Lowkey Quotes

I'm kind of a low-key guy. The spotlight doesn't suit me. I'm more of a side dish--cole slaw or French fries or a Wham! backup singer.

He likes to be noticed. He’s not exactly low-key.” “I get it,” I said. “Loki. Low-key.

Jesus. Low-Key Lyesmith," said Shadow. and then he heard what he was saying and he understood. "Loki," he said. "Loki Lie-smith." "You're slow," said Loki, "but you get there in the end." And his lips twisted into a scarred smile and the embers danced in the shadows of his eyes.

And yet, despite repeated assurances that women aren't particularly sexual creatures, in cultures around the world men have gone to extraordinary lengths to control female libido: female genital mutilation, head-to-toe chadors, medieval witch burnings, chastity belts, suffocating corsets, muttered insults about "insatiable" whores, pathologizing, paternalistic medical diagnoses of nymphomania or hysteria, the debilitating scorn heaped on any female who chooses to be generous with her sexuality...all parts of a worldwide campaign to keep the supposedly low-key female libido under control. Why the electrified high-security razor-wire fence to contain a kitty-cat?

Weddings were joyous occasions, sure, but they were also low-key funerals, because after saying their vows people tended to disappear.

I hadn’t realized quite how much of early-days dating was pretending to be unbothered, or busy, or not that hungry, or demonstratively ‘low-key’ about everything.

Lowkey punchdrunk off this Sangria-sweet love and all it’s prodigious trappings…

Eyes skip a low-key profile.

Be flirty but not too flirty. Be confident but not aggressive. Be funny but in a low-key, quiet way. Eat cheeseburgers, but don’t get fat. Be chill, but don’t lose control.

It is a mistake to believe that the decisive moments of a life when its direction changes for ever must be marked by sentimental loud and shrill dramatics… In truth, the dramatic moments of a life-determining experience are often unbelievably low-key. It has so little in common with the bang, the flash, or the volcanic eruption that, at the moment it happens, the experience is often not even noticed. When it unfolds its revolutionary effect, and ensures that a life is revealed in a brand-new light, with a brand-new melody, it does that silently and in this wonderful silence resides its special nobility.

Lowkey bi, a little bit bi. Just be bi. Like, come on.” “What? No.” She draws herself up. “You don’t get to decide my label.” “It’s not a real label!

He grinned his low-key grin and stretched. She didn't look at where his shirt rode up. There was no reason to sail down Sexy Throughts River to the Sea of Perversion when it wasn't going to go anywhere.

I low-key believed in manifestation as long as I mixed it with a healthy dose of hard work.

He grinned his low-key grin and stretched. She didn't look at where his shirt rode up. There was no reason to sail down Sexy Thoughts River to the Sea of Perversion when it wasn't going to go anywhere.

Maybe I'll just go ahead and buy her the Tufte book. I'll bring it wrapped in brown paper. Wait- is that weird? It's an expensive book. Maybe there's a low-key paperback edition. I could buy it on Amazon. That's stupid, I work at a bookstore. (Could Amazon ship it fast enough?)

It was a godless sound; one of those low-keyed, insidious outrages of Nature which are not meant to be. To call it a dull wail, a doom-dragged whine, or a hopeless howl of chorused anguish and stricken flesh without mind would be to miss its most quintessential loathsomeness and soul-sickening overtones.

low-key change helps the human mind circumnavigate the fear that blocks success and creativity. Just

He was low-key and stating the obvious, but it was necessary because Rand's dogma is predicated on ignoring the obvious.

I lived in Boston until last year,” he said, in a falsely low-key way, because “Boston” was code for Harvard (otherwise he would say MIT or Tufts or anywhere else), just as another woman said, “I was in New Haven,” in that coy manner that pretended not to be coy, which meant that she had been at Yale.

You do not respond to your critic’s statements of wrongdoing with denial, defensiveness, or countermanipulation with criticisms of your own. Instead, you break the manipulative cycle by actively prompting further criticism about yourself or by prompting more information about statements of “wrongdoing” from the critical person in an unemotional, low-key manner.

If women were as libidinous as men, we’re told, society itself would collapse. Lord Acton was only repeating what everyone knew in 1875 when he declared, “The majority of women, happily for them and for society, are not very much troubled with sexual feeling of any kind.” And yet, despite repeated assurances that women aren’t particularly sexual creatures, in cultures around the world men have gone to extraordinary lengths to control female libido: female genital mutilation, head-to-toe chadors, medieval witch burnings, chastity belts, suffocating corsets, muttered insults about “insatiable” whores, pathologizing, paternalistic medical diagnoses of nymphomania or hysteria, the debilitating scorn heaped on any female who chooses to be generous with her sexuality…all parts of a worldwide campaign to keep the supposedly low-key female libido under control. Why the electrified high-security razor-wire fence to contain a kitty-cat?

I found Toronto an immensely likeable city, spacious and gentle and slightly dignified, but in a low-key, friendly way. The only people who didn’t seem to think much of it were its inhabitants, who could hardly wait for you to ask directions, because that gave them the perfect opportunity to apologise for it. What they were apologising for I never understood. I think they felt uninteresting, compared with America. I took the opposite view; I remember reading about the doctrine of American “Exceptionalism” and thinking that what I liked so much about Canadians was that they consider themselves unexceptional. This modest, unthreatening attitude seems to produce a nation that is stable, safe, decent and well respected. It’s just a shame that for seven months of the year it’s so cold that only Canadians would put up with it.

more generally low-key personalities suddenly rise to a specific challenge. In fact, they thrive. They actually need some stress to do their best.

mang these jews lowkey be sus doe no cap fr fr

Alma is a queen, Þórólfur is a king and Víðir is a lowkey dadddy!

