water mark, thus protecting them from floods. They were painted a deep red and carried sixty-foot flags to make them easily recognizable from the ocean. The stations were manned by up to seven surfmen from August 1 to June 1 of the following year. The station’s keeper kept a watchful eye for the remaining two months. The keeper earned $200 per year for his duties while the surfmen were paid $65 a month. Each surfman, no matter how many years of service, was obligated to pass a strenuous physical examination at the dawn of each new season. Writer J. W. Dalton described the surfman’s weekly routine in his 1902 book, The Life Savers of Cape Cod: “On Monday the members of the crew are employed putting the station in order.

The M1A3 Abrams was a man-killer. Colonel J. “Lonesome” Jones thanked the good Lord that he had never had to face anything like it. The models that preceded it, the A1 and A2, were primarily designed to engage huge fleets of Soviet tanks on the plains of Europe. They were magnificent tank busters, but proved to be less adept at the sort of close urban combat that was the bread and butter of the U.S. Army in the first two decades of the twenty-first century. In the alleyways of Damascus and Algiers, along the ancient cobbled lanes of Samara, Al Hudaydah, and Aden, the armored behemoths often found themselves penned in, unable to maneuver or even to see what they were supposed to kill. They fell victim to car bombs and Molotovs and homemade mines. Jones had won his Medal of Honor rescuing the crew of one that had been disabled by a jihadi suicide squad in the Syrian capital. The A3 was developed in response to attacks just like that one, which had become increasingly more succesful. It was still capable of killing a Chinese battle tank, but it was fitted out with a very different enemy in mind. Anyone, like Jones, who was familiar with the clean, classic lines of the earlier Abrams would have found the A3 less aesthetically pleasing. The low-profile turret now bristled with 40 mm grenade launchers, an M134 7.62 mm minigun, and either a small secondary turret for twin 50s, or a single Tenix-ADI 30 mm chain gun. The 120 mm canon remained, but it was now rifled like the British Challenger’s gun. But anyone, like Jones, who’d ever had to fight in a high-intensity urban scenario couldn’t give a shit about the A3’s aesthetics. They just said their prayers in thanks to the designers. The tanks typically loaded out with a heavy emphasis on high-impact, soft-kill ammunition such as the canistered “beehive” rounds, Improved Conventional Bomblets, White Phos’, thermobaric, and flame-gel capsules. Reduced propellant charges meant that they could be fired near friendly troops without danger of having a gun blast disable or even kill them. An augmented long-range laser-guided kinetic spike could engage hard targets out to six thousand meters. The A3 boasted dozens of tweaks, many of them suggested by crew members who had gained their knowledge the hard way. So the tank commander now enjoyed an independent thermal and LLAMPS viewer. Three-hundred-sixty-degree visibility came via a network of hardened battle-cams. A secondary fuel cell generator allowed the tank to idle without guzzling JP-8 jet fuel. Wafered armor incorporated monobonded carbon sheathing and reactive matrix skirts, as well as the traditional mix of depleted uranium and Chobam ceramics. Unlike the tank crew that Jones had rescued from a screaming mob in a Damascus marketplace, the men and women inside the A3 could fight off hordes of foot soldiers armed with RPGs, satchel charges, and rusty knives—for the “finishing work” when the tank had been stopped and cracked open to give access to its occupants.

AMERICANS -- U.S. NAVY, ABOARD MINESWEEPER USS PELICAN (AM 49), MANILA BAY Alton C. Ingram, Lieutenant. “Todd,” Commanding Officer Frederick J. Holloway, Lt. (jg), Operations Officer. Oliver P. Toliver, III, Lt. (jg) “Ollie,” Gunnery Officer. Bartholomew, Leonard (n), Chief Machinists Mate, “Rocky,” Chief Engineer. Farwell, Luther A., Quartermaster Second Class, Top helmsman. Hampton, Joshua P., Electronics Technician 1st Class, Crew Whittaker, Peter L., Engineman 3rd Class, Crew Forester, Kevin T. Quartermaster 3rd Class, Crew Forester, Brian I., Quartermaster Striker, Crew Yardly, Ronald R., Pharmacist's Mate Second Class “Bones,” Crew. Sunderland, Kermit G. Gunner's Mate 1st Class, Crew. AMERICANS

