Pair Of Tickets Quotes

To 'live', to be truly alive, it is not enough simply to breathe, to suffer, nor even to be happy; life is a secret that cannot be discovered on one’s own. True living is done in pairs.

I do not understand the festival experience. These people, these disgusting lowlifes we’re driving through, they fought to get in here. They think they’re lucky. They spent hours on the phone trying to get tickets, happily paying hundreds of pounds for a pair when they managed to find some. Now they’re celebrating being here, celebrating the fact that they can lie around in urine-flavoured mud drinking warm lager and eating burgers prepared by some syphilitic gyppo while fucking Cast knock out their greatest hits in the distance.

He took off his denim jacket and draped it around my shoulders because I was cold. I could tell he was just as cold as I was, but I didn’t want to stop his big show of masculinity. How could I? I’d bought front-row tickets to it. I wondered how much of his behaviour this evening had been dictated by a pressure to perform his gender in such a demonstrative way. But then again, what was I doing? Why was I wearing a pair of four-inch heels that gave me blisters?

I began to count mile markers, made mental lists of everything I really needed: a new pair of shoes, a winter coat for the baby, a ticket for a Greyhound traveling back or ahead five hundred years.

Overnight, it seemed, tickets to the show were like gold dust. The advance sales were tremendous. We heard that a couple had received a pair of tickets anonymously in the mail. Though they had no idea who had sent them, they decided to take advantage of the generous gift. They came to the theatre, had a wonderful evening and went home to discover their house had been burgled. The burglars had left the

How did he know my dad helped get me this job? Did someone in the office tell him? I mean, it’s not like I’m some spoiled, incompetent rich kid with zero work experience and mega connections. My dad’s just aCPA! But I’m not going to bother explaining that or anything else. Because right now, I’m halfway convinced a hole in my skull has blown right off and my brains are flowing out like molten lava. I think I might well and truly hate Porter Roth. “You know nothing about me or my family. And you’re a goddamn dickbag, you know that?” I say, so enraged that I don’t even care that a family of four is walking up to my window. I should have. And I should have noticed that I left the green switch turned on from the last pair of tickets I sold. But the family’s wide-eyed faces clue me in now. They’ve heard every nasty word. For one terrible moment, the booth spins around me. I apologize profusely, but the parents aren’t happy. At all. Why should they be? Oh God, is the wife wearing a crucifix pendant? What if these people are fundamentalists? Are these kids homeschooled? Did I just ruin them for life? Jesus fu—I mean, fiddlesticks. Are they going to ask to speak to Mr. Cavadini? Am I going to be fired? On my first day? What is my dad going to say?

The telephone company is urging people not to use the telephone unless it is absolutely necessary, in order to keep the lines open for emergency calls. We'll be right back after this break to give away a pair of Phil Collins concert tickets to caller number 95. -unidentified radio disc jockey after the 1990 Los Angeles earthquake

You should be up celebrating." "This is part of it." She ran her hands carefully up the gelding's leg before pinning the wrapping to the line. "Finnegan and I are going to congratulate each other while I clean him up.But you could do me a favor." She pulled her ticket out of her pocket. "Cash in my winnings." Brian shook his head. "At the moment I'm too pleased to be annoyed with you for betting my money." With one hand on the horse he leaned over to kiss her. "But I'm not taking half the horse." Keeley hooked an arm around Finnegan's neck. "You hear that? He doesn't want you." "Don't say things like that to him." She laid her cheek against the gelding's. "You're the one hurting his feelings." As two pairs of eyes studied him, Brian hissed out a breath. "We'll discuss this privately at some other time." "He needs you.We both do." The muscles n his belly twisted. "That's unfair." "That's fact.

The planet was filling up with good-looking young worldlings built entirely of opposites, canceling themselves out and- speaking as a bloke- leaving nothing you'd honestly want to go for a drink with. This new species of guys paired city shoes with backwoods beards. They played in bands but they worked in offices. They hated the rich but they bought lottery tickets, they laughed at comedies about the shittiness of lives that were based quite pointedly on their own, and worst of all they were so endlessly bloody gossipy. Every single thing they did, from unboxing a phone through to sleeping with his athlese, they had this compulsion to stick it online and see what everyone else thought. Their lives were a howling vacuum that sucked in attention. He didn't see how Zoe could ever find love with this new breed of men with cyclonic souls that sucked like Dysons and never needed their bag changed in order to keep on and on sucking.