THE SEVEN TRAITS OF ELITE CAPTAINS 1. Extreme doggedness and focus in competition. 2. Aggressive play that tests the limits of the rules. 3. A willingness to do thankless jobs in the shadows. 4. A low-key, practical, and democratic communication style. 5. Motivates others with passionate nonverbal displays. 6. Strong convictions and the courage to stand apart. 7. Ironclad emotional control.

Then, having nothing better to do, I leafed through the index and amused myself, in a very low-key way, by looking for ridiculous names, of which Australia has a respectable plenitude. I am thus able to report that the following are all real places: Wee Waa, Poowong, Burrumbuttock, Suggan Buggan, Boomahnoomoonah, Waaia, Mullumbimby, Ewlyamartup, Jiggalong, and the supremely satisfying Tittybong.

Craig was a nice guy, don’t get me wrong, but he was so low-key that once I’d gotten to know him, I was almost completely unable to have even imaginary conversations with him while cooking his recipes. Around

Popper’s falsificationism is intimately connected to the notion of an open society. An open society is one in which no permanent truth is held to exist; this would allow counter-ideas to emerge. Karl Popper shared ideas with his friend, the low-key economist von Hayek, who endorsed capitalism as a state in which prices can disseminate information that bureaucratic socialism would choke. Both notions of falsificationism and open society are, counterintuitively, connected to those of a rigorous method for handling randomness in my day job as a trader. Clearly, an open mind is a necessity when dealing with randomness. Popper believed that any idea of Utopia is necessarily closed owing to the fact that it chokes its own refutations.

I was beginning to enjoy his quiet, low-key style. When you've spent ten years in stir, as I had then, you can get awfully tired of the bellowers and the braggarts and the loud-mouths. Yes, I think it would be fair to say I liked Andy from the first”.

He was low-key, I was intense; things that cut me to the quick he was able to sail by with scarcely a notice; he was slow to anger, I quick; the world registered gently upon him, sometimes not at all, whereas I was fast to feel both pleasure and pain.

His father loved Joe to the extent that he was capable, but being a low-key individual not given to intense emotions, he expressed his love more often with pats on the head and affectionate smiles than with kisses and extravagant proclamations of devotion.

As is the Vermont way, our trips were pretty low-key. No entourage. No advance people. No communications director. No security. Just Phil and me flying in coach, renting cars, and showing up for meetings—trying to get a sense of the potential support that might exist.

She had not eaten supper and remembered the chicken and salad and wondered where Ervin was and imagined him in a nice restaurant, being pleasant with the waitress in a very low-key way, letting on nothing, a felon in flight, a murderer of possibilities, a their of happiness, a man guilty of so much, yet never standing trial for anything.

She expected an easy kiss. Good, perhaps, but not intense. He seemed like a low-key, moderately passionate person. As she’d been, without the right stimulation. Without this. What she got was a glancing blow of lips that soon turned to a furious meshing of mouths and teeth. It wasn’t elegant. It was messy and rough and God help her, bordered on dirty.

With the Regional Office breathing down her neck... Corinne had wanted to keep the Drury case low-key, uncontroversial. since Craig's disappearance had set he alarm bells off, Anna was willing to be she'd change tactics, make a noisy show of taking command of the situation. For a while the name of the game at Guadalupe Mountains would be Cover Your Ass.

Like the size and composition of a work, the walk and talk of an artist has to persuade, not just others but the performers themselves. Whether they have colorful, large-scale personas or minimal, low-key selves, believable artists are always protagonists, never secondary characters who inhabit stereotypes. For this reason, I see artists’ studios as private stages for the daily rehearsal of self-belief.

One thing about pioneers that you don’t hear mentioned is that they are invariably, by their nature, mess-makers. They go forging ahead, seeing only their noble, distant goal, and never notice any of the crud and debris they leave behind them. Someone else gets to clean that up and it’s not a very glamorous or interesting job. You have to depress for a while before you can get down to doing it. Then, once you have depressed into a really low-key mood, it isn’t so bad.

In his low-key, taciturn, winning way, Lindbergh told the airfield crowds and the radio listeners who he was and what he’d done, and by the time he climbed back aboard his plane to take off for his next stop, he could have announced that, following the von Ribbentrop White House dinner, the First Lady would be inviting Adolf Hitler and his girlfriend to spend the Fourth of July weekend as vacation guests in the Lincoln bedroom of the White House and still have been cheered by his countrymen as democracy’s savior.

The largest wooden old town in the Nordic countries, Vanha Rauma deserves its Unesco World Heritage status. Its 600 houses might be museum pieces, but they also form a living centre: residents tend their flower boxes and chat to neighbours, while visitors meander in and out of the low-key cafes, shops, museums and artisans’ workshops. Rauman giäl, an old sailors’ lingo that mixes up a host of languages, is still spoken here, and the town’s medieval lace-making heritage is celebrated during Pitsiviikko (Rauma Lace Week).

Three researchers at Stanford University noticed the same thing about the undergraduates they were teaching, and they decided to study it. First, they noticed that while all the students seemed to use digital devices incessantly, not all students did. True to stereotype, some kids were zombified, hyperdigital users. But some kids used their devices in a low-key fashion: not all the time, and not with two dozen windows open simultaneously. The researchers called the first category of students Heavy Media Multitaskers. Their less frantic colleagues were called Light Media Multitaskers. If you asked heavy users to concentrate on a problem while simultaneously giving them lots of distractions, the researchers wondered, how good was their ability to maintain focus? The hypothesis: Compared to light users, the heavy users would be faster and more accurate at switching from one task to another, because they were already so used to switching between browser windows and projects and media inputs. The hypothesis was wrong. In every attentional test the researchers threw at these students, the heavy users did consistently worse than the light users. Sometimes dramatically worse. They weren’t as good at filtering out irrelevant information. They couldn’t organize their memories as well. And they did worse on every task-switching experiment. Psychologist Eyal Ophir, an author of the study, said of the heavy users: “They couldn’t help thinking about the task they weren’t doing. The high multitaskers are always drawing from all the information in front of them. They can’t keep things separate in their minds.” This is just the latest illustration of the fact that the brain cannot multitask. Even if you are a Stanford student in the heart of Silicon Valley.

