Lobby Bar Quotes

Which is nonsense, for whatever you live is Life. That is something to remember when you meet the old classmate who says, "Well now, on our last expedition up the Congo-" or the one who says, "Gee, I got the sweetest little wife and three of the swellest kids ever-" You must remember it when you sit in hotel lobbies or lean over bars to talk to the bartender or walk down a dark street at night, in early March, and stare into a lighted window. And remember little Susie has adenoids and the bread is probably burned, and turn up the street, for the time has come to hand me down that walking cane, for I got to catch that midnight train, for all my sin is taken away. For whatever you live is life

Ranger stood and stretched, his black T-shirt rode up, and I caught a glimpse of two inches of brown skin and hard abs and almost had an orgasm. “Babe,” he said. “Are you okay?” “Yep. Why?” “You sort of moaned.” “Gas.” “Understandable.” We took the elevator to the lobby and looked in at the bar. Filled with men speaking Russian.

Crazy people can add character to a place. If the ambience in your bar is off, or your lobby has gone inexplicably stale, consider picking up a lunatic. They're not hard to come by, and the often work for free. A lot of tattoo shops have one. Larger places might find it handy to keep two or three around.

He thought of the Englishman at the bar in the lobby again. That’s what had brought it all back — the Englishman remarking to the bartender that he’d just come from New Orleans, and that certainly was a haunted city.

Mr. Jamrach led me through the lobby and into the menagerie. The first was a parrot room, a fearsome screaming place of mad round eyes, crimson breasts that beat against bars, wings that flapped against their neighbours, blood red, royal blue, gypsy yellow, grass green. The birds were crammed along perches. Macaws hung upside down here and there, batting their white eyes, and small green parrots flittered above our heads in drifts. A hot of cockatoos looked down from on high over the shrill madness, high crested, creamy breasted. The screeching was like laughter in hell.

I took a breath. Pictured the bed waiting for me upstairs. Then retreated to the lobby bar alone and ordered an ice-cold gin martini, a small signal to myself that my work was done. I held the glass, its inverted construction an insult to gravity and the order of things. Just like our Movement, from the outside the balance of power seems all wrong. But hold a martini glass in your hand and you know instinctively that it is just right.

her. It was a lump of glass with a storm cloud trapped inside. In the lobby, the people gathered at the bar clinked their glasses together. “To Arthur,” they said. They drank for a few more minutes and then went their separate ways in the storm. Of all of them there at the bar that night, the

Down on his luck, [the screenwriter] Michael Arlen went to New York in 1944. To drown his sorrows he paid a visit to the famous restaurant “21.” In the lobby, he ran into Sam Goldwyn, who offered the somewhat impractical advice that he should buy racehorses. At the bar Arlen met Louis B. Mayer, an old acquaintance, who asked him what were his plans for the future. “I was just talking to Sam Goldwyn ...” began Arlen. “How much did he offer you? ”interrupted Mayer. “Not enough,” he replied evasively. “Would you take fifteen thousand for thirty weeks?” asked Mayer. No hesitation this time. “Yes,” said Arlen.

Rumania ceded large parts of its territory to Hungary, King Carol abdicated, real power was transferred to Antonescu and the Iron Guard was given free rein and organised one bloody pogrom after another. In June 1941, Rumania committed itself completely by joining Germany’s foray into the Soviet Union. In 1940, however, the country was still neutral, and in June all of Europe was sitting side by side in the lobby of the Athene Palace, as though nothing untoward was going on: the old Rumanian dignitaries, the leaders of the new radical right-wing government, the American journalists and diplomats, the despondent French ambassador. The ‘elegantly bored’ British – diplomats, oil men, journalists and intelligence officers – had their own table, the young Rumanian nobility sat at the bar,

This is slightly embarrassing,” Alkaitis said that night, when they’d left the bar and retired to a quieter corner of the lobby to discuss investments, “but you said you’re in shipping, and I realized as you said it that I’ve only the dimmest idea of what that actually means.” Leon smiled. “You’re not alone in that. It’s a largely invisible industry, but nearly everything you’ve ever bought traveled over the water.” “My made-in-China headphones, and whatnot.” “Sure, yes, there’s an obvious one, but I really mean almost everything. Everything on and around us. Your socks. Our shoes. My aftershave. This glass in my hand. I could keep going, but I’ll spare you.” “I’m embarrassed to admit that I never thought about it,” Jonathan said. “No one does. You go to the store, you buy a banana, you don’t think about the men who piloted the banana through the Panama Canal. Why would you?