One can fully own a manufactured thing—a toaster, say, or a pair of shoes. But in what reasonable sense can one fully "own" and have "rights" to do whatever we want to land, water, air, and forests, which are among the most valuable assets in humanity's basic endowments? To say, in the march of eons, that we own these things into which we suddenly, fleetingly appear and from which we will soon vanish is like a newborn laying claim to the maternity ward, or a candle asserting ownership of the cake; we might as well declare that, having been handed a ticket to ride, we've bought the train. Let's be serious.

On the drive there, I’m going so slow that Kitty keeps telling me the speed limit. “They give tickets for going under the limit too, you know.” “Who told you that?” “No one. I just know it. I bet I’m going to be a better driver than you, Lara Jean.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. “I bet you are.” Brat. I bet when Kitty starts driving, she’s going to be a speed demon without the slightest concern for those around her. But she’ll still probably be better at it than me. A reckless driver is better than a scared one; ask anybody. “I’m not scared of things like you are.” I adjust my rearview mirror. “You sure are proud of yourself.” “I’m just saying.” “Is there a car coming? Can I switch lanes?” Kitty turns her head. “You can go, but hurry.” “Like how much time do I have?” “It’s already too late. Wait…now you can go. Go!” I jerk into the left lane and look in my rearview. “Good job, Kitty. You just keep being my second pair of eyes.

I lift the lid of the chest. Inside, the air is musty and stale, held hostage for years in its three-foot-by-four-foot tomb. I lean in to survey the contents cautiously, then pull out a stack of old photos tied with twine. On top is a photo of a couple on their wedding day. She's a young bride, wearing one of those 1950's netted veils. He looks older, distinguished- sort of like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck in the old black-and-white movies I used to watch with my grandmother. I set the stack down and turn back to the chest, where I find a notebook, filled with handwritten recipes. The page for Cinnamon Rolls is labeled "Dex's Favorite." 'Dex.' I wonder if he's the man in the photo. There are two ticket stubs from 1959, one to a Frank Sinatra concert, another to the movie 'An Affair to Remember.' A single shriveled rosebud rests on a white handkerchief. A corsage? When I lift it into my hand, it disintegrates; the petals crinkle into tiny pieces that fall onto the living room carpet. At the bottom of the chest is what looks like a wedding dress. It's yellowed and moth-eaten, but I imagine it was once stark white and beautiful. As I lift it, I can hear the lace swishing as if to say, "Ahh." Whoever wore it was very petite. The waist circumference is tiny. A pair of long white gloves falls to the floor. They must have been tucked inside the dress. I refold the finery and set the ensemble back inside. Whose things are these? And why have they been left here? I thumb through the recipe book. All cookies, cakes, desserts. She must have loved to bake. I tuck the book back inside the chest, along with the photographs after I've retied the twine, which is when I notice a book tucked into the corner. It's an old paperback copy of Ernest Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises.' I've read a little of Hemingway over the years- 'A Moveable Feast' and some of his later work- but not this one. I flip through the book and notice that one page is dog-eared. I open to it and see a line that has been underscored. "You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another." I look out to the lake, letting the words sink in. 'Is that what I'm trying to do? Get away from myself?' I stare at the line in the book again and wonder if it resonated with the woman who underlined it so many years ago. Did she have her own secret pain? 'Was she trying to escape it just like me?

I remember standing against the bar in Budapest’s airport with a couple of workmates, some chaps from McLaren too, waiting for our homeward flight to be called after the ’92 race weekend. The chap behind the counter was doing the exact same thing: halving and squeezing oranges. Funny how these things spark memories. It was an exceedingly hot afternoon that day, and I remember seeing James Hunt walk through the door with Murray Walker. We were waiting for the same flight, a charter to London; I think pretty much the whole of the paddock’s British contingent was on it. Murray looked perfectly normal . . . like Murray really . . . open-necked shirt, briefcase, what have you; but James was wearing nothing but a pair of red shorts. He carried a ticket, a passport and a packet of cigarettes. That was it. There wasn’t even a pair of flip-flops to spoil the perfect minimalist look. The thing that really made the event stick in my mind, though, was that James was absolutely at ease with himself, perfectly comfortable. This was real for him, no stunt or affectation designed to impress or shock, this was genuine: James Hunt, former world champion driver, current commentator for the BBC; work done for the day . . . going home. Take me, leave me; do what you bloody well want, just don’t give me a hard time about your own petty hang-ups. He became a hero of mine that day. Sadly, his heart gave out the following summer and that was that. He was only forty-five. Mind you, he’d certainly packed a lot of living into those years.