Something was pushing me, something that had very little to do with the look the Mongol had given me. Something dark that had spread its wings on the low-key misery of the cabin, something uncontrolled that Virginia Vidaura would have bawled me out for. I could hear Jimmy de Soto whispering in my ear. “You waiting for me?” I asked the Mongol’s back, and saw how the muscles in it tensed. Maybe one of the dealers felt it coming. He held up his exposed hand in a placatory gesture. “Look, man,” he began weakly. I sliced him a glance out of the corner of my eye, and he shut up. “I said—” That was when it all came apart.

Perhaps Bufalino’s closest friend was Philadelphia crime boss Angelo Bruno. Law enforcement referred to Bufalino as “the quiet Don Rosario”; Bruno was known as the “Docile Don” for his similar low-key approach to heading a major crime family. Like Bufalino’s family, the Bruno crime family was not permitted to deal in drugs. Because of his perceived old-fashioned ways Bruno was killed by greedy underlings in 1980. Bruno’s demise would lead to everlasting anarchy in his family. His successor, Philip “Chicken Man” Testa, was literally blown up a year after taking over. Testa’s successor, Nicodemus “Little Nicky” Scarfo, is now serving multiple life sentences for murder, having been betrayed by his own underboss and nephew. Little Nicky’s successor, John Stanfa, is serving five consecutive life sentences for murder. Frank Sheeran got a Christmas card every year from John Stanfa in his Leavenworth cell. John Stanfa’s successor, Ralph Natale, is the first boss to turn government informant and testify against his own men. Frank Sheeran calls Philadelphia “the city of rats.” On the other hand, Russell Bufalino lived a long life. He died of old age in a nursing home in 1994 at the age of ninety. He controlled his “family” until the day he died, and unlike Angelo Bruno’s Philadelphia family, not a sign of discord has been reported in the Bufalino family since his death. Frank

Hey, Mama?” This is Willa, gentle. “This is a lot. It’s so, so much. But I wonder if you want to shift gears? Grandpa is telling you something about—about himself, really. More than he’s telling you something about you, I think.” “Thanks, honey,” I say, and Jamie smiles, says, “Did you just low-key roast Mama for being a narcissist?” I love these kids more every day. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I say. “I’m so sorry. What a trauma—to grow up with so much pain in the house.” In his house. In everybody’s house. My god. All the motherless children. All the childless mothers. A canyon the size of a continent, and full of bones. “I can’t even imagine,” I say. “Forgive me.” I reach a hand across the table to him.

of the most momentous innovations tiptoe quietly onto history’s stage. On August 6, 1991, Berners-Lee was glancing through the Internet’s alt.hypertext newsgroup and ran across this question: “Is anyone aware of research or development efforts in . . . hypertext links enabling retrieval from multiple heterogeneous sources?” His answer, “from: timbl@info.cern.ch at 2:56 pm,” became the first public announcement of the Web. “The WorldWideWeb project aims to allow links to be made to any information anywhere,” he began. “If you’re interested in using the code, mail me.”31 With his low-key personality and even lower-key posting, Berners-Lee did not fathom what a profound idea he had unleashed. Any information anywhere.

D? Ribbit never gave tests before, and now he’s throwing Ds around?” Barnstorm laughs in his face. “It isn’t Ribbit’s fault you’re stupid.” He examines his own paper. The word INCOMPLETE is written across the top. “What?!” he complains. “At least I got a grade,” Aldo tells him. “I miss the old Ribbit,” Barnstorm complains. “Yeah,” Aldo agrees. “This is way too much like education.

The new prophets were men of a modest humane disposition: they brought life back to the village scale and the normal human dimensions; and out of this weakness they made a new kind of strength, not recognized in the palace or the marketplace. These meek, withdrawn, low-keyed, outwardly humble men appeared alone, or with a handful of equally humble followers, unarmed, unprotected. They did not look for institutional support: on the contrary, they dared to condemn and defy those in established positions, even predicting their downfall if they continued their established practices: "Mene, mene, tekel upharsin." "Thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting." Even more intransigently than kings, the Axial prophets dared depart from customary usages and traditions, not only those of civilization, but the sexual cults, with their orgies and sacrifices that derived from neolithic practices. For them, nothing was sacred that did not lead to a higher life; and by higher they meant emancipated from both materialistic display and animal urgencies. Against the personified corporate power of kingship they stood for the precise opposite: the power of personality in each living soul.

And Ut Pictura Poesis Is Her Name" You can’t say it that way any more. Bothered about beauty you have to Come out into the open, into a clearing, And rest. Certainly whatever funny happens to you Is OK. To demand more than this would be strange Of you, you who have so many lovers, People who look up to you and are willing To do things for you, but you think It’s not right, that if they really knew you . . . So much for self-analysis. Now, About what to put in your poem-painting: Flowers are always nice, particularly delphinium. Names of boys you once knew and their sleds, Skyrockets are good—do they still exist? There are a lot of other things of the same quality As those I’ve mentioned. Now one must Find a few important words, and a lot of low-keyed, Dull-sounding ones. She approached me About buying her desk. Suddenly the street was Bananas and the clangor of Japanese instruments. Humdrum testaments were scattered around. His head Locked into mine. We were a seesaw. Something Ought to be written about how this affects You when you write poetry: The extreme austerity of an almost empty mind Colliding with the lush, Rousseau-like foliage of its desire to communicate Something between breaths, if only for the sake Of others and their desire to understand you and desert you For other centers of communication, so that understanding May begin, and in doing so be undone.

