Mic Up Quotes

I laughed and pointed out that "Hash Browns Mean Nothing Without You" was a pretty good name for a band. "Or a song," the Duke said, and then she started singing all glam rock, a glove up to her face holding an imaginary mic as she rocked out an a cappella power ballad. "Oh, I deep fried for you / But now I weep 'n' cry for you / Oh, babe, this meal was made for two / And these hash browns mean nothing, oh these hash browns mean nothing, yeah these HASH BROWNS MEAN NOTHIN' without you.

Then, since you have never even been part of a super-tournament, what makes you qualified to be here today? Why you and not someone else?” I swallow. “I just . . .” Nothing. I got lucky. It’s a mistake. I’m not good enough and— “Man”—Nolan snorts into the mic—“she literally won the qualifying tournament to be here. Keep up, will you?

A well-dressed, self-assured business executive steps into a quiet corner of the conference room, crowded with people. Everyone there is aware of her presence. She's dark-haired, petite, and alluring. She is quick to smile, and when she does, her whole face lights up. Her enthusiasm is infectious. Young men and women nod as they pass by, briefly breaking off their conversations with colleagues. The executive looks down at her compact electronic device and quickly texts: "Smile. Talk into the mic. Good luck.

My next important discovery: Children of Hermes cannot rap. At all. Bless his conniving little heart, Cecil Markowitz tried his best, but he kept throwing off my rhythm with his spastic clapping and terrible air mic noises. After a few trial runs, I demoted him to dancer. His job would be to shimmy back and forth and wave his hands, which he did with the enthusiasm of a tent-revival preacher. The others managed to keep up. They still looked like half-plucked, highly combustible chickens, but they bopped with the proper amount of soul.

My apologies, see, I forgot my manners. I get on the mic ’cause it’s my life. You show off for girls and cameras. You a pop star, not a rapper. A Vanilla Ice or a Hammer. Y’all hear this crap he dumping out? Somebody get him a Pamper. And a crown for me. The best have heard about me. You can only spell “brilliant” by first spelling Bri. You see, naturally, I do my shit with perfection. Better call a bodyguard ’cause you gon’ need some protection, And on this here election, the people crown a new leader. You didn’t see this coming, and your ghostwriters didn’t either. I came here to ether. I’m sorry to do this to you. This is no longer a battle, it’s your funeral, boo. I’m murdering you. On my corner they call me coroner, I’m warning ya. Tell the truth, this dude is borin’ ya. You confused like a foreigner. I’ll explain with ease: You’re just a casualty in the reality of the madness of Bri. No fallacies, I spit maladies, causin’ fatalities, And do it casually, damaging rappers without bandaging. Imagining managing my own label, my own salary. And actually, factually, there’s no MC that’s as bad as me. Milez? That’s cute. But it don’t make me cower. I move at light speed, you stuck at per hour. You spit like a lisp. I spit like a high power. Bri’s the future, and you Today like Matt Lauer. You coward. But you’re a G? It ain’t convincing to me. You talk about your clothes, about your shopping sprees. You talk about your Glock, about your i-c-e. But in this here ring, they all talking ’bout me, Bri!

Is it my turn yet?” Lassiter asked over the earpiece. “I was born ready for this.” “Of all the people who could be immortal,” V muttered, “why are you one of them?” “Because I’m awwwwwesome,” the fallen angel sang. “And I’m part of your team—” “No, you’re not—” “—living your dream!” Butch’s head started thumping even worse. “Shut up, Lass. I can’t do singing right now.” “It’s from Despicable Me,” the angel commented. Like he was being helpful. “Shut up,” V cut in. “Shut up.” Butch fought to keep his voice low. “We’ve got another four minutes in the gym. I’ll let you know when you can—” “I’m losing air over here, you know,” Lassiter bitched. “My inflatable is deflating.” V cursed. “That’s because it doesn’t want to be around you any more than we do.” “You keep this up and I’m going to start thinking my enmity is mutual.” “About fucking time.” Right, Butch didn’t get off on dragging soaking-wet, panicked idiots out of a pool—but, man, he was really frickin’ glad he wasn’t on the back side of the house with those two fighting. “Sit tight, Lass,” he said. “I’ll be in touch—and, V, for the love of God, will you turn off his fucking mic—” “Ow! Hey! What the fuck, V—

True worship of God springs from our inability to answer two simple questions posed by a biblical understanding of the fear of the Lord: (1) O God, who is like you in power, righteousness, mighty deeds, and in pardoning sin (Ps. 71:18-19; Mic. 7:18-20)? and (2) what are woman and man that God should look down from heaven and care for them and lift them up to sit with princes (Ps. 8:4; 113:5-8)?

His body walks out onto the darkened stage , and a roar goes up from the crowd. He stands in front of the mic, and he can feel his face twist in a sneer-the Elvis sneer from his dreams-though he never told it to move. He is powerless now, a spectator at his own moment of glory.

Mike and Sarge were taking the straps off the buggies while Doc and Ted kept watch. Sarge was dropping the last strap into the trailer when his radio cracked, “Draco Three, Stump Knocker.” Sarge turned from the buggy to look out across the dried-up pond, keying his mic. “Go for Stump Knocker.” “Looks like you’ve got some fast movers heading your way from the east. They aren’t

Yeah, they told us that time flies, didn't know what it means Now I feel like we just running around tryna Catch it and hoping to cut up its wings But that ain't gon' happen Joy, when was the last time we had it? I don't remember 'cause all that we do Is go backwards but that's what you get When you live in the past And I know we breathing but we not alive Really, is this the way we wanna die? 'Til you got everything bottled inside If only they knew what goes on in our minds I know what you thinking so don't try to hide Why do you look at me like you surprised? If you really mean what you write in these lines Why don't you fix it? 'Cause I'm getting tired Yeah, I can no longer do this Ever since you fell in love with the music See, you find a way to express what you feel But the moment that you get away from the mic You don't know what you doing Is it clear to you yet? I don't know what's going on in your head But eventually, you'll have to deal with the things That you talk about yeah, but I guess until then, we're lost

I knew better than that. Like throwing away well-intentioned phone numbers, I knew better than to ask for things I clearly couldn’t have. “Can this one camera be disabled without another one going up in its place?” I asked promptly, and watched shock pass across his shadowed face. “No cameras, no mics?” "That’s it?” “It would be nice to have one place that’s genuinely private,” I explained with a shrug. It almost felt strange to have my hair shifting across my back and shoulders with the gesture. “You can see us everywhere else we go, even watch us on the toilet if you had a wish to. Having just a single place devoid of cameras would be beneficial. A mental-health exercise, in a way.” He watched me for a long time before answering. “Something that benefits all of you.” “Yes.” “I tell you to ask for anything, and you ask for something that benefits all of you.” “It benefits me too.” He laughed again and reached for me, pulling me against his chest so he could kiss me. His hands moved over the fastenings of my dress, and as he lowered me to the mist-damp stone, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift off to Annabel Lee and her grave in the kingdom by the sea. I didn’t think angels would ever be jealous of me.

took the mic and gave that “woo-woo” a special Mariah remix, with all kinds of vocal flourishes, and in the end I took the last “woo” way up into my high register, and the whole crowd broke out in wild claps. That was the day Will Smith and I became friends.

