Memorabilia Quotes

Venkat was silent for a moment. “Jack, I’m going to buy your whole team autographed Star Trek memorabilia.” “I prefer Star Wars,” he said, turning to leave. “The original trilogy only, of course.

They would chase the image rising from death, expect it, but then enter an empty room with a shrine of deadened memorabilia that made them lose their minds.

Just like that?” “Just like that!” Venkat was silent for a moment. “Jack, I’m going to buy your whole team autographed Star Trek memorabilia.” “I prefer Star Wars,” he said, turning to leave. “The original trilogy only, of course.

A shaft of sunlight pierced the dark cluds and she looked up to see a silver lining. It was a sign, she thought.

I dug out an old brown suitcase and threw a few clothes into it, then looked around my bedroom for memorabilia, but stopped when I remembered that the purpose of memorabilia is to trigger memory. I didn't want to be lugging my memories all over the place. They were to heavy.

Jack, I’m going to buy your whole team autographed Star Trek memorabilia.” “I prefer Star Wars,

He noticed that she threw away the crumbled bus ticket on the street as soon as she got down. He picked it up and put it in his pocket along with his own a memorabilia of their first date together, just like a strand of her hair he would find later on his shirt and the broken pen cap that she would go on to search in the laboratory and so many other such small things which he would collect.

For some people, history is simply what your wife looks good standing in front of. It’s what’s cast in bronze, or framed in sepia tones, or acted out with wax dummies and period furniture. It takes place in glass bubbles filled with water and chunks of plastic snow; it’s stamped on souvenir pencils and summarized in reprint newspapers. History nowadays is recorded in memorabilia. If you can’t purchase a shopping bag that alludes to something, people won’t believe it ever happened.

Going through a dead parent's memorabilia is a hazardous undertaking; there is a fine line between pleasure and pain.

Jack, I’m going to buy your whole team autographed Star Trek memorabilia.” “I prefer Star Wars,” he said, turning to leave. “The original trilogy only, of course.

Jack, I’m going to buy your whole team autographed Star Trek memorabilia.” “I prefer Star Wars,” he said, turning to leave. “The original trilogy only, of course.” “Of course,” Venkat said.

On the wall next to the door we’d entered through was a huge floor-to-ceiling bulletin/whiteboard combo and hanging from a thumbtack on the bulletin board amongst pictures and other various sorts of memorabilia was my bra. It’d been washed but it still had a good many blotches of pink on it. If that wasn’t shocking enough, the dialogue written over the last two weeks on the whiteboard pertaining to said bra certainly was. I’ll include the copy just so you can truly appreciate what I’m dealing with here. Tristan’s Mom: What’s this? Tristan: A size 34B lace covered slingshot. Jeff: Nice! Tristan’s Mom: Do I want to know? Tristan: I don’t know, do you? Tristan’s Mom: Not really. Are you planning on returning it or did you win some kind of prize? Tristan: I plead the fifth. Tristan’s Dad: Well done son. Jeff: Ditto! Tristan’s Mom: Don’t encourage him. Tristan: Gee, thanks Mom. Tristan’s Dad: Can’t a father be proud of his only child? Tristan’s Mom: He doesn’t need your help…obviously. Tristan’s Dad: That’s because he takes after me. Tristan: Was there anything else I can do for you two? Tristan’s Mom: Tell her I tried to get the stains out, but I’m afraid they set in before I got to it. Tristan: I’m sure she’ll appreciate your effort, but if I’m any judge (and I’d like to think I am) its size has caused it to become obsolete and she needs to trade up. Jeff: I’m so proud. Tristan: Thanks man. Tristan’s Mom: A name would be nice you know. Tristan: Camie. Tristan’s Mom: Do we get to meet her? Tristan: Sure. I’ll have my people call your people and set it up. Tristan’s Mom: I don’t know why I bother. Do you want anything from the store? Tristan: Yeah, Camie’s sleeping over tonight and I promised her bacon and eggs for breakfast. Jeff’s got the eggs covered but could you pick up some bacon for us and maybe a box of Twinkies for the bus? Thanks, you’re the best. Jeff: I have the eggs covered? Tristan’s Dad: He gets his sense of humor from you. Tristan’s Mom: Flattery will get you everywhere. How would you like your eggs prepared dear?

He'd end up back in his room again, moodily smoking whatever he could get his hands on, the sole source of light in the room the faint radioactive glow coming from the commemorative chunk of Earth in its crystal cube, inscribed with the famous quote from the Administration. AT LEAST WE GOT THE TERRORISTS, it said.

The Memorabilia, the abbey's small patrimony of knowledge out of the past, had been walled up in underground vaults to protect the priceless writings from both nomads and soidisant crusaders of the schismatic Orders, founded to fight the hordes, but turned to random pillaging and sectarian strife. Neither the nomads nor the Military Order of San Pancratz would have valued the abbey's books, but the nomads would have destroyed them for the joy of destruction and the military knightsfriars would have burned many of them as "heretical" according to the theology of Vissarion, their Antipope.

Never show them how weak you are.

Either my girlfriend's collection of "Sex in the City" memorabilia goes or I do.

All of us were poor, and no amount of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles memorabilia would change that

Discarding memorabilia is not the same as discarding memories.

The one who called himself the Apostle grinned pleasingly and added his newly acquired snapshots to his dimly lit gallery. The blood red walls were almost totally covered in newspaper cuttings, glossy photographs and assorted memorabilia. Swastikas, Nazi emblems and illustrations of Hitler’s infamous henchmen adorned this section of his gallery, and their images wavered with the effects of hundreds of lit candles.