With an obscure hesitation one steps into the day and its frame and its costume. Between the puzzlement and its summary abandonment, between the folds of waking consciousness and their subsequent limitation, is a possible city. Solitude, hotels, aging, love, hormones, alcohol, illness – these drifting experiences open it a little. Sometimes prolonged reading holds it ajar. Another’s style of consciousness inflects one’s own; an odd syntactic manner, a texture of embellishment, pause. A new mode of rest. I can feel physiologically haunted by a style. It’s why I read ideally, for the structured liberation from the personal, yet the impersonal inflection can persist outside the text, beyond the passion of readerly empathy, a most satisfying transgression that arrives only inadvertently, never by force of intention. As if seized by a fateful kinship, against all the odds of sociology, the reader psychically assumes the cadence of the text. She sheds herself. This description tends towards a psychological interpretation of linguistics, but the experience is also spatial. I used to drive home from my lover’s apartment at 2 a.m., 3 a.m. This was Vancouver in 1995. A zone of light-industrial neglect separated our two neighbourhoods. Between them the stretched-out city felt abandoned. My residual excitement and relaxation would extend outwards from my body and the speeding car, towards the dilapidated warehouses, the shut storefronts, the distant container yards, the dark exercise studios, the pools of sulphur light, towards a low-key dereliction. I would feel pretty much free. I was a driver, not a pronoun, not a being with breasts and anguish. I was neither with the lover nor alone. I was suspended in a nonchalance. My cells were at ease. I doted on nothing.

Books were the main reason Rose worked in bookstores, for no matter how chaotic and strange the worlds in them might be, it would always be a finite chaos, one in which you could safely immerse yourself without getting stuck. It was so different from the low-keyed, never-ending, creeping chaos of real life.

While Newport housed the numbers Bankers, Cincinnati was the domain of the Runners/Writers and pickups. Runners worked on a commission based on the total amount of bets they wrote from playing customers. The commission ranged from thirty-five percent to twenty percent and when consolidation came in the 1950’s it dropped as low as ten percent. Who were these Runners or policy Writers? Some were well dressed men and women, others were low-key housewives all participating in a business that required no high school, college or business education. They fanned out or ran across neighborhoods and cities looking for players. They booked numbers bets at hotels, schools, big and small businesses and at churches at the risk for being caught with policy slips, which was a misdemeanour, subject to a fine of $40- $50. My grandmother, Lula Harshaw, booked a small number of bets in our kitchen from players in a four block area. She worked for Albert “White Smitty” Schmidt who was

I will never forget the day I finally passed SAS selection. At the end of the long, grueling process of elimination, where 140 recruits had steadily been whittled down to only four of us, I finally found myself preparing to get ‘badged.’ Yet it was the most low-key event you could ever imagine. No fanfare, no bugler, no parade. Just the four of us that remained, standing in a small, nondescript outbuilding on the edge of the Hereford training camp; we were battered, exhausted, bruised and spent, yet our hearts were bursting with pride. The commanding officer of the regiment walked in, stood in front of us and said these words - I have never forgotten them: From this day on, you are part of a family. I know what you have had to give to earn the right to be here. The difference between the four of you and the rest of those who have failed is very simple: it is the ability to give that little bit extra when it hurts. You see, the difference between ordinary and extraordinary is often just that little word extra.’ He then added: ‘The work I am going to ask you to do now will continue to be arduous, even more so, in fact, but what makes our work here special is your ability to give that little bit extra when most simply give up. ‘You gave more when others gave up. That’s the difference.’ That short speech made a huge impact on me, and I never forgot it. The words were simple, yet for a young soldier, and one without a huge amount of confidence, they gave me something to hold on to. And I have done that ever since, through so many hard times in jungles, deserts, mountains and life. That little bit extra. Reaching our summits only requires us to hold on that little bit longer than most people are prepared to endure. Just that little bit extra, just that nose-length more.

I get it,” I said. “Loki. Low-key.

I would advise the curious reader to keep in mind the old adage “truth is stranger than fiction.” Expect the most outlandish, fantastic and unbelievable elements of this story to be true, and the more low-key elements to be fudged.

A Zaddy is a hot, intelligent older man who knows how to handle business inside and outside the bedroom. A little dominant. A little naughty. Makes you wet just thinking about him, and you low-key want to have his baby.

Low-key scenes, nighttime effects, and many outdoor sunlit scenes are shot at ratios much higher than 4:1.

Be private and stay low-key, remember there is no need to tell the crowds more than they need to know. Because they can't mess with what they don't know.

This time around, True Biz’s audiobook woke me from a dead sleep. I’d made my peace with audiobooks of my books, conceptually, and had kind of forgotten about the eventuality of this one. But this novel presented a whole new existential problem: in the writing itself, I had worked hard to make use of space on the page as a way to highlight the strength and clarity of ASL as a visual language. The result was just a small token of appreciation for what ASL can do—I had still flattened a 3-D language to two—but the signed dialogue looks and feels different than spoken dialogue in the novel, and I had no clue how they’d be able to make that distinction for a listener. I sent a low-key panic email to my editor. She said she’d flag it as a “challenge” for the audio team. Here’s what they came up with: The audiobook team would record the book as usual, and then record a signer performing the ASL dialogue in the book. Very sensitive mics would pick up the sounds of signing—the skin-on-skin contact, the mouth morphemes, the rustling of clothes. The listener would learn that these sounds beneath the dialogue were to mean the character was speaking ASL rather than English. We can’t capture ASL in sound form but, like the use of space in the printed text, it’s a token. I appreciate that a hearing team put some thought into the project, and were paying enough attention to notice that neither signed languages nor deaf people are silent. So yesterday, I went to the studio, rigged up with two heavy duty mics. When I first got into the soundproof room and looked around, I started to laugh. It was mostly foreign territory, but there was also a trace of the audiologists’ booths all of us deaf and hard-of-hearing people have spent so much time in".

