Pal Sayings And Quotes

It’s sarcasm, Josh.” “Sarcasm?” “It’s from the Greek, sarkasmos. To bite the lips. It means that you aren’t really saying what you mean, but people will get your point. I invented it, Bartholomew named it.” “Well, if the village idiot named it, I’m sure it’s a good thing.” “There you go, you got it.” “Got what?” “Sarcasm.” “No, I meant it.” “Sure you did.” “Is that sarcasm?” “Irony, I think.” “What’s the difference?” “I haven’t the slightest idea.” “So you’re being ironic now, right?” “No, I really don’t know.” “Maybe you should ask the idiot.” “Now you’ve got it.” “What?” “Sarcasm.

I slump against the cushion. “How am I going to protect him, if I’ve completely alienated him? He thinks I’m creepy…” I say sadly. “You are not creepy,” Reed says soothingly, taking my hand. “You’re not a good judge of creepy, Reed, since you’re creepier than I am,” I say warily, looking over at Zephyr when I hear him laughing at my comment. “I wouldn’t laugh too hard, pal, because you’re the creepiest one of us all.

Blessed are the meek, for to them we shall say, 'attaboy'.

Joshua's ministry was three years of preaching, sometimes three times a day, and although there were some high and low points, I could never remember the sermons word for word, but here's the gist of almost every sermon I ever heard Joshua give. You should be nice to people, even creeps. And if you: a) believed that Joshua was the Son of God (and) b) he had come to save you from sin (and) c) acknowledged the Holy Spirit within you (became as a little child, he would say) (and) d) didn't blaspheme the Holy Ghost (see c) then you would: e) live forever f) someplace nice g) probably heavan However, if you: h) sinned (and/or) i) were a hypocrite (and/or) j) valued things over people (and) k) didn't do a, b, c, and d, then you were: l) fucked

The angel has confided in me that he is going to ask the Lord if he can become Spider-Man. [...] The children need heroes, he says. I think he just wants to swing from buildings in tight red jammies.

A disturbing thought hits me,"but then our only neighbor would be Haymich!" "Ah, that'll be nice,"says Peeta, tightening his arms around me."You and me and Haymich. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays. long winters around the campfire retelling old Hunger Games tales." "I told you he hates me!" I say, but I can't help laughing at the image of Haymich becoming my new pal. "Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," says Peeta. He's never sober!" I protest. That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you in fire," says Peeta. "On the other hand, Haymich ... well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymich completely. He Hates you." " I thought that you said I was his favorite," I say. "He hates me more," says Peeta, "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing.

You don't know what it's like to grow up with a mother who never said a positive thing in her life, not about her children or the world, who was always suspicious, always tearing you down and splitting your dreams straight down the seams. When my first pen pal, Tomoko, stopped writing me after three letters she was the one who laughed: You think someone's going to lose life writing to you? Of course I cried; I was eight and I had already planned that Tomoko and her family would adopt me. My mother of course saw clean into the marrow of those dreams, and laughed. I wouldn't write to you either, she said. She was that kind of mother: who makes you doubt yourself, who would wipe you out if you let her. But I'm not going to pretend either. For a long time I let her say what she wanted about me, and what was worse, for a long time I believed her.

She is probably by this time as tired of me, as I am of her; but as she is too Polite and I am too civil to say so, our letters are still as frequent and affectionate as ever, and our Attachment as firm and sincere as when it first commenced.

Being alone is not the most awful thing in the world. You visit your museums and cultivate your interests and remind yourself how lucky you are not to be one of those spindly Sudanese children with flies beading their mouths. You make out To Do lists - reorganise linen cupboard, learn two sonnets. You dole out little treats to yourself - slices of ice-cream cake, concerts at Wigmore Hall. And then, every once in a while, you wake up and gaze out of the window at another bloody daybreak, and think, I cannot do this anymore. I cannot pull myself together again and spend the next fifteen hours of wakefulness fending off the fact of my own misery. People like Sheba think that they know what it's like to be lonely. They cast their minds back to the time they broke up with a boyfriend in 1975 and endured a whole month before meeting someone new. Or the week they spent in a Bavarian steel town when they were fifteen years old, visiting their greasy-haired German pen pal and discovering that her hand-writing was the best thing about her. But about the drip drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. They don't know what it is to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the laundrette. Or to sit in a darkened flat on Halloween night, because you can't bear to expose your bleak evening to a crowd of jeering trick-or-treaters. Or to have the librarian smile pityingly and say, ‘Goodness, you're a quick reader!’ when you bring back seven books, read from cover to cover, a week after taking them out. They don't know what it is to be so chronically untouched that the accidental brush of a bus conductor's hand on your shoulder sends a jolt of longing straight to your groin. I have sat on park benches and trains and schoolroom chairs, feeling the great store of unused, objectless love sitting in my belly like a stone until I was sure I would cry out and fall, flailing, to the ground. About all of this, Sheba and her like have no clue.

OK, now let’s have some fun. Let’s talk about sex. Let’s talk about women. Freud said he didn’t know what women wanted. I know what women want. They want a whole lot of people to talk to. What do they want to talk about? They want to talk about everything. What do men want? They want a lot of pals, and they wish people wouldn’t get so mad at them. Why are so many people getting divorced today? It’s because most of us don’t have extended families anymore. It used to be that when a man and a woman got married, the bride got a lot more people to talk to about everything. The groom got a lot more pals to tell dumb jokes to. A few Americans, but very few, still have extended families. The Navahos. The Kennedys. But most of us, if we get married nowadays, are just one more person for the other person. The groom gets one more pal, but it’s a woman. The woman gets one more person to talk to about everything, but it’s a man. When a couple has an argument, they may think it’s about money or power or sex, or how to raise the kids, or whatever. What they’re really saying to each other, though, without realizing it, is this: “You are not enough people!” I met a man in Nigeria one time, an Ibo who has six hundred relatives he knew quite well. His wife had just had a baby, the best possible news in any extended family. They were going to take it to meet all its relatives, Ibos of all ages and sizes and shapes. It would even meet other babies, cousins not much older than it was. Everybody who was big enough and steady enough was going to get to hold it, cuddle it, gurgle to it, and say how pretty it was, or handsome. Wouldn't you have loved to be that baby?

Confucius is like the Torah, rules to follow. And Lao-Tzu is even more conservative, saying that if you do nothing you won't break any rules. You have to let tradition fall sometime, you have to take action, you have to eat bacon.

Hey, bunny,” he says softly, his eyes shining with adoration. “Did you miss me?

All men are evil, that’s what I was talking to my father about. What did he say? Fuck ‘em. Really? Yeah. At least he answered you. I got the feeling that he thinks it’s my problem now. Makes you wonder why he didn’t burn that on one of the tablets. ‘HERE, MOSES, HERE’S THE TEN COMMANDMENTS, AND HERE’S AN EXTRA ONE THAT SAYS FUCK ‘EM.’ He doesn’t sound like that.

Gussie and I, as I say, had rather lost touch, but all the same I was exercised about the poor fish, as I am about all my pals, close or distant, who find themselves treading upon Life's banana skins.

