Name Caller Quotes

She told me once that every time she saw my name on her caller I.D. she got butterflies. I got this swelling ache in my chest. It was a good ache - like a heart orgasm.

Hello?” Bird’s stoic voice answered. “Hi, Bird?” This is Dex Foray, we met back in Red Fox last October…” “Dex,” he pronounced my name slowly. “I knew it was you.” “Oh,” I said, taken aback. Shit, maybe he was more new agey than I thought. “Could you sense me?” “No, I have caller ID

Once upon a time there was a mother who, in order to become a mother, had agreed to change her name; who set herself the task of falling in love with her husband bit-by-bit, but who could n ever manage to love one part, the part, curiously enough, which made possible her motherhood; whose feet were hobbled by verrucas and whose shoulders were stooped beneath the accumulating guilts of the world; whose husband's unlovable organ failed to recover from the effects of a freeze; and who, like her husband, finally succumbed to the mysteries of telephones, spending long minutes listening to the words of wrong-number callers . . . shortly after my tenth birthday (when I had recovered from the fever which has recently returned to plague me after an interval of nearly twenty-one years), Amina Sinai resumed her recent practice of leaving suddenly, and always immediately after a wrong number, on urgent shopping trips.

If I had been armed with a feminist understanding that no girl deserves to be called a slut, perhaps I would have fought back by reporting the harassment to my school's headmistress or another school authority, or at least I might have had the strength to tell of the name-callers on my own. But at the time, all I knew was that if I avoided eye contact, it was a hell of a lot easier to get through my days.

A streak of Puritanism runs deep within American society. Permissive and pioneering as we may be on the one hand, we are strict and conservative on the other. As much as we may be a country of mavericks and entrepreneurs, we are also a country of finger waggers and name-callers. As much as we may be a country of compassion for the underdog, we are also a country that believes in self-reliance.

A typical call in one of my routines went like this: Me: What city, please? Caller: Providence. Me: What is the name, please? Caller: John Norton. Me: Is this a business or a residence? Caller: Residence. Me: The number is 836, 5 one-half 66. At this point the caller was usually either baffled or indignant. Caller: How do I dial one-half?! Me: Go pick up a new phone that has uh-half on it. The reactions I got were hilarious.

I was disappointed. Voice analysis can tell a lot about the caller: gender, most of the time, national and regional roots, illnesses, even reasonable morphological deductions can be made about the shape of the nose, mouth and throat. But at least we had a confirmed spelling of the principal’s name, which was a plus.

I hope they don't think we're leaving. I want to tell them we're coming back. And that we're not going to hell. I mean, who are they to say? It's one thing to warn someone out of concern. It's another to take it upon yourself to make the damnation. The last time I checked, it was the Lord's call whether or not we go to hell. I hope whenever a person tells another person he or she is going to hell that the Lord notices and decides to hold it against the hell-caller when his or her day of judgement comes. I hope heor she gets up to the gates and the Lord says, 'It was so easy for you to send people to hell in My name that I'm afraid it's going to be easy for Me to do the same.

No realm was too petty: The Ministry of Posts ruled that henceforth when trying to spell a word over the telephone a caller could no longer say “D as in David,” because “David” was a Jewish name. The caller had to use “Dora.” “Samuel” became “Siegfried.” And so forth. “There has been nothing in social history more implacable, more heartless and more devastating than the present policy in Germany against the Jews,” Consul General Messersmith told Undersecretary Phillips in a long letter dated September 29, 1933. He wrote, “It is definitely the aim of the Government, no matter what it may say to the outside or in Germany, to eliminate the Jews from German life.

The answer was Stellar Wind. The NSA would eavesdrop freely against Americans and aliens in the United States without probable cause or search warrants. It would mine and assay the electronic records of millions of telephone conversations—both callers and receivers—and the subject lines of e-mails, including names and Internet addresses. Then it would send the refined intelligence to the Bureau for action. Stellar Wind resurrected Cold War tactics with twenty-first-century technology. It let the FBI work with the NSA outside of the limits of the law. As Cheney knew from his days at the White House in the wake of Watergate, the NSA and the FBI had worked that way up until 1972, when the Supreme Court unanimously outlawed warrantless wiretaps. Stellar Wind blew past the Supreme Court on the authority of a dubious opinion sent to the White House the week that the Patriot Act became law. It came from John Yoo, a thirty-four-year-old lawyer in the Justice Department’s Office of Legal Counsel who had clerked for Justice Clarence Thomas. Yoo wrote that the Constitution’s protections against warrantless searches and seizures did not apply to military operations in the United States. The NSA was a military agency; Congress had authorized Bush to use military force; therefore he had the power to use the NSA against anyone anywhere in America. The president was “free from the constraints of the Fourth Amendment,” Yoo wrote. So the FBI would be free as well.