Mozart once wrote a piece entitled “Leck mich im Arsch.” Which translates, roughly, as “Lick Me in the Ass.” Not exactly country club music.

And finally telling her story to Wilf Netherton, who’d looked like a low-key infomercial for an unnamed product.

that low-key change helps the human mind circumnavigate the fear that blocks success and creativity.

Talking to the man was like talking to an iceberg—a low-key hostile one.

Back when I was a messenger for Standard Oil in Rockefeller Center, I worked with another guy there named John Cazale. He was a few years older than me, lean looking, with a low-key manner. He had a modesty about him, but also a sense of reality, a groundedness about how the world really worked. He seemed to know something about everything. My grasp of the state of global affairs was that Hitler was gone and that was a good thing. Other than that, I had no idea what was going on. Johnny would be reading The New York Times, understanding every issue and making it comprehensible to me. At least, he tried. To my great surprise, when I showed up in Provincetown to start rehearsals for the play, there was John Cazale, who had been hired to take over the role of the Indian. He was the sweetest man ever, but he had a unique way that he liked to rehearse. He did not just simply want to run lines. When you did a scene with John, you’d start talking through the scene, and he would question every line, every word choice. It was an interrogation. He’d say to you, “What am I doing? I’m standing here. What do I think of that? I don’t know what I think of that.” They call it the unconscious narrative. And this is how he was. Then before you knew it, as you kept talking and talking and talking, you’d just slip into the scene with him. There’s a certain trust that comes with acting, like tightrope walking. With John, I knew that I had found a scene partner for life.

think Will’s ass was allergic to fun, and I hated that for him. I lowkey hated it for me too because our relationship was like watching paint dry.

In person, Mr. Desmond mixes low-key friendliness and on-message discipline.

On the eve of America’s entrance into World War II, Walter Brennan embodied fundamental decency and democratic virtues that made him indispensable to Cooper’s signature Everyman roles. Brennan’s performance in Sergeant York (September 27, 1941) foreshadows the country’s emergence from isolationism into a reluctant, then confirmed internationalism. Although Brennan received an Academy Award nomination for his work in Sergeant York, his low-key style is barely mentioned in later accounts of the film, which focus on Gary Cooper as Alvin York, a backwoods Tennessee conscientious objector who overcomes religious objections to war to become the nation’s greatest war hero. Brennan’s Pastor Pile persuades York to fight for his principles, to abide by the law and register for the draft, and then to serve in the army after he is denied conscientious objector status.

toddlers’ first reactions to their parents also ranged from very positive to very negative. Not surprisingly, most of the children who arrived home via long flights were exhausted and disoriented and reacted to everything with extreme negativity. The toddlers who then had to face a lot of people and activity at the airport were particularly unappreciative. A low-key welcome was unanimously endorsed by parents. Save the shower and welcoming party until the child has had a chance to settle in.

I took heart seeing that it was possible to stay modest and low-key and still do the work you wanted to do, that being competitive might actually muddy or even obliterate your own vision because you were so busy comparing, looking over your shoulder.

Luther’s understanding of the individual Christian life is in some ways refreshingly simple and straightforward. We live at a time when the church always seems to be looking for new and elaborate ways of winning converts, of discipling, of bringing people to maturity in the faith. Luther’s approach is rather different. Building upon the objectivity of God’s action in Christ as set forth in his Word, he sees the Christian life as one fueled by the reading and hearing of this Word, primarily in a corporate context. This is a great antidote to a number of perennial problems for Christians. First, there is the “need” for something more than the Bible. The success of books that offer something spectacular—whether accounts of dying and coming back to the land of the living or low-key claims to special, extra words from God—shows that the Christian world loves something out of the ordinary. Luther would respond that such things are absolutely unnecessary, for what we need is the Word of God in the humble, mundane form that he has given it to us. Why read a book on a child who claims to have died and come back when one can read the Gospels and find there God, clothed in frail human flesh, dying and rising again? Why desire further, special words from God when the great Word of God, Christ himself, is offered to every individual as the Bible is read, preached, and sometimes applied individually through the confessional? Luther would see the market for such books as a function of our striving to be theologians of glory, unsatisfied with how God has chosen to reveal himself to be toward us, and always craving to make God conform to our expectations of what we need.