3D printers are already producing parts that are lighter than traditionally built parts, are much stronger in design, and are more readily produced on demand for machines as sophisticated as NASA rockets and Air Force fighters. But for mission-critical products like these, there’s also a risk, one that’s put into context by James Regenor, director of the additive manufacturing and innovation unit at precision parts manufacturer Moog, Inc.: “How can the maintenance crew on a U.S. aircraft carrier have absolute confidence that the software file they downloaded to 3D-print a new part for a fighter jet hasn’t been hacked by a foreign adversary?” To tackle this problem, Regenor’s team at Moog has launched a service it calls Veripart, which uses blockchain technology to, among other things, verify the software design and upgrading work performed by different providers of 3D-printed products along a supply chain. It plans to incorporate a host of features that, among other things, will protect intellectual property and make it more flexible and dynamic as an asset.

that I’d need a crew who could challenge me. And that was smarter than me.

Hunt shook his head, cutting off Pippa before she could retort. “We’re talking machines that can make brimstone missiles within seconds and unleash them at short range.” His lightning now sizzled at his hands. “Yes,” Pippa said, eyes still lit with predatory bloodlust. “No Vanir will stand a chance.” She lifted her attention to the ship above them, and Hunt followed her focus in time to see the crew appearing at the rails. Backs to them. Five mer, two shifter-types. None in an Ophion uniform. Rebel sympathizers, then, who’d likely volunteered their boat and services to the cause. They raised their hands. “What the fuck are you doing?” Hunt growled, just as Pippa lifted her arm in a signal to the human Lightfall squadron standing atop the ship. Herding the Vanir crew to the rails. Guns cracked. Blood sprayed, and Hunt flung out a wing, shading Bryce from the mist of red. The Vanir crumpled, and Ruhn and Cormac began shouting, but Hunt watched, frozen, as the Lightfall squadron on deck approached the fallen crew, pumping their heads full of bullets.

THE EVENING before WrestleMania, Vince sent a memo around that instructed his entire crew to convene first thing in the morning at the arena. There were predictable grumblings, with the performers unhappy that their night of pre-show decadence would have to be cut short because of the early wake-up call. The unofficial rule amongst many of the boys was that when it came to doing pay-per-view, having a hangover was a prerequisite because it made you sulky and focussed. Of course, the risk was that someone would go too far and be in no condition to perform come show time, but Vince's meeting made sure there would be little chance of that. Sure enough, everyone was accounted for on that dreary Sunday morning, tired, but for the most part sober.               The boys sat with sunglasses covering their heavy eyes, sipping black coffee from the local Starbucks while wondering what was so urgent that Vince had dragged them out of bed at the crack of dawn. Those who had known McMahon for a while had a good inkling; the meeting wasn't about anything at all. It was simply a front to keep everyone in check and make sure there were no major problems caused by someone having a little too much fun the night before the biggest show of the year. "I betcha Vince doesn't even show," whispered Paul Bearer to no one in particular, and sure enough, he didn't. Instead J.J. Dillon wandered into the room, and told the amassed throng that Vince wasn't coming, but he just wanted to tell them all to have a good show. It was classic McMahon; keeping his troops in check and running things from afar under his authoritarian rule.   THE

BACK HOME IN B-VILLE, GA, the 4 Little Indians would stand out like J. Crew rejects, but in Berkeley they were just four friends, four inseparable friends, four constant companions, so close that he wondered if siblings could be closer.

The snow in the mountains had changed everything. Frank swore as he listened on the phone to the head of search and rescue describing the conditions they'd run into on the other side of the Crazies. "The terrain is too dangerous," Jim Martin said. "Even experienced ground crews found many areas too difficult to traverse with the snow." "What about the searchers in the helicopters?" "They should be able to see tracks in the snow once the clouds life." Jim didn't sound optimistic. "The storm isn't moving on as fast as the weatherman predicted.

things to the crew and proceed with a vote.” “And then it'll be time to...” Pellegrini interrupted. “To what?” “To pray.