The first caller’s avatar appeared in front of me in my support chat room. His name and stats also appeared, floating in the air above him. He had the astoundingly clever name of “HotCock007.” I could see that it was going to be another fabulous day. HotCock007 was a hulking bald barbarian with studded black leather armor and lots of demon tattoos covering his arms and face. He was holding a gigantic bastard sword nearly twice as long as his avatar’s body. “Good morning, Mr. HotCock007,” I droned. “Thank you for calling technical support. I’m tech rep number 338645. How may I help you this evening?” The customer courtesy software filtered my voice, altering its tone and inflection to ensure that I always sounded cheerful and upbeat. “Uh, yeah …” HotCock007 began. “I just bought this bad-ass sword, and now I can’t even use it! I can’t even attack nothing with it. What the hell is wrong with this piece of shit? Is it broke?” “Sir, the only problem is that you’re a complete fucking moron,” I said. I heard a familiar warning buzzer and a message flashed on my display: COURTESY VIOLATION—FLAGS: FUCKING, MORON LAST RESPONSE MUTED—VIOLATION LOGGED

But that’s not what he does. Instead he gets in a twist, piles on the insults, starts with the tortures, overlooks the good points Caliban’s got, such as musical talent. But by the end, Prospero’s learning that maybe not everything is somebody else’s fault. Plus, he sees that the bad in Caliban is pretty much the same as the bad in him, Prospero. They’re both angry, both name-callers, both full of revenge: they’re joined at the hip. Caliban is like his bad other self. Like father, like son. So he owns up: ‘This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.’ That’s what he says, and that’s what he means.

My mind, it was certain, was a well-oiled mechanism which worked swiftly and seminoiselessly. I often competed with radio contestants on quiz programs and usually won hands down in my living room. Oh, my mental machine could have excited anyone. I meant anyone interested in a person who had memorized the Presidents of the United States in chronological order, the capitals of the world, the minerals of the earth and the generic names of various species. There weren't too many callers for those qualifications and I had to admit that I was greatly lacking in the popular attractions of physical beauty and womanly wiles.

Necessities 1 A map of the world. Not the one in the atlas, but the one in our heads, the one we keep coloring in. With the blue thread of the river by which we grew up. The green smear of the woods we first made love in. The yellow city we thought was our future. The red highways not traveled, the green ones with their missed exits, the black side roads which took us where we had not meant to go. The high peaks, recorded by relatives, though we prefer certain unmarked elevations, the private alps no one knows we have climbed. The careful boundaries we draw and erase. And always, around the edges, the opaque wash of blue, concealing the drop-off they have stepped into before us, singly, mapless, not looking back. 2 The illusion of progress. Imagine our lives without it: tape measures rolled back, yardsticks chopped off. Wheels turning but going nowhere. Paintings flat, with no vanishing point. The plots of all novels circular; page numbers reversing themselves past the middle. The mountaintop no longer a goal, merely the point between ascent and descent. All streets looping back on themselves; life as a beckoning road an absurd idea. Our children refusing to grow out of their childhoods; the years refusing to drag themselves toward the new century. And hope, the puppy that bounds ahead, no longer a household animal. 3 Answers to questions, an endless supply. New ones that startle, old ones that reassure us. All of them wrong perhaps, but for the moment solutions, like kisses or surgery. Rising inflections countered by level voices, words beginning with w hushed by declarative sentences. The small, bold sphere of the period chasing after the hook, the doubter that walks on water and treads air and refuses to go away. 4 Evidence that we matter. The crash of the plane which, at the last moment, we did not take. The involuntary turn of the head, which caused the bullet to miss us. The obscene caller who wakes us at midnight to the smell of gas. The moon's full blessing when we fell in love, its black mood when it was all over. Confirm us, we say to the world, with your weather, your gifts, your warnings, your ringing telephones, your long, bleak silences. 5 Even now, the old things first things, which taught us language. Things of day and of night. Irrational lightning, fickle clouds, the incorruptible moon. Fire as revolution, grass as the heir to all revolutions. Snow as the alphabet of the dead, subtle, undeciphered. The river as what we wish it to be. Trees in their humanness, animals in their otherness. Summits. Chasms. Clearings. And stars, which gave us the word distance, so we could name our deepest sadness.