To me, Chicago was the bar in the twelfth-floor lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, where I drank strawberry daiquiris—sophisticated!—with my visiting parents and with girls I was trying to impress. It was the elegant shops at the new, fancy Water Tower Place. My favorite Chicago spots were primarily restaurants. Dianna’s Opaa, in Greektown on South Halsted Street, with its lanky, serpent-like owner, Petros Kogiones, performing his host duties that were as important as the food—on the nights he wasn’t there, you felt cheated—sliding back his sheet of long black hair to greet his female customers with an overly familiar kiss and their dates with a disarming, arms-flung-wide cry of “cousin!” then conducting his odd 9 p.m. ceremonies, calling up all the engaged couples to be officially blessed by Famous Petros in the name of God, the Greek Orthodox Church, and Dianna’s Opaa! We’d all cheer and raise our juice glasses of Roditis high. Or

People talk about Eisenhower's golden age.... It all happened without me. What is the vice presidency? The Constitution dictates only two duties: casting the deciding vote if the Senate is deadlocked and replacing the president if he dies or is impeached. apart from waiting for those two things to happen, you made the rest up and were duly forgotten by history. The exception being Aaron Burr, who shot someone, decisively lowering the bar for the rest of us. What I remember is small pieces of the world: the West Wing, the insides of planes and hotel lobbies and conference rooms. My life was dinners with Pat and the children; airplane flights; placeholder meetings with foreign dignitaries during which I nodded and reminded them I had no power to make and agreement but would speak to the president. Stomach-turning formal breakfasts, speeches to party elders and tradesmen. I opened factories in Detroit and Akron, breathing the various stinks of canneries, slaughterhouses, or rubber plans and bestowing that vice presidential combination of glamour, flattery, and the tacit reminder that they didn't quite rate a visit from the top guy.

These two would have felt like old friends had they met just hours before. To some degree, this was because they were kindred spirits—finding ample evidence of common ground and cause for laughter in the midst of effortless conversation; but it was also almost certainly a matter of upbringing. Raised in grand homes in cosmopolitan cities, educated in the liberal arts, graced with idle hours, and exposed to the finest things, though the Count and the American had been born ten years and four thousand miles apart, they had more in common with each other than they had with the majority of their own countrymen. This, of course, is why the grand hotels of the world’s capitals all look alike. The Plaza in New York, the Ritz in Paris, Claridge’s in London, the Metropol in Moscow—built within fifteen years of each other, they too were kindred spirits, the first hotels in their cities with central heating, with hot water and telephones in the rooms, with international newspapers in the lobbies, international cuisine in the restaurants, and American bars off the lobby. These hotels were built for the likes of Richard Vanderwhile and Alexander Rostov, so that when they traveled to a foreign city, they would find themselves very much at home and in the company of kin.

Chip had been in there for a few very long hours. I had all kinds of awful thoughts about what might have happened to him in there. What if he’d been roughed up? Strip-searched? Who knows what awful things could have happened in a place like that? I saw scary-looking characters come and go as I sat in that cold, concrete lobby, trying to make myself invisible. Finally, out came Chip. “Hi, baby. Thanks for bailing me out,” he said. He sounded almost chipper. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, yeah! You’ll never guess who I saw in there. Alfonzo! Remember the lawn guy who used to work for me? We had a good time catching up.” Only Chip could go to prison and come out talking about all the friends he’d run into there. I came out and I was like, “Whoa! That was awesome. Jo, I met this guy. He did this thing. You know this old guy that I used to tell you about--he and I used to work together? He’s doing great. Well, he’s in jail, but things are really good otherwise.” Two of the policemen were also buddies of mine. These guys were literally standing on the other side of these bars going, “Why are you here? What’s the deal?” We had this endearing conversation right there, while I was in a jail cell. I used to live out in the boonies when I was in college, and I had mowed this one guy’s grass. So I told him what I was in for. “Long story short, I got these dogs running around.” And he was like, “Oh, dude, you’ll be fine. I’m sure they’ll get you right out of here.” It was just another day in my new life with Chip Gaines.