For me the poem and the poetry open mic isn’t about competition and it never will be. Honestly? It's wrong. The open mic is about 1 poet, one fellow human being up on a stage or behind a podium sharing their work regardless of what form or style they bring to it. In other words? The guy with the low slam score is more than likely a far better poet-writer than the guy who actually won. But who are you? I ? Or really anyone else to judge them? The Poetry Slam has become an overgrown, over used monopoly on American literature and poetry and is now over utilized by the academic & public school establishments. And over the years has sadly become the "McDonalds Of Poetry". We can only hope that the same old stale atmosphere of it all eventually becomes or evolves into something new that translates to and from the written page and that gives new poets with different styles & authentic voices a chance to share their work too.

People come and go all the time but I’ve built a castle around me, making it hard for anyone to enter. I just want to feel safe. I just want to be fine.  But then someone leaves and I am alone and now I wish for nothing more than people people all kinds of people to come into my castle where we can sit in a ring and hold hands and tell stories and keep warm. Everyone would be welcome. Everyone would just love each other and I would heal. slowly. remembering all the things I’ve written before. but it’s so hard now. poetry says so little some days. but i know it will, soon, again. I have no one around so I talk to myself, turned the mic on one night and somewhere on the way I formulated proper thoughts and real ideas, and my heart felt a little better after every hour and I fell in love with the thought that maybe by sharing the things that keep me up at night, I could help someone else, maybe? Or just, have a conversation with you? If you care? I would love to let you in—into my castle—the door is open.  It’s like ... I’m sitting on a chair with my hands resting on my legs, palms turned open to the sky. I have so little in me, but I would give you whatever I can. just … stay? a little? hold my hand? tell me something. Loneliness is so hard when you’re left in it.

Then Terry - fucking Terry, the Blind King, the pain in the ass, the boy who tapped on her basement window, the kid who asked her the question that started everything, that caused all this pain, that sparked a thousand shows, the boy who said, "You wanna start a band?" - he grabbed his mic and right on time, right on cue, he said the words that were coming but that Kris thought he would never sing: "And inside that hole!" Terry shouted, and the black ocean fell silent, its colossal sound held back for three seconds, its power coiling, building up, about to overflow. "And inside that hole!" Terry shouted again, "is Black Iron Mountain!

One of the sound guys approaches with Fizzy’s small mic in his hand. “Ready?” he asks. At her nod, he reaches for the front of her silk shirt and the words shove their way up my throat: “I’ve got it, mate.” He hands it over without any indication that he’s heard the edge in my tone. But Fizzy has. Her smirk is louder than her bursting laugh could ever be.

Frankie,I noticed as I flipped the mic up to its normal position, was staring at me through narrowed eyes, clapping so slowly that I could actually measure the silence in between beats. I felt about three inches tall as I stepped off the stage. ~~~ "...and went down like a rock.Bam." "Oh,man. What did you do?" "What could I do?" I shrugged. "I hopped up, took a bow, and ran. I was late to meet you." Alex was gently rubbing my bare knee. I'd rolled up my jeans to show him the bruise already blossoming there. "I would have caught you," he said, fingers sliding to the inside of my leg and making my insides feel like jelly. "Not likely, O Gallant One.The stage is only a foot high." "I gotta see this place sometime.

Throughout the biblical story, from Genesis to Revelation, every radical challenge from the biblical God is both asserted and then subverted by its receiving communities— be they earliest Israelites or latest Christians. That pattern of assertion-and-subversion, that rhythm of expansion-and-contraction, is like the systole-and-diastole cycle of the human heart. In other words, the heartbeat of the Christian Bible is a recurrent cardiac cycle in which the asserted radicality of God’s nonviolent distributive justice is subverted by the normalcy of civilization’s violent retributive justice. And, of course, the most profound annulment is that both assertion and subversion are attributed to the same God or the same Christ. Think of this example. In the Bible, prophets are those who speak for God. On one hand, the prophets Isaiah and Micah agree on this as God’s vision: “they shall beat their swords into plowshares, / and their spears into pruning hooks; / nation shall not lift up sword against nation, / neither shall they learn war any more” (Isa. 2:4 = Mic. 4:3). On the other hand, the prophet Joel suggests the opposite vision: “Beat your plowshares into swords, / and your pruning hooks into spears; / let the weakling say, ‘I am a warrior’” (3:10). Is this simply an example of assertion-and-subversion between prophets, or between God’s radicality and civilization’s normalcy? That proposal might also answer how, as noted in Chapter 1, Jesus the Christ of the Sermon on the Mount preferred loving enemies and praying for persecutors while Jesus the Christ of the book of Revelation preferred killing enemies and slaughtering persecutors. It is not that Jesus the Christ changed his mind, but that in standard biblical assertion-and-subversion strategy, Christianity changed its Jesus.

I leaned against the SUV he was working on. “So….” “So?” he asked, looking back down at the tablet. “How rich are we?” He snorted. “Get back to work.” And I was going to do just that, except that Kelly Bennett decided to appear right at that moment. Wearing a deputy’s uniform. Tight green pants with a tan button-up shirt that pulled against his torso. He had a mic clipped near his shoulder and a black utility belt around his waist. He wasn’t carrying a gun, but I barely noticed because at that exact moment, I discovered my legs decided to quit working and I tripped and fell into the side of the SUV. Everyone stopped what they were doing to look at me. “Sorry,” I said quickly, using the SUV to pull myself back up. And immediately hit the top of my head on the open hood. “Son of a bitch.” “What are you doing?” Gordo asked slowly. I laughed wildly. “Nothing! It’s nothing. Just… don’t even worry about it.” He turned toward the front of the garage. “Oh no,” he said when he saw who was standing there. “Not this again.” He pointed the tablet at Kelly. “I swear to god, if I find an animal carcass brought here at any point, I will make both your lives a living hell. Do you understand me? I’m getting too old for this shit.” “I can’t believe we have to watch this all over again,” Chris said to Tanner. “It was bad enough the first time. Remember when Robbie figured out that he wanted to put himself all over Kelly?” “Yeah,” Tanner said. “How could I forget? We had to tell Ms. Martin that her side mirror was broken by accident instead of telling her the truth, that Robbie got a weird wolf boner and forgot his own strength.” “Maybe it’ll be like it was with Ox and Joe,” Rico said, tapping a socket wrench against his hand. “Mini muffins, you know? I ate, like, ten of them.” Chris looked scandalized. “You did what? That was one of their mystical moon magic presents! You don’t touch another man’s mystical moon magic present, Rico. They could have killed you, or worse, gotten confused and made you their mate.” He frowned. “Are there werewolf threesomes? That sounds complicated. Too many limbs. I don’t know anything about being a wolf.

