Mike Richards Quotes

He was a heavy breather. You could hear him puffing and blowing into the mike up there like some large and sweaty animal. I don't like that, never have. My father is like that on the telephone. A lot of heavy breathing in your ear, so you can almost smell the scotch and Pall Malls on his breath. It always seems unsanitary and somehow homosexual.

Go that way, past the viaduct, and the wops will jump you, or chase you into Jew town...Polacks would stomp on you...Micks will shower you with Irish confetti from the brickyards.

Later, when they sat down and went over the figures closely, they found an interesting pattern. Adamowski had received fifty-one percent of the votes, cast by white persons. But the enormous black vote had given Daley his victory. The people who were trapped in the ghetto slums and the nightmarish public housing projects, the people who had the worst school system and were most often degraded by the Police Department, the people who received the fewest campaign promises and who were ignored as part of the campaign trail, had given him his third term. They had done it quietly, asking for nothing in return. Exactly what they got.

The neighborhood-towns were part of larger ethnic states. To the north of the Loop was Germany. To the northwest was Poland. To the west were Italy and Israel. To the southwest were Bohemia and Lithuania. And to the south was ireland... you could always tell, even with your eyes closed, which state you were in by the odors of the food stores and the open kitchen windows, the sound of the foreign or familiar language, and by whether a stranger hit you in the head with a rock.

That which doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger,” Mike said. “Except bears. Bears will kill you.

If the regular pay was important to him, the opportunity to learn was of even greater long-range significance.

So, for a variety of reasons, ranging from convenience to fear to economics, people stayed in their own neighborhood, loving it, enjoying the closeness, the friendliness, the familiarity, and trying to save enough money to move out.

Behind the high-rises are the crumbling, crowded buildings where the lower-income people live. No answer has been found to their housing problems because the real estate people say there's not enough profit in building homes for them. And beyond them are the middle-income people, who can't make it to the high-rises and can't stay where they are because the schools are inadequate, the poor are pushing toward them, and nothing is being done about their problems, so they move to the suburbs. When their children grow up and they retire, maybe then they can move to a lake front high-rise.

The thing that got Daley mad," one of the delegates said later, "was that Ribicoff had been ass-kissing him just a day or two before. He came over and pushed for McGovern to our delegation and made a big speech about what a great guy Daley was. Then he got up there and played the hero for the TV cameras." Daley was on his feet, his arms waiving, his mouth working. The words were lost in the uproar, but it was later asserted by Mayday, an almost-underground Washington paper, that a lip-reader had determined that he said: "Fuck you, you Jew son of a bitch, you lousy motherfucker, go home.

That is the greatest sin of all. You can make money under the table and move ahead, but you are forbidden to make secretaries under the sheets. He has dumped several party members for violating his personal moral standards. If something is leaked to the press, the bigmouth will be tracked down and punished. Scandals aren't public scandals if you get there before you enemies do.

And yet, right then, as I stood among my father’s friends and acquaintances drinking Mike’s free beer in Sam Hall’s honor, waves of panic as physically tangible as abdominal nausea crashed over me. It wasn’t that I needed Sam Hall for anything specific. I’d have been satisfied to know that his consciousness had somehow been saved, that his essence was being kept alive in some jar on a shelf somewhere, that he continued to be. Of such fears, I thought as I drank off the rest of my beer in a gulp, are religions born. Also alcoholics.

Alan Ladd as Neale Jordan Veronica Lake as Ellen Hillman Mike Mazurki as Paul Fontana Elisha Cook Jr. as Ciro Ricci Gloria Graham as May Martell Frank Lovejoy as Randolph McGraw Hugh Beaumont as Charlie Gray Lloyd Nolan as Victor Haskell June Lockhart as Janet Haskell James Craig as Eddie Lomax Laird Cregar as Frank Perkins William Bendix as Art Barker Richard Denning as Jerry Markle James Gleason as Sam Menard Tom Drake as Roy Douglas Dick as Tommy Barrow Virginia Grey as Claire Allen Farley Granger as Andy Hillman Edward Ryan as Gerald

People feel ashamed of being depressed, they feel they should snap out of it, they feel weak and inadequate. Of course, these feelings are symptoms of the disease. Depression is a grave and life-threatening illness, much more common than we recognize. As far as the depressive being weak or inadequate, let me drop some names of famous depressives: Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, Eleanor Roosevelt, Sigmund Freud. Terry Bradshaw, Drew Carey, Billy Joel, T. Boone Pickens, J. K. Rowling, Brooke Shields, Mike Wallace. Charles Dickens, Joseph Conrad, Graham Greene, Ernest Hemingway, Herman Melville, Mark Twain.

I always thought that's what songs are really about; you're not supposed to be singing songs about hiding things. And when my voice got better and stronger, I was able to communicate that raw feeling, and so I wrote more tender songs, love songs, if you like. [...] Composing a song like that, in front of a mike, is like holding on to a friend in a way. [...] I'm not agonizing for days with poems and shit. And what I find fascinating about it is that when you're up there on the microphone and say, OK, let's go, something comes out that you wouldn't have dreamt of. Then within a millisecond you've got to come up with something else that adds to what you've just said. It's kind of jousting with yourself. And suddenly you've got something going and there's a framework to work with.