Runnin'" Can't keep runnin' away..... [Verse 1: Fat Lip] I must admit on some occasions I went out like a punk and a chump or a sucka or something to that effect Respect I usedto never get when all I got was upset when niggas use to be like 'What's up fool!' and tried to seat a nigga like the Lip for no reason at all I can recall crip niggas throwin' c in my face down the hall I'm kickin' it in the back of the school eatin' chicken at three, wonderin' why is everybody always pickin' on me I tried to talk and tell tham chill I did nothing to deserve this But when it didn't work I wasn't scared just real nervous and unprepared to deal with scrappin' no doubt cuz my pappy never told me how to knock a nigga out But now in 95 I must survive as a man on my own Fuck around with Fatlip yes ya get blown I'm not tryin to show no macho is shown but when it's on, if it's on, then it's on! [Verse 2: Slim Kid Tre] There comes a time in every mans life when he's gotta handle up on his own Can't depend on friends to help you in a sqeeze, please they got problems of their own Down for the count on seven chickens shits don't get to heaven til they faced these fears in these fear zones Used to get jacked back in high school I played it cool just so some real shit won't get full blown Being where I'm from they let the smoke come quicker than an evil red-neck could lynch a helpless colored figure And as a victim I invented low-key til the keyhole itself got lower than me So I stood up and let my free form form free I don't sweat it I let the bullshit blow in the breeze in other words just freeze [Verse 3: Knumbskull #1] It's 1995 now that I'm older stress weighs on my shoulders heavy as boulders but I told ya till the day that I die I still will be a soldier and that's all I told ya and that's all I showed ya and all this calamity is rippin' my sanity Can it be I'm a celebrity whose on the brink of insanity Now don't be wishin's of switchin' any positions with me cuz when you in my position, it ain't never easy to do any type of maintaining cuz all this gaming and famin' from entertainin' is hella straining to the brain and... But I can't keep runnin I just gotta keep keen and cunnin'...

...have you ever seen a mother robin in her territorial mode? I watched one brutalize another female robin, then a minute later strike a hard blow to the back of a considerably larger Steller's Jay...Generally speaking, and again from my observations, most males of most species are actually fairly low-key and oriented toward to the idea of defense through song and display and, if necessary, scuffling. Progecting chicks in the nest, a female will be quick to drive away anyone deemed an intruder, and without much fanfare They're more direct and seem tougher to me. They go for the jugular, almost literally. As another bird, I'd much rather deal with a male.

Whereas Dre was low-key, Franco loved being the center of attention and made sure that he didn’t stop at anything to get it.

I didn’t know what to say, but I was low-key happy that the law got to Red before Jahiem did

Asia returned the gesture and turned back towards Truth. She couldn't even lie and say her feelings weren't low-key hurt. Truth had just played her in front of the next bitch. She couldn't even be mad because that wasn't her nigga.

The two women stepped back and looked at one another. “You look great!” they said simultaneously. Rachel tugged Ivy to the side of the concourse to avoid other passengers. “Sit, sit,” she said as she lowered herself back onto the bench. “Did you find a dress you want to wear?” “Yes, but I still don’t understand why you’re low-keying such a momentous occasion as your wedding.” “Luke and I love each other. Our relationship is so special that we don’t need all that hoo-haw. That’s why I told you just to find a nice gown.” “Speaking of Luke…” Ivy’s head swiveled from one side to the other. “Where is the man? I thought you two were inseparable.” Rachel

Heavy Issues (Bowen #2) : chap 9 Chapter Nine Christy paid for her soda and looked around. Tonight was a low-key event, no fund-raising dinner or dance, just good old outdoor-movie night. And thank God for it. Alden was a small town, but boy these people knew how to party. The whole park was packed, but she soon found Sophie at the far end and walked toward her, dropping onto a wooden chair the second she reached her, tired after a long day. She hadn’t had time to properly sit when Rose and her entourage approached them, the beautiful blonde glancing around and then focusing on Christy, disdain oozing from her. “Where did you leave Cole? Or has he gotten tired of you already?” Sophie snorted. “Wouldn’t you wish that.” “He’s filling in for Mike down at the gym—karate lesson. I’m very surprised you aren’t there drooling.” “We weren’t drooling,” Rose retorted. Ah, so they’d been there. What a surprise. “I still can’t believe he’s dating you. Did he lose a bet or something?” she asked, looking toward her friends. Bitch. Christy shrugged and offered her a sweet smile. “What do you want me to say? I just want to fuck the man, but he insists on dating me. Go figure that one.” Rose’s malicious eyes narrowed on her. “Enjoy it while it lasts. You can’t hold on to a man like that. You don’t have what it takes.” And with that parting shot Rose strode away, all long legs and swinging hips. “‘You don’t have what it takes,’” Sophie repeated, mocking Rose’s tone. “And what’s that, Botox and a bad case of sluttiness?

My theory is that improv is so avoided because it’s a rarity to see unbridled joy in our adult lives. We keep our emotions in check, and it’s collectively agreed that explicit displays of strong feeling are uncomfortable for everyone. It’s safer for us to remain low-key and miserable, especially in England, where it is the accepted norm.

Dermot came in about half an hour later. Normally, my great-uncle was at least content in a low-keyed way. Tonight he wasn’t even approaching happiness; he was actively worried. “What’s up?” “Claude’s absence is making them restless.” “Because he has such charisma that he keeps them all in line.” Claude had as much personality as a turnip. “Yes,” Dermot said simply. “I know you don’t feel Claude’s charm. But when he’s among his own people, they can see his strength and purpose.

If there’s no game, what’s the point? Why are we all even here?” Mattie groans. “What’s happening?” “It’s my new low-key vibe,” Robbie explains, without really explaining. “The days of drunk Jenga are behind me. Plus, we all know how that ended last time.” “Russ and Aurora fucked, and Henry ran down Maple Avenue naked. Two beautiful things that wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t stay true to yourself, Rob. Nate and Stassie, you and Lols… it happened at your parties. Where there were games! Hen and Halle, too! You’re the invisible string, brother. Why are you holding out on the rest of us?” “Does he always talk like this? Like if he just keeps going people will believe what he says? Because I’m almost one hundred percent confident that’s not what invisible string theory is about. Me and Halle listen to the song about it every single work shift.” “Yes,” multiple people say at once. “When he’s really drunk he likes to reimagine things to suit whatever he’s trying to do,” Robbie adds. “You don’t need a drinking game to have a good time, Mattie.

A low-key distraction,” I rush to add. “No glitter. Or dildos.” “You’re leaving too much off that list, David,” Sam admonishes, turning to Alistair. “No smoke, bubble, or laser light machines. No flash mobs. No fireworks or explosives of any kind.