A boat was a place where no one could reach you, a place where some boy couldn't slide into your path to make you a prop in his joke. Even when the boys rowed past us, all we'd do was holler or chant; we didn't have to drop everything to watch them, which was the usual expectation. (Do you remember, for instance, the fake Woodstock that Marco Washington and Mike Stiles set up on the quad? They hauled couches from the dorms, used extension cords for guitars and stand mics. I joined the audience to listen to their terrible playing because it was the thing to do. Just as Open Dorm nights were for girls to feign interest in boys playing video games. Just as the only sporting events with full stands were for boys' teams. At the time, what rankled was the idea that we were supposed to see these boys as the stars, to fall at their sweaty feet. What bothers me now is those boys internalizing girls as audience, there only to act as mirrors, to make their accomplishments realer.)

She remembers rehearsals. Wrong notes turning to right ones, dissonance becoming harmony. She remembers “O Holy Night” sounding so perfect, in the end, her voice wrapping itself around Jonah’s like they were created just for this. She remembers his smile at her from across their shared mic. She remembers getting asked to reprise her duet with Jonah a year later. Just after everything happened with Luke. But then Mr. Boyden took her aside. Told her that Jonah had backed out. He’d said he was too busy for extra rehearsals, but she knew: it was because of her. She saw it in Jonah’s face, in the way he avoided her eyes. She saw it in everyone else’s faces too. She was a bullet he’d just dodged. She remembers standing up for the solo she was given instead—her last performance before she quit choir. She remembers opening her mouth, nothing coming out. She’d cleared her throat, tried again. Her voice emerged, but all wrong: small and shaky and sharp. With everyone looking at her, with the rumors still swirling, she felt exposed. She felt small and shaky and sharp. Vulnerable, but made of angles and thorns.

The woods came for Emeline the way they always did: creeping in with the shadows, seeping up through the cracks. Emeline, they whispered. Sing us a true song. Emeline gritted her teeth, ignoring it. From her perch on the wooden stool beneath the white lights, she continued to croon into the mic, picking the strings of her ukulele, telling herself she didn't care if the ale in the bar taps turned to mucky creek water tonight, or if the cash in the register transformed into crisp golden maple keys. She didn't care if those spongy green clumps currently sprouting up between the floorboards were, in fact, forest moss.

Raising the mic, I took a deep breath and said, ‘I won’t speak long. I’m not real good with speaking in public. I just wanted to thank you all for gathering here tonight…’ I trailed off. My words had dried up. I raked my hand through my hair and, gathering my composure, managed to say, ‘Before she passed, my Poppy asked me to send these kisses to her in a way that she would see them in heaven. I know most of you didn’t know her, but she was the best person I knew … she would have treasured this moment.’ My lip hooked into a crooked smile at the thought of her face when she saw them. She would love it. ‘So please, light your lanterns and help my kisses reach my girl.

All of this ‘offering up something personal’ made me feel the old clammy twinge of fear of rejection. Then Nick reminds me that social life is governed by reciprocity. ‘A few years ago, I was driving through a remote part of Ethiopia and I kept passing all these mothers and children outside their mud huts. Everybody I passed stared at me like I was dead: totally blank facial expression. It was the most uncomfortable I’d ever felt in my life. ‘But then it occurred to me, while I was sitting there, I was looking at them in exactly the same way they’re looking at me. So I started smiling and waving as I went by – and it was like I flipped a switch. As soon as I started smiling, waving and looking friendly, they started waving from their windows, grinning at me and running out of their houses to give me high fives. ‘That’s the truth of the world, Jessica,’ he says, casually full-naming me to let me know something big is coming. ‘Nobody waves – but everybody waves back.’ I hear his mic drop all the way from Chicago.

From: Bernadette Fox To: Manjula Kapoor Oh! Could you make dinner reservations for us on Thanksgiving? You can call up the Washington Athletic Club and get us something for 7 PM for three. You are able to place calls, aren’t you? Of course, what am I thinking? That’s all you people do now. I recognize it’s slightly odd to ask you to call from India to make a reservation for a place I can see out my window, but here’s the thing: there’s always this one guy who answers the phone, “Washington Athletic Club, how may I direct your call?” And he always says it in this friendly, flat… Canadian way. One of the main reasons I don’t like leaving the house is because I might find myself face-to-face with a Canadian. Seattle is crawling with them. You probably think, U.S./Canada, they’re interchangeable because they’re both filled with English-speaking, morbidly obese white people. Well, Manjula, you couldn’t be more mistaken. Americans are pushy, obnoxious, neurotic, crass—anything and everything—the full catastrophe as our friend Zorba might say. Canadians are none of that. The way you might fear a cow sitting down in the middle of the street during rush hour, that’s how I fear Canadians. To Canadians, everyone is equal. Joni Mitchell is interchangeable with a secretary at open-mic night. Frank Gehry is no greater than a hack pumping out McMansions on AutoCAD. John Candy is no funnier than Uncle Lou when he gets a couple of beers in him. No wonder the only Canadians anyone’s ever heard of are the ones who have gotten the hell out. Anyone with talent who stayed would be flattened under an avalanche of equality. The thing Canadians don’t understand is that some people are extraordinary and should be treated as such. Yes, I’m done. If the WAC can’t take us, which may be the case, because Thanksgiving is only two days away, you can find someplace else on the magical Internet. * I was wondering how we ended up at Daniel’s Broiler for Thanksgiving dinner. That morning, I slept late and came downstairs in my pajamas. I knew it was going to rain because on my way to the kitchen I passed a patchwork of plastic bags and towels. It was a system Mom had invented for when the house leaks.

She clicks on the last slide, and that’s when it happens. “Me So Horny” blasts out of the speakers and my video, mine and Peter’s, flashes on the projector screen. Someone has taken the video from Anonybitch’s Instagram and put their own soundtrack to it. They’ve edited it too, so I bop up and down on Peter’s lap at triple speed to the beat. Oh no no no no. Please, no. Everything happens at once. People are shrieking and laughing and pointing and going “Oooh!” Mr. Vasquez is jumping up to unplug the projector, and then Peter’s running onstage, grabbing the microphone out of a stunned Reena’s hand. “Whoever did that is a piece of garbage. And not that it’s anybody’s fucking business, but Lara Jean and I did not have sex in the hot tub.” My ears are ringing, and people are twisting around in their seats to look at me and then shifting back around to look at Peter. “All we did was kiss, so fuck off!” Mr. Vasquez, the junior class advisor, is trying to grab the mic back from Peter, but Peter manages to maintain control of it. He holds the mic up high and yells out, “I’m gonna find whoever did this and kick their ass!” In the scuffle, he drops the mic. People are cheering and laughing. Peter’s being frog-marched off the stage, and he frantically looks out into the audience. He’s looking for me. The assembly breaks up then, and everyone starts filing out the doors, but I stay low in my seat. Chris comes and finds me, face alight. She grabs me by the shoulders. “Ummm, that was crazy! He freaking dropped the F bomb twice!” I am still in a state of shock, maybe. A video of me and Peter hot and heavy was just on the projector screen, and everyone saw Mr. Vasquez, seventy-year-old Mr. Glebe who doesn’t even know what Instagram is. The only passionate kiss of my life and everybody saw. Chris shakes my shoulders. “Lara Jean! Are you okay?” I nod mutely, and she releases me. “He’s kicking whoever did it’s ass? I’d love to see that!” She snorts and throws her head back like a wild pony. “I mean, the boy’s an idiot if he thinks for one second it wasn’t Gen who posted that video. Like, wow, those are some serious blinders, y’know?” Chris stops short and examines my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Everybody saw us.” “Yeah…that sucked. I’m sure that was Gen’s handiwork. She must’ve gotten one of her little minions to sneak it onto Reena’s PowerPoint.” Chris shakes her head in disgust. “She’s such a bitch. I’m glad Peter set the record straight, though. Like, I hate to give him credit, but that was an act of chivalry. No guy has ever set the record straight for me.