Reality is based on unobservable mathematical points (singularities). That’s the secret of existence. What’s at the centre of a black hole? – a singularity. What was the Big Bang? – a singularity event. What is the Big Crunch? – when spacetime returns to a singularity. What is light made of? – photonic singularities (immaterial and dimensionless; according to Einstein’s special theory of relativity, photons have no mass, are maximally length contracted to zero, and time has stopped for them). The whole universe is made of light. It comes from light and returns to light. Light is all about points – singularities. Light is the basis of thought, the basis of mind, and the basis of matter. Everything is derived from light, and light is nothing but mathematical points defined by the generalised Euler Formula, and it creates the visible world via Fourier mathematics.

Scientists would much rather contemplate indeterminism than free will because then they can continue to avoid any notion of mind existing in its own right. The entire way scientists think is predicated on ensuring that meaning, purpose, mind, teleology, and free will never enter their thoughts or theories. It’s literally verboten to allow these to enter science. Science is an ideology. It’s utterly dogmatic. It has an absolutely rigid and wrong worldview that it refuses to alter. It’s as bad as Judaism, Christianity, Islam and Karmism. The way Richard Dawkins, Stephen Hawking, Sam Harris and Brian Cox contemplate the world is from the primary assumption that mind, teleology and free will are false. So, it’s no surprise whatsoever to find these people arguing against mind, teleology and free will. They have to in order to cling to their quasi-religious faith in scientific materialism.

There were three great comedians in my formative years—Bill Cosby, Bill Murray, and Richard Pryor—and they wrecked comedy for a generation. How? By never saying anything funny. You can quote a Steve Martin joke, or a Rodney Dangerfield line, but Pryor, Cosby, and Murray? The things they said were funny only when they said them. In Cosby’s case, it didn’t even need to be sentences: “The thing of the thing puts the milk in the toast, and ha, ha, ha!” It was gibberish and America loved it. The problem was that they inspired a generation of comedians who tried coasting on personality—they were all attitude and no jokes. It was also a time when comedy stars didn’t seem to care. Bill Murray made some lousy movies; Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy made even more; and any script that was too lame for these guys, Chevy Chase made. These were smart people—they had to know how bad these films were, but they just grabbed a paycheck and did them. Most of these comic actors started as writers—they could have written their own scripts, but they rarely bothered. Then, at the end of a decade of lazy comedy and half-baked material, The Simpsons came along. We cared about jokes, and we worked endless hours to cram as many into a show as possible. I’m not sure we can take all the credit, but TV and movies started trying harder. Jokes were back. Shows like 30 Rock and Arrested Development demanded that you pay attention. These days, comedy stars like Seth Rogen, Amy Schumer, Kristen Wiig, Melissa McCarthy, and Jonah Hill actually write the comedies they star in.

On the drive over, Richards kept marveling at the transforming power of having a felony to commit. His brother looked more like his "normal" self now than at any time in the previous weeks, that is, like a calm, basically reasonable individual, a manly sort of fellow with a certain presence. They talked about Richards' daughter and along other noncontroversial lines. At the airport Richards stood by quietly, if nervously, while Joel transacted his business at the ticket counter, then passed a blue daypack, containing the kilo of cocaine among other things, through the security x-ray. Richards had planned to stop right here--just say good-bye, go outside and start to breathe again--but for some reason he followed his brother through the checkpoint. In silence they proceeded down a broad, sparsely peopled corridor; Joel, with his daypack slung casually over one shoulder, a cigarette occupying his other hand, had given Richards his fiddle case to carry. Soon they became aware of a disturbance up ahead: a murmurous roar, a sound like water surging around the piles of a pier. The corridor forked and they found themselves in a broad lobby, which was jammed now with Hawaiian travelers, prospective vacationers numbering in the hundreds. Just as they arrived, a flight attendant, dressed like a renter of cabanas on the beach at Waikiki, picked up a mike and made the final announcement to board. In response to which, those travelers not already on their feet, not already formed in long, snaky line three or four people abreast, arose. The level of hopeful chatter, of sweetly anticipatory human excitement, increased palpably, and Richards, whose response to crowds was generally nervous, self-defensively ironic, instinctively held back. But his brother plunged right in--took up a place at the front of the line, and from this position, with an eager, good-natured expression on his face, surveyed his companions. Now the line started to move forward quickly. Richards, inching along on a roughly parallel course, two or three feet behind his brother, sought vainly for something comical to say, some reference to sunburns to come, Bermuda shorts, Holiday Inn luaus, and the like. Joel, beckoning him closer, seemed to want the fiddle case back. But it was Richards himself whom he suddenly clasped, held to his chest with clumsy force. Wordlessly embracing, gasping like a couple of wrestlers, they stumbled together over a short distance full of strangers, and only as the door of the gate approached, the flight attendant holding out a hand for boarding passes, did Richards' brother turn without a word and let him go.