I tried to imagine J.C. rolling up the sleeves of one of her expensive silk blouses to take up a paintbrush with the crew already at work in the ballroom, exposing her too-long, too-thin, insectile arms. A female praying mantis towering over the workers, biting the heads off of each one after—Oh, God, what was I thinking?

In watching any of the hoverboard sequences, especially the extended ones like the chase in the Hill Valley square and the tunnel where Biff is trying to reclaim the sports almanac, one can see that a mixture of techniques were used. In some cases, the effects that appear amazing on-screen were really quite low-tech. Thin metal wire legs were placed right in the middle of the underside of some Styrofoam props, so that when Michael J. Fox threw them down, they would wobble as if levitating. In shots where one end of the board was out of frame, the other side was sometimes held by a crew member until Fox grabbed it and tucked it under his arm. When the actors’ feet were obscured, they were often shot from the waist up and put on actual skateboards. Sometimes they were pulled on a large dolly. Large sheets of plywood would be added to the ground in order to create additional height in comparison with the rest of what was in the frame.

that some of her crew members ascribed to the fact that she was the first American warship to be named after a Navy chaplain, Samuel Livermore. First Class Boatswain Mate Leo Gracie took Webber and a crew on a 38-foot Coast Guard picket boat over the treacherous Chatham Bar

In 1943, Benny made his first USO tour overseas. In Benghazi, in North Africa, a B-17 crew painted some words on a bomb: To ADOLF HITLER—WITH LOVE IN BOOM.

Guidelines for ROE 1. When on post, mobile, or foot patrol, keep loaded magazine in weapon, bolt closed, weapon on safe, no round in the chamber. 2. Do not chamber a round unless told to do so by a commissioned officer unless you must act in immediate self-defense where deadly force is authorized. 3. Keep ammo for crew-served weapons readily available but not loaded. Weapon is on safe. 4. Call local forces to assist in self-defense effort. Notify headquarters. 5. Use only minimum degree of force to accomplish any mission. 6. Stop the use of force when it is no longer needed to accomplish the mission. 7. If you receive effective hostile fire, direct your fire at the source. If possible, use friendly snipers. 8. Respect civilian property; do not attack it unless absolutely necessary to protect friendly forces. 9. Protect innocent civilians from harm. 10. Respect and protect recognized medical agencies such as Red Cross, Red Crescent, etc. Col. Jim Mead’s 32nd MAU was relieved by Col. Tom Stokes’s 24th MAU on October 30, 1982. The transition was seamless, morale was high, and all hands assumed their responsibilities enthusiastically. Colonel Stokes also honored the Ministry of Defense’s request to help train the LAF. The government of Lebanon (GOL) introduced conscription, and young men from all over Lebanon answered the call to colors. The various religious groups—the Christians, Druze, Sunnis, and Shiites—were being trained and integrated into the Lebanese Army. Although the U.S. Army already had an ongoing training mission in effect, it was viewed that the Marines’ additional training would quickly improve the LAF’s combat capabilities. The results of the training courses led to their expansion, particularly among the noncommissioned officers (NCOs). The religious integration of the LAF was a major goal of its commander, Gen. Ibrahim Tannous, who wanted to produce a true national army. The Marine training was contributing to that end.

The writing part is always the hardest part of filmmaking. Almost anyone can direct—they won’t necessarily direct well, but the machinery works—you can take someone off the street and put them with an experienced crew and the movie will get made. But writing can’t be faked. It doesn’t run itself. It has to be worked out very specifically, word for word, image for image.

I wear J. Crew. But only when I go out rowing.

Ordinary British soldiers harbored several strange preconceptions of their own. Some were surprised that the colonists wore clothes, thinking they would dress like Indians. Other had expected to encounter roving bands of wild animals in the manner of African jungles. And when a loyalist came aboard one ship to help it into port, the British crew and troops were dumbfounded. "All the People had been of the Opinion," they exclaimed, "that the inhabitants of America were black.