Dearest creature in creation, Study English pronunciation. I will teach you in my verse Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse. I will keep you, Suzy, busy, Make your head with heat grow dizzy. Tear in eye, your dress will tear. So shall I! Oh hear my prayer. Just compare heart, beard, and heard, Dies and diet, lord and word, Sword and sward, retain and Britain. (Mind the latter, how it’s written.) Now I surely will not plague you With such words as plaque and ague. But be careful how you speak: Say break and steak, but bleak and streak; Cloven, oven, how and low, Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe. Hear me say, devoid of trickery, Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore, Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles, Exiles, similes, and reviles; Scholar, vicar, and cigar, Solar, mica, war and far; One, anemone, Balmoral, Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel; Gertrude, German, wind and mind, Scene, Melpomene, mankind. Billet does not rhyme with ballet, Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet. Blood and flood are not like food, Nor is mould like should and would. Viscous, viscount, load and broad, Toward, to forward, to reward. And your pronunciation’s OK When you correctly say croquet, Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve, Friend and fiend, alive and live. Ivy, privy, famous; clamour And enamour rhyme with hammer. River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb, Doll and roll and some and home. Stranger does not rhyme with anger, Neither does devour with clangour. Souls but foul, haunt but aunt, Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant, Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger, And then singer, ginger, linger, Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge, Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age. Query does not rhyme with very, Nor does fury sound like bury. Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth. Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath. Though the differences seem little, We say actual but victual. Refer does not rhyme with deafer. Foeffer does, and zephyr, heifer. Mint, pint, senate and sedate; Dull, bull, and George ate late. Scenic, Arabic, Pacific, Science, conscience, scientific. Liberty, library, heave and heaven, Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven. We say hallowed, but allowed, People, leopard, towed, but vowed. Mark the differences, moreover, Between mover, cover, clover; Leeches, breeches, wise, precise, Chalice, but police and lice; Camel, constable, unstable, Principle, disciple, label. Petal, panel, and canal, Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal. Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair, Senator, spectator, mayor. Tour, but our and succour, four. Gas, alas, and Arkansas. Sea, idea, Korea, area, Psalm, Maria, but malaria. Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean. Doctrine, turpentine, marine. Compare alien with Italian, Dandelion and battalion. Sally with ally, yea, ye, Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key. Say aver, but ever, fever, Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver. Heron, granary, canary. Crevice and device and aerie. Face, but preface, not efface. Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass. Large, but target, gin, give, verging, Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging. Ear, but earn and wear and tear Do not rhyme with here but ere. Seven is right, but so is even, Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen, Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk, Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work. Pronunciation (think of Psyche!) Is a paling stout and spikey? Won’t it make you lose your wits, Writing groats and saying grits? It’s a dark abyss or tunnel: Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale, Islington and Isle of Wight, Housewife, verdict and indict. Finally, which rhymes with enough, Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough? Hiccough has the sound of cup. My advice is to give up!!!

I wished for Willa to come back.” My eyes burn when I pull him into me, feel his tiny arms clutching at my waist. And my voice cracks when I say, “Me too, pal. Me too.

Many writing texts caution against asking friends to read your stuff, suggesting you're not apt to get a very unbiased opinion[.] ... It's unfair, according to this view, to put a pal in such a position. What happens if he/she feels he/she has to say, "I'm sorry, good buddy, you've written some great yarns in the past but this one sucks like a vacuum cleaner"? The idea has some validity, but I don't think an unbiased opinion is exactly what I'm looking for. And I believe that most people smart enough to read a novel are also tactful enough to find a gentler mode of expression than "This sucks." (Although most of us know that "I think this has a few problems" actually means "This sucks," don't we?)

All men have parties and are pals who never let each other down. A pal can say terrible things which are forgotten the next day. A pal never forgives, he just forgets, and a woman forgives but never forgets. That's how it is. That's why women aren't allowed to have parties. Being forgiven is very unpleasant.

What America is, to me, is a guy doesn't want to buy, you let him not buy, you respect his not buying. A guy has a crazy notion different from your crazy notion, you pat him on the back and say, Hey pal, nice crazy notion, let's go have a beer. America, to me, should be shouting all the time, a bunch of shouting voices, most of them wrong, some of them nuts, but please, not just one droning glamorous reasonable voice.

There are blondes and blondes and it is almost a joke word nowadays. All blondes have their points, except perhaps the metallic ones who are as blond as a Zulu under the bleach and as to disposition as soft as a sidewalk. There is the small cute blonde who cheeps and twitters, and the big statuesque blonde who straight-arms you with an ice-blue glare. There is the blonde who gives you the up-from-under look and smells lovely and shimmers and hangs on your arm and is always very tired when you take her home. She makes that helpless gesture and has that goddamned headache and you would like to slug her except that you are glad you found out about the headache before you invested too much time and money and hope in her. Because the headache will always be there, a weapon that never wears out and is as deadly as the bravo’s rapier or Lucrezia’s poison vial. There is the soft and willing and alcoholic blonde who doesn’t care what she wears as long as it is mink or where she goes as long as it is the Starlight Roof and there is plenty of dry champagne. There is the small perky blonde who is a little pal and wants to pay her own way and is full of sunshine and common sense and knows judo from the ground up and can toss a truck driver over her shoulder without missing more than one sentence out of the editorial in the Saturday Review. There is the pale, pale blonde with anemia of some non-fatal but incurable type. She is very languid and very shadowy and she speaks softly out of nowhere and you can’t lay a finger on her because in the first place you don’t want to and in the second place she is reading The Waste Land or Dante in the original, or Kafka or Kierkegaard or studying Provençal. She adores music and when the New York Philharmonic is playing Hindemith she can tell you which one of the six bass viols came in a quarter of a beat too late. I hear Toscanini can also. That makes two of them. And lastly there is the gorgeous show piece who will outlast three kingpin racketeers and then marry a couple of millionaires at a million a head and end up with a pale rose villa at Cap Antibes, an Alfa-Romeo town car complete with pilot and co-pilot, and a stable of shopworn aristocrats, all of whom she will treat with the affectionate absent-mindedness of an elderly duke saying goodnight to his butler.

Yeah, but the difference is I’m Gen Z, pal. We can’t wait to die. Can you say the same?

Being a childless woman of childbearing age, I am a walking target for people’s concerned analysis. No one looks at a single man with a Labrador retriever and says, “Will you look at the way he throws the tennis ball to that dog? Now there’s a guy who wants to have a son.” A dog, after all, is man’s best friend, a comrade, a pal. But give a dog to a woman and people will say she is sublimating. If she says that she, in fact, doesn’t want children, they will nod understandingly and say, “You just wait.” For the record, I do not speak to my dog in baby talk, nor when calling her do I say, “Come to Mama.

I was not and had never been a part of a queer community, how to access such a thing was not just a mystery but an impossibility. The loss of which was sizable. Agony in isolation, the shame and pain that I thought was mine alone. My heart aches for my younger self. A tiny bug running to the rim of an upside-down juice glass. What a difference it would have been to sit with queer and trans pals and have them say "I feel that way, too. I felt that way, too. We don't have to feel that way. You don't have to feel that way.". Not a magic eraser of shame, but it would have undoubtedly quickened things up.

Thanks pal, but I tend to avoid any substance that makes me feel smarter, stronger, or better looking than I know I actually am." There were, in his opinion, drugs that diminished ego and drugs that engorged ego, which is to say, revelatory drugs and delusory drugs, and on a psychic level, at least, he favored awe over swagger. Should he ever aspire to become voluntarily delusional, then good old-fashioned alcohol would do the job effectively and inexpensively, thank you, and without the dubious bonus of jaw-clenching jitters.

