Ny Sayings Quotes

What will NY152 say today, I wonder. I turn on my computer. I wait impatiently as it connects. I go online, and my breath catches in my chest until I hear three little words: You've got mail. I hear nothing. Not even a sound on the streets of New York, just the beating of my own heart. I have mail. From you.

SVU, CSI, CSI: NY. These shows, they're all about things being done to females and children. If they were full of thing being done to say, Asians or black people, well, that probably wouldn't be allowed - not as many shows all the time. But females and children are okay.

Vivian Bloodmark, a philosophical friend of mine, in later years, used to say that while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point in space, the poet sees everything that happens in one point in time. Lost in thought, he taps his knee with his wandlike pencil, and at the same instant a car (New York license plate) passes along the road, a child bangs the screen door of a neighbouring porch, an old man yawns in a misty Turkestan orchard, a granule of cinder-grey sand is rolled by the wind on Venus, a Docteur Jacques Hirsch in Grenoble puts on his reading glasses, and trillions of other such trifles occur - all forming an instantaneous and transparent organism of events, of which the poet (sitting in a lawn chair in Ithaca, N.Y.) is the nucleus.

I couldn’t get to sleep until four in the morning. Nobody knew. You pick up the morning paper in Chicago, and it says, ‘N.Y. at Detroit (n.).’ I mean, doesn’t a man have a Constitutional right to the box scores?

Trapped inside a metaphor, I've often felt the need to re-describe it, to change the terms. This isn't so much a balloon, I've wanted to say, as a bubble within which I'm simultaneously exposed and sealed off.... depriving me of reality, reducing me to an abstraction.... [NY, Dec. 1991; Columbia Graduate School Of Journalism Speech]

ABOUT SENTIMENTALITY IN LITERATURE: "Sentimental fiction is a kind of pablum: Excessive amounts can spoil the appetite for reality, or at least for more fibrous forms of art. One reason, surely, why readers throw down books when they don't contain sufficiently "likable" characters is that their tolerance for any sort of moral challenge - for being asked, say, to sympathize with homeless little boys who are godless and truculent and a bit smelling - has been eroded by too many fairy tales masquerading as adult literature."~ wrote Zoe Heller for Bookends in the Sunday's NY Times Book Review interview

Even for those thousands of young people who don’t get something out there [in a university writing program], the process is still a noble one — the process of trying to say something, of working through craft issues and the worldview issues and the ego issues — all of this is character-building, and, God forbid, everything we do should have concrete career results. I’ve seen time and time again the way that the process of trying to say something dignifies and improves a person

Hello, I’m very bored.—Jane Hi August!—Jane Are you getting these?—Jane Hellooooo?—Jane Su, Q Train, Brooklyn, NY “Aw, she’s already learned how to double text,” Myla says. “Does she think she has to sign it like a letter?” “I guess I left that part out when I was showing her how to use her phone.

As to the one by Roll, I myself was once present at such a scene, complete in every detail, and I think the beauty of his picture is that it expresses such a situation so accurately, though one finds but very few of the details in it. I thought of a saying by Corot, “Il y a des tableaux où il n’y a rien et pourtant tout y est.” [There are pictures in which there is nothing and yet everything is in them.]

Amy Cunningham, a funeral director in NY, ends a service, she purposefully tries to connect the grief of the family with that of mourners everywhere. She told me that she often ends her service by saying - 'May the source of peace grant you peace and grant peace to all who morn'. She connects this individual suffering to the larger existence of suffering in the world. Thereby making it both smaller and bigger.