On the drive over, Richards kept marveling at the transforming power of having a felony to commit. His brother looked more like his "normal" self now than at any time in the previous weeks, that is, like a calm, basically reasonable individual, a manly sort of fellow with a certain presence. They talked about Richards' daughter and along other noncontroversial lines. At the airport Richards stood by quietly, if nervously, while Joel transacted his business at the ticket counter, then passed a blue daypack, containing the kilo of cocaine among other things, through the security x-ray. Richards had planned to stop right here--just say good-bye, go outside and start to breathe again--but for some reason he followed his brother through the checkpoint. In silence they proceeded down a broad, sparsely peopled corridor; Joel, with his daypack slung casually over one shoulder, a cigarette occupying his other hand, had given Richards his fiddle case to carry. Soon they became aware of a disturbance up ahead: a murmurous roar, a sound like water surging around the piles of a pier. The corridor forked and they found themselves in a broad lobby, which was jammed now with Hawaiian travelers, prospective vacationers numbering in the hundreds.
 Just as they arrived, a flight attendant, dressed like a renter of cabanas on the beach at Waikiki, picked up a mike and made the final announcement to board. In response to which, those travelers not already on their feet, not already formed in long, snaky line three or four people abreast, arose. The level of hopeful chatter, of sweetly anticipatory human excitement, increased palpably, and Richards, whose response to crowds was generally nervous, self-defensively ironic, instinctively held back. But his brother plunged right in--took up a place at the front of the line, and from this position, with an eager, good-natured expression on his face, surveyed his companions.
 Now the line started to move forward quickly. Richards, inching along on a roughly parallel course, two or three feet behind his brother, sought vainly for something comical to say, some reference to sunburns to come, Bermuda shorts, Holiday Inn luaus, and the like.
 Joel, beckoning him closer, seemed to want the fiddle case back. But it was Richards himself whom he suddenly clasped, held to his chest with clumsy force. Wordlessly embracing, gasping like a couple of wrestlers, they stumbled together over a short distance full of strangers, and only as the door of the gate approached, the flight attendant holding out a hand for boarding passes, did Richards' brother turn without a word and let him go.

Alan Ladd as Neale Jordan Veronica Lake as Ellen Hillman Mike Mazurki as Paul Fontana Elisha Cook Jr. as Ciro Ricci Gloria Graham as May Martell Frank Lovejoy as Randolph McGraw Hugh Beaumont as Charlie Gray Lloyd Nolan as Victor Haskell June Lockhart as Janet Haskell James Craig as Eddie Lomax Laird Cregar as Frank Perkins William Bendix as Art Barker Richard Denning as Jerry Markle James Gleason as Sam Menard Tom Drake as Roy Douglas Dick as Tommy Barrow Virginia Grey as Claire Allen

So that's Richard," says Sally. "So that's Mike," I say. Sally puts an arm around me and squeezes, then leans in close. "Thank God for us, that's what I say." "Thank God." And I mean it.

Day an' night they set in a room with a checker-board on th' end iv a flour bar'l, an' study problems iv th' navy. At night Mack dhrops in. 'Well, boys,' says he, 'how goes th' battle?' he says. 'Gloryous,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'Two more moves, an' we'll be in th' king row.' 'Ah,' says Mack, 'this is too good to be thrue,' he says. 'In but a few brief minyits th' dhrinks'll be on Spain,' he says. 'Have ye anny plans f'r Sampson's fleet?' he says. 'Where is it?' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'I dinnaw,' says Mack. 'Good,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'Where's th' Spanish fleet?' says they. 'Bombardin' Boston, at Cadiz, in San June de Matzoon, sighted near th' gas-house be our special correspondint, copyright, 1898, be Mike O'Toole.' 'A sthrong position,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. 'Undoubtedly, th' fleet is headed south to attack and seize Armour's glue facthory. Ordher Sampson to sail north as fast as he can, an' lay in a supply iv ice. Th' summer's comin' on. Insthruct Schley to put on all steam, an' thin put it off again, an' call us up be telephone. R-rush eighty-three millyon throops an' four mules to Tampa, to Mobile, to Chickenmaha, to Coney Island, to Ireland, to th' divvle, an' r-rush thim back again. Don't r-rush thim. Ordher Sampson to pick up th' cable at Lincoln Par-rk, an' run into th' bar-rn. Is th' balloon corpse r-ready? It is? Thin don't sind it up. Sind it up. Have th' Mulligan Gyards co-op'rate with Gomez, an' tell him to cut away his whiskers. They've got tangled in th' riggin'. We need yellow-fever throops. Have ye anny yellow fever in th' house? Give it to twinty thousand three hundherd men, an' sind thim afther Gov'nor Tanner. Teddy Rosenfelt's r-rough r-riders ar-re downstairs, havin' their uniforms pressed. Ordher thim to th' goluf links at wanst. They must be no indecision. Where's Richard Harding Davis? On th' bridge iv the New York? Tur-rn th' bridge. Seize Gin'ral Miles' uniform. We must strengthen th' gold resarve. Where's th' Gussie? Runnin' off to Cuba with wan hundherd men an' ar-rms, iv coorse. Oh, war is a dhreadful thing. It's ye'er move, Claude,' says th' Sthrateejy Board. "An

Richard Thaler y Cass Sunstein en su fascinante libro Nudge,

For most of us,” Mike continued, looking across at Richard, “although we regard all our soldiers’ graves as sacred, we regard that shrine as the most sacred of all. In fact, there’s no comparison. There is no higher honor that the military gives than in that place, and we’ve done so twenty-four hours a day since 1937.

I’m betting that Zoe is with Ben Ripley right now. Along with two other associates, Mike Brezinski and Erica Hale. And they are currently at Poor Richard’s Sandwich Shoppe at 104 Market Street in Philadelphia. “Uh-oh,” Mike said.

on leaving, Jake?”               “I was planning to go home next week for Allison’s birthday anyway. Now, I don’t see any reason to come back here. I can give what we know about Nixon to Bennet and head out of Dodge. After what he did to mom’s house, I’d like to see Nixon hang, but now that we know he didn’t kill Mike, there is no need for me to stick around.