America has no now. We're reluctant to acknowledge the present. It's too embarrassing. Instead, we reach into the past. Our culture is composed of sequels, reruns, remakes, revivals, reissues, re-releases, recreations, reenactments, adaptations, anniversaries, memorabilia, oldies radio, and nostalgia record collections. World War II has been refought so many times, the Germans and Japanese are now drawing residuals.

She [Bernice] didn’t like anything that had an adult theme, with only one exception, her collection of erotic female memorabilia. They were all antiques, fragments of other women’s sexuality that was somehow easier to deal with than her own.

... I think for some people the purpose of a memoir is to really display the facts, to share the story exactly how it hapopened. And while I worked to make sure this story was as honest as possible, that was never the point for me. This book was never about sharing memories; it was about sharing a feeling. I don't care what year the competition was it what dress I was actually wearing; I care about how it felt to be there; how it felt to win. And that's why I avoided all memorabilia. It seemed like driving to the rink to take a look of finding the pictures from my childhood iPhone would tell a different story, an external story. I wanted every moment in this book to come from my own head, with all its flaws and inconsistencies.

Running along the back wall was a long glass trophy case filled with loving cups, ribbons, school and sports memorabilia; in ominous proximity were several large funeral wreaths which, in conjunction with the trophies, gave that corner of the room a Kentucky Derby sort of look.

Understatement has become part of the tradition. A proposal to build a history room to house the football team's memorabilia was immediately shelved when many former players complained. What makes this program so special is what you carry in your heart, they argued, not what you hang on the wall.

Socrates replied: One thing to me is certain, Antiphon; you have conceived so vivid an idea of my life of misery that for yourself you would choose death sooner than live as I do.

What one believes does not, therefore, have to be proved, and a proposition can be ever so incontrovertibly proven without on that account being believed.

Faith is not the work of reason, and therefore cannot succumb to its attack, because faith arises just as little from reason as tasting and seeing do.

From then on he would make two or three trips a week to similar premises – bookstores, crystal shops, candle parlours, short-let niche operations selling a mix of pop-cultural memorabilia and truther merchandise from two or three generations ago – which had flourished along the abandoned high streets of the post-2007 austerity, run by a network of shabby voters hoping to take advantage of tumbling rents. Their real obsession lay in the idea of commerce as a kind of politics, expression of a fundamental theology. They had bought the rhetoric without having the talent or the backing. The internet was killing them. The speed of things was killing them. They were like old-fashioned commercial travellers, fading away in bars and single rooms, exchanging order books on windy corners as if it was still 1981 – denizens of futures that failed to take, whole worlds that never got past the economic turbulence and out into clear air, men and women in cheap business clothes washed up on rail platforms, weak-eyed with the brief energy of the defeated, exchanging obsolete tradecraft like Thatcherite spies.

Kita, Sederhana tanpa hiperbola Kamu, aku, kita dalam sebuah kata bernama rasa Tersirat makna terasa nyata dalam sebuah realita Sedikit dewasa, banyak bercanda Kita, Memorabilia dalam sebuah masa Mengisi waktu diantara sisa usia Menempati ruang hampa dalam lautan manusia Memberi sedikit jeda pada kesendirian yang tak terhingga Benarkah kita, sederhana tanpa hiperbola?

She drifted back to the gallery and looked down on the Great Hall. The grey and black flags danced before her eyes. Dear God, she couldn’t do it. They might as well ask her to go to Oxford and sit an exam. She could not be an ordinary mother to an ordinary baby. All those toys, the memorabilia of childhood. Perhaps it was different if you grew up happy, with memories of your father dandling you on his knee and your mother kissing your tears away. But for Elsie there was nothing but fear. Fear for the baby. Fear of the baby. Jolyon had turned out all right, she reminded herself. But it was easier with Jolyon being a boy. What if Rupert’s baby was born a girl? She could not love a daughter that looked like her. She could not bear to glance upon a mirror of her past without being sick.

Hawke continued to walk beside his lieutenant— a man who, as a result of his incredible feats during the battle in San Francisco, now had a fan club. Complete with “I (heart) Judd” and “Judd Is My Boyfriend” memorabilia. In the normal course of events, civilians wouldn’t have gotten anywhere near the former Arrow, but it had been impossible to evacuate the entire city prior to the Pure Psy attack.

They will be plotting a strategy for recapture; or will they really go off and discard me, vanish into the catacombs of the city, giving me up for lost, stashing me away in their heads with all the obsolete costumes and phrases? For them I’ll soon be ancient as crew cuts and World War songs, a half-remembered face in a high-school year book, a captured enemy medal: memorabilia, or possibly not even that.

For some people, history is simply what your wife looks good standing in front of. It's what's cast in bronze, or framed in sepia tones, or acted out with wax dummies and period furniture. It takes place in glass bubbles filled with water and chunks of plastic snow; it's stamped on souvenir pencils and summarized in reprint newspapers. History nowadays is recorded in memorabilia. If you can't purchase a shopping bag that alludes to something, people won't believe it ever happened.