When it is impossible to stretch the very elastic threads of historical ratiocination any farther, when actions are clearly contrary to all that humanity calls right or even just, the historians produce a saving conception of "greatness." "Greatness," it seems, excludes the standards of right and wrong. For the "great" man nothing is wrong, there is no atrocity for which a "great" man can be blamed. "C'est grand!"* say the historians, and there no longer exists either good or evil but only "grand" and "not grand." Grand is good, not grand is bad. Grand is the characteristic, in their conception, of some special animals called "heroes." And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm fur coat and leaving to perish those who were not merely his comrades but were (in his opinion) men he had brought there, feels que c'est grand, and his soul is tranquil. peating: "Sublime! Grand! Napoleon le Grand!" Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas.("From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.") And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit one's own nothingness and immeasurable meanness. For us with the standard of good and evil given us by Christ, no human actions are incommensurable. And there is no greatness where simplicity, goodness, and truth are absent.

But then, in a sense, all poetry is positional: to try to express one’s position in regard to the universe embraced by consciousness, is an immemorial urge. The arms of consciousness reach out and grope, and the longer they are the better. Tentacles, not wings, are Apollo’s natural members. Vivian Bloodmark, a philosophical friend of mine, in later years, used to say that while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time. Lost in thought, he taps his knee with his wandlike pencil, and at the same instant a car (New York license plate) passes along the road, a child bangs the screen door of a neighbouring porch, an old man yawns in a misty Turkestan orchard, a granule of cinder-gray sand is rolled by the wind on Venus, a Docteur Jacques Hirsch in Grenoble puts on his reading glasses, and trillions of other such trifles occur – all forming an instantaneous and transparent organism of events, of which the poet (sitting in a lawn chair, at Ithaca, N.Y.) is the nucleus.

It shouldn't make a difference to me, I suppose,but it does. I've grown to trust you, and I'd hate to think that I've been wrong about you." "Well,it's real nice to hear you like me, Freckles," he teased. "I kind of like you,too." He wiggled his eyebrows as he had earlier. Willow laughed and leaned over to swat at him but missed. "You know, I really don't have freckles. Why don't you call me Williw like everyone else does?" "Maybe, because everyone else does." He shrugged. "Freckles is mine. My special name for you, that is. And you do have freckles, cute little ginger-colored freckles, all-l-l aross the bridge of your nose." "I don't!" Her mouth twisted in annoyance. "Tell you what, we'll race on it. You win-you don't have freckles. I win-you do have freckles." Knowing her only chance to beat his big stallion was to get a head start, Willow didn't waste time agreeing to ny terms. She dug her heels into Sugar's sides and tore off across the desert. "Hey!" Rider called, laughing and spurring Sultan into a run. "You're supposed to wait till I say go." Her laugh drifted back on the wind. "Come on,Sultan. Let's show Miss Freckle Britches who she's dealing with." The spirited stallion's legs stretched out ith effortless grace, his body lowering in a ground-eating pace, and Willow's little mare was no match for the big stallion. "See you back at the ranch, Freckles," Rider laughingly taunted as he rode past.

From an interview with Susie Bright: SB: You were recently reviewed by the New York Times. How do you think the mainstream media regards sex museums, schools and cultural centers these days? What's their spin versus your own observations? [Note: Here's the article Susie mentions: http://www.nytimes.com/2005/12/05/nat... ] CQ: Lots of people have seen the little NY Times article, which was about an event we did, the Belle Bizarre Bazaar -- a holiday shopping fair where most of the vendors were sex workers selling sexy stuff. Proceeds went to our Exotic Dancers' Education Project, providing dancers with skills that will help them maximize their potential and choices. This event got into the Times despite the worries of its author, a journalist who'd been posted over by her editor. She thought the Times was way too conservative for the likes of us, which may be true, except they now have so many column inches to fill with distracting stuff that isn't about Judith Miller! The one thing the Times article does not do is present the spectrum of the Center for Sex & Culture's work, especially the academic and serious side of what we do. This, I think, points to the real answer to your question: mainstream media culture remains quite nervous and touchy about sex-related issues, especially those that take sex really seriously. A frivolous take (or a good, juicy, shocking angle) on a sex story works for the mainstream press: a sex-positive and serious take, not so much. When the San Francisco Chronicle did its article about us a year ago, the writer focused just on our porn collection. Now, we very much value that, but we also collect academic journals and sex education materials, and not a word about those! I think this is one really essential linchpin of sex-negative or erotophobic culture, that sex is only allowed to be either light or heavy, and when it's heavy, it's about really heavy issues like abuse. Recently I gave some quotes about something-or-other for a Cosmo story and the editors didn't want to use the term "sexologist" to describe me, saying that it wasn't a real word! You know, stuff like that from the Times would not be all that surprising, but Cosmo is now policing the language? Please!