I was a smoker during the last days of smokers still running the show, really being in charge in many ways. When you can exhale smoke that hovers and floats across the room, it’s unsaid, but clear, that you’re calling a lot of shots. That haze of smoke across the restaurant, or bar, or lobby, or office, or airplane cabin – if you can believe it – it’s part of me, my breath, making its way into your lungs.

Anyone who wasn’t busy writing, chasing down leads, or harassing press officers had congregated in the bar that adjoined the lobby, and the loudest of them all was Ernest Hemingway.

The listener was absorbed by the sounds of Broadway: the car horns, police whistles, the people milling about. Up Broadway to 42nd Street, where an attendant shouted, “Have your tickets ready, please! have your tickets ready, please! … Good evening, Mr. First Nighter, the usher will show you to your box.” Then, in the “fourth-row center” seats, the First Nighter gave a quick reading of the program—title, cast, author—and the “famous First Nighter orchestra” played a few bars of music. An usher came down the aisle, shouting “Curtain! Curtain!” Buzzers sounded. Ushers reminded people that smoking was permitted in the lobby only. Then, listeners were told, the lights were dimmed and the play began. Afterward, the effect was reversed, with Mr. First Nighter weaving his way through the still-humming crowd and melting away into the street.

After the war, Israel barred the return of the Palestinian exiles. As Ben-Gurion put it in June 1948, “We must prevent at all costs their return.”74 By 1962, Israel owned almost 93 percent of the land inside its borders.75 To achieve this outcome, 531 Arab villages were destroyed “and eleven urban neighborhoods emptied of their inhabitants.”76

Bond went into the lobby bar to gather his thoughts and ordered a vodka martini, explaining to the barman the best way to achieve the effect of vermouth without diluting the vodka too much. Ice in the shaker, add a slurp of vermouth, pour out the vermouth, add the vodka, shake well, strain into a chilled glass, add a slice of lemon peel, no pith.

When it comes to financial incentives, size matters. There are things that people will do for a lot of money that they’d never do for just a few dollars. The most devoted carnivore in the world might well go vegan if the tofu lobby offered him a $10 million stipend. And then there’s the tale of an economist on holiday in Las Vegas. He found himself one night in a bar standing beside a gorgeous woman. “Would you be willing to sleep with me for $1 million?” he asked her. She looked him over. There wasn’t much to see—but still, $1 million! She agreed to go back to his room. “All right then, ” he said. “Would you be willing to sleep with me for $100?” “A hundred dollars!” she shot back. “What do you think I am, a prostitute?” “We’ve already established that. Now we’re just negotiating the price.

The bar/restaurant was still open, and there was some kind of forgettable baseball game featured there, on the large screen, with no one watching, and you could see this from the uninhabited and threadbare lobby. The young man at the front desk looked like there was no sorrow he had not experienced, and you could imagine that the pariahs of Waterbury - the convicted frauds and disgraced politicians, the collectors of serial-killer memorabilia, the embezzlers of church donations, those found guilty of exposing themselves, the mortuary assistants with suppressed necrophiliac tendencies, the sadistic gym teachers and embittered traffic cops - all settled here when they were in search of the loneliest night imaginable, and nothing made them feel better than exceedingly loud smoove playing in the lobby. If you were experiencing catecholaminergic polymorphic ventricular tachycardia, some flügelhorn soloing just might do the trick, could render you functionally unconscious in that way that hotel life can often do, unaware of any aspect of civilization that involves continuity, stability, devotion. However, it's also possible that smoove could be seen as a music that requires absolute submission to the American economy, to the need to buy and consume, and, as such, it is straight out of the robber-baron playbook, the music that can and must drive you to your knees so that you can do nothing but purchase plastic trinkets of Southeast Asian manufacture.