I tell you, because military training is not publicly recognised by the state, you must not make that an excuse for being a whit less careful in attending to it yourself. For you may rest assured that there is no kind of struggle, apart from war, and no undertaking in which you will be worse off by keeping your body in better fettle. "For in everything that men do the body is useful; and in all uses of the body it is of great importance to be in as high a state of physical efficiency as possible. Why, even in the process of thinking, in which the use of the body seems to be reduced to a minimum, it is matter of common knowledge that grave mistakes may often be traced to bad health. "And because the body is in a bad condition, loss of memory, depression, discontent, insanity often assail the mind so violently as to drive whatever knowledge it contains clean out of it. But a sound and healthy body is a strong protection to a man, and at least there is no danger then of such a calamity happening to him through physical weakness: on the contrary, it is likely that his sound condition will serve to produce effects the opposite of those that arise from bad condition. And surely a man of sense would submit to anything to obtain the effects that are the opposite of those mentioned in my list. "Besides, it is a disgrace to grow old through sheer carelessness before seeing what manner of man you may become by developing your bodily strength and beauty to their highest limit. But you cannot see that, if you are careless; for it will not come of its own accord.

The Big House Brought to you by Pete the Palikos This four-storey sky-blue Victorian is a bona fide gem. The vast veranda offers ample space for pinochle players and convalescents alike. The basement is currently set up for strawberry-jam storage, but can also be used to hide the occasional demigod driven insane by the Labyrinth. The ground-floor living quarters, camp infirmary and combination rec room / meeting room are wheelchair accessible, as is a specially designed bronze-lined office. The rooms of the top floors stand ready to welcome overnight guests, while the attic, now free of its resident desiccated mummy, provides the perfect catch-all for camper discards and memorabilia.

Ah, dear Reader, is there a married man living who hasn’t purged his drawers and closets of premarital memorabilia, only to have one more incriminating relic from yester-life rear its lovely head? Kristy contends that old flames never die, not completely. They smolder for years in hidden places. They flare up again just when you think you’re over them. They can burn you if you don’t deal with them. Such is the price I’ve had to pay for not rooting out the evidence of my life B.C. (Before Contentment). Or, perhaps, for having planted it too well. But that, you see, is no longer an issue. Shall I tell you the crux of this argument? A man with a past can be forgiven. A man without one cannot be trusted. If there were no pictures in my drawer for Kirsty to uncover, I would have had to produce some.

Several years ago, I was invited to deliver a lecture on art and literature to the Tinworth Historical Society. While searching in the attic for a treatise of mine written during my student days at the Sorbonne, I came upon a large, dust-and-cobweb-covered trunk bearing the initials W.W. which I had never before noticed. Inside were stacks of paper tied in neat bundles and a large quantity of fascinating memorabilia - faded flowers, old invitations, scraps of satin, velvet and lace, postage stamps, jewelry, postcards from foreign capitals. The variety was endless. As I examined several bundles of paper more carefully, I realized I was holding a collection of drawings by Amelia Woodmouse, a promising young artist and a member of the family who had lived in the house at the turn of the century. From the delightful portraits and paintings depicting the life around her, and the accumulation of personal mementos, it was obvious that the artist had begun her collection in order to compile a family album, which for some reason, sadly, she never completed.

Our supposed leader was Miss Joyce, who had been working as a civil servant in the department since its foundation forty-five years earlier in 1921. She was sixty-three years old and, like my late adoptive mother Maude, was a compulsive smoker, favouring Chesterfield Regulars (Red), which she imported from the United States in boxes of one hundred at a time and stored in an elegantly carved wooden box on her desk with an illustration of the King of Siam on the lid. Although our office was not much given to personal memorabilia, she kept two posters pinned to the wall beside her in defence of her addiction. The first showed Rita Hayworth in a pinstriped blazer and white blouse, her voluminous red hair tumbling down around her shoulders, professing that ‘ALL MY FRIENDS KNOW THAT CHESTERFIELD IS MY BRAND’ while holding an unlit cigarette in her left hand and staring off into the distance, where Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin were presumably pleasuring themselves in anticipation of erotic adventures to come. The second, slightly peeling at the edges and with a noticeable lipstick stain on the subject’s face, portrayed Ronald Reagan seated behind a desk that was covered in cigarette boxes, a Chesterfield hanging jauntily from the Gipper’s mouth. ‘I’M SENDING CHESTERFIELDS TO ALL MY FRIENDS. THAT’S THE MERRIEST CHRISTMAS ANY SMOKER CAN HAVE – CHESTERFIELD MILDNESS PLUS NO UNPLEASANT AFTER-TASTE’ it said, and sure enough he appeared to be wrapping boxes in festive paper for the likes of Barry Goldwater and Richard Nixon, who, I’m sure, were only thrilled to receive them

I have chosen to use the terms lesbian existence and lesbian continuum because the word lesbianism has a clinical and limiting ring Lesbian existence suggests both the fact of the historical presence of lesbians and our continuing creation of the meaning of that existence I mean the term lesbian continuum to include a range—through each woman’s life and throughout history—of woman-identified experience; not simply the fact that a woman has had or consciously desired genital sexual experience with another woman. If we expand it to embrace many more forms of primary intensity between and among women, including the sharing of a rich inner life, the bonding against male tyranny, the giving and receiving of practical and political support; if we can also hear in it such associations as marriage resistance and the ‘haggard’ behavior identified by Mary Daly (obsolete meanings ‘intractable,’ ‘willful,’ ‘wanton,’ and ‘unchaste’ a woman reluctant to yield to wooing’)—we begin to grasp breadths of female history and psychology that have lain out of reach as a consequence of limited, mostly clinical, definitions of ‘lesbianism.’ Lesbian existence comprises both the breaking of a taboo and the rejection of a compulsory way of life It is also a direct or indirect attack on male right of access to women But it is more than these, although we may first begin to perceive it as a form of nay-saying to patriarchy, an act or resistance It has of course included role playing, self-hatred, breakdown, alcoholism, suicide, and intrawoman violence; we romanticize at our peril what it means to love and act against the grain, and under heavy penalties; and lesbian existence has been lived (unlike, say, Jewish or Catholic existence) without access to any knowledge of a tradition, a continuity, a social underpinning The destruction of records and memorabilia and letters documenting the realities of lesbian existence must be taken very seriously as a means of keeping heterosexuality compulsory for women, since what has been kept from our knowledge is joy, sensuality, courage, and community, as well as guilt, self-betrayal, and pain.