Pfc. Leonard J. Savitskie and his driver jumped into the car and swung its .50-caliber machine gun on the Krauts. An enemy mortar opened up behind the building and Savitskie, with a hand grenade, raced from his car behind the building under small-arms fire, lobbed the grenade and destroyed mortar and crew. The one-man task force then got into his armored

Frank Oz and his crew were there, but they’d be buried down underneath the ground,” says Hamill. “I had an earpiece, so I would hear, ‘Luke, many years have you …’ but if you turned your head the wrong way, you’d pick up Radio 1 and the Rolling Stones singing ‘Fool to Cry.’ I shouted, ‘Hey, I got the Stones,’ and Kersh goes, ‘Cut!’ And he’s way across the bog saying, ‘You know, if that happens again, just pretend you don’t hear it.’ 

If hell exists, it will have television news crews stationed in front of the fiery gates to broadcast your arrival.

Starbucks considers a product’s success not only in terms of consumer acceptance but also in terms of employee

As soon as Mr. Clinton became the president, Mrs. Clinton and her staff sought to repair the Clinton brand among groups they thought had been damaged during the campaign, scheduling galas, balls, and dinners. They hosted open house tours day and night, especially around Christmas and for the military. What she and her staffers failed to realize was that the White House had a budget like any other government entity. Each shindig still had to be paid either from the Executive Residence budget or the Democratic Party’s purse. Event planners dropped the ball on costs. One Rose Garden event required big, rented, air-conditioned tents that ruined the lawn. Landscaping crews and the National Park Service tore up all the dead grass, installed new sod, and sent them the bill. That’s expensive. But you can’t just have a whole White House lawn muddy and looking like crap. “Just get it done,” staffers would say. Party rental companies refused future events until they were paid. The discussions were plain embarrassing, but when I heard them I wasn’t eavesdropping. They were shouted in the hallway. The Clintons believed that a magic royal pot of money somehow existed for their every whim.

Specification   McDonnell F-110 Spectre (USN F-4B)   Engines: Two General Electric J79-GE-8A (or -8B) turbojets each rated at 17,900-lb thrust with afterburner Length: 58-ft 3-in Height: 16-ft 3-in Wingspan: 38-ft 4-in Weights: 54,600-lb maximum gross Maximum speed: 1,485-mph Cruising speed: 575-mph Service ceiling: 62,000-ft Range: 1,610-miles Armament: Around 16,000-lb of missiles, rockets and bombs. Air to air missiles included AIM-9 Sidewinder and AIM-7 Sparrow; air to surface missiles included AGM-12C Bullpup B and 2.75-in FFAR. A tactical nuclear free fall bomb could be carried and under wing external fuel tanks were sometimes carried depending on mission requirements Crew: Two

A man he’s not…we work we rot. No sleep until it’s through. A sailor’s grave…is all we crave. We are the Ever King’s crew.

Go save your wife. Save our Kat.” Our Kat? But Sean nodded, holding back the desire to say, Why in the hell do you think I’m sitting in this thing? but he could hardly blame the crew for loving her. She was so good to everyone, always smiling and working as hard as anyone else. Sean saw her occasional tantrums and tears, but that was the difference between a husband and a coworker

The polo was a single item that would fuel an empire

don't make it secretive. Show people things they can do.

Being an outsider makes you see what an insider doesn't, she says--a notion that will come up time and time again

The sacred, secret ingredient to this recipe was on that a striver could easily miss. It wasn't enough to wear the right things- you had to wear them the right way.

There was a place for style in everything: how you talked, how you entertained, how you dressed

Less than forty-eight hours earlier, the crew members of these ships had learned of the atomic bomb for the first time, the secret behind the mission for which they had been training for months.

Crewmen aboard the Enola Gay gave their first interviews. “The crew said, ‘My God,’ and couldn’t believe what had happened,” said weaponeer William Parsons. “A mountain of smoke was going up in a mushroom with the stem coming down. At the top was white smoke but up to 1,000 feet from the ground there was swirling, boiling dust.” General Carl Spaatz, one of the army air forces’ top officials, called the atomic bomb “the most revolutionary development in the history of the world.

Rich kids love poking fun at their own privilege, so long as they don't lose any of it in the process.