Commonsense conservatism” had been her slogan: no extremes, no abuse, no prejudice. She stood for low-risk foreign policy, low-key policing, and low-tax government. But millions of voters still hankered after a big-talking macho leader, and Moore was winning their support.

People realized there was a way to do it in a very underground, low-key way that still counted and was still important,” says Sonic Youth’s Lee Ranaldo. “People got this idea that ultimately what mattered was the quality of what you were doing and how much importance you gave to it, regardless of how widespread it became or how many records it sold.

A curious scene, this low-key festivity just a day after Ma has died, but on the other hand people have to eat, life goes on. They’ll be drinking and making bawdy jokes soon after you go too.

But, as fate would have it, God actually had a surprise in store for me. The one. No, not Neo…though I can’t say I would be sad to get Keanu Reeves, I wanted someone just as sexy but way more low-key. My ONE and only.

Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr. The cool kids of the 1960s invited the old man who had been cool before they knew cool was cool to join them in a musical romp that nobody took particularly seriously. Crosby enjoys himself. He has nothing at stake, since he’s not the star who has to carry the film. He’s very casual, and appears to be ad-libbing all his lines in the old Road tradition with a touch of W. C. Fields’s colorful vocabulary thrown in: “You gentlemen find my raiment repulsive?” he asks Sinatra and Martin when they object to his character’s lack of chic flash in clothing. Crosby plays a clever con man who disguises himself as square, and his outfits reflect a conservative vibe in the eyes of the cats who are looking him over. The inquiry leads into a number, “Style,” in which Sinatra and Martin put Crosby behind closet doors for a series of humorous outfit changes, to try to spruce him up. Crosby comes out in a plaid suit with knickers and then in yellow pants and an orange-striped shirt. Martin and Sinatra keep on singing—and hoping—while Crosby models a fez. He finally emerges with a straw hat, a cane, and a boutonniere in his tuxedo lapel, looking like a dude. In his own low-key way, taking his spot in the center, right between the other two, Crosby joins in the song and begins to take musical charge. Sinatra is clearly digging Crosby, the older man he always wanted to emulate.*17 Both Sinatra and Martin are perfectly willing to let Crosby be the focus. He’s earned it. He’s the original that the other two wanted to become. He was there when Sinatra and Martin were still kids. He’s Bing Crosby! The three men begin to do a kind of old man’s strut, singing and dancing perfectly together (“…his hat got a little more shiny…”). The audience is looking at the three dominant male singers of the era from 1940 to 1977. They’re having fun, showing everyone exactly not only what makes a pro, not only what makes a star, but what makes a legend. Three great talents, singing and dancing about style, which they’ve all clearly got plenty of: Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, and Dean Martin in Robin and the 7 Hoods

Crosby, Sinatra, and Martin were three major male singing stars whose careers overlapped, with the emergence of their stardom in that order. They had distinctly different approaches to the cinematic frame. Sinatra’s entrance, even if he seemed cool, indifferent, and casual, was tantamount to kicking the door down. Crosby slipped in from the side, all low-key and “Don’t mind me.” Martin, perhaps as a result of having to stand around for years while Jerry Lewis swung on the chandelier, always established himself as outside the frame: “I’m just hangin’ loose out here and watchin’ the action.” These three men were all really good actors—great actors, even—but their singing defined them, and in that race Bing was the pacesetter. Although both Sinatra and Martin are probably better known today, and Sinatra is the gold standard of male singers, his role model was always Crosby. Nobody could upstage Crosby, partly because he was so good at appearing not to care. When he was present, everyone else seemed to be sweating it out.*18 Crosby never lost it. He presented himself to any audience as if the very idea weren’t in his brain pan.

*Note: if any of the musicians listed in the sections above is a full-time participant in one or more ensembles specializing in historical performance or contemporary music, they will display fewer of the characteristics I have described above and behave, instead, like vegans. Not Hollywood vegans, whose activism is displayed in a glossier, trendier way, but the kinds of vegans you find hiking the Appalachian Trail or existing in any place called “Portland.

Atticus is low-key hot. Like, I definitely wouldn’t have thought he was so…burly,” Zane said. “Right?” “Archer’s got that whole pirate thing going on,” Felix said. “Always looks like he’s wearing eyeliner.” “But Aiden is all mountain man scruffy,” Zane said, stealing part of Felix’s Nerds Rope. Noah pulled apart his Twizzlers. “The twins are pretty in a terrifying way. Like, they’d kiss you, but then probably dismember you and bury you under the foundation of one of Asa’s buildings.

She dged sideways, slipping her fingers out of his--- closer to the edge of the bed-- and went over the side with an ungainly tumble. She landed with a thump and a scream that woke Julian, who peered over the side of the bed in confusion. "Why are you on the floor?" "I've heard rolling out of bed in the morning helps you build up resistance to surprise attacks," Emma said, lying sprawled on the hardwood. "Oh yeah?" He sat up and rubbed his eyes. "What does screaming 'holy crap!' do?" "That part's optional," she said. She got to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster. "So," she said. "What's for breakfast?" He grinned his low-key grin and stretched. She didn't look at where his shirt rode up. There was no reason to sail down Sexy Thoughts River to the Sea of Perversion when it wasn't going to go anywhere. "You hungry?

In 1976 the Republicans were not yet the party of unhinged mystical anarchism they became over the next four decades. Rather, after the unhappiness, unfriendliness, cynicism, paranoia, and finally the high crimes of Richard Nixon, Americans were eager to install Mr. Rogers in the White House—that is, sincere, low-key, straightforward Jimmy Carter, a devoutly Protestant goody-goody complete with toothy smile and cardigan sweater whom Reston hadn’t even mentioned as a contender in his New Year’s election preview.