Christopher Cerf has been composing songs for Sesame Street for twenty-five years. His large Manhattan townhouse is full of Sesame Street memorabilia – photographs of Christopher with his arm around Big Bird, etc. ‘Well, it’s certainly not what I expected when I wrote them,’ Christopher said. ‘I have to admit, my first reaction was, “Oh my gosh, is my music really that terrible?” ’ I laughed. ‘I once wrote a song for Bert and Ernie called “Put Down The Ducky”,’ he said, ‘which might be useful for interrogating members of the Ba’ath Party.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. ‘This interview,’ Christopher said, ‘has been brought to you by the letters W, M and D.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. We both laughed. I paused. ‘And do you think that the Iraqi prisoners, as well as giving away vital information, are learning new letters and numbers?’ I said. ‘Well, wouldn’t that be an incredible double win?’ said Christopher. Christopher took me upstairs to his studio to play me one of his Sesame Street compositions, called ‘Ya! Ya! Das Is a Mountain!’ ‘The way we do Sesame Street,’ he explained, ‘is that we have educational researchers who test whether these songs are working, whether the kids are learning. And one year they asked me to write a song to explain what a mountain is, and I wrote a silly yodelling song about what a mountain was.’ Christopher sang me a little of the song: Oompah-pah! Oompah-pah! Ya! Ya! Das is a mountain! Part of zee ground zat sticks way up high! ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘forty per cent of the kids had known what a mountain was before they heard the song, and after they heard the song, only about twenty-six per cent knew what a mountain was. That’s all they needed. You don’t know what a mountain is now, right? It’s gone! So I figure if I have the power to suck information out of people’s brains by writing these songs, maybe that’s something that could be useful to the CIA for brainwashing techniques.’ Just then, Christopher’s phone rang. It was a lawyer from his music publishers, BMI. I listened into Christopher’s side of the conversation: ‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘I see . . . Well, theoretically they have to log that and I should be getting a few cents for every prisoner, right? Okay. Bye, bye . . .’ ‘What was that about?’ I asked Christopher. ‘Whether I’m due some money for the performance royalties,’ he explained. ‘Why not? It’s an American thing to do. If I have the knack of writing songs that can drive people crazy sooner and more effectively than others, why shouldn’t I profit from that?’ This is why, later that day, Christopher asked Danny Epstein – who has been the music supervisor of Sesame Street since the very first programme was broadcast in July 1969 – to come to his house. It would be Danny’s responsibility to collect the royalties from the military if they proved negligent in filing a music-cue sheet.

From my febrile imagination, I conjure a time capsule of the seventies—faux wood paneling, disco records, memorabilia and awards. Maybe a sunken living room. Maybe a sex swing. Maybe a wicker sex swing.

Memorabilia/pictures/letters. Place in an attractive, large decorative box on a bookshelf.

But the limp tent sputtering to life transfixes Thaddeus. It morphs and undulates like a lava flow. Forms rise in the fabric only to collapse as the gas reaches toward equilibrium. "It's just the wind," Cheryl says, but he ignores her. His home is turmoil. Right now poison pours over Cheryl's clothes and into Stevie's old room. Next will be the garage, or would that have been first? Ultimately, the order matters little to him. Gas will eventually coil around everything like a cat settling down for a nap: his law books in the attic, the photograph in the family room of Stevie leaning over the rail at Niagara Falls pretending to slip, the Hawaiian leis from a family vacation he can't quite remember, entire drawers full of odd knickknacks and fading memorabilia that attest to a life well lived, tangible proof of memories made even if the memories themselves rise more sluggishly and infrequently than they used to—all of it, ultimately, choking on gas. But how many of the termites?

This is evident in the fact that St Pauli have a club shop in New York, selling all sorts of memorabilia and apparel even though it’s not actually anything to do with the fans and their beliefs. There’s another place in Madrid that sells official St Pauli gear. During my travels, I am yet to encounter a shop that sells Rayo gear.

Now it's a loud, slick sports bar like a thousand others across the nation. For some reason, they kept the name and also attempted to keep some of the original spirit by covering the walls with a pasteurized mishmash of blue-collar manliness: sports memorabilia, brand-new parts of old-model cars, a length of shiny railroad track, a mounted deer head. Now just as many women come here as men. The place reverberates with the sound of raised voices trying to compete with the noise coming from the twenty TVs. On weekends they compound the problem by having live music.

She was home, the passage walls, memorabilia of Ben's life, past and present, welcomed her like a doting grandmother.

In Kawasaki, Japan, they hold an annual fertility festival where people parade gigantic phallic-shaped portable Shinto shrines down the streets during the event, as revelers suck on penis lollipops, buy penis-themed memorabilia and pose with sculptures in the shape of penises.