Most of us, if we get married nowadays, are just one more person for the other person. The groom gets one more pal, but it's a woman. The woman gets one more person to talk to about everything, but it's a man. When a couple has an argument nowadays, they may think it's about money or power or sex or how to raise the kids or whatever. What they're really saying to each other without realizing it, is this: "You are not enough people!" A husband, wife and some kids is not a family. It's a terribly vulnerable survival unit.

...smoking is just a habit. 'Tolstoy', she said, mentioning someone I hadn't met, 'says that just as much pleasure can be got from twirling the fingers'. My impulse was to tell her Tolstoy was off his onion, but I choked down the heated words. For all I know, the man might be a bosom pal of hers and she might resent criticism of him, however justified.

Character is what the world needs - character that will empower the mind with such an unimaginable strength that one would meet death face to face and say “some other time, pal!

He hated weapons, and not just because they'd so often been aimed at him. You got into more trouble if you had a weapon. People shot you instantly if they thought you were going to shoot them. But if you were unarmed, they often stopped to talk. Admittedly, they tended to say things like, "You'll never guess what we're going to do to you, pal," but that took time. And Rincewind could do a lot with a few more seconds. He could use them to live longer in.

In this town you can be a wife-beating, manic-depressive crack-head and everyone opens their arms to you. They say, "Hey, pal, don't worry about it. We'll get you into recovery. It's all part of the journey." But if you become a born-again Christian and love Jesus Christ and want to share that with other people, they say, "You've committed the unpardonable sin.

The other problem is that she hasn’t arrived.” “Oh, yeah? And who is she?” “Well, she is a remarkable, funny, classy woman who can say the word fuck without being trashy. She makes me laugh, is ambitious, loves me because I’m nice, not in spite of it, and is as nice in return. She is simply enchanting.” “Shooting for the stars there, aren’t you, pal?” “Shouldn’t we all?” I didn’t know anymore, although I utterly envied his romanticism.

A reaper emerges from the crowd with glossy, black wings, and Akila takes off her headset and runs dizzily over. She puts her arms around me and says, I am so happy right now. I do my best to be cool about this contact, but it has never happened before, and I pat her awkwardly on the shoulder, terrified that a too-enthusiastic reciprocation will alert her to her error, like the way a white person might raise a jungle cat from birth and be pals for a time until the cat turns five and realizes it is, in fact, a carnivore. If I’m honest, all my relationships have been like this, parsing the intent of the jaws that lock around my head. Like, is he kidding, or is he hungry? In other words, all of it, even the love, is a violence.

you can do all sorts of stuff that full-grown wizards can't, Viktor always said --" Ron looked around at her so fast he appeared to crick his neck; rubbing it, he said, "Yeah? What did Vicky say?" "Ho ho," said Hermione in a bored voice. "He said Harry knew how to do stuff even he didn't, and he was in the final year at Durmstrang." Ron was looking at Hermione suspiciously. "You're not still in contact with him are you?" "So what if I am?" said Hermione coolly, though her face was a little pink. "I can have a pen pal if I --" "He didn't only want to be your pen pal," said Ron accusingly. Hermione shook her head exasperatedly and ignored Ron, who was continuing to watch her.

There came an awful day when I picked up the phone and knew at once, as one does with some old friends even before they speak, that it was Edward. He sounded as if he were calling from the bottom of a well. I still thank my stars that I didn't say what I nearly said, because the good professor's phone pals were used to cheering or teasing him out of bouts of pessimism and insecurity when he would sometimes say ridiculous things like: 'I hope you don't mind being disturbed by some mere wog and upstart.' The remedy for this was not to indulge it but to reply with bracing and satirical stuff which would soon get the gurgling laugh back into his throat. But I'm glad I didn't say, 'What, Edward, splashing about again in the waters of self-pity?' because this time he was calling to tell me that he had contracted a rare strain of leukemia. Not at all untypically, he used the occasion to remind me that it was very important always to make and keep regular appointments with one’s physician.

Many BrainPal users find it useful to give their BrainPal a name other than BrainPal. Would you like to name your BrainPal at this time? "Yes," I said. Please speak the name you would like to give your BrainPal. "Asshole," I said. You have selected "Asshole," the BrainPal wrote, and to its credit it spelled the word correctly. Be aware that many recruits have selected this name for their BrainPal. Would you like to chose a different name? "No," I said, and was proud that so many of my fellow recruits also felt this way about their BrainPal. Your BrainPal is now Asshole, the BrainPal wrote. You may change this name in the future if you like. Now you must choose an access phrase to activate Asshole. While Asshole is active at all times it will only respond to commands after it has been activated. Please choose a short phrase. Asshole suggests "Activate Asshole" but you may choose another phrase. Please say your activation phrase now. "Hey, Asshole," I said. You have choosen "Hey, Asshole." Please say it again to confirm. I did. Then it asked me to choose a deactivation phrase. I chose (of course) "Go away, Asshole." Would you like Asshole to refer to itself in the first person? "Absolutely." I said. I am Asshole. "Of course you are.

Our pals over at Wikipedia make hair sounds like the sun of fresh water, saying in their snooty tone that head hair has "gained an important significance in nearly all present societies as well as any given historical period throughout the world". But then again, those lovable eggheads can make anything sound pretty serious.

What we need is a séance.” I say flatly, “That’s ridiculous.” “No, the federal tax rate is ridiculous. This is simply a situation that needs to be remedied.

Who do we seek, my spies? Again and again, I announce to the world: I. M. Realdom! I. M. Realdom! I. M. Realdom! I cannot say it too often! Do you have that?

I didn't say anything, and he asked me again if i wanted to be pals. I said it was fine with me: he seemed pleased.

was to Dante, anyway.” “What do you think heaven is?” His smile fades. His energy slowly changes from light to dark, as does his gaze. Looking deep into my eyes, he says softly, “You.

But between the founding and the actual PayPal, it was just this tug-of-war where it was like, 'We're trying this, this week." Every week you go to investors and say, "We're doing this, exactly this. We're really focused. We're going to be huge." The next week you're like, "That was a lie.

Musk says. “After I got assassinated by the PayPal coup leaders, like Caesar being stabbed in the Senate, I could have said ‘You guys, you suck.’ But I didn’t. If I’d done that, Founders Fund wouldn’t have come through in 2008 and SpaceX would be dead. I’m not into astrology or shit like that. But karma may be real.

Let me explain before another word is written: I have never once asked a cat, "So tell me what's up, Charlie?" and Charlie says, "Jeez Jackson, thanks for asking. A little annoyed by the fluorescent lights, and will you please check out this tiny piece-of-junk pan I have to crap in but, hey, I still got my legs, you know? Can't complain, pal.

If fighting is sure to result in victory, then you must fight." Sun Tzu said that, and I'd say he knows a little more about fighting then you do pal because he invented it, and then he perfected it so that no living man could best him in the ring of honor.

Aidan looks at me. His heart shines in his eyes. He says softly, “I love you, bunny. I’ll love you until the end of time.” Then he looks back at Michael and says words I’ll never be able to unhear. They’ll echo in my head for all eternity. “Shoot me, then.