I have confessed sin over cigars, asked for prayer over cigars, celebrated personal and professional victories over cigars, and mourned personal and professional defeats over cigars. I’ve laughed with those who have laughed, over cigars, and wept with those who have wept. That’s not to elevate the cigar to some kind of exalted religious or cultural level. Here’s what a cigar is, in plain-speak: An excuse to sit down and talk with another guy for an hour. Think about it . . . when does this ever happen outside a cigar lounge? When guys are “hunting together” they’re sitting in a tree stand being quiet. When guys are “watching a ballgame together” they’re sitting in a living room or a sports bar staring slack-jawed at a television. When guys are “shopping for antiques together”[3] they’re walking through a junky antique store making fun of all the ridiculous stuff inside and not really talking about the stuff of life. The cigar lounge removes the awkward stiltedness of the Church Lobby (“How are YOU doing Bob?”), and it’s not as formal and intimidating as a counselor’s office, yet it still works as a place to talk.

table, a chest of drawers, a window seat, a color television with a working remote, and a closet with a light that came on automatically when he opened it. He went to the closet, pulled out a briefcase and opened it on the bed. Inside was a monocular, a cassette recorder with a phone clip, and a Polaroid Spectra camera with a half-dozen rolls of film. Excellent. He closed the briefcase, made a quick trip to the bathroom, and rode back down to the street. A bellhop, loitering in the phone-booth-sized lobby, said, “Cab, Mr. Davenport?” “No. I’ve got a car coming,” he said. Outside, he hurried down the street to a breakfast bar, got a pint of orange juice in a wax carton, and went back outside. After leaving Fell the night before, he’d gone to Lily’s apartment and given her the key impressions. Lily knew an intelligence officer

legit, a convertible that will take me anywhere—it’s almost overwhelming. But I am jolted back to life when a tall, tanned brunette strolls through the lobby. Her top is what’s left of a string bikini and covers almost nothing. Her bottom is a sheer skirt that covers even less. I hand over a Visa card for the charges. I could also use either cash or a prepaid credit card, but since the Fibbies know where I’m staying, there’s no need to be deceptive. I’m sure the Miami office has been notified, and there’s probably a set of eyes not too far away. If I were really paranoid, I could believe that the FBI has already been in my room and perhaps hidden a bug or two. I get to my room, see no bugs or spooks, take a quick shower, and change into shorts and sandals. I go to the bar to check out the talent. I eat alone in the hotel café and catch the eye of a fortyish woman who is dining with what appears to be a female friend. Later, back in the bar, I see her again and we introduce ourselves. Eva, from Puerto Rico. We’re having a drink when the band starts. Eva wants to dance, and though it’s been years, I hit the floor with all the energy I have. Around midnight, Eva and I make it to my room, where we immediately undress and hop into bed. I almost pray the FBI has the room wired

I wavered behind my terminal, bewildered, bracing myself on the desk at 2:00 a.m., splashing water on my face at 3:00 a.m., eating a chocolate bar and drinking a Red Bull at 4:00 a.m., popping into the back office to slap myself hard in the face at 5:00 a.m., greeting the early-riser guests and beginning to check out rooms at 6:00 a.m., my mouth tasting like the smell coming from the wilting and unchanged flower display at 6:05 a.m., counting the minutes at 6:06 a.m., feeling as if I’ve ruined my whole life at 6:21 a.m., dreaming about dreaming at 6:32 a.m., squinting with hatred at the sun sliding into the lobby at 6:43 a.m., thinking about absolutely nothing, my head sort of rolling around, eyes twitching and staring down the hallway at 6:51 a.m., at the end of which, next to the elevators, is the door that leads to the employee locker rooms, where my relief, hopefully, is on time and changing into uniform, then stumbling downstairs at 7:01

As she passed Nick’s Bar & Bistro, she felt a moment’s longing, wishing she could stop for a reassuring hug that she knew would be fast in coming. But even more than his comfort, a few hours sleep was in order. She parked outside the Inn, dragged her large suitcase out of the trunk and wheeled it into the lobby. When she stepped up to the check-in counter, a young woman smiled. “Ms. Braxton. Geoff let us know you were on your way. We’ve given you a room on the second floor. Room 204. Just need your signature and a credit card.” “Thanks so much. Everyone in this town is so welcoming.” She forced a smile. “Never seen anything like it.” “My name is Helen Watson,” the young girl replied. “I’m from Nebraska, and I’ve been here for two years. The friendliness is genuine, and it doesn’t get old.” As Jennie’s mother had said, the Inn was small, but charming—English Tudor in style both inside and out. The lobby had a tartan carpet, four plaid high back chairs next to a hearth and fireplace. The walls were decorated with hunting scenes and floral gardens. A small bar was tucked away in the far corner of the