During that second year of law school, Usha and I traveled to D.C. for follow-up interviews with a few law firms. I returned to our hotel room, dejected that I had just performed poorly with one of the firms I really wanted to work for. When Usha tried to comfort me, to tell me that I’d probably done better than I expected, but that even if I hadn’t, there were other fish in the sea, I exploded. “Don’t tell me that I did fine,” I yelled. “You’re just making an excuse for weakness. I didn’t get here by making excuses for failure.” I stormed out of the room and spent the next couple of hours on the streets of D.C.’s business district. I thought about that time Mom took me and our toy poodle to Middletown’s Comfort Inn after a screaming match with Bob. We stayed there for a couple of days, until Mamaw convinced Mom that she had to return home and face her problems like an adult. And I thought about Mom during her childhood, running out the back door with her mother and sister to avoid another night of terror with her alcoholic father. I was a third-generation escaper. I was near Ford’s Theatre, the historic location where John Wilkes Booth shot Abraham Lincoln. About half a block from the theater is a corner store that sells Lincoln memorabilia. In it, a large Lincoln blow-up doll with an extraordinarily large grin gazes at those walking by. I felt like this inflatable Lincoln was mocking me. Why the hell is he smiling? I thought. Lincoln was melancholy to begin with, and if any place invoked a smile, surely it wouldn’t be a stone’s throw away from the place where someone shot him in the head. I turned the corner, and after a few steps I saw Usha sitting on the steps of Ford’s Theatre. She had run after me, worried about me being alone. I realized then that I had a problem—that I must confront whatever it was that had, for generations, caused those in my family to hurt those whom they loved. I apologized profusely to Usha. I expected her to tell me to go fuck myself, that it would take days to make up for what I’d done, that I was a terrible person. A sincere apology is a surrender, and when someone surrenders, you go in for the kill. But Usha wasn’t interested in that. She calmly told me through her tears that it was never acceptable to run away, that she was worried, and that I had to learn how to talk to her. And then she gave me a hug and told me that she accepted my apology and was glad I was okay. That was the end of it. Usha hadn’t learned how to fight in the hillbilly school of hard knocks.

Dan Corrieri combines his engineering degree from Wichita State University with his role as Sales Engineer and Chairman of the Society of Manufacturing Engineers. His Marine Corps experience enhances his leadership. Outside work, he enjoys rugby, boating, and collecting baseball memorabilia, while dreaming of visiting Italy, Ireland, and Australia/New Zealand.

An avid collector of Old West memorabilia, Walter Brennan remained ensconced in a vision of the American frontier and the myth of bootstrap individualism. As early as 1962, he was deploring the image of America that Hollywood sent abroad with pictures such as West Side Story. “Why don’t we make more pictures like How the West Was Won, The Alamo, The Best Years of Our Lives, and The Westerner?” he asked journalist Jean Bosquet of the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner. Brennan did not seem to realize that in his portrayal of Judge Roy Bean, a character whose mentality borders on a kind of homegrown fascism, he had conveyed the impression of a lawless West.

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.

Giddard presented them with a collection of Sulese memorabilia and commentaries. Loosely translated, some of them would have read: “The grass sparkled with dew droppings.” Warton, I am not sure if that is intended as a beautiful or a horrible image. “I was tort to extinguish riyt from rong.” Bede, apparently not. “Sulese are always inviting you to go for dinner to get murdered.” Kian, it would seem from this that Sulese are enthusiastically hospitable, transparent of motive, and not very good at committing murder. All are grave errors. “Sulese food on heads with never eat hats.” Cayde, Sulese order word important very is. It must learn you.

A local director had teamed up with ESPN to tell a story about the Baltimore Colts Marching Band, and the film came out in October of 2009. The 30 for 30 documentary entitled The Band That Wouldn’t Die was about how the band stayed in existence for 12 years after the team’s painful midnight exodus to Indianapolis and how they eventually became the Marching Ravens.

Lifebooks typically contain pictures of the child from as young an age as are available, pictures of important people such as birth parents and other caregivers, copies of important letters and documents that marked different phases of the adoption process, and memorabilia associated with his life transitions.

In 2014, we worked together for the last time. We did a Volkswagen commercial—for German television. It was a simple concept to introduce its new electric car. In recognition of the international appeal of Star Trek, a young German boy recognizes me. As the theme plays in the background, he runs into his room, which is filled from floor to ceiling with Star Trek memorabilia. Then, as the Star Trek theme plays, a garage door slowly lifts open to reveal—the new Volkswagen—with me driving. As the two of us drive along, we suddenly stop next to a futuristic concept car—with Leonard driving. He looks at us, looks at the car, and says the one word that so defined Spock: “Fascinating.” It’s hard to believe that was the last time I saw him, but it was.