See, for example, Humphreys to Washington, November 16, 1786, PGWCS IV: 373; Linda Grant De Pauw, The Eleventh Pillar: New York State and the Federal Convention (Ithaca, NY, 1966), 43, where she says the terms were used as “epithets as men discussed the [proposed federal] impost” but were not used to designate parties until September 1787, when “the Constitution became a subject of political controversy”; and also 170, where De Pauw suggests that the terms went back at least to 1785. Madison to Washington, New York, March 3, 1787, PGWCS V: 93, which refers to an “antifederal party” in New York; and also 103, where Humphreys, in a letter to Washington dated March 24, 1787, refers to “foederal” and “antifoederal” parties in Connecticut politics.

Now, we come to the heart of the Buddhadharma, to compassion. If you wanted to say in one word what is the essence of Buddha‘s teaching, of the enlightenment teaching, it would be compassion. The statement of Nagarjuna, the great master of two thousand years ago in India, crystallized this. He said, „Voidness is the womb of compassion.“ In Sanskrit this reads, shunyata karuna garbham; in Tibetan, tong nyid nying jey nying po jen, which may be the most beautiful phrase ever in Tibetan […] when we discover our freedom, this discovery flows immediately into universal compassion for all beings. (p. 111)

He’s asleep when I go in, of course. The machines are making their noises, doing their thing. I sit on the uncomfortable chair at the side of his bed and watch him sleep for a while. The “I ❤ NY” mug is by the window next to all the flowers and cards, and I think of him telling Google that he’s alone, and I feel terrible again. “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I say. I watch to see if his face changes, but it doesn’t. “I’m sorry I left. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you more. And I should have gotten you more than a coffee mug. And I hope now that the goddamn Cubs don’t suck so horribly and they actually win something someday. You’ve been a really great grandpa, and you deserve better than this.” I reach for his hand and hold it awhile. I wish he’d wake up again—if just for a few seconds so he’d know that I’m here. He doesn’t, though.

He’s asleep when I go in, of course. The machines are making their noises, doing their thing. I sit on the uncomfortable chair at the side of his bed and watch him sleep for a while. The “I ❤ NY” mug is by the window next to all the flowers and cards, and I think of him telling Google that he’s alone, and I feel terrible again. “I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I say. I watch to see if his face changes, but it doesn’t. “I’m sorry I left. And I’m sorry I didn’t call you more. And I should have gotten you more than a coffee mug. And I hope now that the goddamn Cubs don’t suck so horribly and they actually win something someday. You’ve been a really great grandpa, and you deserve better than this.

Billy Reynolds, of Engine Co. 76, mentioned that a lot of firefighters were probably going to die today, and no one could argue the point. In fact, we let his comment just hang there in the room for a while, none of us saying anything, each of us lost in our own private thoughts, wondering which of our brothers we were about to lose, if it would be one of us.

LIFE" wHat is tHIs? I tHInk itz n0tHIng n0thIng n0thIng I mEt maNy p30pLe in mY LiFe...buT 0nE daY AccIdentLy G0D haVe sh0wn mE a beAutIfuL m0vemEnt buT I waX n0t awAre ab0uT tHIs dat itZ m0rE pAinFuLL . I Can't eXpLaIn in Few W0rdZ .In sh0rt juS waNa saY L0st mY eVerytHing buT aLL g0ex In vAin.....In 0ther xEnce My Life br0keD mE in unLimItED piceS.....buT wHen these past m0vemEnts runz In mY mInd jus FeeLing huRteD & i can't xpLain dat wat i feeL ...