So what did you feel? Did you feel tightness in your shoulders, tension in your neck, or maybe your chest felt heavy? Perhaps a little nauseated, or a tightness in your stomach? Weak in the knees? You need to know what alerts you. You may not be able to describe it, but you may feel it and need to know the feeling. These feelings are a chemical reaction in your body telling you that something isn’t right. These feelings are your survival instincts. Know them. Utilize them. If something is making you uncomfortable, trust your instincts. Acknowledge what your emotional boundaries are, speak up for yourself, or take action to establish and enforce them. Physical Boundaries It’s normal to have different physical boundaries in different settings. When you’re at home with your family, it’s not uncommon to sit side by side on the couch, with your body close enough to be touching the person next to you. However, if you’re sitting in an office waiting room on a couch next to a stranger, it’s likely you’ll keep a reasonable distance between the two of you. In our day-to-day life, we generally allow people we know to be fairly close to us. But even when it comes to strangers in a crowded public place that seems safe simply because there are others around (such as a mall, bar, or lobby of a restaurant), it’s still a good idea to be aware of your distance and others’ mannerisms. You should keep a safe distance between you and a stranger. A good guideline for a safe distance (wherever possible) is two-arm’s length reach from a stranger. That distance allows you to hear what a person is saying, as well as provides you a reactionary gap should you need to effectively respond. Distance equals time and time equals safety, and that could be the difference between being safe or being the target of an attack. Verbal Boundaries Say what you mean in order to enforce your boundaries, such as “Leave now!” not “Can you please just go away?” or “Just leave me alone.” Make your point clearly and concisely. The more words you use, the more likely that your message will get lost. Avoid “please” and “thank you” in situations where you’re establishing and enforcing your boundaries. It’s okay to be polite as a tactical choice of words, but don’t qualify or give reason for your statement. Remember, it’s not what you say but how you say it, and being rude or angry when you’re dealing with a threatening situation can quickly make it worse. Know what you want, state it clearly and directly, and stick to it.

In 1964, the best-named gay activist of the era, Guy Strait, self-published an article entitled ‘What Is a Gay Bar’ (and laid out with the headline in French—‘Qu’est-ce Que C’est? Gay Bar’). According to Strait, while homosexual men had long sniffed out hotel lobbies, public squares, dive bars and gentleman’s clubs with a tacit reputation, a true gay bar was something different. His first rule for a gay bar was its ‘freedom of speech’—the use of idioms and unguarded sex talk. (Anyone who wanted to be schooled could order Strait’s own Lavender Lexicon: A Dictionary of Gay Terms and Phrases for two dollars.) Strait contended that while a cruisy hangout could fly under the radar, a gay bar might be forced to shut down based on the conversations. ‘Gay bars are not the best pickup spots,’ he wrote, ‘but they are the safest; they are not the worst thing that has happened to society and may well be one of the best.

A violent bout of laughter burst in my ears; I felt dizzy, but I could see, in the light-adorned lobby, everything was normal and no one was concerned. Not the blond in the flannel suit, who raised a magazine to his face, not the American Marines, who disappeared into the Jazz Bar, and definitely not the fat-necked old man, who clapped as though he were watching an amusing show.

session itself, I’ll change into a silk robe and some underwear that they’ll provide, so it doesn’t particularly matter what I wear for this initial part of the evening. I’m just here to get my bearings, have some (more) Dutch courage with Maddy in the bar area, and soak up the atmosphere. A sleek, beautiful brunette ushers us through the double doors at the end of the lobby, and we find ourselves in a stunning room. There’s an aesthetic overlap with Genevieve’s office and no suggestion of the den-of-sin vibe I was expecting. No black walls, or red leather banquettes, or sex swings. Maybe they’re all next door. No, the room here is all white, with luscious mouldings and spectacular deco chandeliers dimmed to their lowest setting. The massive picture windows facing the back of the building have their shutters closed, and it’s pretty dark, but nowhere near dingy. The focal point of the entire space is a huge bar, crafted entirely from backlit pink onyx, a line of sleek kelly green bar stools dotted in front of it. It’s utterly gorgeous. And the people? I glance around quickly. First impression is that I’m at the bar of Nobu or Sexy Fish. It’s a Mayfair crowd. Well-heeled. International. Accomplished-looking. Phew. Despite Genevieve’s reassurances to the contrary, I did wonder if this place was going to be this young virgin and a load of leering old men.