The goal - at least the way I think about entrepreneurship - is you realize one day that you can't really work anyone else. You have to start your own thing. It almost doesn't matter what the thing is. We had six different business plan changes, and then the last one was PayPal. If that one didn't work out, if we still had the money and the people, obviously we would not have given up. We would have iterated on the business model and done something else. I don't think there was ever clarity as to who we were until we knew it was working. By then, we'd figured out our PR pitch and told everyone what we do and who we are. But between the founding and the actual PayPal, it was just like this tug-of-war where it was like, "We're trying this, this week." Every week you go to investors and say, "We're doing this, exactly this. We're really focused. We're going to be huge." The next week you're like, "That was a lie.

The last words of Finny's usual nighttime monologue were, 'I hope you're having a pretty good time here. I know I kind of dragged you away at the point of a gun, but after all you can't come to the shore with just anybody and you can't come by yourself, and at this teen-age period in life the proper person is your best pal.' He hesitated and then added, 'which is what you are,' and there was silence on his dune. It was a courageous thing to say. Exposing a sincere emotion nakedly like that at the Devon School was the next thing to suicide. I should have told him then that he was my best friend also and rounded off what he said. I started to; I nearly did. But something held me back. Perhaps I was stopped by the level of feeling, deeper than thought, which contains the truth.

Stop it!“ Newt yelled. Stop it now!“ Thomas has been frozen in place, crouching as he waited for an opportunity to jump in and help Minho. But he twisted around to see that Newt was holding his Launcher in shooting position, his eyes wild with fury. “Stop or I’ll start shooting and not give a buggin’ piece of klunk who gets hit.” ….. Thomas couldn’t believe the sudden turn of events. He looked at Newt with wide eyes, glad he’d done what he had, and happy he hadn’t aimed the Launcher at him or Minho. “I told him to stop,” Newt half whispered. Then he aimed the weapon at Minho, but it was shaking because his arms were. “Now you guys leave. No more discussion. I’m sorry.“ Minho held up his hands. “You’re going to shoot me? Old pal?” “Go,” Newt said. „I asked nicely. Now I’m telling. This is hard enough. Go.“ „Newt, let’s go outside..“ „Go!“ Newt stepped closer and aimed more fiercely. „Get out of here!“ Thomas hated what he was seeing – the complete wilderness that had taken over Newt. His whole body trembled and his eyes had lost any hint of sanity. He was losing it, completely. “Let’s go,” Thomas said, one of the saddest things he’d ever heard himself say. „Come on.” Minho’s gaze snapped to Thomas, and he looked like his heart had been shattered. “You can’t be serious.” Thomas could only nod. Minho’s shoulders slumped, and his eyes fell to the floor. “How did the world get so shucked?” The words barely came out, low and full of pain. “I’m sorry,” Newt said, and there were tears streaming down his face. “I’m .. I’m going to shoot if you don’t go. Now.

he says softly, “Tell me what you need from me.” I’ve never had a man ask me that before.

Ow!” “Say you’re sorry for trying to run away, bunny.” “No! I’m not sorry!

The best time of a relationship is when your eyes speak when silence says everything Expressions are the beak

It's a landscape that controls you, sits you down and says, Shut up, pal, I'm in charge here.

You aren’t looking for a pen pal, and if need be, say that.

I would raze the entire city to ashes if it meant keeping you safe,” I say, meaning each fucking word.

Like they say, you have to kiss a few frogs to find your prince...or princess.

You have two choices,” I say. “You can strip for me and kneel for me on the bed, or I’ll slice through your clothes and throw you into position.

Jeong. You never say the word, but you live it anyway. I will be honest, I did not expect to find it in a guy such as yourself. It's like we've met each other before. No, not really. We are friends at once, we would instantly do what friends would do for each other. Not just pals. Friends. Blood brothers. You just feel it. We instead of you and me. That's jeong.

Parables were never my strong suit. If you wan to say something, say it. So, of course, Joshua and Buddhists were the perfect people to hang out with, straight talkers that they were.

Thank you,” said Lee’s voice. “And now we turn to regular contributor Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world.” “Thanks, River,” said an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring. “Kingsley!” burst out Ron. “We know!” said Hermione, hushing him. “Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” said Kingsley. “However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.” “And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be ‘Wizards first’?” asked Lee. “I’d say that it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to ‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’” replied Kingsley. “We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.” “Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess,” said Lee. “And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’” “Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper. “We know it’s Lupin!

Dear Pen Pal, I know it’s been a few years since I last wrote you. I hope you’re still there. I’m not sure you ever were. I never got any letters back from you when I was a kid. But in a way it was always therapeutic. Everyone else judges everything I say. And here you are: some anonymous person who never says “boo.” Maybe you just read my letters and laughed or maybe you didn’t read my letters or maybe you don’t even exist. It was pretty frustrating when I was young, but now I’m glad that you won’t respond. Just listen. That’s what I want. My dog died. I don’t know if you remember, but I had a beagle. He was a good dog. My best friend. I’d had him as far back as I could remember, but one day last month he didn’t come bounding out of his red doghouse like usual. I called his name. But no response. I knelt down and called out his name. Still nothing. I looked in his doghouse. There was blood everywhere. Cowering in the corner was my dog. His eyes were wild and there was an excessive amount of saliva coming out of his mouth. He was unrecognizable. Both frightened and frightening at the same time. The blood belonged to a little yellow bird that had always been around. My dog and the bird used to play together. In a strange way, it was almost like they were best friends. I know that sounds stupid, but… Anyway, the bird had been mangled. Ripped apart. By my dog. When he saw that I could see what he’d done, his face changed to sadness and he let out a sound that felt like the word ‘help.’ I reached my hand into his doghouse. I know it was a dumb thing to do, but he looked like he needed me. His jaws snapped. I jerked my hand away before he could bite me. My parents called a center and they came and took him away. Later that day, they put him to sleep. They gave me his corpse in a cardboard box. When my dog died, that was when the rain cloud came back and everything went to hell…

His mouth next to my ear, he says in a guttural voice, “Is this what you need, baby? You like it rough? Or do you want me to recite some poetry and make you a cup of fucking tea?” “This! This!

And you call yourself a pal of mine!" "Yes, I know; but there are limits." "Bertie," said Bingo reproachfully, "I saved your life once." "When?" "Didn't I? It must have been some other fellow then. Well, anyway, we were boys together and all that. You can't let me down." "Oh, all right," I said. "But, when you say you haven't nerve enough for any dashed thing in the world, you misjudge yourself.

There’s some great early stories of him in his sales days. When American Express, for example, wouldn’t buy advertising on TBS because they were ‘too downscale’…and ‘too this, too that’…Ted pulls out an American Express card, slides it across the table and says, ‘I use your product, but you don’t use mine. I have a real problem with that’. “They were saying our audience was downscale, and he’s like, ‘I watch TBS, and I’m worth half a billion dollars, pal!’ He rejected people’s snobbery of ‘it’s gotta be this fancy programming’. He was like ‘look, I’m doing a ‘3’ rating at 6:05, so screw you’.