I don't know yet. I want to get hold of a good plot. I believe this is very necessary from an editor's point of view. The only thing I've settled on is the heroine's name. It is to be AVERIL LESTER. Rather pretty, don't you think? Don't mention this to any one, Diana. I haven't told anybody but you and Mr. Harrison. HE wasn't very encouraging—he said there was far too much trash written nowadays as it was, and he'd expected something better of me, after a year at college." "What does Mr. Harrison know about it?" demanded Diana scornfully. They found the Gillis home gay with lights and callers. Leonard Kimball, of Spencervale, and Morgan Bell, of Carmody, were glaring at each other across the parlor. Several merry girls had dropped in. Ruby was dressed in white and her eyes and cheeks were very brilliant. She laughed and chattered incessantly, and after the other girls had gone she took Anne upstairs to display her new summer dresses. "I've

The only people who ever called me were my dad, my brother, assorted Vaders to tell me to come early or late to work (including Sean, but he always sounded grumpy that he had to call me, so it wasn’t as big a thrill as you’d think), Tammy to tell me to come early or late to tennis practice, and Frances. I glanced at the caller ID screen and clicked the phone on. “What’s up, Fanny?” From the time Mom died until I was eleven, Frances the au pair had hung out in the background of my life. Once Sean overheard someone calling her Fanny, whch apparently is a nickname for Frances. We found this shocking. I mean, who has a nickname that’s a synonym for derriere? Who’s named Frances in the first place? So the boys started calling her Fanny the Nanny. Then, Booty the Babysitter. Then, Butt I Don’t Need a Governess. This had everything to do with the nickname Fanny and the fact that she tried not to get upset at being addressed in this undignified manner when she was trying to raise compassionate, responsible children. It had nothing to do with her having an outsized rumpus. Frances had a cute figure, if you could see it under all that hippie-wear.

In the year 2000, to my great surprise I received a call from Fürth, Germany, with news of an intriguing project. The caller explained that his wife, an actress, had read the poetry of Selma Meerbaum - a small volume of her writings published in Germany. The actress, Jutta Czurda, and a group of friends - a composer, a writer, and his actress wife-decided to create a play about Selma and put some of her poems to music. However, they knew very little about her, other than that she had died of typhoid fever n Ukraine in December, 1941. Mr. Minasian, the husband of the actress, decided to turn to the Internet for information. As soon as he entered Selma's name, there appeared the chapter from my memoirs, Before Memories Fade. He found my address and telephone number and the connection was established.

It just so happens that 9-1-1 is not one of those types of services… Operator: 9-1-1 do you need fire, medical, or police? Caller: No, ma’am I don’t. I don’t have an emergency, two police officers were at my house just now, can I get their names please? Operator: What was it? Caller: To get the music turned down… he’s the cutest cop I’ve seen in God knows how long. I just wanna know his name. Doesn’t come very often a good looking man comes at your doorstep. Could you send him back my way? Operator: You need us to come back there? Caller: Oh! I’d like that, yeah! Operator: Why do you need us to come back there? Caller: Uhm, because I have an emergency. I’ll, I’ll think of something. He’s cute. Would you send them back, I think they are partners, send them back my way, would you?

Not everyone is sad when the Callers enter the room and shout out the next list of names. On the contrary, some people beg and plead, prostrating themselves at the Callers’ feet. These are generally the folks who have been here a long time, too long, especially those who are remembered for unfair reasons. For example, take the farmer over there, who drowned in a small river two hundred years ago. Now his farm is the site of a small college, and the tour guides each week tell his story. So he’s stuck and he’s miserable. The more his story is told, the more the details drift. He is utterly alienated from his name; it is no longer identical with him but continues to bind. The cheerless woman across the way is praised as a saint, even though the roads in her heart were complicated. The gray-haired man at the vending machine was lionized as a war hero, then demonized as a warlord, and finally canonized as a necessary firebrand between two moments in history. He waits with aching heart for his statues to fall.

So you wait in this lobby until the third death. There are long tables with coffee, tea, and cookies; you can help yourself. There are people here from all around the world, and with a little effort you can strike up convivial small talk. Just be aware that your conversation may be interrupted at any moment by the Callers, who broadcast your new friend’s name to indicate that there will never again be another remembrance of him by anyone on the Earth. Your friend slumps, face like a shattered and reglued plate, saddened even though the Callers tell him kindly that he’s off to a better place. No one knows where that better place is or what it offers, because no one exiting through that door has returned to tell us. Tragically, many people leave just as their loved ones arrive, since the loved ones were the only ones doing the remembering. We all wag our heads at that typical timing.