But Santa Gwan is real, J. He’s real and he’s here and he’s offering you that thing we both wanted so much. So, I get that you’re scared, but it’s fucking

But Santa Gwan is real, J. He’s real and he’s here and he’s offering you that thing we both wanted so much. So, I get that you’re scared, but it’s fucking dumb of you to reject him purely because of that.

At the White House that morning, Taft had met with Senator William Alden Smith of Michigan, who was also heading to New York for the Carpathia’s arrival. Smith was carrying subpoenas requiring J. Bruce Ismay and the Titanic’s officers and crew to give testimony at a U.S. Senate inquiry into the disaster. The senator had read Ismay’s intercepted “Yamsi” wireless messages that revealed his intention to spirit himself and the Titanic’s crew out of American jurisdiction as quickly as possible. Smith intended to head this off and hand Ismay the subpoena in person, and Taft had offered the senator his full support for the investigation.

Next up is the Elb of Fire and Fusion, it phases in front of them. Its entrance is impressive, for under its translucent shell an orbital symmetry, as one by one it mimics the atoms of the heavy elements. A surreal animation. “< This Elb has only one sin to list, the greatest of them all—nuclear annihilation. Behold the future winds of change. >” The set changes to a view from the international space-station, the entire crew looking through the window at the beauty of Gaia, but something amiss can be seen in their expressions. A grave seriousness that something is aloof, foreboding. “< I give you mutually assured destruction. As you can witness… >” From the space-station the planet Earth is viewed. A serene blue marble, peaceful, passive, when one of the crew points to a white spot, then another. More follow, leading to a chain-reaction, as the blue planet appears to twinkle in space. The whiteness hails the day of reckoning. “< This is the possibility which man makes certain. What say you Zara Hanson, seeing this glimpse of man’s future? >

Karla like myself is of the new apolitical pick-and-choose style of citizen. I think politics is soon going to resemble a J. Crew catalogue more than some 1776 ideal. If somebody wants to run for office, they had better be able to explain why they want to run for office. Wanting to be a candidate seems, in itself, reason for exclusion.

Kushner’s group was mocked more derisively; “that whizbang crew of numb nuts

688–711. Shipping my coffee takes a huge number of folks, including the Hong Kong Express ship crew, which brings the coffee to the port, including officers, electricians, cooks, and engineers such as Ariel Agalla, John Ryan Consad, Generoso Caneja, Angelito Segundino, Cesar Escobal, Maurice Bajo, Christoph Heers, Günter Naborowski, Ansgar Lehmköster, Danilo Napoto, Pawel Sobolewski, Aivan Delgado, John Aumüller, Lasse Gawande, Uriel Lumanog, Juan Carlos Nirza, Jay Vee Cruz, Mac Lawrence Dadivas, Remar Locsin, Genadij Dubrow, Gabriel Yana, Rheinell Nolasco, Michael Nierra, and Yonger Chaux.

First round is always a gorsian bullet,” Pippa said mildly in the terrible silence that followed as the Lightfall soldiers drew long knives and began severing heads from necks. “To get the Vanir down. The rest are lead. The beheading makes it permanent.” “Are you fucking insane?” Hunt burst out, just as Tharion spat, “You’re a murdering psycho.” But Cormac snarled at Pippa, getting in her face, blocking Tharion’s direct path. “I was told the crew would be unharmed. They helped us out of their belief in the cause.” She said flatly, “They’re Vanir.” “And that’s an excuse for this?” Ruhn shouted. Blood gleamed on his neck, his cheek, from where it had sprayed down. “They’re Vanir who are helping you.” Pippa only shrugged again. “This is war. We can’t risk them telling the Asteri where we are. The order to put the crew down came from Command. I am their instrument.” “You and Command are going to lead these people to ruin.” Shadows gathered at Ruhn’s shoulders. “And like Hel am I going to help you do it.

Love isn’t sex. Love is so many other things. Love is patient and kind. It is waking up in the morning and kissing without worry that your breath smells like Doritos or, in our case, whatever green things and fish we consumed the night before, or the flavor of the Italian ice we fed each other while watching TV for thirty minutes before the classical music began playing, which was right before we kissed and touched and loved each other. Love is acceptance and kindness and honesty and trust and seeing the truths in each other and loving past them.