He looks up. Our eyes lock,and he breaks into a slow smile. My heart beats faster and faster. Almost there.He sets down his book and stands.And then this-the moment he calls my name-is the real moment everything changes. He is no longer St. Clair, everyone's pal, everyone's friend. He is Etienne. Etienne,like the night we met. He is Etienne,he is my friend. He is so much more. Etienne.My feet trip in three syllables. E-ti-enne. E-ti-enne, E-ti-enne. His name coats my tongue like melting chocolate. He is so beautiful, so perfect. My throat catches as he opens his arms and wraps me in a hug.My heart pounds furiously,and I'm embarrassed,because I know he feels it. We break apart, and I stagger backward. He catches me before I fall down the stairs. "Whoa," he says. But I don't think he means me falling. I blush and blame it on clumsiness. "Yeesh,that could've been bad." Phew.A steady voice. He looks dazed. "Are you all right?" I realize his hands are still on my shoulders,and my entire body stiffens underneath his touch. "Yeah.Great. Super!" "Hey,Anna. How was your break?" John.I forget he was here.Etienne lets go of me carefully as I acknowledge Josh,but the whole time we're chatting, I wish he'd return to drawing and leave us alone. After a minute, he glances behind me-to where Etienne is standing-and gets a funny expression on hs face. His speech trails off,and he buries his nose in his sketchbook. I look back, but Etienne's own face has been wiped blank. We sit on the steps together. I haven't been this nervous around him since the first week of school. My mind is tangled, my tongue tied,my stomach in knots. "Well," he says, after an excruciating minute. "Did we use up all our conversation over the holiday?" The pressure inside me eases enough to speak. "Guess I'll go back to the dorm." I pretend to stand, and he laughs. "I have something for you." He pulls me back down by my sleeve. "A late Christmas present." "For me? But I didn't get you anything!" He reaches into a coat pocket and brings out his hand in a fist, closed around something very small. "It's not much,so don't get excited." "Ooo,what is it?" "I saw it when I was out with Mum, and it made me think of you-" "Etienne! Come on!" He blinks at hearing his first name. My face turns red, and I'm filled with the overwhelming sensation that he knows exactly what I'm thinking. His expression turns to amazement as he says, "Close your eyes and hold out your hand." Still blushing,I hold one out. His fingers brush against my palm, and my hand jerks back as if he were electrified. Something goes flying and lands with a faith dink behind us. I open my eyes. He's staring at me, equally stunned. "Whoops," I say. He tilts his head at me. "I think...I think it landed back here." I scramble to my feet, but I don't even know what I'm looking for. I never felt what he placed in my hands. I only felt him. "I don't see anything! Just pebbles and pigeon droppings," I add,trying to act normal. Where is it? What is it? "Here." He plucks something tiny and yellow from the steps above him. I fumble back and hold out my hand again, bracing myself for the contact. Etienne pauses and then drops it from a few inches above my hand.As if he's avoiding me,too. It's a glass bead.A banana. He clears his throat. "I know you said Bridgette was the only one who could call you "Banana," but Mum was feeling better last weekend,so I took her to her favorite bead shop. I saw that and thought of you.I hope you don't mind someone else adding to your collection. Especially since you and Bridgette...you know..." I close my hand around the bead. "Thank you." "Mum wondered why I wanted it." "What did you tell her?" "That it was for you,of course." He says this like, duh. I beam.The bead is so lightweight I hardly feel it, except for the teeny cold patch it leaves in my palm.

Sweet bunny,” he whispers, still chuckling. “I think you like me.” Flaming with embarrassment, I say, “Nah, I just need my roof fixed, and I thought I’d shag your brains out to see if I could get a discount.

With his hands in my hair and his face turned to my neck, he says gruffly, “If you decide this isn’t what you want, promise me you’ll end it before I fall in love with you.” “I promise,” I whisper, fighting tears all over again.

I thought we were negotiating.” “We are.” “Then you can’t just keep saying the same number.” “Says who?” “Says me!” “Lucky for me, you’re not the one with the upper hand here.” I stare at him in outrage with my mouth hanging open. Then a strange thing happens: he smiles. “I just wanted to see what you’d do when I said that.” I’d like to run him over with my car. I say firmly, “Forty-five hundred.” “Ninety-nine-ninety-nine.” “You’ve got to be kidding me.

It would be easy to say that I skipped Chicago for Miami after the war ended because Pete and I were such good pals and I'd had such a great time there on leave. But in truth I decided to stay on in Miami because of Veronica Lake.

People complain about the obscurity of poetry, especially if they're assigned to write about it, but actually poetry is rather straightforward compared to ordinary conversation with people you don't know well which tends to be jumpy repartee, crooked, coded, allusive to no effect, firmly repressed, locked up in irony, steadfastly refusing to share genuine experience--think of conversation at office parties or conversation between teenage children and parents, or between teenagers themselves, or between men, or between bitter spouces: rarely in ordinary conversation do people speak from the heart and mean what they say. How often in the past week did anyone offer you something from the heart? It's there in poetry. Forget everything you ever read about poetry, it doesn't matter--poetry is the last preserve of honest speech and the outspoken heart. All that I wrote about it as a grad student I hereby recant and abjure--all that matters about poetry to me is directness and clarity and truthfulness. All that is twittery and lit'ry: no thanks, pal. A person could perish of entertainment, especially comedy, so much of it casually nihilistic, hateful, glittering, cold, and in the end clueless. People in nusing homes die watching late-night television and if I were one of them, I'd be grateful when the darkness descends. Thank God if the pastor comes and offers a psalm and a prayer, and they can attain a glimmer of clarity at the end.

One of Geordi’s first stops is to visit his good pal Wesley Crusher, who shows off one of his science projects (a mini tractor beam) and one of his toys, a device that lets Wesley recreate speech from anyone on the ship. Any doubt that Wesley is a complete weenie is removed when we learn that he uses this device to have Captain Picard say things like, “Welcome to the bridge, Wesley,” instead of having Counselor Troi say things like, “Smack my ass, Wesley, I’m a naughty, naughty bitch.

PayPal cofounder and Facebook board member Peter Thiel—really the only significant Silicon Valley voice to support Trump—was warned by another billionaire and longtime Trump friend that Trump would, in an explosion of flattery, offer Thiel his undying friendship. Everybody says you’re great, you and I are going to have an amazing working relationship, anything you want, call me and we’ll get it done! Thiel was advised not to take Trump’s offer too seriously. But Thiel, who gave a speech supporting Trump at the Republican Convention in Cleveland, reported back that, even having been forewarned, he absolutely was certain of Trump’s sincerity when he said they’d be friends for life—only never to basically hear from him again or have his calls returned.

And she’d also found Logan again. Now he was her … what? New-old boyfriend? Lover? Skype buddy? Pen pal with benefits? Whatever his title, his e-mails filled her inbox. Sometimes he sent five a day, short and quipping. Other times he sent longer, more serious ones. She kept her tone light when she replied. That’d always been her MO—a joke, a jab. A way to deflect from what she was really feeling. A way to keep the nonstop ache of missing him from becoming too painful to survive. And honestly, what was there to say that would come close to what she felt? The moments they’d spent together before he’d shipped out on his latest naval tour had been the most peaceful she could remember—even with her anxiety about her dad. It’d been the first time she’d felt complete in a long time. And then, just like that, he was gone again.

