Operator Crane Quotes

The assault on education began more than a century ago by industrialists and capitalists such as Andrew Carnegie. In 1891, Carnegie congratulated the graduates of the Pierce College of Business for being “fully occupied in obtaining a knowledge of shorthand and typewriting” rather than wasting time “upon dead languages.” The industrialist Richard Teller Crane was even more pointed in his 1911 dismissal of what humanists call the “life of the mind.” No one who has “a taste for literature has a right to be happy” because “the only men entitled to happiness… is those who are useful.” The arrival of industrialists on university boards of trustees began as early as the 1870s and the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School of Business offered the first academic credential in business administration in 1881. The capitalists, from the start, complained that universities were unprofitable. These early twentieth century capitalists, like heads of investment houses and hedge-fund managers, were, as Donoghue writes “motivated by an ethically based anti-intellectualism that transcended interest in the financial bottom line. Their distrust of the ideal of intellectual inquiry for its own sake, led them to insist that if universities were to be preserved at all, they must operate on a different set of principles from those governing the liberal arts.

Buddha rode in the trunk, which had to be roped shut. I thought this was going to be the first in a long line of hassles. But, as it turned out, Tsung Tsai was right: Buddha was a breeze. He flowed through the porters, ticket checkers, and security at JFK, gliding on a benevolent cloud. His strange gray Buddha shadow floated on the x-ray monitor. 'Jesus!' said the x-ray operator to the guard. 'Similar', Tsung Tsai said.

Each half of the arch is made from several sections. Enormous jacks, whose only prior job was raising the sunken Kursk submarine in 2001, were used to lift each stage higher and higher until it reached its full height of 110 meters. Inside are remotely-operated heavy-duty overhead cranes, to be used for moving people and equipment.

Excavator Magnet ELECTRO FLUX Excavator magnet Manufacturers mounting arrangement overcomes the problem which can work in any open yards were the overhead cranes cannot be used. Excavator magnet Manufacturers gives the crane operator completes control of the magnet in various positions, permitting the crane operator to incline or tilt the magnet. The mounting fixture for an electromagnet is further permits the excavator operator to operate the magnet more efficiently by preventing the magnet from swinging freely at the end of the lift crane boom.

Back to Copper Cliff: on the eastern limit of the town, really not a defined edge, the town ended, and a few feet later the smelter—the the heart of Inco’s operations in the Sudbury area—rose up. Huge buildings humming and whining, acre after acre of industrial devastation, hot metal and slag cars to-ing and fro-ing. Row upon row of blast furnaces, molten metal being carried in giant ladles the size of small submarines by overhead moving cranes, with bits of white-hot crap falling out of them, and the mind-numbing hiss of mighty industrial production, punctuated by warning horns, and all viewed through a smog of sulphur dioxide so potent that it would sting your eyes, nose and throat to the point of tears. Workers wore “gas masks” that were little more than cloth nose and mouth covers, dipped in some solution intended to neutralize the paralyzing acidity of sulphur dioxide. They did not work. My dad worked here, and when he later became a shift boss in the Orford building and I was a summer student at Inco, he showed me through this inferno (not Dante’s; that’s only in fiction). This was the real deal and the guys who worked there pretty much all succumbed to some form of lung disease—emphysema, cancer, COPD, you name it—anything you can get from inhaling eight hours a day, five days a week, concentrated S02 and S03, not to mention the particulate crap that filled the air.

American women have taken on nontraditional jobs in every war since they made musket balls in the Civil War, and after every war they have gone back home, but as a crane operator observed, “Women were different in World War II: They didn’t want to go back home and many of them didn’t. And if they did go back home, they never forgot, and they told their daughters, ‘You don’t have to be just a homemaker. You can be anything you want to be.