Two bright young men were on the air, one named Brad, who looked like Dana Carvey, and one named Mike, who looked like an agitated Steve Martin... But I have a hunch that Brad and Mike will be around for a long time. The full names, by the way are Brad Keena and Mike Schwartz.

Hadn't Gary Gygax simply invented a game, and an esoteric one at that? It was hardly a footnote in the increasingly fast and complex information age that we live in. What was all the fuzz about? The reason for all the fuzz among those who understood his work was simple. Gary Gygax and his seminal game creation, Dungeons & Dragons, had influenced and transformed the world in extraordinary ways. Yet, much of his contribution would also go largely unrecognised by the general public. Although it is debatable whether D&D ever became a thoroughly mainstream activity, as a 1983 New York Times article had speculated, referring to it as the great game of the 1980's, D&D and its RPG derivatives are beloved by a relatively small but dedicated group of individuals affectionately known as 'geeks'. Although the term 'geek' is not exclusive to role-playing gamers, the activities of this particular audience have often been viewed as the most archetypal form of 'geekiness'. Labels aside, what is notable is that the activities of this RGP audience were highly correlated with interests in other activities such as early computers, digital technologies, visual effects, and the performing arts. In this way, these geeks, though relatively small in number, became in many instances the leaders and masters of this era. With the advent of the digital age, geeks worldwide found opportunity and recognition never previously available to their predecessors. Icons and innovators such as George R. R. Martin, Mike Myers, Richard Garriott, Vin Diesel, Tim Duncan, Anderson Cooper, David X. Cohen, John Carmak, Tim Harford, Moby, and the late Robin Williams, to name just a few, were all avid role-playing gamers in their younger years. The list of those who include D&D as a regular activity while growing up is both extensive and impressive.

Mike says the district attorney knows Vincent will be out in thirty, and his tough talk is theater for the voters of Rankin County. He says county officials are in a bind. Their conservative constituents have two demands: (1) Lock ’em away and throw away the key, and (2) don’t raise taxes. So officials go through the show of being arch-conservative, then, when faced with paying the prison bill, they release prisoners early. In fact, Mike says, this is why Vincent was out of prison early and able to kill Richard.

hawk, he would have been bankrupt years ago. I like to build cars and make movies. If you ask me, we would have been better off directing our resources toward making movies than putting up a fancy new building.” “Why did you go along with the plan?” “I didn’t have any choice. I told my father I thought it was a bad idea. He had the final vote. Did you and your father agree on everything when you were growing up?” “Of course not.” “Who usually won the arguments?” “My dad.” He gives me a knowing smile. “Same here. My father wanted to build his dream studio. It was his money. Do you think my opinion on the economic viability of the project carried any weight? He spent his life being told he was a genius. That word isn’t generally used when people talk about me. Now it’s going to cost us a fortune to get out.” Families. Rosie keeps her eye on the ball. “Richard, you told us you left your father’s house around two o’clock. Who was still there?” “My dad, Angelina, and Marty Kent.” “Do you know what time Kent left?” “No.” “Do you have any idea what happened to him?” “I understand he jumped.” Rosie lays the cards on the table. “Do you think he killed your father?” He starts mixing paint again. “I think Angelina killed my father. Then again, nothing Marty did would have surprised me. He was a self-righteous ass. He thought he was the brains behind the operation, and my dad and I were just pawns. And he was really ticked off.” The venom in his tone surprises me. He tells us Kent and his father had been fighting about the China Basin project for months. “Marty thought he was getting screwed. My dad went to the other investors to try to negotiate a bonus for him.” “Did something happen on Friday night?” “Yes. My dad told him that the other investors had vetoed the bonus.” This jibes with the information from Ward. He adds, “There was something else. Marty decided to try to pull some strings at city hall. He hired a consultant to help him get the approvals for the China Basin project.” I decide to play coy. “Do you know his name?” “Armando Rios. Some money may have changed hands. Marty never told me about it. Marty never told me

Cousin Mike, the person most people believe put Richard on the path he traveled, died of a massive heart attack in April of 1995. He was overweight and still haunted by the ghosts of things he’d done in Vietnam, regularly using heroin. The Army gave Mike a hero’s burial with a twenty-one-gun salute.

Mike was released from the Texas State Mental Hospital in late 1977, four and a half years after killing Jessie. The doctors felt he had stabilized and was fit to be returned to society. The doctors reasoned that his not having gotten extensive therapy after the horrors of Vietnam was to blame. He deserved another chance.

Richard, aside from hanging out with Mike, became a loner. He didn’t trust people or like them particularly. He perceived society as unfair, vicious, and hostile.

He’d first make sure the guests were asleep by listening at the window. When he was satisfied, he’d open the door, enter quickly, get down to the ground, and wait, making certain the guests weren’t disturbed. Then he’d crawl across the floor, as Mike had taught him, and find the wallets, cash, and watches using a penlight to see.

Cousin Miguel or, “Mike” as he was often called, returned from Vietnam a war hero with two tours of duty under his belt and four medals on his thickly muscled chest. His Green Beret platoon of twenty men had been surrounded by the Vietcong at one point, and Mike and another soldier had been the only ones who’d made it out alive. Mike took to guerilla fighting like a champion boxer to the ring. It was a situation in which he could vent his anger and aggression—kill and not get into any kind of trouble. According to Richard, Mike had twenty-nine known kills.