Real Quick" [Intro:] Valuable lesson, man I had to grow up That's why I never ask for help I'll do it for you niggaz and do it for myself [Chorus:] I go 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, whole squad on that real shit 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, real fuckin quick nigga 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, whole squad on that real shit 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, real fuckin quick nigga! [50 Cent:] I'll run my blade 'cross a nigga ass {"real quick"} I'm so for real I'm on some real real nigga shit You playin boy I'll get you hit {"real quick"} You better hope the parademics come {"real quick"} Got me fucked up you think it's different now a nigga rich Before I get to cuttin know you niggaz better cut the shit Boy, you gon' have ya head popped, pull a trigger for me And my lil' niggaz trigger op' like it's legal homie No game when I bang, boy I empty the clip You run like a bitch, you ain't 'bout that shit Hey hey hey hey, I'll catch you another day day day day It's the Unit back to the bullshit [Tony Yayo:] Yeah! Nothin in life is out of bounds AK hold about a hundred rounds 60 shots like K.D. at the Rucker's Okay! When I see you on respirators Southside nigga 'til the day I'm gone Indulge in the violence when the drama on Yeah, these rap niggaz lukewarm I'm two sleeves of dope, when the mic on [Chorus] [Kidd Kidd:] Real quick, Rida Gang fuck nigga, huh! Don't Tweet me, see me when you see me Down to make the news just to say that I'm on TV (Kidd Kidd) This clip rated R, niggaz PG Them shells burn like a bootleg CD (huh?) Fuck love, I want the money When you get too much of it they gon' say you actin funny "Kidd, how you feel now that the Unit's back?" Like a million bucks, muh'fucker do the math! [Young Buck:] Cold-blooded, boy my heart don't feel shit Get with me, ask 50, I'll take the hit {"real quick"} Balenciagas, you can still get ya ass kicked Take a rapper nigga bitch and make a real flick I know I'm different from what you usually be dealin with Don't need a mic, give me some white to make a million with Single borough, six shots on the Brooklyn Bridge I'll let the nigga Drake tell you what I just did (yeah) [Chorus] [Lloyd Banks:] Nigga gettin money new to you (uh) I give a fuck if shit get ugly, there'll be a beautiful funeral You fit the script I'm gon' assume it's true Can't manuever through the street without a strategy, ain't nobody to tutor you And man was lucky Unit's through, you know why he flows 15 years, switchin dealers like casinos And my goon'll clip you on the arm (uhh) I'm out the country every week and dumpin ash out on the Autobahn Auto-pilot's always on Rather better livin, I've been [?] green bills callin me all day long This is homicide, more tears in your mama eyes More reason to wake up, real niggaz arrive [Chorus]

Dev's out to pierce the pierced, tattoo the tattooed, and have his way with the messy punk boys who came to our shows not knowing they'll end up wanting to mess around with the guy challenging How big is your cocker spaniel? into the mic.

John had recently appeared in the Stones’ Rock and Roll Circus in a supergroup that was an unlikely combination of him, Keith Richards, Eric Clapton, and Mitch Mitchell. It was unrehearsed, and the performance was just a bit of fun really. I was in my booth, way up in the gods, recording the sound for the show, and the area on the set where they were playing was obscured from my view. All was going well until I heard this extraordinary noise that sounded like someone stepping on the cat. I panicked, thinking that a piece of equipment might be malfunctioning, while peering at the screen trying to see if it was adversely affecting the guys onstage. All of a sudden a picture appeared of a small figure with a black bag over its head with a mic cable disappearing into it. It turned out to be Yoko, who had decided to contribute to the proceedings. How anyone could have considered her intrusion to be in any way musical is a complete mystery to me.

Having grown up in such a rich Catholic culture as Poland, John Paul knew that the enrichment of faith usually comes through a convergence of various avenues, channels, and influences. We might understand this idea through a water analogy: A little country brook meandering through a meadow isn’t so impressive. But when a thousand little brooks converge and pour into a mighty river, well, then, we’re dealing with something substantial! Or, to use one of Newman’s own descriptions, an accumulation of influences are “like a bundle of sticks, each of which … you could snap in two, if taken separately from the rest,”112 but as a bundle, they’re virtually unbreakable.

Real Quick [Intro:] Valuable lesson, man I had to grow up That's why I never ask for help I'll do it for you niggaz and do it for myself [Chorus:] I go 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, whole squad on that real shit 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, real fuckin quick nigga 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, whole squad on that real shit 0 to 100 nigga, real quick Real quick, real fuckin quick nigga! [50 Cent:] I'll run my blade 'cross a nigga ass {"real quick"} I'm so for real I'm on some real real nigga shit You playin boy I'll get you hit {"real quick"} You better hope the parademics come {"real quick"} Got me fucked up you think it's different now a nigga rich Before I get to cuttin know you niggaz better cut the shit Boy, you gon' have ya head popped, pull a trigger for me And my lil' niggaz trigger op' like it's legal homie No game when I bang, boy I empty the clip You run like a bitch, you ain't 'bout that shit Hey hey hey hey, I'll catch you another day day day day It's the Unit back to the bullshit [Tony Yayo:] Yeah! Nothin in life is out of bounds AK hold about a hundred rounds 60 shots like K.D. at the Rucker's Okay! When I see you on respirators Southside nigga 'til the day I'm gone Indulge in the violence when the drama on Yeah, these rap niggaz lukewarm I'm two sleeves of dope, when the mic on [Chorus] [Kidd Kidd:] Real quick, Rida Gang fuck nigga, huh! Don't Tweet me, see me when you see me Down to make the news just to say that I'm on TV (Kidd Kidd) This clip rated R, niggaz PG Them shells burn like a bootleg CD (huh?) Fuck love, I want the money When you get too much of it they gon' say you actin funny "Kidd, how you feel now that the Unit's back?" Like a million bucks, muh'fucker do the math! [Young Buck:] Cold-blooded, boy my heart don't feel shit Get with me, ask 50, I'll take the hit {"real quick"} Balenciagas, you can still get ya ass kicked Take a rapper nigga bitch and make a real flick I know I'm different from what you usually be dealin with Don't need a mic, give me some white to make a million with Single borough, six shots on the Brooklyn Bridge I'll let the nigga Drake tell you what I just did (yeah) [Chorus] [Lloyd Banks:] Nigga gettin money new to you (uh) I give a fuck if shit get ugly, there'll be a beautiful funeral You fit the script I'm gon' assume it's true Can't manuever through the street without a strategy, ain't nobody to tutor you And man was lucky Unit's through, you know why he flows 15 years, switchin dealers like casinos And my goon'll clip you on the arm (uhh) I'm out the country every week and dumpin ash out on the Autobahn Auto-pilot's always on Rather better livin, I've been [?] green bills callin me all day long This is homicide, more tears in your mama eyes More reason to wake up, real niggaz arrive [Chorus]