Darius looked inclined to stalk after her, but as he shoved away from the bar, his Atlas began to ring in his pocket and I caught sight of his father's name on the caller ID before he answered it. "I take it you won't disappoint me again tonight?" Lionel said in a cold voice which made the hairs along the back of my neck stand up. I probably shouldn't have been using my gifts to listen in on the conversation, but Darius probably should have used a silencing bubble if he didn't want me to anyway. "I'll get it done," Darius bit out. "Good. Because your brother is here in my office with me, waiting to hear from you about your success, aren't you Xavier?" "Darius?" Xavier's voice was pitched with fear but as I gave Darius a concerned look, he clearly realised I could hear his conversation and threw a silencing bubble around himself to hide the rest of it from me. It didn't matter though. I could tell from the way his heart was racing and his knuckles were whitening where he gripped his Atlas that he was afraid of something. "You see now why we have to do this?" Max growled in a low voice, his gifts clearly tuning him in to Darius's fear too and I nodded in acceptance. "Yeah," I breathed. "I get it." An excited squeal cut the air to shreds and I glanced around to find Geraldine Grus rushing through the room in a huge pink dress which looked like one of those old fashioned toilet roll doilies. She threw herself at Tory in excitement and the two of them hugged each other tightly in greeting. "Thank fuck she's okay," Max breathed beside me and I turned to him with a faint frown. "You been worrying about Grus, big boy?" I teased and he instantly tore his gaze from her and shrugged off the concerned look in his eyes. "Well it would have sucked if a Nymph got all of her power," he said. "Besides, she's one of the only Fae in our class who is even semi capable of using her magic against us so..." "So?" I pushed but at that moment Darius finished his call and dropped his silencing bubble. "Let's get on with this," he said darkly. "Where did Roxy go?" I picked her out among the crowd as she broke away from Geraldine and started heading for the exit, training my heightened senses on her and hearing her ask that hat kid if he knew where Darcy had gone. "The hat kid just told her to go look for her sister outside," I said, pointing at Tory just as she slipped out the door. (Caleb POV)

Here are a few of of the most important red flags discussed in this book. The presence of any of these symptoms in a system suggests that there is a problem with the system’s design: Shallow Module: the interface for a class or method isn’t much simpler than its implementation (see pp. 25, 110). Information Leakage: a design decision is reflected in multiple modules (see p. 31). Temporal Decomposition: the code structure is based on the order in which operations are executed, not on information hiding (see p. 32). Overexposure: An API forces callers to be aware of rarely used features in order to use commonly used features (see p. 36). Pass-Through Method: a method does almost nothing except pass its arguments to another method with a similar signature (see p. 52). Repetition: a nontrivial piece of code is repeated over and over (see p. 68). Special-General Mixture: special-purpose code is not cleanly separated from general purpose code (see p. 71). Conjoined Methods: two methods have so many dependencies that its hard to understand the implementation of one without understanding the implementation of the other (see p. 75). Comment Repeats Code: all of the information in a comment is immediately obvious from the code next to the comment (see p. 104). Implementation Documentation Contaminates Interface: an interface comment describes implementation details not needed by users of the thing being documented (see p. 114). Vague Name: the name of a variable or method is so imprecise that it doesn’t convey much useful information (see p. 123). Hard to Pick Name: it is difficult to come up with a precise and intuitive name for an entity (see p. 125). Hard to Describe: in order to be complete, the documentation for a variable or method must be long. (see p. 133). Nonobvious Code: the behavior or meaning of a piece of code cannot be understood easily. (see p. 150).

I'd rather be alone than be surrounded by finger pointers and name-callers. Stay away from me.

The anonymous caller was a man who said a man by this name was an escapee from a maximum security institution for the criminally insane. The

Minerva’s heart sank as she realized just how far out of her depth she actually was. In less than an hour she had crossed over to a world of darkness and cruelty. And her own arrogance had led her to it. ‘Please,’ she said. She struggled to maintain her composure. ‘Please.’ Kong adjusted his grip on the knife. ‘Don’t look away now, little girl. Watch and remember who’s boss.’ Minerva could not avert her eyes. Her gaze was trapped by this terrible tableau. It was like a scene from a scary movie, complete with its own soundtrack. Minerva frowned. Real life did not have a soundtrack. There was music coming from somewhere. The somewhere proved to be Kong’s trouser pocket. His polyphonic phone was playing ‘The Toreador Song’ from Carmen. Kong pulled the phone from his pocket. ‘Who is this?’ he snapped. ‘My name is not important,’ said a youthful voice. ‘The important thing is that I have something you want.’ ‘How did you get this number?’ ‘I have a friend,’ replied the mystery caller. ‘He knows all the numbers. Now, to business. I believe you’re in the market for a demon?