Ulysses had the crew bind him to the mast of his ship to protect him from the call of the Sirens. Money managers, especially when feeling a loss of predictability and control, are drawn to short-term activity. Like Ulysses, money managers should take the steps necessary to focus on the long term if they are to optimize long-term fund performance. If the source of stress is largely psychological, so too is the means to cope with it.

Molly pointed a finger at each passenger and counted out loud while making a personal inventory in her head. Ira and Ruth, the old couple. Bernadette, nurse. Jasmine, life vest woman. Andy, blue polo asshole. Will, smart guy. Shannon, smart kid. Ryan, newlywed widow. Maia, unaccompanied minor. Plus, what was left of the crew: Kit, Kaholo, herself.

I'm not giving this up for anything, J," I promised him, pushing my fingers into his hair and breathing him in. "You're my sunshine when I'm caught in the dark. You make me feel alive even when I'm struggling to hold myself together. You make me feel like I'm worth something even when it's hard for me to see it. You're my rock, Johnny James. I think I need you more than I need the Green Power Ranger.

Nodding once, she stuck out her hand. “Very well, then. I am Captain Lizzy of the recently sunk HMS Voyager. I am recruiting crew members skilled in sailing, carpentry, and shooting

May the most holy, most sacred, most innocent, and most loved be blessed by Your hand, oh Lord. May you watch over ours, as we praise Your name on Earth as they do in Heaven, from now until forever, Amen.

Did he just call me “Oklahoma”? Well if I have to carry the banner for the Sooner State, don’t mind if I do. Whatever, J. Crew! And she propped her boots up so he could not miss them.

Given that the Arizona Police Academy is just up the street, we get a lot of cops at the Roundhouse Bar and Grill. There’s always a rowdy crew of newbies—the trainees. They tend to show up in groups and hang out together in the bar in the evenings after class. Next come the instructors. They’re mostly older guys, some of them long retired from active police work, who tend to arrive for meals mostly in ones or twos. Not thrilled with retirement, they’re glad to get out of their houses for a while and have a chance to hang out in the restaurant, drinking coffee, chewing the fat, and talking over old times.

So what is going on? For the men and women separately, the crew had a higher survival rate than the third-class passengers. But overall the crew had a lower survival rate than the third-class passengers. This is not a trick—the numbers are what they are.

Later that night, I drink a Peartini. Italy now has the largest death rate of any country since the pandemic began. When we return, the cruise lines announce that all operations will be suspended after we dock. I order a Corona beer. The crew, which has been so kind to us, is still unsure what’s going on. They believe they’ll be scattered across different ports or given berths on the ship. We decide to pack rather than go to the silent disco. By the end of the cruise, movie theaters have unprecedentedly closed. President Trump says, “This is very contagious. This is a very contagious virus. It’s incredible. But it’s something we have tremendous control of.

The great American novelist Herman Melville makes the Aristotelian point beautifully in a telling passage in Moby-Dick, where Starbuck, the chief mate of the Pequod, first addresses the crew. “ ‘I will have no man in my boat,’ said Starbuck, ‘who is not afraid of a whale.’ By this, he seemed to mean, not only that the most reliable and useful courage was that which arises from the fair estimation of the encountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is a far more dangerous comrade than a coward.

Writing for J. Crew a few years ago, Alice shared her decision to simplify her wardrobe to one specific style that she would wear every day—a black long-sleeve shirt and fashionable jeans. She called it her “uniform.” But uniform isn’t the word that got me. Amid her reasons for dressing like this, she stated that having a simple outfit you are known for wearing is “iconic, it’s a cheap and easy way to feel famous.” Iconic. That’s it. Minimalist clothing can convey a classic and memorable sense of personal identity. Alice argues that wearing a similar outfit every day is a way of asserting your status as a protagonist in life. “This is the reason why characters in picture books never change their clothes: Children—like adults, if they’d only admit it—crave continuity.” So along with the ease of no longer having to create a new look every day, you have the comfort of feeling like yourself all the time.