I’ve found weddings are the event of the world where people will most test your boundaries. If you are not used to drawing lines, you might not be ready to have a wedding. Consider going to a courthouse and calling it a day, because people will TRY YOU during weddings. I don’t know what it is about folks and that day. All types of randoms allasudden feel entitled to everything in your life. From the folks asking if they’re invited (if you have to ask, odds are the answer is a swift NOPE) to the kinfolk who wanna bring plus-four. You got plus-four money? WHO IS PAYING FOR ALL THEM PLATES?!? (Low-key, I know if my grandmother were alive when I got married, she’d have wanted to bring a whole posse of the village plus ten. And I’d have given it to her. I thought about her on my wedding day. She would have had an amazing time. She would have had her own entrance moment, like her church one. She would have worn ALL GOLD EVERYTHING with matching shoes and bag and dripping in at least five gold chains. She would have loved the man I married.)

Fuck, I can't get enough of you," he muttered, giving a shake of his head. Yeah, like that would clear it. "We should go upstairs---" "No. Picnic first," he muttered, knowing he'd regret this for the next few hours when he sat through the torturous process of putting food into her mouth while battling a distinct case of blue balls. "You deserve to be treated right." Confusion clouded her eyes. "I want you, Manny. I don't need all the fancy trappings." "This isn't a fancy date, it's low-key, and I want to spend some quality time with you." The confusion cleared, replaced by amusement. "You sure you're not a woman trapped in a man's body?" "Come on," he said, grabbing her hand. "Besides, the faster we eat, the faster you get to discover that my body is definitely all man." She fell into step without having to be asked again.

Your vibes are subtle and unobtrusive, and even though they’re always present, they can easily get drowned out by your clamoring mental chatter. It’s not that your spirit is reticent or shy; it’s just low-key and doesn’t often interrupt. So, until you are mentally quiet enough, you can easily miss your vibes. Just as it’s nearly impossible to listen to two people talk at the same time, you can’t hear your vibes if your ego is blathering nonstop over your spirit, competing for attention.

In other words, both Maddox and I have started the bonding process. Which means I’m low-key freaking out. I’m in love with Maddox, and that scares me. I want him—as in the forever kind of want. As in I want to build a life with him. No faking. Just us. But my life is pure chaos right now. Between my ghost and my crazy work schedule, I’m afraid he won’t want to put up with me. Just like everyone else before him.

you live next door to a really cute boy from your class, but you also become his girlfriend!” “Cassie!” It was my turn to squeal. “I’m not his girlfriend. We’re just friends!” “Friends don’t kiss each other. Twice!” Cassie replied with an adamant shake of her head. “And besides, I’m sure he’ll probably be your boyfriend soon.” My spine tingled at the thought: Tessa Hawkins… Sam Worthington’s girlfriend. My mother would have an absolute fit! No, it wasn’t possible. We’d just have to keep it low-key, for the time being, at least. What would my friends at school think? Not caring what they thought, I pushed that issue aside. “I’m not even sure if he really likes me,” I added with a frown. “What?” Cassie screeched. “How could he not like you? I mean, look at you! You’re so pretty and so nice and so everything… plus, why would he kiss you if he didn’t like you?” “Well… like I said… maybe I kissed him. Maybe he wasn’t planning to kiss me at all.” “Tessa, you’re overthinking it. You’ve just kissed a really good-looking boy. A boy who lives right next door to you. Oh my gosh, I am so jealous right now.

The thickness of the armor decking was increased by 1.75 inches, and giant torpedo bulges, or blisters, were added below the waterline on the exterior of each side of the hull. In theory, these bulges provided some measure of protection from torpedoes or near-miss bombs. They were filled with air in the outer half and water in the half next to the hull, and were designed to absorb the shock of an explosion and dissipate potential damage to the ship. Bulkheads bisecting the bulge limited flooding and damage to a particular section. All this meant more weight and new boilers and turbines were also installed to keep up Arizona’s speed, which peaked at 20.7 knots (23.8 mph) during post-overhaul sea trials. Returned to full commission on March 1, 1931, Arizona embarked President Herbert Hoover from Hampton Roads, Virginia, for a ten-day tour of the Caribbean, calling at Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands. It was the sort of low-key inspection of naval operations combined with a warm respite from wintry Washington that American presidents happily undertook in those years. Franklin Roosevelt would soon become a master of it.

We’d never again share a horsey-smelling cottage while learning to fly. Who shall separate us? Life, that’s who. I’d had the same feeling when Pa got married, the same presentiment, and hadn’t it come true? In the Camilla era, as I’d predicted, I saw him less and less. Weddings were joyous occasions, sure, but they were also low-key funerals, because after saying their vows people tended to disappear. It occurred to me then that identity is a hierarchy. We are primarily one thing, and then we’re primarily another, and then another, and so on, until death—in succession. Each new identity assumes the throne of Self, but takes us further from our original self, perhaps our core self—the child. Yes, evolution, maturation, the path towards wisdom, it’s all natural and healthy, but there’s a purity to childhood, which is diluted with each iteration. As with that hunk of gold, it gets whittled away.

Perhaps my low-key approach hurt us politically, but I was not comfortable proceeding in any other way.

There is a fascist way of being antifascist, is a reflection that arises from seeing how, often, the accusation of being fascist is used, in the most varied contexts. as a low-key dialectical argument to close a discussion for which one has no case. Perhaps it is because when all one is capable of doing is opposing an idea one ends up representing that same idea in the mirror.

The technically incorrect It’s me and That’s me have been part of our DNA since as long as English has been recorded. There’s something nice and low-key about them. Maybe we just crave a simple English equivalent of the French C’est moi.