Why?” “Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.” At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street. Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Harry couldn’t blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?” “Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, “did you say there are dragons at Gringotts?” “Well, so they say,” said Hagrid. “Crikey, I’d like a dragon.” “You’d like one?” “Wanted one ever since I was a kid — here we go.” They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money,” as he called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets. People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. “Still got yer letter, Harry?” he asked as he counted stitches. Harry took the parchment envelope out of his pocket. “Good,” said Hagrid. “There’s a list there of everything yeh need.” Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night before, and read: HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY UNIFORM First-year students will require: 1. Three sets of plain work robes (black) 2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear 3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar) 4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings) Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags COURSE BOOKS All students should have a copy of each of the following: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling A

Consider a guess-the-number game in which players must guess a number between 0 and 100. The person whose guess comes closest to two-thirds of the average guess of all contestants wins. That’s it. And imagine there is a prize: the reader who comes closest to the correct answer wins a pair of business-class tickets for a flight between London and New York. The Financial Times actually held this contest in 1997, at the urging of Richard Thaler, a pioneer of behavioral economics. If I were reading the Financial Times in 1997, how would I win those tickets? I might start by thinking that because anyone can guess anything between 0 and 100 the guesses will be scattered randomly. That would make the average guess 50. And two-thirds of 50 is 33. So I should guess 33. At this point, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. I’m sure I’ve nailed it. But before I say “final answer,” I pause, think about the other contestants, and it dawns on me that they went through the same thought process as I did. Which means they all guessed 33 too. Which means the average guess is not 50. It’s 33. And two-thirds of 33 is 22. So my first conclusion was actually wrong. I should guess 22. Now I’m feeling very clever indeed. But wait! The other contestants also thought about the other contestants, just as I did. Which means they would have all guessed 22. Which means the average guess is actually 22. And two-thirds of 22 is about 15. So I should … See where this is going? Because the contestants are aware of each other, and aware that they are aware, the number is going to keep shrinking until it hits the point where it can no longer shrink. That point is 0. So that’s my final answer. And I will surely win. My logic is airtight. And I happen to be one of those highly educated people who is familiar with game theory, so I know 0 is called the Nash equilibrium solution. QED. The only question is who will come with me to London. Guess what? I’m wrong. In the actual contest, some people did guess 0, but not many, and 0 was not the right answer. It wasn’t even close to right. The average guess of all the contestants was 18.91, so the winning guess was 13. How did I get this so wrong? It wasn’t my logic, which was sound. I failed because I only looked at the problem from one perspective—the perspective of logic. Who are the other contestants? Are they all the sort of people who would think about this carefully, spot the logic, and pursue it relentlessly to the final answer of 0?

Pandas: China's Secret Weapon of Mass Seduction 'Ling-Ling and Hsing-Hsing your cub is such an adorable thing!' People think you're a gift of the Chinese - but you're just on a 10 year lease. For a mere $2,000,000/year pick any panda pair -- watch zoo ticket sales zoom, triple profit share. 'Look mommy, see the cute Panda bear!' Remind me mom, how many were butchered on Tiananmen Square? 'I forget dear, but that cub is sooo cute!

The last time someone had laid out a suit and a pair of dress shoes with a ticket purchased for a faraway place, Henry had refused to go. This time, Henry refused to stay.