Call me a lunatic, but I’m starting to see that nothing is random, especially when we delve deep into numbers associated with many of the most significant discoveries, disasters, or achievements in the human story.211 It may interest the reader to learn that the crew

The Primary Act. As they entered the cinema, Dr Nathan confided to Captain Webster, ‘Talbert has accepted in absolute terms the logic of the sexual union. For him all junctions, whether of our own soft biologies or the hard geometries of these walls and ceilings, are equivalent to one another. What Talbert is searching for is the primary act of intercourse, the first apposition of the dimensions of time and space. In the multiplied body of the film actress - one of the few valid landscapes of our age - he finds what seems to be a neutral ground. For the most part the phenomenology of the world is a nightmarish excrescence. Our bodies, for example, are for him monstrous extensions of puffy tissue he can barely tolerate. The inventory of the young woman is in reality a death kit.’ Webster watched the images of the young woman on the screen, sections of her body intercut with pieces of modern architecture. All these buildings. What did Talbert want to do - sodomize the Festival Hall? Pressure Points. Koester ran towards the road as the helicopter roared overhead, its fans churning up a storm of pine needles and cigarette cartons. He shouted at Catherine Austin, who was squatting on the nylon blanket, steering her body stocking around her waist. Two hundred yards beyond the pines was the perimeter fence. She followed Koester along the verge, the pressure of his hands and loins still marking her body. These zones formed an inventory as sterile as the items in Talbert’s kit. With a smile she watched Koester trip clumsily over a discarded tyre. This unattractive and obsessed young man - why had she made love to him? Perhaps, like Koester, she was merely a vector in Talbert’s dreams. Central Casting. Dr Nathan edged unsteadily along the catwalk, waiting until Webster had reached the next section. He looked down at the huge geometric structure that occupied the central lot of the studio, now serving as the labyrinth in an elegant film version of The Minotaur . In a sequel to Faustus and The Shrew , the film actress and her husband would play Ariadne and Theseus. In a remarkable way the structure resembled her body, an exact formalization of each curve and cleavage. Indeed, the technicians had already christened it ‘Elizabeth’. He steadied himself on the wooden rail as the helicopter appeared above the pines and sped towards them. So the Daedalus in this neural drama had at last arrived. An Unpleasant Orifice. Shielding his eyes, Webster pushed through the camera crew. He stared up at the young woman standing on the roof of the maze, helplessly trying to hide her naked body behind her slim hands. Eyeing her pleasantly, Webster debated whether to climb on to the structure, but the chances of breaking a leg and falling into some unpleasant orifice seemed too great. He stood back as a bearded young man with a tight mouth and eyes ran forwards. Meanwhile Talbert strolled in the centre of the maze, oblivious of the crowd below, calmly waiting to see if the young woman could break the code of this immense body. All too clearly there had been a serious piece of miscasting. ‘Alternate’ Death. The helicopter was burning briskly. As the fuel tank exploded, Dr Nathan stumbled across the cables. The aircraft had fallen on to the edge of the maze, crushing one of the cameras. A cascade of foam poured over the heads of the retreating technicians, boiling on the hot concrete around the helicopter. The body of the young woman lay beside the controls like a figure in a tableau sculpture, the foam forming a white fleece around her naked shoulders.

I remember. A gunship’s crew laughing before mowing down reporters and civilians - in short bursts. A truck crossing a shadowy bridge, seconds before it explodes along with those inside the pressroom, as the general declares the driver “the luckiest man in Bagdad.” Our military - using attack helicopters and night scopes – to spray bullets at fleeing soldiers, like roaches running from a giant can of Raid. The pressroom laughs again. It’s not funny and there lies the rub.

Managing creative people—not so easy,” she says. “A lot of emotion, a lot of stroking. Some people need tough love. Some people need a lot of love.” Above all is the challenge of managing in a subjective realm. “There’s no right or wrong answer,” says Lyons. “When someone creates something and puts it in front of you, that thing came from inside of them, and if you make them feel bad, it’s going to be hard to fix, because you’ve actually crushed them.

As cattlemen, we dream of what life was like on a trail crew driving herds north with no fences in sight. Places where technology fades away, and the spirit of the wild is still king.