Deborah Tedone, Director of Square Pegs/Asperger's Support Group for Adults in Rochester, NY. Deborah says so eloquently what all parents of AS girls need to hear.

Oh, right. She doesn’t know your secret identity.” Andy unzipped his sweatshirt and tossed it on a chair. “So, Meg Ryan just sent Tom Hanks a book but…” “No, Meg Ryan just sent NY152 a book, which was then overnighted to Tom Hanks, who lives above Meg Ryan and knows she’s Shopgirl, while she has no idea he’s NY152.” “I’m a little disturbed you know that movie so well.” “It was actually a remake of a 1937 play called Parfumerie by Miklós László.” Paul blew out a breath. “And it’s really not as fun as they made it sound.” “But hey, at least you can say you’ve got mail,” Andy said, chuckling.

In the summer of 2014, then-Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid (D-NV), Senator Chuck Schumer (D-NY), and other members of the Democratic brain trust introduced a measure to amend the First Amendment as follows: Authorizes Congress and the states to regulate and set reasonable limits on the raising and spending of money by candidates and others to influence elections. Grants Congress and the states the power to implement and enforce this amendment by appropriate legislation, and to distinguish between natural persons and corporations or other artificial entities created by law, including by prohibiting such entities from spending money to influence elections. Declares that nothing in this amendment shall be construed to grant Congress or the states the power to abridge the freedom of the press.8 So, let me get this straight: The amendment would allow politicians in Washington, D.C., and state capitals to regulate speech that directly relates to the business of government and their jobs—the type of speech that should be most protected! This con job was nothing but a power grab to control how citizens—including corporations and conservative interest groups—can express their political views, a grab to help keep corrupt incumbents in office. After all, it’s tough to be voted out of office when you help control what your opponents and constituents can say about you. And it’s awfully hard to express one’s individual right to a fair vote when the outcome of an election is effectively rigged. Note the special carveout for the media. Reid and company were trying to make it so corporations and conservative interest groups would be muzzled, but unions and the Democrats’ tame press would be free to spew any kind of biased crap they like. If they can’t win elections fair and square, Democrats are more than willing to silence huge portions of the citizenry to stay in power. Had the amendment somehow passed, it would have been the first time one of the Constitution’s core individual rights would have been infringed through the amendment process itself.9 The attempt itself is disgraceful.

I wonder if the ground has anything to say?

What was I to do, after sailing the seven seas now that we moved to 33 Van Wart Avenue, on the Scarsdale line of White Plains, NY. Like they say, money doesn’t grow on trees, so it was up to me to find a job. The economy wasn’t all that great and the best I could do was to find a commission job selling home fire detection units. One of the senior salesmen took me under his wing and showed me the ropes. The most important part of the pitch was to emphasize the importance of the fire detection unit and how, after declining our product a family had a fire in their home. The hapless husband was found stretched across the bed where he obviously died attempting to reach the telephone, while his family succumbed to the super-heated poisonous gasses and raging flames. It all could have been prevented if only they would have bought the fire detection unit when it was offered. I hated cold calling and selling something to people that they couldn’t afford was not in my nature. I wasn’t like my brother who could lure a hungry dog off the back of a meat wagon! It wasn’t that I didn’t try, because the more often I told the story the worse it got! I could just tell that the people I talked to knew that I was full of shXt and all I wanted to do was get out of there, although one of the sales rules was that you stayed until the people invited you to leave at least three times. For every rebuttal I had an answer and for every financial problem I had a solution, to put them even further into debt. In the end I would come home with my tail between my legs and with Ursula, watched the midnight horror show with John Zacherle. Dick Clark, a friend, gave Zacherle his nickname, "The Cool Ghoul," and for us it was television at it’s very best in the 1960’s.