Jason Kurland, forty-seven, represented them all. In fall 2011, Kurland, then an attorney at the Long Island branch of the firm Rivkin Radler specializing in commercial real estate law, received a phone call that would determine his future. The caller, seeking legal advice, had gotten Kurland’s name from another client. Payment would not be an issue because he and two coworkers had just won a $254 million Powerball jackpot. After taxes on their lump-sum payout, they would have $104 million to share. We stereotype lottery winners as financially unsophisticated. Not these guys. They were a founding partner, senior portfolio manager, and chief investment officer for Belpointe Asset Management, a financial firm in Greenwich, Connecticut, where mansions sprout from spacious lots and single-family homes list for quintuple the national median price. Kurland was no lottery expert, but he quickly made it his business to become one. He researched how different states tax lottery winnings, whether and how big jackpot winners need to be identified (at least eight states let them remain anonymous), and the legal tricks one might use, depending on location, to claim a monster windfall. Claiming in the name of a trust or a limited liability corporation, for instance, won’t reduce the initial tax hit, but it may limit a winner’s public exposure. Some states let you claim using a legal entity and others don’t. Some require press conferences. Some allow an attorney to claim the prize as a trustee. “In that case, the attorney signs the back of the ticket—and you have to make sure you trust that attorney,” Kurland said. (We will come to see the irony in that advice.)

What are you listening to? I love that song.” “It’s the college station. Logan’s show is on,” I say with more than a smidgen of pride. “Hold on.” A second later, Logan’s voice echoes between my radio and hers, which would normally be annoying, but gravelly voice or not, it’s him. “We have a caller. Caller, we’re discussing when was the last time you told someone off. Go ahead.” “Eek.” I can picture her nose crinkle up. “He does not sound happy.” The caller’s voice echoes just like Logan’s did, but this person makes me want to clap my hands over my ears. “I know what’s wrong with you, A.L. It’s that girl, isn’t it? The one you had on the show last week. Well, I’m not going to say I told you so.” “Hold up! I know that voice,” Terra squeals. “I know, right? It’s been driving me crazy but I can’t—” Terra cuts me off. “That’s Rayann.” “No, this girl’s name is Capri.” I pause to listen more. “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Logan says. “If you say so,” Capri says, and it feels like a heavenly light of knowledge bursts through my ceiling to shine down while a choir sings in the background. Those words sound exactly as they did a couple of weeks ago when they were spoken to me. “Oh my good gravy, it is her!” I yell into the phone.

The president and the vice president wanted the FBI to execute searches in secret, avoiding the strictures of the legal and constitutional standards set by the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Court. The answer was Stellar Wind. The NSA would eavesdrop freely against Americans and aliens in the United States without probable cause or search warrants. It would mine and assay the electronic records of millions of telephone conversations—both callers and receivers—and the subject lines of e-mails, including names and Internet addresses. Then it would send the refined intelligence to the Bureau for action. Stellar

I know what you did to Lucy,” Allie went on, unable to stop herself. “You’d better not sell the glen, or you’ll be sorry!” Quickly, she hung up, then stared at the phone in horror. What if it rang? Could Gag-Me trace the call? What if he had Caller ID? What in the world had she done? She lifted the receiver again and dialed Dub’s number. When he answered, she told him all about the diary and about the call she had made to Raymond Gagney. “You did what?” Dub shouted in her ear. “You called a murderer and said, ‘I know what you did’? Why didn’t you just say, ‘Please come kill me, too’? Are you crazy?” “Geez, Dub,” said Allie, “take it easy.” “Did you actually say, ‘You’ll be sorry’? Oooh, I bet that scared him, Al.” “I never thought he’d answer the phone!” Allie wailed. “So I was sort of—unprepared.” “I’ll say,” said Dub darkly. “You didn’t happen to say, ‘By the way, my name is Allie Nichols and I live at 67 Cumberland Road,’ did you?” “Give me a break,” said Allie. “I’m not that stupid.” There was a silence. “Dub, you’re scaring me,” she said in a small voice. “Well, I’m sorry, but I wish you’d called me before you got the brilliant idea of calling to threaten a known murderer.

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