I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I spin to leave. “No fucking way.” It clicks in his mind. “Little Vee?” Here he is. “You’re that girl Finn and I used to…” He doesn’t complete his sentence, but I know all too well what he was going to say. “Annoy? Tease? Torture? Why, yes, that would be me. Did you seriously just figure that out? A bit slow, are we?” I snark. My outburst only seems to amuse him. “Look, in my defense, your mom only ever called you ‘Vee.’ I thought it was short for Vicky or Vivian or something. And it was ten years ago. I can’t even remember what I had for dinner last night.” “Whatever.” I shrug. “Shit, I’ve got to say, Vee.” He gives me a once-over. “Puberty did you a solid.” My cheeks combust. “Wish I could say the same about you,” I lie through my teeth. Xavier smiles at my failed attempt to deny the undeniable. Let’s not pretend like puberty didn’t do every female on earth a solid when Xavier Emery went from “cute” to “sinfully hot” in the span of a summer. “I think you mispronounced thank you.” He flashes a smug grin that makes me want to knee him where it hurts.

I am pitching it feebly," said young Bingo earnestly. "You haven't heard the thing. I have. Rosie shoved the cylinder on the dictating-machine last night before dinner, and it was grisly to hear the instrument croaking out those awful sentences. If that article appears I shall be kidded to death by every pal I've got. Bertie," he said, his voice sinking to a hoarse whisper, "you have about as much imagination as a warthog, but surely even you can picture to yourself what Jimmy Bowles and Tuppy Rogers, to name only tow, will say when they see me referred to in print as "half god, half prattling, mischievous child"?" I jolly well could "She doesn't say that?"I gasped. "She certainly does. And when I tell you that I selected that particular quotation because it's about the only one I can stand hearing spoken, you will realise what I'm up against.

It takes me forever to clean out my locker. I find random notes I saved from Peter, which I promptly put in my bag so I can add them to his scrapbook. An old granola bar. Dusty black hair ties, which is ironic because you can never seem to find a hair tie when you need one. “I’m sad to throw any of this stuff away, even this old granola bar,” I say to Lucas, who is sitting on the floor keeping me company. “I’ve seen it there at the bottom of my locker every day. It’s like an old pal. Should we split it, to commemorate this day?” “Sick,” Lucas says. “It’s probably got mold.

But I had learned long ago that you actually probably don't want to know what kind of guy your besties think you ought to be with. It always says as much about what they think of you as what they think of him, and I find a certain comfort in being ignorant of what my pals might envision for me.

I’d say the spirit who lives in this house is bloody furious.” The way she looked at me when she said that, it was almost as if … As if she were talking about me. Like an army of spiders, cold horror crawls over my skin. I whisper hoarsely, “No.” Fiona says quietly, “Yes, my dear. I’m afraid so.

But I had learned long ago that you actually probably don't want to know what kind of guy your besties think you ought to be with. It always says more as much about what they thing of you as what they think of him, and I find a certain comfort in being ignorant of what my pals might envision for me.

California during the 1940s had Hollywood and the bright lights of Los Angeles, but on the other coast was Florida, land of sunshine and glamour, Miami and Miami Beach. If you weren't already near California's Pacific Coast you headed for Florida during the winter. One of the things which made Miami such a mix of glitter and sunshine was the plethora of movie stars who flocked there to play, rubbing shoulders with tycoons and gangsters. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the latter two. Miami and everything that surrounded it hadn't happened by accident. Carl Fisher had set out to make Miami Beach a playground destination during the 1930s and had succeeded far beyond his dreams. The promenade behind the Roney Plaza Hotel was a block-long lovers' lane of palm trees and promise that began rather than ended in the blue waters of the Atlantic. Florida was more than simply Miami and Miami Beach, however. When George Merrick opened the Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables papers across the country couldn't wait to gush about the growing aura of Florida. They tore down Collins Bridge in the Gables and replaced it with the beautiful Venetian Causeway. You could plop down a fiver if you had one and take your best girl — or the girl you wanted to score with — for a gondola ride there before the depression, or so I'd been told. You see, I'd never actually been to Florida before the war, much less Miami. I was a newspaper reporter from Chicago before the war and had never even seen the ocean until I was flying over the Pacific for the Air Corp. There wasn't much time for admiring the waves when Japanese Zeroes were trying to shoot you out of the sky and bury you at the bottom of that deep blue sea. It was because of my friend Pete that I knew so much about Miami. Florida was his home, so when we both got leave in '42 I followed him to the warm waters of Miami to see what all the fuss was about. It would be easy to say that I skipped Chicago for Miami after the war ended because Pete and I were such good pals and I'd had such a great time there on leave. But in truth I decided to stay on in Miami because of Veronica Lake. I'd better explain that. Veronica Lake never knew she was the reason I came back with Pete to Miami after the war. But she had been there in '42 while Pete and I were enjoying the sand, sun, and the sweet kisses of more than a few love-starved girls desperate to remember what it felt like to have a man's arm around them — not to mention a few other sensations. Lake had been there promoting war bonds on Florida's first radio station, WQAM. It was a big outdoor event and Pete and I were among those listening with relish to Lake's sultry voice as she urged everyone to pitch-in for our boys overseas. We were in those dark early days of the war at the time, and the outcome was very much in question. Lake's appearance at the event was a morale booster for civilians and servicemen alike. She was standing behind a microphone that sat on a table draped in the American flag. I'd never seen a Hollywood star up-close and though I liked the movies as much as any other guy, I had always attributed most of what I saw on-screen to smoke and mirrors. I doubted I'd be impressed seeing a star off-screen. A girl was a girl, after all, and there were loads of real dolls in Miami, as I'd already discovered. Boy, was I wrong." - Where Flamingos Fly

I'll keep in touch, says Lige, ain't going to let you go. This makes John Coke very quiet. John is a tall man and thin and maybe he don't have much painted on his face. He likes to make his decisions and then do a thing. He has my back and he wants the best world for Winona and he don't neglect his pals. When Lige Magan intimates his seeming love for him, John Cole does show something on his face though. Maybe remembers the old sick days when John Cole couldn't move a muscle and that Lige danced attendance. Why should a man help another man? No need, the world don't care about that. The world is just a passing parade of cruel moments and long drear stretches where nothing is going on but the chicory drinking and whiskey and cards. No requirement for nothing else tucked in there. We're strange people, soldiers stuck out in wars. We ain't saying no laws in Washington. We ain't walking on yon great lawns. Storms kill us, and battles, and the earth closes over and no one need say a word and I don't believe we mind. Happy to breathe because we seen terror and horror and then for a while they ain't in dominion. Bibles weren't wrote for us nor any books. We ain't maybe what people do call human since we ain't partaking in the bread of heaven. But if God was trying to make an excuse for us He might point at that strange love between us. Like when you fumbling about in the darkness and you light a lamp and the light comes up and rescue things. Objects in a room and the face of the man who seeing a dug-up treasure to you. John Cole. Seems a food. Bread of earth. The lamplight touching his eyes and another light answering.