When Mike returned from Vietnam, Richard began hanging out with him. He was twelve. To Richard, Mike was special—a bona fide, real live hero, a man who’d gone into battle and come back victorious, with medals and Polaroid photos to prove he had been there and done it. In these pictures—which Mike showed Richard many times—there were Vietnamese women on their knees being forced to perform fellatio on Mike. In each he looked grimly at the camera and held a cocked .45 to the woman’s head, genuine fear in the woman’s eyes. Mike kept these black-and-white pictures, all bent by handling, in a shoebox at the top of a closet. He also kept eight shrunken heads he’d brought back from ’Nam in a battered suitcase under his bed. He told Richard he’d used the heads as pillows in Vietnam. Mike was married to a shapely Mexican-American redhead named Jessie with a full figure and strong personality.

To Richard, in a sense, Mike was a god. He listened to his older cousin’s war stories of rape and killing wide-eyed, fascinated beyond normal curiosity. The photos had a profound effect on Richard. They aroused him sexually in a way far more intense than the girlie magazines his brothers had.

In some of the pictures Mike was holding the decapitated head of a woman. It was the same woman who had been forced to fellate him in another photograph. Richard didn’t know why these pictures excited him so much; he knew it was wrong for him to be aroused by such brutality, but he would often masturbate thinking about those pictures.

He told Jessie to shut up—that he was sick and tired of her complaining, whining bullshit. She continued to nag him. He walked calmly, to the refrigerator, took out the .38, and faced Jessie. She wasn’t frightened. She demanded to know what he was going to do with the gun. He told her he’d kill her if she didn’t put a lid on it. She didn’t believe him and she dared him to shoot her, spreading her legs defiantly, sticking her chin out. In one quick move, Mike raised the pistol and shot Jessie right in the face at point-blank range. The bullet entered just above her lip and exited the back of her head. Dead, she hit the ground hard, a finger of blood squirting from her wound as her body shook, trembled, and quaked in death’s final embrace.

He had begun breaking into people’s houses shortly before Mike had been arrested for killing Jessie. He loved the feeling of being in a stranger’s house when they weren’t there, alone, looking through their personal things, taking what he wanted, fantasizing about sexual scenarios involving bondage. It gave him a feeling of power. He had given his cousin much of what he stole of value. Mike had in turn sold it, then given the money to Richard, minus his share for acting as the middleman. Richard quickly warmed to the idea of getting money so easily. It certainly beat working.

Mike explained the concepts of guerilla warfare to Richard and told him more about his sexual conquests in ’Nam. These stories hung inside Richard’s head like obscene, perverse paintings. Mike still had the pictures of his conquests, which he showed Richard, and these photographs gave dimension, life, and sustenance to Mike’s tales of sexual dominance and sadism and Richard’s subsequent fantasies.

Richard would now often stay out in the desert after it had gotten dark. Mike had taught him how to read the stars, and he never got lost.

Richard returned to the desert to hunt, practicing what Mike had taught him: how to approach game with stealth, and when to pull the trigger. He’d see just the tips of a rabbit’s ears as it hid among rocks, and he’d crawl up to it without being seen. It was a game he enjoyed, but he knew it was a game which could become real at any time. “You never know,” Mike had taught him, “when you’ll have to provide for yourself, kill or be killed. You have to always be prepared. After all, life is like living in a jungle. It’s a fuckin’ dog-eat-dog world, and if you don’t eat first, you get eaten. Period. It’s that simple.

In the early-morning hours, when all of El Paso slept, Richard Ramirez dressed in black and burglarized people’s homes. He used what Mike had told him—“Watch out for gravel, clotheslines, garbage cans, and dogs”—and became a very proficient thief. By the time he was sixteen, his nickname had become “Dedos,” or “Fingers.” If it wasn’t nailed down, he’d take it. He often sold what he’d stolen: a radio, a leather jacket, a television, stamps, coins. Julian knew nothing of Richard’s nightly forays.

said Philippa, ‘if you have a dream, fight for it. But more than that, instil in others your belief and your passion, and by doing that you’ll create a team.

the Guardian: ‘The identification of bones found in Leicester as those of Richard III may be supported by the telling absence of any trace of a horse.’5

In "The Devil's Presence," Goldsborough brilliantly captures the Zeitgeist of our troubled times, writing with an honesty and passion that will stir your soul and rekindle your belief that a better world is within our grasp. Richard Feinberg, former White House and State Department official, official book reviewer for "Foreign Affairs." Put "Blood and Oranges" on the L.A. shelf next to Mike Davis' "City of Quartz," a Raymond Chandler or two and a DVD of "Chinatown." Just dive in. And hold on. Arthur Salm, former book editor, "San Diego Union Tribune." The Paris Herald'" is a witty, tender and evocative portrait of Americans in Paris that vividly brings to life the city they loved and made their own. Ronald Steel, author of "Walter Lippmann and the American Century." "Waiting for Uncle John" is a wonderful story that should be read and reread, told and retold. The Cuban people will never support an invader." Alejandro Orfila, former Secretary General of the Organization of American States. "Misfortunes of Wealth" is wonderfully structured and written, a gripping work of social history. I was utterly absorbed while reading it and have been haunted by it ever since. Beth Gutcheon, author of eleven novels including "Still Missing" and "Leeway Cottage." "Rebel Europe" is the most important book I have read in years. Charles Champlain, "The Los Angeles Times.

because if he found the church, I could look for the grave. And if I found the grave, he’d found the church. So we kind of did it on that basis.’ Putting it like that, if she found the grave, whether or not they found the church seemed not really to matter.