Gangsta Rap Made Me Do It" [Female Insert] Maestro!!! [Ice Cube] Blame me [Intro: Ice Cube] You niggas know my pyroclastic flow You niggas know my pyroclastic flow flow You niggas know my pyroclastic flow it's R-A-W, R-A-W [Ice Cube] You looking at the grand wizard, war lord vocal chord so vicious And I don't have to show riches to pull up pull off with some bad bitches And it ain't about chivalry It's about dope lyrics and delivery It's about my persona ain't nothing like a man that can do what he wanna Ain't nothing like man on that you knew on the corner See 'em come up and fuck up the owner See 'em throw up Westside California Nigga I'm hot as Phoenix Arizona I'm Utah I got multiple bitches It's a new law keep a hold of yo riches Dumb nigga don't spend it as soon as you get it And recognize I'm a captain and you a lieutenant [Chorus 1] I can say what I want to say ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I call you a nigga ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it I can act like an animal ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I eat you like a cannibal ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Ice Cube] I'm raw as a dirty needle Choke an eagle Just to feed all my people Lyrically I'm so lethal Plant thoughts in they mind just to defeat you Ice Cube is a saga y'all spit saliva And I spit lava I got the fearless flow Don't get near this ho If you sacred to go I keep it gangsta and why should change that fuck you all you motherfuckers trying to change rap But aren't you the same cat that sat back when they brought cocaine back I'm trying to get me a Maybach how you motherfuckers gonna tell me don't say that you the ones that we learned it from I heard nigga back in 1971 [Chorus 2] So if I act like a pimp ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I call you a nappy headed ho ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I shoot up your college ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I rob you of knowledge ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Ice Cube] Thank God when I bless the mic You finally get to hear the shit that you like A nigga talking bout real life so you can try to get this shit right Use your brain not your back use your brain not a gat It's a party not a jack (for real) Don't be scared of them people Walk up in there and show them that you equal (fuck them fuck them) Don't be material a nigga grew up on milk and cereal I never for got vaness and imperial Look at my life Ice Cube is a miracle It could be you if you was this lyrical It could be her if she was this spiritual Cause me and Allah go back like cronies I don't got to be fake cause he is my homie [Chorus 3] If I sell a little crack ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I die in Iraq ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I take you for granted ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it If I fuck up the planet ain't nothing to it gangsta rap made me do it [Intro] [Ice Cube] Oh yeah and another thing For all ya niggas that don't do gangsta rap Don't get on TV talking about gangsta rap Cause 9 times at a 10 you don't know the fuck you talk about Talk about that bullshit rap you do Stay the fuck out of mine

Shit Can Happen" Bitch Yeah... [1] - Shit can happen [8X] [Kon Artis] Yo, yo, huh, yo, yo, yo That's right motherfuckers we back Same slanging, orangatangin, wilding out on hoodrats They say I act like I'm too famous to say hi And tell 'em what my name is but really I'm still nameless... You niggas don't get it yet do you Dealing out platinum or flop I still put it through you Wit a luger that'll spit fire And hit higher than a pitch by a bitch like Mariah You think for one second since we got a deal That we won't deal wit you in front of St Andrew's still? You gay rappers better learn that I won't stop until I see 'em turn back If you don't slow that roll you got You gonna see these Runyan Ave. niggas that really need some Prozac For' sure' that, ask the others But gator lay you down next to your mother's mother's grandmother [Kuniva] You know I'm feeling real rowdy tonight Ready to fight and half the niggas I give dap to I don't even like The same cat who never gave a damn about your name I gives a fuck about it like the next selling Clippers' game I kill you in ways you couldn't even fathom You and your madame, it's really unexplainable how I have 'em Who call theyself screaming about a challenge Nigga we got a gift while you barely making it off mere talent My skills are deeply embedded even your hoe said it She was knock kneed I fucked her now she's bow legged In the middle of rappin I drop the mic And have a stare down and jump in the crowd and start scrappin Kuniva and Kon Artis my nigga we get it cracking While the paramedics pick you up we on the side laughing [HOOK: 1- in background] [Kon Artis] Now this aint funny so don't you dare laugh Shit can happen in him and yo' ass You can be touched don't think you can't Cause niggas aint fucking around no more man [repeat] [Swifty McVay]

Another artist, Nikki McClure, used to take long walks in the woods around sunset, making up songs and singing them to herself at the top of her voice; when she hit on something that sounded good to her, she’d run back to whatever house was hosting a show and sing into the mic, knowing the audience would be receptive.

Jep and I also get asked to make personal appearances. Sometimes it’s a photo opportunity, where they want us to dress up and appear on a red carpet somewhere. But lately we’ve been getting asked to speak, too, and to tell our story. It wasn’t easy for Jep at first--he’s more of a private person and the thought of getting up in front of hundreds or even thousands of people and telling his story was pretty scary. I remember the first time he spoke to a large group was in Canada, and he was holding the mic and shaking. But everyone listened, and every time he has done it, it gets a little easier. Same for me. I’m a people person, and I love to talk and share stories, but speaking to a huge crowd is not easy. Both Jep and I try to remember that we’re just talking. I sort of ramble all over the place, and I don’t always know where I’m going when I talk, but Jep is so much better at it. People take what he says to heart. There’s something built in to Phil and Jep that makes people listen to them. They share moments and memories from their lives, and people love it. Jep always had it in him.

There’s nothing you can say that isn’t picked up by a mic somewhere, fed through an algorithm that picks up patterns and weeds out what’s important.

There’s a bit of clapping, and I walk up to the podium. I see a few clusters of students I teach and many others I don’t know. Their faces are lifted up at me. I think of Holden Caulfield, wanting to catch children before they fall off the cliff, and I get it now. I take a long breath. A kid from eleventh grade gives a little whoop. ‘Thank you, Brad,’ I say into the mic. ‘Your grade just went way up.’ There are so many more people than I had imagined. But it can’t be that much harder than reciting the specials to an impatient ten-top at Iris. Plus, I want to tell these kids the things I’ve written down. My lips tremble and my voice hops around a bit, but I get it out. I tell them the truth. I tell them I am thirty-one years old and seventy-three thousand dollars in debt. I tell them that since college I’ve moved eleven times, had seventeen jobs and several relationships that didn’t work out. I’ve been estranged from my father since twelfth grade, and earlier this year my mother died. My only sibling lives three thousand miles away. What I have had for the past six years, what has been constant and steady in my life is the novel I’ve been writing. This has been my home, the place I could always retreat to. The place I could sometimes even feel powerful, I tell them. The place where I am most myself. Maybe some of you, I tell them, have found this place already. Maybe some of you will find it years from now. My hope is that some of you will find it for the first time today by writing.