A striking blonde had just come through the front doors. She was wearing a black pants suit and pumps. Practical, but classy. What you’d see on a traveler carrying a first-class ticket. She was tall, too, maybe five-nine, five-ten, with long legs that looked good even in pants, and a ripe, voluptuous body. A porter followed her in, gripping a pair of large Vuitton bags. He paused near her, and leaned forward to ask something. She raised a hand to indicate he should wait, then started her own visual sweep of the room. I hadn’t expected that, and quickly returned my attention to Keiko until the blonde’s gaze had passed over us. When I glanced over again, she was standing beside Belghazi, her arm linked through his. Something about her presence was as relaxed and, in its way, as commanding as his. Everything about her seemed natural: her hair, her face, the curves beneath her clothes.

Getting their priorities right. "The telephone company is urging people to please not use the telephone unless it is absolutely necessary in order to keep the lines open for emergency personnel. We'll be right back after this break to give away a pair of Phil Collins concert tickets to caller #95." -- A Los Angeles radio DJ, shortly after the February 1990 earthquake.

for my eighteenth birthday: a pair of Avett Brothers concert tickets. I cried when she gave them to me, thinking

The majority of the foreign workers who lived here were Mohammedans, still deeply traditionalist in their attitude toward the female body, and who tended to regard her revealing outfit as either an impertinence or an invitation. [...] — We're insulting them. We're behaving like racists. Walking around here like a pair of voyeurs, like visitors to a zoo... [...] — I simply don't understand. — Can you see how they are looking at you? — No. Besides, it's you they are looking at, more than me. — That's it exactly. It's their way. — Their way of what? Would you explain to me, for the love of heaven, what's going on here? What's bothering you? I stopped short. — Don't you know what racism is? — But... — Racism is when it doesn't count. When they don't count. When one can do anything with them, it doesn't matter what , because they are not people like us. Do you see? Not our kind. When we can make use of them as we please, without losing face, dignity, honor. Without embarrassment, without making a moral judgement - that's it. When we can make them do no matter what degrading work, service, because their opinion of us doesn't count, because it cannot tarnish us. That's what racism is.

Roger that" is a ticket back to your life, no matter what happens. You may be laid off, run down, flunked out, cut, or dumped. You could be a stressed-out, bullied young kid, an overweight veteran with no prospects, or simply handed a pair of crutches and told to sit tight on the sidelines for as long as it takes to heal. The answer is always "Roger-fucking-that." Scream it out loud. Tell them all that you heard what they had to say and that they can expect your very best in return. And don't forget to smile. A smile reminds them that you are most dangerous when you're cornered. That is how you respond to a setback. It's the most efficient way to deal with adversity and come out clean. p204

grey, the cold biting. Caroline wore the heather-coloured herringbone wool coat that Florence had found in one of her weekly trawls through the charity shops. It was slightly big on the shoulders, but roomy enough to accommodate her new shape. Around her neck she’d wrapped the cashmere shawl, its softness and warmth a blessing. ‘Be back before you know it,’ Florence said, rubbing condensation from the windscreen with her gloved hand. ‘Three days, two nights. It’ll fly by.’ Caroline doubted that, but she made no reply as they pulled away from the cottage. Outside the station Florence parked in a loading bay, something she did regularly. As far as Caroline knew, she never got a parking ticket. The traffic wardens must recognise the grey van, and decide to leave well enough alone. They walked in. Caroline joined the queue at the ticket desk. ‘Return to Brighton,’ she said to the clerk when her turn came. ‘Change in London,’ he replied, barely glancing at her. Out in the area at the rear, they scanned the parked buses. ‘There’s yours,’ Florence said, pointing. ‘Get on and find a seat before they’re gone.’ They’d exchanged presents the night before, after Caroline’s confession. Florence had given her a jar of hand cream and a pair of fur-lined boots. They’re not new, she’d said of the boots, but they’ll keep you warm. Caroline’s gift to her was a sky blue cashmere wrap that she’d knitted one afternoon when Florence was out at work. Predictably, Florence had tut-tutted at the expense – You have more money than sense – but when Caroline had wrapped

I stopped periodically to slog through fields around the rest stops with Peppy. Athin, cold rain had been falling since we left the Quad Cities, turning the ground muddy. After the first stop, I changed my socks and jeans and then had to do it again at our next break. I should have packed more clothes, another pair of boots, newspapers to wrap them in, my espresso machine, a fireplace, my mother's piano, a case of Barolo, a ticket to Basel.