Embury was the first true cocktailian of the modern age, and he took time to analyze the components of a cocktail, breaking them down into a base (usually a spirit, it must be at least 50 percent of the drink); a modifying, smoothing, or aromatizing agent, such as vermouth, bitters, fruit juice, sugar, cream, or eggs; and “additional special flavoring and coloring ingredients,” which he defined as liqueurs and nonalcoholic fruit syrups. Embury taught us that the Ramos Gin Fizz must be shaken for at least five minutes in order to achieve the proper silky consistency, suggested that Peychaud’s bitters be used in the Rob Roy, and noted that “for cocktails, such as the Side Car, a three-star cognac is entirely adequate, although a ten-year-old cognac will produce a better drink.” In the second edition of his book, Embury mentioned that he had been criticized for omitting two drinks from his original work: the Bloody Mary, which he described as “strictly vile,” and the Moscow Mule, as “merely mediocre.” On the subject of Martinis, he explained that although most cocktail books call for the drink to be made with one-third to one-half vermouth, “quite recently, in violent protest of this wishy-washy type of cocktail, there has sprung up the vermouth-rinse method of making Martinis.” He describes a drink made from chilled gin in a cocktail glass coated in vermouth. Embury didn’t approve of either version, and went on to say that a ratio of seven parts gin to one part vermouth was his personal favorite. While Embury was taking his drinking seriously, many Americans were quaffing Martinis by the pitcher, and Playboy magazine commissioned cocktail maven Thomas Mario and, later, Emanuel Greenberg to deliver cocktail news to a nation of people who drank for fun, and did it on a regular basis. Esquire magazine issued its Handbook for Hosts as early as 1949, detailing drinks such as the Sloe Gin Fizz, the Pan American, the “I Died Game, Boys” Mixture, and the Ginsicle—gin with fruit juice or simple syrup poured over chipped ice in a champagne glass. A cartoon in the book depicts a frustrated bartender mopping his fevered brow and exclaiming, “She ordered it because it had a cute name.” The world of cocktails was tilting slightly on its axis, and liquor companies lobbied long and hard to get into the act. In the fifties, Southern Comfort convinced us to make Comfort Manhattans and Comfort Old-Fashioneds by issuing a booklet: How to Make the 32 Most Popular Drinks. By the seventies, when the Comfort Manhattan had become the Improved Manhattan, they were bringing us Happy Hour Mixology Plus a Primer of Happy Hour Astrology, presumably so we would have something to talk about at bars: “Oh, you’re a Virgo—discriminating, keenly analytical, exacting, and often a perfectionist. Wanna drink?

I purchased this earlier today. I’m sure you’ll look gorgeous in it. Go ahead and get ready, and when you’re done, come meet me in the lobby bar.

There happens to be a coffee bar in the lobby of the hotel. One afternoon while on a business trip in Las Vegas, I went to buy myself a cup of coffee. The barista working that day was a young man named Noah. Noah was funny and engaging. It was because of Noah that I enjoyed buying that cup of coffee more than I generally enjoy buying a cup of coffee. After standing and chatting for a while, I finally asked him, “Do you like your job?” Without skipping a beat Noah immediately replied, “I love my job!” Now, for someone in my line of business, that’s a significant response. He didn’t say, “I like my job,” he said, “I love my job.” That’s a big difference. “Like” is rational. We like the people we work with. We like the challenge. We like the work. But “love,” love is emotional. Love is something harder to quantify. It’s like asking someone “Do you love your spouse,” and they respond, “I like my spouse a lot.” It’s a very different answer. You get my point, love is a higher standard. So when Noah said, “I love my job,” I perked up. From that one response, I knew Noah felt an emotional connection to the Four Seasons that was bigger than the money he made and the job he performs. Immediately, I asked Noah a follow-up question. “Tell me specifically what the Four Seasons is doing that you would say to me that you love your job.” Again without skipping a beat, Noah replied, “Throughout the day, managers will walk past me and ask me how I’m doing, ask me if there is anything I need, anything they can do to help. Not just my manager … any manager. I also work for [another hotel],” he continued. He went on to explain that at his other job the managers walk past and try to catch people doing things wrong. At the other hotel, Noah lamented, “I keep my head below the radar. I just want to get through the day and get my paycheck. Only at the Four Seasons,” Noah said, “do I feel I can be myself.” Noah gives his best when he’s at the Four Seasons. Which is what every leader wants from their people. So it makes sense why so many leaders, even some of the best-intentioned ones, often ask, “How do I get the most out of my people?” This is a flawed question, however. It’s not a question about how to help our people grow stronger, it’s about extracting more output from them. People are not like wet towels to be wrung out. They are not objects from which we can squeeze every last drop of performance. The answers to such a question might yield more output for a time, but it often comes at a cost of our people and to the culture in the longer term. Such an approach will never generate the feelings of love and commitment that Noah has for the Four Seasons. A better question to ask is, “How do I create an environment in which my people can work to their natural best?