If your answer to fate’s twists was anger, violence and revenge, then you would disappear down a dangerous rabbit hole. This morning, staring into the mirror at a stranger, then the crazy idea of attending this event (correction, stalking at this event) had brought him to this what-the-hell wake-up moment. The tent had grown increasingly more stifling as if he sat in the center of a hot furnace which piped the air about him. On his forehead, drops of sweat beaded. Even his palms felt sticky and moist. William undid the top button of his shirt but that had nil effect. He looked to his left and right, but nobody else appeared to match his discomfort. They all continued to stare, mouths agape, at Morris like a pack of hypnotized zombies. Lights barely on and only the animals left at home. “And that’s why… should put… odds in your… favor.” Morris’ voice crackled in and out as if his microphone was faulty. The fault wasn’t in the mic, it lay in William’s head. The wires in his brain had crossed and tangled. The

Then we went into “Nobody’s Fault.” This was one of the highlights of my creative career. If you listen really close to the front of “Nobody’s Fault,” there isn’t an intro to the song. I suggested to Joe that he turn his amp volume to 12 and the volume on his guitar off. Since the key of the song was an E, I suggested he start by fingering a D chord, and then turn the volume knob all the way up slowly. I told Brad to play an A chord, same dealio as Joe. Then Joe played a C, did the same thing—Brad played a G, Joe played a B-flat, Brad played an F, Joe played an A-flat, Brad played an E-flat, and then Joe and Brad both played a D chord. And when they played that D together, rolling the volume knob up with their pinkies—and holding it for a second—then the band came in on a crashing E chord like Hitler was at the door. I looked over and Jack Douglas was internally hemorrhaging with bliss. I was in the middle of the room with my headphones on (which we called “cans”) and a live mic in front of me, because I loved singing live vocals as the band tracked. It always seemed to incite a little riot inside of everyone. Right before the band came in on the downbeat, the union engineer from Columbia marked his presence for all time by opening the door right in the middle of that sweet silence. He had a clarinet in his hand that wound up on the front of “Pandora’s Box,” but that’s another story. You can actually hear the door opening in “Nobody’s Fault” to this day and it somehow seems to get louder and louder with each play, only ’cause you know it’s there now.

Hammer Airflow truly wireless Bluetooth earbuds comes with the latest Bluetooth v5.0 technology. Through this you can easily pair any Bluetooth enabled device within 10 Meter of radius. Get a long battery backup with a magnetic charging case(400mah). This truly wirelessBluetooth earphone is the best wireless Bluetooth for music. You can enjoy music with deep bass and answering the call by built in Microphone feature. Hammer Airflow Truly Wireless Bluetooth Earbuds (TWS) Hammer Airflow Truly Wireless Bluetooth Earbuds Features Usage: Hammer Airflow truly wireless Bluetooth earphones are designed for calling, music, gaming, sports and active lifestyle. Battery: Hammer Airflow wireless Bluetooth battery backup is up to 4 hours with music and calling on a single full charge. This wireless Bluetooth earphone is charge quickly within only 1.5 best truly wireless earbuds in India hours and 100 hours of standby time. Bluetooth 5.0: Airflow wireless Bluetooth earphone having latest technology Bluetooth v5.0. Which is maximizes the stability, performance and connectivity of Bluetooth earbuds which effectively reduces the power consumption. Stylish charging case: Hammer Airflow wireless Bluetooth earbuds comes with a stylish magnetic charging case (400mah) which makes the earbuds safe & dustproof. Monopod capability: Hammer Airflow wireless earphone buds can be used as two independent monopods. Comfort fit: Super-secure Airflow buds come with 2 ear-tips which provide perfect fit and comfort for all-day wearing with no distractions Product description TWS EARBUDS WITH ULTRA LONG BATTERY LIFE: Earbuds with charging case of 400 mah can charge your truly wireless earbuds about 7 to 8 times. Once the Bluetooth earbuds are in the charging case, they will be charged automatically and only takes about 1 hour to fully charge. You get about 4 hours of music playback time in a single charge of earbuds. TRULY WIRELESS EARBUDS WITH MIC: Truly wireless Bluetooth earbuds are best for calling. You will never have to worry about the wire linking, as Hammer Bluetooth earbuds are cable free and the Bluetooth connection has a strong signal upto 10 meters. BLUETOOTH EARBUDS WIRELESS PAIRING TECHNOLOGY: Pressing the right earbud thrice will make it the master earbud. Turn on Bluetooth on your phone, scan available Bluetooth devices, select Hammer Airflow the main earbud voice prompts your device is connected. The earbuds are connected successfully, now you can use it for music or calls. true wireless earbuds for sports INTEGRATED CONTROL BUTTON: With multi-function button you can play / pause music, next/ previous song, increase/ decrease volume, answer / reject calls and activate Siri / Google voice assistant. Additional Features: Bluetooth Headphones, Siri Google Assistant, Wireless Earphones, Long Lasting Battery, 3-4 Hours Playtime, Wireless Earbuds Headset Mic Headphones, True Wireless Design Bluetooth 5.0, Stylish Earphone, Deep Bass, Mono Calling (Single Earbud), Working Distance 10M, Standby time 60 Hours Compatible Devices: Compatible with iOS/Android Brand: Hammer Model number: AIRFLOW Battery Cell Composition: Lithium Polymer Item Weight: 40.8 g Warranty Details: Hammer Airflow comes with 6 months Replacement warranty only in case of manufacturing defects. Product Registration is mandatory at Warranty page within 10 days of your purchase to claim the warranty. Customer Care: Email: info@hammeronline.in MOB: 9991 108 081

Most of you have probably noticed that most of the world is already at war, has been for a very long time, and there does not seem to be an end in sight or any plans for an end. But some people still have not noticed that this is not a Muslims vs. Christians war, or a United States vs. the world war, it is a war of the MIC against the general populace. This is a war where the populace is kept sickly, ignorant, desperate and above all fearful to keep them from rising up against the MIC. The tools used are drugs (legal and illegal), poor nutrition, environmental hazards, misinformation, blocked access to good information, poverty, stress, crime and, above all, war. The weapons against them will be information, solidarity, good health, great optimism, and mass participation in every aspect of government.