What happened to the troubled young reporter who almost brought this magazine down The last time I talked to Stephen Glass, he was pleading with me on the phone to protect him from Charles Lane. Chuck, as we called him, was the editor of The New Republic and Steve was my colleague and very good friend, maybe something like a little brother, though we are only two years apart in age. Steve had a way of inspiring loyalty, not jealousy, in his fellow young writers, which was remarkable given how spectacularly successful he’d been in such a short time. While the rest of us were still scratching our way out of the intern pit, he was becoming a franchise, turning out bizarre and amazing stories week after week for The New Republic, Harper’s, and Rolling Stone— each one a home run. I didn’t know when he called me that he’d made up nearly all of the bizarre and amazing stories, that he was the perpetrator of probably the most elaborate fraud in journalistic history, that he would soon become famous on a whole new scale. I didn’t even know he had a dark side. It was the spring of 1998 and he was still just my hapless friend Steve, who padded into my office ten times a day in white socks and was more interested in alphabetizing beer than drinking it. When he called, I was in New York and I said I would come back to D.C. right away. I probably said something about Chuck like: “Fuck him. He can’t fire you. He can’t possibly think you would do that.” I was wrong, and Chuck, ever-resistant to Steve’s charms, was as right as he’d been in his life. The story was front-page news all over the world. The staff (me included) spent several weeks re-reporting all of Steve’s articles. It turned out that Steve had been making up characters, scenes, events, whole stories from first word to last. He made up some funny stuff—a convention of Monica Lewinsky memorabilia—and also some really awful stuff: racist cab drivers, sexist Republicans, desperate poor people calling in to a psychic hotline, career-damaging quotes about politicians. In fact, we eventually figured out that very few of his stories were completely true. Not only that, but he went to extreme lengths to hide his fabrications, filling notebooks with fake interview notes and creating fake business cards and fake voicemails. (Remember, this was before most people used Google. Plus, Steve had been the head of The New Republic ’s fact-checking department.) Once we knew what he’d done, I tried to call Steve, but he never called back. He just went missing, like the kids on the milk cartons. It was weird. People often ask me if I felt “betrayed,” but really I was deeply unsettled, like I’d woken up in the wrong room. I wondered whether Steve had lied to me about personal things, too. I wondered how, even after he’d been caught, he could bring himself to recruit me to defend him, knowing I’d be risking my job to do so. I wondered how I could spend more time with a person during the week than I spent with my husband and not suspect a thing. (And I didn’t. It came as a total surprise). And I wondered what else I didn’t know about people. Could my brother be a drug addict? Did my best friend actually hate me? Jon Chait, now a political writer for New York and back then the smart young wonk in our trio, was in Paris when the scandal broke. Overnight, Steve went from “being one of my best friends to someone I read about in The International Herald Tribune, ” Chait recalled. The transition was so abrupt that, for months, Jon dreamed that he’d run into him or that Steve wanted to talk to him. Then, after a while, the dreams stopped. The Monica Lewinsky scandal petered out, George W. Bush became president, we all got cell phones, laptops, spouses, children. Over the years, Steve Glass got mixed up in our minds with the fictionalized Stephen Glass from his own 2003 roman à clef, The Fabulist, or Steve Glass as played by Hayden Christiansen in the 2003

There was a silence, and I looked at Laura—really looked at her—and had the sudden impression that I was having dinner with a simulacrum, a knockoff. I felt like the man who buys the box of genuine wartime memorabilia at auction and brings it home to discover, under the first layer, piles and piles of shredded newspaper.

As a memorial fund in her memory attracts hundreds of millions of pounds, as Elton John’s Diana tribute becomes the fastest- and biggest-selling record of all time, as the books, videos, magazines and other memorabilia emerge, Diana has joined the pantheon of the immortals.

Your face may not be on a billboard, and your name may not be on any memorabilia, but if you are bold enough to pursue your purpose in life, many people will come on board and realize that you were born for a special cause.

Your face may not be on a billboard, and your name may not be on any memorabilia, but if you are bold enough to pursue your purpose in life, many people will come on board and realize that you were born for a special cause.

Here, too, goes a large volume of photographs and other memorabilia. Although it feels odd to discard these things, so meticulously saved, where else could they go? Janice suggested a storage unit, but why? There is no one left to want them.

Además de Platón, otros contemporáneos también escribieron sobre Sócrates, ofreciendo perspectivas diversas. Jenofonte, un general ateniense y también estudiante de Sócrates, escribió "Memorabilia", donde presenta a Sócrates como un moralista más directo y menos sofisticado que el retratado por Platón. Aristófanes, un comediógrafo, ridiculizó a Sócrates en sus obras, lo que indica su notoriedad en Atenas, pero su retrato es más satírico que preciso. Aristóteles, alumno de Platón, también mencionó a Sócrates en sus escritos, aunque con ciertas reservas sobre la fiabilidad de sus observaciones.

Unlike Dede, Auntie was a pack rat who crammed every space in her house with some object or another, and she was constantly rearranging. She had a large collection of mammy dolls and darkie memorabilia from the 1930s and 1940s, watermelon-eating and big-lipped reminders of the times she’d grown up in. Better for me to collect it than those other folks, she always said.

Leni took a picture of Matthew in front of the Salty Dawg Saloon. One hundred years ago, it had been the post office and grocery store for this out-of-the-way spot that even Alaskans called Land’s End. Now the old girl was a dark, twisty tavern where locals rubbed elbows with tourists and the walls were decorated in memorabilia. Matthew wrote LENI AND MATTHEW on a dollar bill and pinned it to the wall where it was immediately lost among the thousands of bills and scraps of paper around it.

It's odd. I am out of sync but, then again, I've always been out of sync. I've never made sense. Nothing has ever really made sense to me. I've wanted Truth. I've wanted Understanding. I've found neither.

This high-souled gentry and this noble and far-descended peasantry, 'their country's pride,' were set at naught and ultimately obliterated for a set of greedy, secular adventurers, by the then representatives of the Ancient Earls of Sutherland.