Some utopias become purer, harder, and harsher as they diminish, like an evaporating lake growing more saline every year in its shores of crystalline salt: think of the theorist-revolutionary Guy Debord, ostracizing and expelling people from the Situationist International movement until you could fit the future of artsy council communism around the back table of a Parisian bar. Some utopias dilute into the surrounding society that gives them context - the well-lit, spare, clean, glass-and-steel spaces of the Bauhaus are now the default settings for expensive apartments and bank lobbies, their mystic-visionary content reduced to homeopathic doses. Some die all at once with their founder or settle into a second act as businesses: silverware from the Oneida Perfectionists, hammocks from the Skinnerian behaviorist community Twin Oaks, or wind chimes from Arcosanti, which was once the be the germ of anthill arcologies honeycombing the planet. Of all these ways to end, a handful of utopian projects -perhaps the most successful - evaporate in practice but produce a persistent icon of the future for a group or a subculture, a shared arrangement of visions, a magnetic field by which other people unknowingly set their compasses. Extropy was one of these.

W Sta­nach nie­za­leż­nie od po­li­tycz­ne­go roz­da­nia rzą­dzi więc kilka po­tęż­nych or­ga­ni­za­cji lob­by­stycz­nych. Naj­waż­niej­sza z nich to Wall Stre­et, a więc banki i in­sty­tu­cje fi­nan­so­we. Drugą jest sek­tor mi­li­tar­ny oraz bez­pie­czeń­stwa. Wy­jąt­ko­wo groź­ny dla resz­ty świa­ta, co po­ka­za­ły wy­pad­ki sprzed de­ka­dy. Trze­ci blok to po­tęż­ne lobby izra­el­skie. Potem jesz­cze lobby gór­ni­czo-naf­to­we. Szcze­gól­nie wpły­wo­we od cza­sów Geo­r­ge’a W. Busha, który po­sta­wił wieu naf­cia­rzy na czele po­wią­za­nych z rzą­dem ogra­ni­za­cji zaj­mu­ją­cych się śro­do­wi­skiem. Na tym przy­kła­dzie do­brze widać, jak dzia­ła ta „neo­li­be­ral­na de­re­gu­la­cja”. To zna­czy naf­cia­rze w imie­niu rządu re­gu­lu­ją swój wła­sny sek­tor. I niech pan zgad­nie, w któ­rym kie­run­ku to re­gu­lu­ją! Oczy­wi­ście robią to w taki spo­sób, żeby więk­sza część kosz­tów ich dzia­łal­no­ści zo­sta­ła prze­rzu­co­na na in­nych. W tym przy­pad­ku na śro­do­wi­sko. W ten spo­sób ich pro­duk­ty mogą być śmiesz­nie tanie. A sek­tor ban­ko­wy? Do­kład­nie ta sama hi­sto­ria. Po­zwo­lo­no ban­kom w imię wol­no­ści ro­snąć do roz­mia­rów, gdy stały się zbyt duże, by upaść. I teraz rząd musi je ra­to­wać za każ­dym razem, gdy wpad­ną w kło­po­ty. I to nie tylko po­przez ba­ilo­uty. O wiele czę­ściej od­by­wa się to w spo­sób dużo bar­dziej za­ka­mu­flo­wa­ny. Przez dłuż­szy czas Fed mu­siał wpusz­czać w go­spo­dar­kę cięż­kie mi­liar­dy do­dat­ko­wych do­la­rów. W efek­cie na Wall Stre­et pa­nu­je nie­spo­ty­ka­na hossa. A re­al­na go­spo­dar­ka jak tkwi­ła, tak tkwi w kło­po­tach. Na rynek we­wnętrz­ny to się w ogóle nie prze­kła­da. To nie jest żadna de­re­gu­la­cja. To jest sa­mo­re­gu­la­cja.

was staying at the Empress Hotel in La Jolla, drinking overpriced cocktails at the windowless bar beside the lobby. I became friendly with the bartender Mildred. She had an English accent and looked eighty. Smoke billowed from her hideous mouth like an old coal-powered locomotive trying to survive the turn of the century. 