Mike still has said nothing, acknowledging that I don’t want to talk either. A Buddhist can nose out disharmony like a beagle scenting a bunny. I assume he’s micromanaging his private force fields, better to interface with mine on the ride home.

We were watching videos at night on her Samsung tablet or my company iPad. She showed me the Silvano Agosti 1983 Italian interview with a little Italian boy called “D'Amore si vive, We Live of Love.” The boy was so cute, and his thoughts seemed similar to mine and Martina's. I was so deeply in love with her. The boy on the interview was just like what our own child would be, and we agreed and laughed. “We Live of Love.” What a coincidence! Living. By: Love. I knew the interview from before and she was surprised at how I knew about it. I showed her on my Instagram a picture of the boy I had recently taken a screenshot of and posted. With the subtitle at the right moment under his face: “Descubrir a la vida.” To discover life. Together. With his one and only girlfriend, as the boy explains. I told her multiple times that I was still unsure if she was real, or if it was all a dream; if I had only dreamed of her one night in the dark; if Pinto and I had invented her in my mind. She was a big fan of space, but I thought she liked the mystery behind the endless space with all its questions and secrets for us humans. I thought she liked the sky and space because she recently flew from Argentina to land in my arms. Martina and I were obsessed with Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy; we both knew all their stand-up comedies by heart. We kept replaying the best moments or faces that Chris or Eddie made. We had so much fun watching the same videos over and over that I couldn't believe it. Nobody else ever found the same moments or the same stand-ups as funny as Martina and I did. Nobody before or after found it so amusing. If I showed it to someone, they didn't understand why I was so excited about it or why racist jokes were so funny for an hour from one black comedian to the next. We were obsessed the way Eddie spoke about the „Zebra-Bitch of her dreams, her dream-wife who doesn’t know the concept of money”, saying “she should have an afro, like Angela Davis goes 'God damn it.'“ We were laughing so much. Sometimes I tickled her flat belly or her ribs and she was laughing so sweetly and so much that she couldn't stop. She was begging me to stop tickling her when I barely touched her. She said “No, no, no, no” so many times so quickly and cutely that I had to stop and kiss her; I couldn't resist her lips or her person, I had to kiss and hug her. We laughed so much at particular parts of Chris Rock's stand-up comedies that we could barely stop, almost as if we were tickling each other. We were laughing when Chris Rock was mocking Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony for singing ‘Welfare chariots’ such as „The First of the Month” or when he explained that the government hates rappers, but „only the good rappers get gunned down. They could find Saddam Hussein in a cave in Iraq but couldn't arrest anyone related to Tupac Shakur’s assassination, which didn't happen in a cave in Iraq but in Las Vegas, on the Strip, not one of those side streets, but in front of Circus Circus, after a Mike Tyson fight. Now how many witnesses do you need, to arrest somebody?” We were fascinated with Eddie Murphy, Charlie Murphy, and Chris Rock, but when I showed her Richard Prior, Doug Stanhope, Aries Spears, or George Carlin, she was no longer so impressed for some reason. Her favorite part perhaps was when Chris Rock talked about love and relationships. He said that „you never really been in love unless you have contemplated murder; unless you have practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, staring at a can of rat poison for 45 minutes straight, you haven't been in love. And the only thing preventing you from killing your significant other was an episode of CSI.” He said that relationships are hard and that in order for them to work, both people need to have the same focus, which is all about: her.