...a final word to "the children": do you want to get suckered like your big brothers and sisters? Those saps who spent 2008 standing behind the Obamessiah swaying and chanting, "We are the dawning of the Hopeychange" like brainwashed cult extras? Sooner or later you guys have to crawl out from under the social engineering and rediscover the contrarian spirit for which youth was once known...This will be the great battle of the next generation--to reclaim your birthright from those who spent it. If you don't, the entire global order will teeter and fall. But, if you do, you will have won a great victory. Every time a politician proposes new spending, tell him he's already spent your money, get his hand out of your pocket. Every time a politician says you can stay a child until your twenty-seventh birthday, tell him, "No, you're the big baby, not me--you've spent irresponsibly, and me and my pals are the ones who are gonna have to be the adults and clean up your mess. Don't treat met like a kid when your immaturity got us into this hole." This is a battle for the American idea, and it's an epic one, but--to reprise the lamest of lame-o-lines--you can do anything you want to do. So do it.

Well . . . maybe I can sneak out for a few minutes,” Bird said, lowering his voice. And then Greg heard him shout to his mother: “It’s no one, Ma! I’m talking to no one!” Boy, that’s quick thinking! Greg thought sarcastically. He’s a worse liar than I am. And then he heard Bird call to his mom: “I know I’m on the phone. But I’m not talking to anyone. It’s only Greg.” Thanks a lot, pal, Greg thought.

And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.’” “Thanks, River,” said another very familiar voice; Ron started to speak, but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper. “We know it’s Lupin!” “Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you’ve appeared on our program, that Harry Potter is still alive?” “I do,” said Lupin firmly. “There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ remains a symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the need to keep resisting.” A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry. Had Lupin forgiven him, then, for the terrible things he had said when they had last met? “And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?” “I’d tell him we’re all with him in spirit,” said Lupin, then hesitated slightly. “And I’d tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right.” Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears. “Nearly always right,” she repeated. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” said Ron in surprise. “Bill told me Lupin’s living with Tonks again! And apparently she’s getting pretty big too…” “…and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter’s who are suffering for their allegiance?” Lee was saying. “Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile editor of The Quibbler,” said Lupin. “At least he’s still alive!” muttered Ron.

...And indeed it did take me a long time for me to find someone I wanted to marry. But I'm so glad I waited. What I know about Pete and me is that the flame will never go out. I do not look up from tossing the salad and think, Oh, God, how the hell did I ever get here? I do not look a the back of his head and think, I don't know you at all. I wake up with my pal, and go to sleep with my lover. He still thrills me, not only sexually but because of the way he regards the life that unfolds around him. I am interested in what he says about me and the children and our respective jobs, but I am also interested in what he says about the Middle East and the migratory patterns of monarchs and the amount of nutmeg that should be grated into the mashed potatoes and the impact that being a thwarted artist had on the life of Hitler. I believe he is a truly honest and awake and kind individual. If we live more than once, I want to find him again.

Being a shepherd seems easy. I went with Kaliel last week to tend his flock. The Law says that two must go with the flock to keep an abomination from happening. I can spot an abomination from fifty paces.” Maggie smiled. “And did you prevent any abominations?” “Oh yes, I kept all of the abominations at bay while Kaliel played with his favorite sheep behind the bushes.” “Biff,” Joshua said gravely, “that was the abomination you were supposed to prevent.” “It was?” “Yes.” “Whoops.

I'm a very smart guy. I haven't a feeling or a scruple in the world. All I have the itch for is money. I am so money greedy that for twenty-five bucks a day and expenses, mostly gasoline and whiskey, I do my thinking myself, what there is of it; I risk my whole future, the hatred of the cops and of Eddie Mars and his pals. I dodge bullets and eat saps, and say thank you very much, if you have any more trouble, I hope you'll think of me, I'll just leave one of my cards in case anything comes up.

I wish I had asked myself when I was younger. My path was so tracked that in my 8th-grade yearbook, one of my friends predicted— accurately— that four years later I would enter Stanford as a sophomore. And after a conventionally successful undergraduate career, I enrolled at Stanford Law School, where I competed even harder for the standard badges of success. The highest prize in a law student’s world is unambiguous: out of tens of thousands of graduates each year, only a few dozen get a Supreme Court clerkship. After clerking on a federal appeals court for a year, I was invited to interview for clerkships with Justices Kennedy and Scalia. My meetings with the Justices went well. I was so close to winning this last competition. If only I got the clerkship, I thought, I would be set for life. But I didn’t. At the time, I was devastated. In 2004, after I had built and sold PayPal, I ran into an old friend from law school who had helped me prepare my failed clerkship applications. We hadn’t spoken in nearly a decade. His first question wasn’t “How are you doing?” or “Can you believe it’s been so long?” Instead, he grinned and asked: “So, Peter, aren’t you glad you didn’t get that clerkship?” With the benefit of hindsight, we both knew that winning that ultimate competition would have changed my life for the worse. Had I actually clerked on the Supreme Court, I probably would have spent my entire career taking depositions or drafting other people’s business deals instead of creating anything new. It’s hard to say how much would be different, but the opportunity costs were enormous. All Rhodes Scholars had a great future in their past. the best paths are new and untried. will this business still be around a decade from now? business is like chess. Grandmaster José Raúl Capablanca put it well: to succeed, “you must study the endgame before everything else. The few who knew what might be learned, Foolish enough to put their whole heart on show, And reveal their feelings to the crowd below, Mankind has always crucified and burned. Above all, don’t overestimate your own power as an individual. Founders are important not because they are the only ones whose work has value, but rather because a great founder can bring out the best work from everybody at his company. That we need individual founders in all their peculiarity does not mean that we are called to worship Ayn Randian “prime movers” who claim to be independent of everybody around them. In this respect, Rand was a merely half-great writer: her villains were real, but her heroes were fake. There is no Galt’s Gulch. There is no secession from society. To believe yourself invested with divine self-sufficiency is not the mark of a strong individual, but of a person who has mistaken the crowd’s worship—or jeering—for the truth. The single greatest danger for a founder is to become so certain of his own myth that he loses his mind. But an equally insidious danger for every business is to lose all sense of myth and mistake disenchantment for wisdom.

I'll keep in touch, says Lige, ain't going to let you go. This makes John Cole very quiet. John is a tall man and thin and maybe he don't have much painted on his face. He likes to make his decisions and then do a thing. He has my back and he wants the best world for Winona and he don't neglect his pals. When Lige Magan intimates his seeming love for him, John Cole does show something on his face though. Maybe remembers the old sick days when John Cole couldn't move a muscle and that Lige danced attendance. Why should a man help another man? No need, the world don't care about that. The world is just a passing parade of cruel moments and long drear stretches where nothing is going on but the chicory drinking and whiskey and cards. No requirement for nothing else tucked in there. We're strange people, soldiers stuck out in wars. We ain't saying no laws in Washington. We ain't walking on yon great lawns. Storms kill us, and battles, and the earth closes over and no one need say a word and I don't believe we mind. Happy to breathe because we seen terror and horror and then for a while they ain't in dominion. Bibles weren't wrote for us nor any books. We ain't maybe what people do call human since we ain't partaking in the bread of heaven. But if God was trying to make an excuse for us He might point at that strange love between us. Like when you fumbling about in the darkness and you light a lamp and the light comes up and rescue things. Objects in a room and the face of the man who seeing a dug-up treasure to you. John Cole. Seems a food. Bread of earth. The lamplight touching his eyes and another light answering.