I was staying at the Empress Hotel in La Jolla, drinking overpriced cocktails at the windowless bar beside the lobby. I became friendly with the bartender Mildred. She had an English accent and looked eighty. Smoke billowed from her hideous mouth like an old coal-powered locomotive trying to survive the turn of the century. 

What should we do now?” She’d meant her question as a joke. After all, hadn’t they come here specifically to have sex? So she was surprised at his next words. “How about a game?” He climbed onto the bed and sprawled back into the mess of pillows against the carved wood headboard. “Like what?” A glance around the room revealed nothing. “I didn’t see any games. Do you think the lobby has some to borrow?” “That’s not the kind of game I was talking about.” “Oh?” Now she was curious. Did he mean something sexual? “Let’s play I never.” It took her a second, and then she remembered the game from high school. “The game where we say something we’ve never done and if you have done that something, you take a drink? Do we need beer?” “Yep. There’s a mini–bar in that cabinet.” She settled in across from him, crossing her legs. “Why do you want to play I never? Feeling nostalgic for high school?” “I want to know you better.” “You could just ask.” “Yeah, but this is more fun.” He grinned. “Planning on getting me drunk and having your wicked way with me?” “You read my mind.” He took a sip of beer and she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Let’s start off slow,” he said. “I’ve never watched television.” They both took a drink. The wine she’d selected was dry and she felt it in her nose as she swallowed. “Okay, my turn. I’ve never spent the night in a hotel with anyone other than my parents.” He drank. “You have? When?” “Twice in high school, once a few months back.” They hadn’t been together a few months ago, but hearing he’d spent the night in a hotel with a woman felt like a kick in her gut. “Loren, Xander, and I went to London to rescue Adam.” “Oh.” She felt instantly happy again. “What about the other times?” “Prom. A whole bunch of us chipped in to get a room. They kicked us out by 3:00 a.m. Money well spent.” She laughed. “And the other?” “I was the equipment manager for our high school basketball team. We made it to a big championship that year. Man, the moms baked every day for weeks so we could have bake sales and earn enough to get three rooms for the twelve of us. Good times,” he said nostalgically. “Okay, my turn again. I’ve never taken the SAT.” She took a long gulp of wine. “How’d you do?” “Good enough to get into college.” “Nice. But you didn’t go.” “Nope. Got married.” She took a therapeutic drink of wine. His mention of his trip to London reminded her of another thing she’d never done. “I’ve never been on a plane,” she said. Unsurprisingly, he drank. Had she thought they’d taken a boat or car to London? “But it was only that one time to London,” he explained. “I’d never been on a plane before.” “Did you like it?” She’d always wondered what it would be like to sit in a tube that high off the ground. And it was petty of her, but she liked that Rowan had a similar amount of experience to her when it came to world travel. She’d have felt inadequate if he’d been all over the world. “I was so worried about Adam, it was hard to concentrate on the flight. I’d like to go try it again. With you if you’re willing.” “I’d love to. My parents were big into road trips, and Jack never took me anywhere. I want to see as much of the world as possible.” “Then let’s do it. We’ll save up and head out every chance we get.” They grinned at each other. “Okay, another one. Prepare to get your drink on,” he said with a devastating grin. “I’ve never had long hair.” She drank, and understood his game at once. “I’ve never been in the boy’s locker room. Rowan drank. “I’ve never worn a bra.” She laughed and nearly snorted wine up her nose. “I’ve never shaved my beard.” He drank. “I’ve never shaved my legs.” She drank.” I’ve never…” She took another sip for courage. The wine was clearly getting to her or she never would’ve said her next thing. “I’ve never had an erection.

When she reached the elegant, jasmine-scented lobby (marble, chandeliers, floral displays) she saw that the rest of the band were already in the bar.