Why do I feel like I just got a huge target on my back?” “Because you kind of did,” Daniella replied honestly. “Demigods don’t take it too kindly when you insult their godly parents like that.” “She started it,” I argued as I stuffed a fork into the middle of my pile of food. “Doesn’t matter,” Daniella concluded. “You continued it.” “She basically dropped the mic, and then you picked it up and threw it at her head when you should have just left the mic on the ground and walked offstage,” the other girl said with an astonished shake of her head. “It was kind of awesome, actually.

Nathaniel sat up and reached for the mic. His hand was shaking. “We aren’t dead. So, yes.

Ree understand friend. Yokonakatomi TroyRonson now Val Ky Ree friend. McKnight not friend. Maybe next time friend?”   Nakatomi giggled. “Yes, maybe next time friend.”   “Yoko go back to Busted Flush now.” The image reached out and laid a holographic hand on Nakatomi’s left shoulder. “Aesir warrior code say…be not sad when duty calls friends apart. Duty will bring friends together again someday.”   Nakatomi was so overcome by emotion that nodding was all she could do as she put her right hand on Val Ky Ree’s left shoulder. When Val Ky Ree withdrew her hand, Nakatomi did the same. One more mutual nod, and Nakatomi picked up her helmet and headed for the airlock. On the way  there, she re-activated her mic and said, “Okay, I’m on my way back to the airlock.

SWAT team leader Luke Palmer set up a parabolic mic facing the house and they listened for voices, hoping to count and place everyone inside.

What would you say to people who think you wouldn’t be where you are now if it wasn’t for Rhyson Gray?” Luke clears his throat and begins to speak before I can. “I think Kai—” “It’s okay, Luke,” I hold up a hand, eyes never leaving Randy’s. “I’d love to answer this question.” I lick my suddenly dry lips before going in. “I would tell them that no one finds success without the help of others along the way.” I look down at the hands in my lap for a second before looking back up. “I wouldn’t be here without my mother, who sacrificed all my life to make sure I had dancing and singing lessons. I wouldn’t be here without my best friend, Santos, who dragged me out to LA to pursue my dreams. I wouldn’t be here without my vocal coach, Grady, who took me under his wing in a strange new city.” I pause, swallowing back unexpected emotion I hope I’m hiding well. “And, yes, I wouldn’t be here without Rhyson, whose music and work ethic inspired me years before I even met him when I was just a fan. So in that sense, they’re right.” I lean forward, elbows propped on the table, lips pressed close to the mic like the producer told me to. “But I would also invite those people out to see me on the road because, though so many have helped me, I’m the one who has to perform night in, night out, and no one does that for me. I’d offer them a ticket, but my shows are all sold out.” Randy’s mouth hangs open a little.

When I was choosing between things I wanted to do myself instead of accepting things that people would like me to do for them or being forced to in a role, job, or department. A lot of my friends, colleagues and so many people above me drove me towards fear. Fear of What if, if things won't work out your way, if you don't make money what you are making now then how or you will be sidelined or you have challenges in front of you which are impossible to address when you choose your own path your way and whatnot. But I was telling myself what if things work out my way because I choose for myself the path I am creating for myself. and If I am able to make it myself with all my dedication, hard work, knowledge, and abilities then what if things work out and result in creating your own career that you like and love from your inside. There was silence in the room among the people because no one has ever chosen for themselves anything but rather they have taken what others have given them. So there was no answer for these questions arising out of myself to take a leap of faith. Now writing these things here have a purpose, a purpose for the people who dream, people who want to become real, and people who want to control their lives and outcomes. Fear creates an illusion in the minds which has no reality or existence, If fear would have existed in reality then why didn't it show up when I was holding the mic in front of the audience I was speaking to and until I wasn't on stage speaking to the people out there it was there but once I took charge of myself to deliver something to the people there was no fear. It was me and the people with the message. "CONQUER YOURSELF

Forgive me, but," he begins, and I know this can be going nowhere good, "what about the men who watch our channel? Do we really want to look so biased? We can't alienate half our viewership." I see Katherine open her mouth to respond, but then I must enter some kind of alternate reality in which I think I'm the best one to take these questions, as I open my big mouth and beat her to the punch. "Who's to say they'll be alienated, though? Men watch plenty of TV shows and movies led by women. Or if they don't, they certainly should. We've been put through five million Fast and the Furious and James Bond movies, for goodness' sake. And if they're opposed to watching and learning from women, because they think we're boring or don't get our perspectives, well, I reckon they're part of the problem." I fold my arms over my chest defiantly, then lose my remaining nerve and avert my eyes from those of the CEO. When I look at the other women instead, they're all staring at me with some measure of shock, some looking amused and impressed on top of that. Katherine is the first one to shake herself out of it and narrows her gaze on Geoffrey Block, CEO, once more. "It may also be of interest to you that if this series doesn't happen at Friends of Flavor, I plan on hosting it on my personal site, the Kat's Muse. I have advertisers who have long expressed interest in helping me launch my own videos, but I've been reluctant to take any of FoF's thunder. I would feel obligated to make it clear, though, that I was only hosting the series because this channel had rejected the proposal." My jaw drops along with Katherine's figurative mic. She kept that little contingency plan from us yesterday, but damn. Of course she had a secret weapon in her back pocket. Lily pipes up, "And if you all didn't know, men do not make up half of Friends of Flavor viewers. More like thirty percent. Meaning women are seventy percent. Maybe worth looking at who's really getting alienated." Well okay, Lily. For someone who spends so much of the time off in her own mental universe, she sure knows how to pop back down to earth and spit facts when needed.

Installing tape-in hair extensions on short hair may initially seem daunting, but fear not! With the right technique and a touch of patience, you can achieve stunning, voluminous locks. In this step-by-step guide, we'll walk you through the process, providing clear instructions and helpful tips to ensure a seamless installation. Supplies You'll Need: Before diving in, gather the following supplies: tape-in hair extensions, sectioning clips, a fine-tooth comb, hair cutting shears (optional), a hair straightener (optional), and hair extension adhesive remover (if reusing extensions). Step 1: Prepare Your Hair and Section It Begin by thoroughly washing and drying your hair. If desired, straighten your natural hair with a flat iron to facilitate blending. Next, use sectioning clips to divide your hair into manageable sections, starting with a horizontal parting at the nape of your neck and working your way up. Step 2: Get the Extensions Ready Lay out the tape-in hair extensions, ensuring they're in the correct order for installation. If you're reusing extensions, carefully remove any remaining adhesive using a hair extension adhesive remover. Step 3: Measure, Trim, and Apply the First Extension Hold a tape-in extension against your scalp, starting from the bottom of a sectioned hair portion. Measure it against your natural hair length and trim accordingly, leaving a small gap between the extension and your scalp. Remove the protective backing from one side of the tape and press it firmly against the roots of your hair, just below the sectioned hair. Step 4: Sandwich and Repeat Take another tape-in extension with the sticky side exposed and place it over the top of the first extension, sandwiching your natural hair in between. Apply firm pressure to secure the extensions together. Repeat this process, working your way up in rows until you reach the top of your head. Step 5: Blend, Style, and Maintain Use a fine-tooth comb to blend your natural hair with the extensions, ensuring a seamless look. Style your hair as desired, using heat tools or styling products if needed. Follow the maintenance guidelines provided by the hair extension manufacturer to keep your extensions looking their best, and avoid excessive heat or oily products near the tape area to prevent slippage. Step 6: Removal Process When it's time to remove the extensions, use a professional hair extension adhesive remover for a gentle and safe removal process. Conclusion: By following this comprehensive guide, you'll confidently install tape-in hair extensions on short hair, unleashing a world of voluminous and glamorous hairstyles. Remember to take your time, follow the instructions diligently, and seek professional assistance if necessary. Embrace the transformation and enjoy your stunning new look!

player.” I nodded, got up, took the mic, kicked some rhymes that were floating around in my head—real impromptu—and won first prize.