We were watching videos at night on her Samsung tablet or my company iPad. She showed me the Silvano Agosti 1983 Italian interview with a little Italian boy called “D'Amore si vive, We Live of Love.” The boy was so cute, and his thoughts seemed similar to mine and Martina's. I was so deeply in love with her. The boy on the interview was just like what our own child would be, and we agreed and laughed. “We Live of Love.” What a coincidence! Living. By: Love. I knew the interview from before and she was surprised at how I knew about it. I showed her on my Instagram a picture of the boy I had recently taken a screenshot of and posted. With the subtitle at the right moment under his face: “Descubrir a la vida.” To discover life. Together. With his one and only girlfriend, as the boy explains. I told her multiple times that I was still unsure if she was real, or if it was all a dream; if I had only dreamed of her one night in the dark; if Pinto and I had invented her in my mind. She was a big fan of space, but I thought she liked the mystery behind the endless space with all its questions and secrets for us humans. I thought she liked the sky and space because she recently flew from Argentina to land in my arms. Martina and I were obsessed with Chris Rock and Eddie Murphy; we both knew all their stand-up comedies by heart. We kept replaying the best moments or faces that Chris or Eddie made. We had so much fun watching the same videos over and over that I couldn't believe it. Nobody else ever found the same moments or the same stand-ups as funny as Martina and I did. Nobody before or after found it so amusing. If I showed it to someone, they didn't understand why I was so excited about it or why racist jokes were so funny for an hour from one black comedian to the next. We were obsessed the way Eddie spoke about the „Zebra-Bitch of his dreams, his dream-wife who doesn’t know the concept of money”, saying “she should have an afro, like Angela Davis goes 'God damn it.'“ We were laughing so much. Sometimes I tickled her flat belly or her ribs and she was laughing so sweetly and so much that she couldn't stop. She was begging me to stop tickling her when I barely touched her. She said “No, no, no, no” so many times so quickly and cutely that I had to stop and kiss her; I couldn't resist her lips or her person, I had to kiss and hug her. We laughed so much at particular parts of Chris Rock's stand-up comedies that we could barely stop, almost as if we were tickling each other. We were laughing when Chris Rock was mocking Bone-Thugs-n-Harmony for singing ‘Welfare chariots’ such as „The First of the Month” or when he explained that the government hates rappers, but „only the good rappers get gunned down. They could find Saddam Hussein in a cave in Iraq but couldn't arrest anyone related to Tupac Shakur’s assassination, which didn't happen in a cave in Iraq but in Las Vegas, on the Strip, not one of those side streets, but in front of Circus Circus, after a Mike Tyson fight. Now how many witnesses do you need, to arrest somebody?” We were fascinated with Eddie Murphy, Charlie Murphy, and Chris Rock, but when I showed her Richard Prior, Doug Stanhope, Aries Spears, or George Carlin, she was no longer so impressed for some reason. Her favorite part perhaps was when Chris Rock talked about love and relationships. He said that „you never really been in love unless you have contemplated murder; unless you have practiced your alibi in front of the mirror, staring at a can of rat poison for 45 minutes straight, you haven't been in love. And the only thing preventing you from killing your significant other was an episode of CSI.” He said that relationships are hard and that in order for them to work, both people need to have the same focus, which is all about: her.

Richard rutted away at his wife as she cried out in pleasure, giving a dramatic show of sexual exuberance for Marbas. The others chanted praise. “Marbas the mighty. Marbas the wise. Marbas the revealer of secrets. Marbas the healer. Marbas, worthy of our adulation and service.” “What the fuck?

Lucy Worsley, Chief Curator of Historic Royal Palaces, found ‘something admirable, indeed noble, about the people arguing over Richard III. They’re doers rather than naysayers, romantics rather than realists.’46

the ingredients for the best political donnybrook

Mike Phelan, Sir Alex Ferguson’s last assistant manager, said that one of his greatest contributions to the Ferguson leadership was to make his boss laugh. In my interviews, the same comedic quality was attributed to another of Ferguson’s coaches, Steve McClaren, to both John Prescott and Alastair Campbell for Tony Blair, and Nicki Chapman for her many artistes. Funny Cs can break down the structure of A opinion, and put it back together somehow modified, all in a pleasurable whirl.

RICHARD PLEPLER: At the premiere, Diane came up to me and said, “Thank you for giving my husband ‘more life,’” which, of course, was a reference to one of the key lines in the play. As Kushner explains in the notes to Perestroika, “more life” is Harold Bloom’s translation of the Hebrew word for blessing.

RICHARD PLEPLER: We’re living in a very, very trying moment. It’s too mean. There’s too much invective, vitriol, too much hatred. The best antidote to that are our artists. They’re our last best hope,

If the principle of sufficient reason means that everything that happens has a reason why it is thus and not otherwise, the opposite is things happening for no reason at all – randomness! This is the entire basis of the scientific “explanation” of existence. Science is a formally irrationalist system opposed to the principle of sufficient reason. That’s why it’s astounding when people such as Richard Dawkins and Sam Harris claim to be on the side of reason. They plainly don’t know the meaning of the word.

The Magistrate has been watching this whole thing with the quiet amusement of Mike Brady watching his squabbling TV kids. Only this Mike’s kids are killers and Dad’s got a messiah complex.

If you don’t have the highest ambitions, you will never achieve anything great. If you’re “realistic” rather than “idealistic”, you will inevitably accept failure because failure is always the realistic outcome of any undertaking. Samuel Beckett said, “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” That’s idealistic, not realistic. The realist would just give up. Illuminism is about aiming for the highest heights. If you prefer the plains, the lows, the average, the ordinary, the banal, the bland, the uncommitted, the neutral, the self-interested, the “realistic”, Illuminism is not for you.

How can quantum mechanics and general relativity be reconciled? By re-casting both in terms of holography. The final scientific theory of everything will be mathematical holography, with mental nonlocality at its core. If the whole science community adopts a holographic paradigm rather than a materialist paradigm, a final theory will be available within ten years.

All contingent truths (“truths of fact”) must be grounded in eternal, necessary truths (“truths of reason”). Contingent truths cannot explain eternal, necessary truths, but the converse must be true. Existence cannot be grounded in contingency, only in necessity. Science claims that existence is purely accidental, hence entirely contingent. There is no sufficient reason for the “random fluctuations” upon which science bases its entire “philosophy”. Science is completely false at the level of the non-observable: the level of ultimate noumenal truth.

Reality is based on unobservable mathematical points (singularities). That’s the secret of existence. What’s at the centre of a black hole? – a singularity. What was the Big Bang? – a singularity event. What is the Big Crunch? – when spacetime returns to a singularity. What is light made of? – photonic singularities (immaterial and dimensionless; according to Einstein’s special theory of relativity, photons have no mass, are maximally length contracted to zero, and time has stopped for them). The whole universe is made of light. It comes from light and returns to light. Light is all about points – singularities. Light is the basis of thought, the basis of mind, and the basis of matter. Everything is derived from light, and light is nothing but mathematical points defined by the generalised Euler Formula, and it creates the visible world via Fourier mathematics.