Because SPYDER wants me dead. They tried to kill me on the Arlington Bridge yesterday.” Erica gave me a look that indicated I was the world’s biggest idiot. “That wasn’t SPYDER. That was me.” “You?” I gasped. “Why would you try to kill me?” Erica’s look hardened, now indicating that I might be the biggest idiot in the entire universe. “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I had to do something to get you free.” “So you opened fire on an entire convoy of Secret Service agents?” “It wasn’t like I had a whole lot of options.” Erica led me through the invertebrate zoo, where display cases were filled with an array of the world’s biggest, slimiest, and most revolting insects. “I had to act fast. If they’d gotten you to the Pentagon and locked you up there, it would have been almost impossible for me to free you.” “Almost impossible?” I echoed. “Nothing’s completely impossible. But some things are awfully close. So I improvised. Lucky for you, I was keeping an eye on you again at the White House yesterday when the bomb went off.” “Really? I didn’t see you.” “Because I didn’t want you to see me.” Erica cut through a demonstration where a museum employee was removing insects from Tupperware containers and showing them to a crowd of riveted children. “After the explosion, I saw the Secret Service drag you out and figured they were taking you to the Pentagon. So I grabbed my motorcycle and raced over to the construction site.” I thought back to the flash of movement I’d seen among the construction workers, moving toward the crane. I now realized it had been Erica. “So, you swung that hook at the car on purpose?” “Yeah. I realize that was a bit dicey, but I’d never operated a crane before. It’s harder than you’d think.” “A bit dicey? You realize if you’d been off by another inch or two, you would have killed me?” Erica considered this, then shrugged. “Well, we all make mistakes. I would have asked you to do the math, but you were tough to reach at the time.

[M]orality is not ‘‘something altogether new on the face of the Earth.’’ It is not an invention de novo. Homo sapiens, presumably like their extinct social ancestors, as well as certain closely related species, such as chimps and bonobos, possess instincts and emotions that are ‘‘protomoral,’’ by which I simply mean that we possess the germs, at least, of the virtues of sympathy, compassion, fidelity, and courage. There is no ‘‘skyhook" being imputed here. We didn’t create the relevant instincts and emotions. Natural selection did. We are endowed with these instincts and feelings thanks to a craning operation that began with unicellular organisms.

inside the truck the radio rattles and clicks with the constant clucking of vulgar hens, a sewing circle of truckers and crane operators nagging at each other in a constant stream of bilious invective. It spills out of the speakers and fills the cab with scab picking and snark. Dressed up as jokes—with all the plausible deniability that provides—the operators compete relentlessly to get under each other’s skin.

Are you operating a crane or a wrecking ball? Put all of your energy into building your own house rather than wasting your energy tearing down others'.

Skunk? Was there skunk in Ireland? Taking out an evidence bag, she tried to pinpoint the area it seemed strongest, but it was impossible to tell. In any case, she swabbed a small area from the wall and then the ground, bagged them, and in addition picked up a sample of grit from the same area on the floor. The tower, with its two battered old wooden slat windows, was completely empty, save for some pigeon droppings. As birds didn’t urinate, Reilly already knew the foul smell definitely wasn’t coming from them. Moving tighter into the wall, she began stepping in concentric circles inwards, her gaze scanning the ground area. Then, her keen eye noticed some tiny bluish dots that were slightly incongruous amongst the grit and the droppings. She pulled out her tweezers and, bending low, carefully lifted one up for inspection. With some idea of what it was, she held it to her nose, sniffed, and removed all doubt. Rubber. Reilly’s mind raced, wondering if this was of any significance. Had the killer dropped it? Probably not. Whoever had hoisted that poor man up into the tree and slashed open his torso surely wouldn’t have then gone to the trouble of coming all the way up here to watch him die. Or would he? She craned her neck, looking upwards into the gloom, then made her way to the window. As she did, she let out a breath. There, framed perfectly in the opening as if it were a painting, was the hawthorn tree, the misfortunate victim dramatically hanging front and center. Leaving little doubt in Reilly’s mind that such positioning was completely intentional. It took a while, but eventually the local police managed to arrange for a mobile elevating platform to be sent to the site from the nearest town. The ME, having repositioned the man’s innards as best she could, wrapped the mutilated body in the tarpaulin and, with the platform operator’s assistance, accompanied it down to the ground, where she could examine it more closely. Reilly took a lint roller from her bag, took samples from the body and then concentrated her efforts around the perimeter of the tree, walking in concentric circles around the base amongst the humongous roots poking through the soil. Granted the victim was not a heavy man, but even so, it

The pairing of Dick Haymes (who had made his name as a popular singer) and George Fenneman (one of radio’s smoothest announcers) as actors in an adventure series was unusual. As Crane, Haymes played a pilot whose seat-of-the-pants operation included one old DC-4, appropriately named “the Flying Eight-Ball.” The opening signature gave ample evidence of content: Flight 743 calling La Guardia Field … Is that you, Crane? What’re you bringing in, tea, teak, or teepee poles? I got a tradewind tan, a tall tale about a tribal treasure, a tropical tramp, and a torrid Tahitian tomato. You know me—I fly anything!