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".

From the top of my head to the soles of my feet, I'm wearing black: knit watch cap, a long-sleeved wool pullover on top of a polypropylene undershirt, tough black Cordura nylon cargo pants and high-top black cross-trainers. It's all very ninja. Over all that, I've got a Kevlar-lined tactical vest with six magazines of nine-millimeter frangible ammunition. The magazines are for the suppressed Uzi submachine gun slung over my back. I've also got a black tactical belt rig around my waist, suppressed Ruger .22 automatic riding low on one hip, with two spare mags and a combat knife balancing the load on the other side. I've got a short-range secure radio set clipped to my back, the wire running up to a headset tucked around my ear, throat mic hanging loose at the moment. One frag grenade and two flash-bangs round out my arsenal. I've got a small LED flashlight, a multi-tool, a couple of plastic zip-tie restraints, and that's it. I like to keep my loadout light so I'm quick on my feet; I've seen too many guys bite it because they were turtled by their combat gear. I feel like a G.I. Joe commando. Hell, all I need is a code-name.

We also talk about our evolving relationships with the various control centers—Houston, Moscow, Europe, Japan—and how much the mutual adoration society, as I call it, has gotten out of control. It seems that no one can do anything, either in space or on the ground, without receiving a short speech of appreciation: “Thank you for all your hard work and your time on this, awesome job, we appreciate it.” Then the speech has to be repeated back: “No, thank you, you guys have been just awesome, we appreciate all your hard work,” ad nauseam. It all comes from a well-meaning place, but I think it’s a waste of time. I’ve often had the experience of finishing up some task and then moving on to the next thing, when a “thank you” speech comes back at me. This requires that I stop what I’m doing to float back to the mic, acknowledge those thanks, and return them in roughly equal proportions—multiple times a day. If you consider the cost of constructing and maintaining the space station, the mutual adoration society probably costs taxpayers millions of dollars a year. I’m already thinking about putting a stop to it when Terry, Samantha, and Anton leave.

Where does Christ rule as king? His kingdom is spiritual. He rules in the hearts of men. He sets up his throne where no other king does; he rules the will and affections; his power binds the conscience; he subdues men's lusts. "He will subdue our iniquities." Mic 7:19.

The demo flight changed dramatically when, seemingly out of nowhere, another T-2 jumped us from behind and we were suddenly a participant in a dog fight. I had no idea at the time that this was strictly against regulations. It was ACM (air combat maneuvers) that was taught and practiced, but to do it spontaneously like this, without a thorough briefing on the ground, was against the rules for obvious reasons. From that point on, the previous maneuvers we had been doing seemed mild. My pilot was trying to outmaneuver our pursuer to get him off our tail and turn the fight around so that he was our prey, we were on his tail, and we were in kill-shot position had this been real combat. The maneuvers were violent. I kept my knees wide apart to prevent the control stick from bruising my legs as it slammed back and forth to its full limits. My helmet clanked against the left side of the canopy and then the right side. Looking directly ahead out the windshield, I was staring straight up at the sky and the clouds, and the next moment I was looking straight down at the Gulf of Mexico. The horizon and the instruments were spinning around one direction and then the other direction. The altimeter needles were whirling around as the gauge indicated a higher and higher altitude as we climbed, and then indicated a smaller and smaller number as we plummeted toward the water below. I was spatially disoriented much of the time. There were moments when the airplane seemed completely out of control; it probably was. I could hear my pilot breathing heavily in his oxygen mask through his hot mic and cursing the other plane and its pilot. I could only see the other aircraft in a small combat rearview mirror. (Page 57)

He took the trophy and the mic and said, ‘Uhm,’ and then laughed, almost as if he were at a loss for words. When the presenters insisted though, he looked to the audience and thanked his crew again, Danny Boyle especially, the people of Mumbai and the optimism that he believed was the essence of the film. ‘All my life,’ he said, finally looking like he was starting to choke up, ‘I had a choice of hate and love. I chose love. And I’m here. God bless.’ Truer words he could not have spoken. At every point in his life he had faced this crucial choice. When his father died. When he had to start working before he was even a teenager. When he had to drop out of school. When he had to grow up faster than any child could have reasonably been expected to; when he had to become the man of the house at eleven, had to take care of his family. When he felt creatively stifled during his days as a sessions player and wondered if this was all his life was going to be about. When he felt his music wasn’t being appreciated widely or truly enough before Roja. When it seemed he was all alone, with no one to turn to. When he became famous. He could have chosen to be bitter, prideful or sad at every stage. But he didn’t. If not for his music, then simply for his capacity to choose light over dark, A.R. Rahman deserves every bit of adulation he got that day and ever since. His speech done, AR lowered his mic, as if not trusting himself to keep his composure for much longer, and walked off the stage.

Whatever you like. Mikki has us on a pretty strict diet, but Mikki isn’t here right now.” “What’s the diet for?” she asked absently, picking up the room phone. “The muscles you’re always drooling over

Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak lets go of his power, cursing himself. He glances up helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead is touching Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth. “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just happened, like a slap to the face, and left the way the sting from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But I know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no one gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I might be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there was still something between us. We are messes and we are messed up and I don’t want to go through this world without the one person I can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat. “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up and take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open, and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one noticed she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him like the sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and not have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even the most frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but he is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the rise and fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty, and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages to bundle Wren in it. Then he carries her to a boat and commandeers it to take him across so he can bring her to the palace. The journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions, plodding steps. Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then, her body is shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into his voice as he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are and how she will be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and piles blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to her shuddering.

Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak let’s go of his power, cursing himself. He glanced up o helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead his touching Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth. “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just happened, like a slap to the face, and left the way the sting from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But I know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no one gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I might be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there was still something between us. We are messes and we are messed up and I don’t want to go through this world without the one person I can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat. “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up and take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open, and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one noticed she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him like the sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and not have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even the most frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but he is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the rise and fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty, and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages to bundle Wren in it. Then he Carrie’s her to a boat and commandeers it to take him across so he can bring her to the palace. The journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions, plodding steps. Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then, her body is shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into his voice as he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are and how she will be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and piles blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to her shuddering.

I hold the mic up to my lips and murmur, “Te vivo.” It’s better than “I love you”. It’s more accurate. It’s us.