Isn’t it time to become enlightened? Isn’t it time to join the Church of Reason? Abandon all of the other false, irrational religions. Embrace the Truth. Become one with your immortal, indestructible, mathematical soul. “God” did not create your soul. On the contrary, it is itself becoming God!

Scientists such as Bohr, Heisenberg and Born are like prophets and popes. The scientific establishment is like the Catholic Church, always on the lookout for heretics and infidels. To say that scientists are open minded seekers of the truth is a joke. They’re blinkered and fanatical materialists who would never dream of reaching anything other than materialist conclusions, no matter how far-fetched, as we see with the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics where cats can be claimed to be simultaneously dead and alive, with no one batting an eye.

Science should have been about reason, but, instead, it chose to be a crude reaction and retort to religion, and that drove it down a catastrophic atheistic path. Had it not been for religion, science would have become what Leibniz always thought it should be: a union of the empirical and rational, of the physical and metaphysical, with the rational and metaphysical being the dominant partners.

Richard had been the first of the Showtime boys to quietly come out after his stint at the Pennsylvania Governor’s School for the Arts, an exclusive state-run arts intensive that might as well have been called the Pennsylvania Governor’s Blow Job Academy. Imagine a bunch of seventeen-year-old theater boys away from home for the first time for six weeks. They were living in empty college dorms, for the love of Mike! Literally! Think of the joy and freedom they must have felt, like being on an all-gay space station. (I’m sure there were one or two straight boys there, too, and I imagine they did incredibly well with the one or two straight girls.)

I give to my son, Richard Andrew MacArthur, Jr., if he survives me, all my interest in any and all cash, securities, individual retirement accounts, pension plans, profit sharing plans, stock bonus plans, other qualified retirement plans, real and personal property of any nature, furniture, fixtures, automobiles and all other tangible articles of a household or personal nature, together with all insurance policies

Jeremy George Lake Charles The classic Corvette (Richard Nichols, 1984) contains the following chapters on the Corvette's design, engine, chassis, interior and exterior design. The Corvette Bible (Mike Yager (2007) is a comprehensive guide to the history of the Chevrolet Corvette from 1953 to 1987. Jeremy George Lake Charles This show includes a full-color illustration of the original Corvette and a detailed description of the interior and exterior design of each car. You will notice that all 65 of the 1968 convertibles were, but the covered models include the Corvette Stingray, Corvette ZR1, Corvettes, Camaro and Corvette Convertible.

Ralph and Mike would soon be caught up in a remarkable phenomenon that transcended prevailing regional, class, and gender boundaries. It was an intertwining cultural grapevine that united northerners and southerners who shared a common passion for rural string band music. This network proved crucial to the survival of Bill Monroe’s career and even bluegrass itself.

The funeral home might be McInerney’s, which has matchbooks that bear a poem beginning, “Bring out the lace curtains and call McInerney, I’m nearing the end of life’s pleasant journey.

shifts signal a slowing in momentum for the bill among Democrats, who have faced a full-court press from a number of top administration officials, including President Barack Obama and Secretary of State John Kerry. During Tuesday night’s State of the Union address, Obama vowed to veto the bill if it landed on his desk and urged Congress to let international talks play out. It’s already clear that Congress is reluctant to proceed on the issue. Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-Nev.) has signaled an unwillingness to bring the sanctions bill to a vote, and in the House, party leaders have been meeting privately for weeks to figure out how to proceed. Talk in that chamber has centered on the possibility of voting on a non-binding resolution that would allow lawmakers to lay out their preferred endgame in Iran negotiations. Sen. Richard Blumenthal (D-Conn.) already said earlier this month that a vote on the bill was not needed during the interim agreement. Meanwhile, a spokeswoman for Sen. Ben Cardin (D-Md.) punted the matter to Reid. "Senator Cardin wants to see negotiations with Iran succeed. As for timing of the bill, it is and has always been up to the Majority Leader," Cardin spokeswoman Sue Walitsky said. Both of the bill’s main sponsors, Sens. Mark Kirk (R-Ill.) and Robert Menendez (D-N.J.), held their ground when asked for their reactions to Obama’s veto threat. “While the president promises to veto any new Iran sanctions legislation, the Iranians have already vetoed any dismantlement of their nuclear infrastructure,” Kirk said in a statement. On Tuesday night, just after the State of the Union had ended, Menendez said, "I’m not frustrated." He walked quickly into an elevator as he spoke, pushing the buttons and looking ready to be done with the conversation. "The president has every right to do what he wants." A spokesman for Sen. Michael Bennet (D-Colo.) said Wednesday that merely introducing the bill -- but not voting on it -- was helpful to negotiations. "Senator Bennet supports the President’s diplomatic efforts and would like them to succeed. The pertinent question isn't about when we vote on the bill, but whether its introduction is helpful to the negotiations. He believes it is," spokesman Adam Bozzi said. Not all senators agreed that a vote should be delayed. Offices for Sens. Jim Inhofe (R-Okla.) and Mike Johanns (R-Neb.) confirmed that the senators wanted to hold

He runs City Hall like a small family business and keeps everybody on a short rein. They do only that which they know is safe and that which he tells them to do. So many things that should logically be solved several rungs below finally come to him.