Only your memories exist in my life’s memorabilia; My life’s scrapbook starts and ends with you. My love story has only six words That’s it…You’re the only one

What was the subject matter of ‘Electronics’?” “That too is written,” said Francis, who had searched the Memorabilia from high to low in attempt to find clues which might make the blueprint slightly more comprehensible - but to very small avail. “The subject matter of Electronics was the electron,” he explained. “So it is written, indeed. I am impressed. I know so little of these things. What, pray, was the ‘electron’?” “Well, there is one fragmentary source which alludes to it as ‘A Negative Twist of Nothingness,’” “What! How did they negate a nothingness? Wouldn't that make it a somethingness?” “Perhaps the negation applies to ‘twist.’” “Ah! Then we would have an ‘Untwisted Nothing,’ eh? Have you discovered how to untwist a nothingness?” “Not yet,” Francis admitted. “Well, keep at it, Brother! How clever they must have been, those ancients – to know how to untwist nothing. Keep at it and you may learn how. Then we’d have the ‘electron’ in our midst, wouldn't we? Whatever would we do with it? Put it on the altar in the chapel?

What was the subject matter of 'Electronics'?" “That too is written,” said Francis, who had searched the Memorabilia from high to low in attempt to find clues which might make the blueprint slightly more comprehensible - but to very small avail. “The subject matter of Electronics was the electron,” he explained. “So it is written, indeed. I am impressed. I know so little of these things. What, pray, was the ‘electron’?” “Well, there is one fragmentary source which alludes to it as ‘A Negative Twist of Nothingness,’” “What! How did they negate a nothingness? Wouldn't that make it a somethingness?” “Perhaps the negation applies to ‘twist.’” “Ah! Then we would have an ‘Untwisted Nothing,’ eh? Have you discovered how to untwist a nothingness?” “Not yet,” Francis admitted. “Well, keep at it, Brother! How clever they must have been, those ancients – to know how to untwist nothing. Keep at it and you may learn how. Then we’d have the ‘electron’ in our midst, wouldn't we? Whatever would we do with it? Put it on the altar in the chapel?” ― Walter Miller, A CANTICLE FOR LEIBOWITZ

She left her mother in the living room and headed for her childhood bedroom, with its canopy bed and pink ruffles. Most kids had posters in their rooms, but Mom hadn’t allowed tacks to be stuck into her expensive wallpaper, so Frankie had framed art on her walls. A row of old stuffed animals sat along the top of her bookshelf. A pink ballerina jewelry box on the bedside table held junior and high school trinkets, probably a stack of senior pictures and prom memorabilia. You knew what was expected of a girl who slept in a room like this.

I will become the founding member of the I Hate Mark Club (#ihatemarkclub). I will plan to hold weekly meetings to talk about his stupid hair and make fun of his finger guns. Every year, I will host I Hate Mark Con in Vegas for the most enthusiastic club members. I’ll make t-shirts and commemorative memorabilia and…

If you put all of my memorabilia and artifacts together, you would get the most accurate story of who I was and what I valued at any one point in my life. And you’d probably need no more than a standard issue dining room table to lay it out.

Sports Card Rock website started in the 1990s and was one of the most trusted resources on the web for Sports Cards, Collectibles, and Memorabilia. Over time the site was forgotten about and lost to the internet. Many other great sites from that time have been repurposed into something else. However, I bought the domain name for the site in 2019 when I saw it go up for sale. Since then, we’ve gone about turning Sports Cards Rock back into one of the premium sports card resources on the net.

Memorabilia Aku kira engkau tak pernah melihat diriku sebagai hujan yang menangis lirih saja saat senja mengelam di atas permukaan kolam. Dan kutahu, kau tak pernah membayangkan diriku sebagai ikan arwana yang berenang tenang di dalam akuarium milikmu. Sebab Aku tak pernah melihatmu menangis atau tertawa ketika membaca puisi-puisi yang sengaja kukirimkan bersama guyuran hujan yang membasahi pohon belimbing di pekarangan rumahmu. Juga Tak kulihat renjana mengalir serupa mata air yang mengisi akuarium itu dengan luapan rupa-rupa perasaan. Bagimu panorama senja hanyalah sebuah potret langit berwarna sepia. Barangkali Kenangan bukanlah kumpulan memorabilia yang mengingatkanmu, betapa dulu engkau pernah mencintaiku.

It held many years’ worth of memorabilia, chairs shaped like leather baseball gloves, and an odd selection of B-list celebrities of the day—reality-show players like a runner-up on American Idol and the then–Apprentice star, Donald Trump.

...books about travel, cultural memorabilia (such as trinkets from vacations), travel tickets, and books about -ethnic matters-. The presence of international maps showing countries other than the United States, as well as world-music CDs, also had very significant correlations with left-of-center self-placements.

The joint was divided almost evenly between dining area and bar. The smoke-filled bar was jammed nearly full while the restaurant was largely empty. In both sections, railroad memorabilia—from fading pictures and travel posters to crossing signs—decorated every inch of available wall space. A platform, dropped from the ceiling, ran around the outside of the room and supported the tracks for several running electric trains that hummed overhead at odd intervals.

The overall pattern of their activity focuses on memorabilia from the Russian Civil War, specifically papers and personal effects from the heirs of White Russian leaders, but they've also been looking into documents and items relating to the Argenteum Astrum, which is on our watch list--BONE SILVER STAR--along with documents relating to Western occultist groups of the pre-war period. Aleister Crowley crops up like a bad penny, naturally, but also Professor Mudd, who tripped an amber alert. Norman Mudd.

Achieving perpetual organization means, first, clarifying your values and ideal life, and then clearing and organizing your space to support that life. Who you are is, in many ways, reflected by the stuff you keep: the memorabilia, collections, photos, books, furniture, clothing, knickknacks, tools, sporting goods, artwork, and all your worldly goods. So taking care of your things is part of how you take care of yourself; your useful, treasured belongings deserve care and appreciation.