Especially did his [Seth Jones] intense belief in the efficacy of the “Prayer of Faith” produce a deep impression—partly due to this unquestioned fact: During a distressing drought (I think near Sackett’s Harbor, N.Y.) an assemblage of farmers in open field expressed in his presence utter hopelessness with regard to rain, saying that a single day more would ruin every crop. “If you would pray for rain with Faith it would come,” he said. “But we have no faith! Will not you exercise it for us?” Whereupon he knelt down upon a stump and prayed mightily for three hours, while (it was related) copious showers fell from the eyes of his hearers. When he descended , the first great drops of a “glorious rain” were dashing down. At eighty-three he presided over a Universalist convention…” ~ Amanda Jones

Anyone here who still intends to go to Hell, stand up and be counted among the damned.' That's when Monte stands up. 'If what you been blattin' is true,' he says, 'then that's right where I'm a-going an' I'm a going there at a good clip.' An' Chet stands up alongside him an' Chet says. 'You ain't gone anywhere's yet, Monte, that I ain't been right with you, so I'll reckon I'll keep you comp'ny.' An' Powder stands up along the other side of him, an' Powder has his gun out, an' he's holding it kind of careless in one hand, an' he looks around an' he says, 'There's plenty more here heading in the same direction an' if they ain't got the nerve to stand up an' say so, they'll be getting there a lot sooner'n they been expecting.

And lastly, the final departure of the great Emperor from his heroic army is presented to us by the historians as something great and characteristic of genius. Even that final running away, described in ordinary language as the lowest depth of baseness which every child is taught to be ashamed of- even that act finds justification in the historians' language. When it is impossible to stretch the very elastic threads of historical ratiocination any farther, when actions are clearly contrary to all that humanity calls right or even just, the historians produce a saving conception of "greatness." "Greatness," it seems, excludes the standards of right and wrong. For the "great" man nothing is wrong, there is no atrocity for which a "great" man can be blamed. "C'est grand!"* say the historians, and there no longer exists either good or evil but only "grand" and "not grand." Grand is good, not grand is bad. Grand is the characteristic, in their conception, of some special animals called "heroes." And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm fur coat and leaving to perish those who were not merely his comrades but were (in his opinion) men he had brought there, feels que c'est grand, and his soul is tranquil. "Du sublime (he saw something sublime in himself) au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas," said he. And the whole world for fifty years has been repeating: "Sublime! Grand! Napoleon le Grand!" Du sublime au ridicule il n'y a qu'un pas. And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit one's own nothingness and immeasurable meanness. For us with the standard of good and evil given us by Christ, no human actions are incommensurable. And there is no greatness where simplicity, goodness, and truth are absent.

Police: NY bus driver drove drunk with 35 students on board CORTLANDT, N.Y. (AP) — Police say a school bus driver was driving drunk with 35 students on board when she sideswiped a utility pole in suburban New York. It happened Monday as 56-year-old Mary Coletti was taking students to Walter Panas High School in Cortdandt. Authorities say she sideswiped the pole around 7 a.m. They say her blood-alcohol level was above the legal limit of .08 percent. A few students suffered minor injuries. Lakeland School District Superintendent George Stone tells The Journal News Coletti's bus driver's license has been revoked. Coletti was arraigned Monday and sent to jail on $1,000 bail. She's due back in court May 18. It's unclear if she has an attorney. Posted:

Police: NY bus driver drove drunk with 35 students on board CORTLANDT, N.Y. (AP) — Police say a school bus driver was driving drunk with 35 students on board when she sideswiped a utility

He never talks to me, but he talks to the television. He heckles the news anchors. Answers a report, say, about the economy: ‘Good, good! Go ahead and wreck the country!’ Then he lectures the TV screen about what the President or Congress should be doing.” —Becky, New York, NY

He never lets me finish a sentence. He cuts me off and answers what he thinks I’m going to say. And half the time he’s wrong, so he’s talking about something completely irrelevant to what’s on my mind. But even more annoying is that half the time he’s right.” —Ruth, Larchmont, NY

He calls home to say ‘I’m leaving the office now. I’ll be home in twenty minutes.’ Half an hour later, he’ll call to say he’s still at the office. He’s leaving now. This can go on all night.” —Lena, Brooklyn, NY

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