Different groups have different priorities. Because Hispanics tend to have low incomes, they support increases in government services, even at the cost of more taxes for others. Most Hispanics supported all five spending initiatives on the May, 2005 California ballot; most whites opposed all five. Prof. Nikolai Roussanov of the Wharton School has found that both blacks and Hispanics spend 50 percent less on medical care than do whites with similar incomes, and that blacks and Hispanics spend 16 percent and 30 percent less, respectively, on education than do whites with similar incomes. Many studies have also found that blacks and Hispanics save less than whites for future goals like retirement. How do they spend their money? Blacks are more likely than whites to buy lottery tickets and to spend disproportionately more money doing so. Prof Roussanov says the biggest difference, however, is that blacks and Hispanics spend 30 percent more than whites with the same income on what he calls “visible goods” meant to convey status, such as clothing, cars, and jewelry. Different groups have different buying patterns. In 2004, Sears decided to turn 97 of its 870 locations into “multicultural stores,” in which clothing, signs, décor, and displays were geared to Hispanics and blacks, who do not have the same tastes and body sizes as whites. Hispanics want “stylish,” form-fitting clothing in bright, loud colors, and the highest heels available. Blacks need more “plus” sizes. In the multicultural stores, Sears displays the loud clothing prominently, near entrances. Clothing white women are likely to buy, such as the more traditional Land’s End line, is in the back. For years there was a Roy Rogers-Dale Evans Museum in Victorville, California, filled with Roy Rogers memorabilia and even his horse Trigger—stuffed, of course. That part of California is now heavily Hispanic, and no one is interested in Roy Rogers. The museum moved to Branson, Missouri, which has become a resort catering to bluegrass and country music fans, who are overwhelmingly white. Victorville immigrant Rosalina Sondoval-Marin did not miss the museum. “Roy Rogers? He doesn’t mean anything,” she said. “There’s a revolution going on, and it don’t include no Roy Rogers.

According to Xenophon, Socrates wanted his companions to come to accept what he approved of—which would have been fully possible only in the case of his best students. One of the signs by which he thought he could recognize the youths with the best natures, the ones he most wished to consort with, was their desire to learn everything required for nobly directing a political community. (It is only in the section of the Memorabilia devoted to Socrates’ conversations with actual or would-be political or military leaders that Xenophon mentions Plato, whom he implicitly but clearly identifies in the context as the student Socrates was most interested in.)

President Johnson raised our expectations to a peak when he pushed through the Civil Rights Bill that year. Automobile horns were blowing all over Washington that day as liberals, white and black, passed each other on the streets and highways, flashing peace signs as recognition. It wasn’t enough. Super-right-wing groups started dropping from trees and crawling from under rocks. Even Barry Goldwater could not control the extreme far-right. Whenever blacks progressed an inch, right-win extremists reacted as though it were a mile. When Howard Hughes died, a note was found among his memorabilia saying that enough had been done for blacks to last them for a hundred years.

President Johnson raised our expectations to a peak when he pushed through the Civil Rights Bill that year. Automobile horns were blowing all over Washington that day as liberals, white and black, passed each other on the streets and highways, flashing peace signs as recognition. It wasn’t enough. Super-right-wing groups started dropping from trees and crawling from under rocks. Even Barry Goldwater could not control the extreme far-right. Whenever blacks progressed an inch, right-win extremists reacted as though it were a mile. When Howard Hughes died, a note was found among his memorabilia saying that enough had been done for blacks to last them for a hundred years

So, now you’ve arranged the first interview. What next? If you are fortunate enough to have your own office, take a look around and ask yourself how you would feel coming there. If your client is likely to bring a child, is there anything for the child to play with so you can talk to the parent? If the client is in a wheelchair, can she get through the door or do you need to meet in some other office? If the client has trouble speaking English, would it be reassuring to have someone there to translate, or would it be insulting? And lastly, do you have pictures of your current partner or your children on your desk or other personal memorabilia around? If so, it’s probably a good idea to ask your supervisor’s opinion about whether or not to put them away, since they have to do with who you are and not with who the client is, and you have no idea what meaning the client will attribute to them or how she will see you once she has seen them.

What are the “proud and lofty” things of contemporary cultures? To what do nations and peoples point in showing off their “honor” and “glory”? It would be interesting, for example, to count how many times those very words – “honor” and “glory” and their variants and equivalents – are used in our own day at national festivals and political rallies. The variants are seemingly endless. “National honor.” “Our honor is at stake.” “We are gathered today to honor those who...” “Our glorious heritage.” “Our glorious flag.” “What a glorious nation we live in!” People boast about the nations of which they are citizens. They also boast about ethnic identities, religious affiliations, race, gender, and clan. They point in pride to natural wonders they claim as their own possessions – “This land was made for you and me.” They show off their military might, their economic clout, their material abundance. The Lord of hosts has a day against all of these things: against nations who brag about being “Number One,” against racist pride, against the idealizing of “human potential,” against our self-actualization manifestos, against our reliance on missiles and bombers, against art and technology, against philosophy textbooks and country music records, against Russian vodka and South African diamonds, against trade centers and computer banks, against throne-rooms and presidential memorabilia. In short, God will stand in judgment of all idolatrous and prideful attachments to military, technological, commercial, and cultural might. He will destroy all of those rebellious projects that glorify oppression, exploitation, and the accumulation of possessions. It is in such projects that we can discern today our own ships of Tarshish and cedars from Lebanon.