I’m crossing our backyard to the Pearces’, trying to juggle the bag and the portable speakers and my phone, when I see John Ambrose McClaren standing in front of the tree house, staring up at it with his arms crossed. I’d know the back of his blond head anywhere. I freeze, suddenly nervous and unsure. I’d thought Peter or Chris would be here with me when he arrived, and that would smooth out any awkwardness. But no such luck. I put down all my stuff and move forward to tap him on the shoulder, but he turns around before I can. I take a step back. “Hi! Hey!” I say. “Hey!” He takes a long look at me. “Is it really you?” “It’s me.” “My pen pal the elusive Lara Jean Covey who shows up at Model UN and runs off without so much as a hello?” I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m pretty sure I at least said hello.” Teasingly he says, “No, I’m pretty sure you didn’t.” He’s right: I didn’t. I was too flustered. Kind of like right now. It must be that distance between knowing someone when you were a kid and seeing them now that you’re both more grown-up, but still not all the way grown-up, and there are all these years and letters in between you, and you don’t know how to act. “Well--anyway. You look…taller.” He looks more than just taller. Now that I can take the time to really look at him, I notice more. With his fair hair and milky skin and rosy cheeks, he looks like he could be an English farmer’s son. But he’s slim, so maybe the sensitive farmer’s son who steals away to the barn to read. The thought makes me smile, and John gives me a curious look but doesn’t ask why. With a nod, he says, “You look…exactly the same.” Gulp. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? “I do?” I get up on my tiptoes. “I think I’ve grown at least an inch since eighth grade.” And my boobs are at least a little bigger. Not much. Not that I want John to notice--I’m just saying.

One cool morning—a rainstorm had swept through the night before; now the City of Angels sparkled like Eden itself—he was walking between soundstages in Culver City, carrying a cardboard cup of coffee, nodding to this glorious creature (dressed as a harem girl), then that glorious creature (a cowgirl), then that glorious creature (a secretary?)—they all smiled at him—when he ran into, of all people, an old pal of his from the Major Bowes days, a red-haired pianist who’d bounced around the Midwest in the 1930s, Lyle Henderson (Crosby would soon nickname him Skitch). Henderson was strolling with a creature much more glorious, if possible, than the three Sinatra had just encountered. She was tall, dark haired, with sleepy green eyes, killer cheekbones, and absurdly lush lips, lips he couldn’t stop staring at. Frankie! Henderson said, as they shook hands. His old chum was doing all right these days. Sinatra smiled, not at Henderson. The glorious creature smiled back bashfully, but with a teasing hint of directness in her dark eyes. The pianist—he was doing rehearsal duty at the studio—then got to say the six words that someone had to say, sometime, but that he and he alone got to say for the first time in history on this sparkling morning: Frank Sinatra, this is Ava Gardner.

How we doing on the Beatitudes?” “Pardon me?” “The blesseds.” “We’ve got: Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness; blessed are the poor in spirit, the pure in heart, the whiners, the meek, the—” “Wait, what are we giving the meek?” “Let’s see, uh, here: Blessed are the meek, for to them we shall say, ‘attaboy.’” “A little weak.” “Yeah.” “Let’s let the meek inherit the earth.” “Can’t you give the earth to the whiners?” “Well then, cut the whiners and give the earth to the meek.” “Okay. Earth to the meek. Here we go. Blessed are the peacemakers, the mourners, and that’s it.” “How many is that?” “Seven.” “Not enough. We need one more. How about the dumbfucks?” “No, Josh, not the dumbfucks. You’ve done enough for the dumbfucks. Nathaniel, Thomas—” “Blessed are the dumbfucks for they, uh—I don’t know—they shall never be disappointed.” “No, I’m drawing the line at dumbfucks. Come on, Josh, why can’t we have any powerful guys on our team? Why do we have to have the meek, and the poor, the oppressed, and the pissed on? Why can’t we, for once, have blessed are the big powerful rich guys with swords?” “Because they don’t need us.” “Okay, but no ‘Blessed are the dumbfucks.’” “Who then?” “Sluts?” “No.” “How about the wankers? I can think of five or six disciples that would be really blessed.” “No wankers. I’ve got it: Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.” “Okay, better. What are you going to give them?” “A fruit basket.” “You can’t give the meek the whole earth and these guys a fruit basket.” “Give them the kingdom of heaven.” “The poor in spirit got that.” “Everybody gets some.” “Okay then, ‘share the Kingdom of Heaven.’” I wrote it down. “We could give the fruit basket to the dumbfucks.” “NO DUMBFUCKS!” “Sorry, I just feel for them.” “You feel for everyone, Josh. It’s your job.” “Oh yeah. I forgot.” We finished writing the sermon only a few hours before Philip and Thaddeus returned from Judea leading three thousand of John’s followers.

Because of you, I had a friend. A lover. Someone who saw me as special. Someone who chose me from among a crowd of other women. Someone who made me feel needed.” He runs his fingers through my curls. “Go on.” “For the first time in about ten years, my mind was sharp. I still needed medical help, and I needed my own doctor. When I heard that woman saying my videos had made a fortune, I logged into my account and applied for the creator fund.” Xero sighs. “So, reports of how much you’d made were greatly exaggerated?” “Something like that,” I mumble. “Look, I still made an income, but I got banned a few days ago, which means I won’t get paid for the most viral videos.

One thing that Mueller insisted on was that Musk put two years’ worth of compensation into escrow. He was not an internet millionaire, and he did not want to take the chance of being unpaid if the venture failed. Musk agreed. It did, however, cause him to consider Mueller an employee rather than a cofounder of SpaceX. It was a fight he had regarding PayPal and would have again involving Tesla. If you’re unwilling to invest in a company, he felt, you shouldn’t qualify as a founder. “You cannot ask for two years of salary in escrow and consider yourself a cofounder,” he says. “There’s got to be some combination of inspiration, perspiration, and risk to be a cofounder.

There is a foolproof way to distinguish peer-distorted counterwill from the genuine drive for autonomy: the maturing, individuating child resists coercion whatever the source may be, including pressure from peers. In healthy rebellion, true independence is the goal. One does not seek freedom from one person only to succumb to the influence and will of another. When counterwill is the result of skewed attachments, the liberty that the child strives for is not the liberty to be his true self but the opportunity to conform to his peers. To do so, he will suppress his own feelings and camouflage his own opinions, should they differ from those of his peers. Are we saying that it may not be natural, for example, that a teenager may want to stay out late with his friends? No, the teen may want to hang out with his pals not because he is driven by peer orientation, but simply because on occasion that's just what he feels like doing. The question is, is he willing to discuss the matter with his parents? Is he respectful of their perspective? Is he able to say no to his friends when he has other responsibilities or family events or when he simply may prefer being on his own? The peer-oriented teenager will brook no obstacle and experiences intense frustration when his need for peer contact is thwarted. He is unable to assert himself in the face of peer expectations and will, proportionately, resent and oppose his parents’ desires.

You see I'm wearing the tie," said Bingo. "It suits you beautiful," said the girl. Personally, if anyone had told me that a tie like that suited me, I should have risen and struck them on the mazzard, regardless of their age and sex; but poor old Bingo simply got all flustered with gratification, and smirked in the most gruesome manner. "Well, what's it going to be today?" asked the girl, introducing the business touch into the conversation. Bingo studied the menu devoutly. "I'll have a cup of cocoa, cold veal and ham pie, slice of fruit cake, and a macaroon. Same for you, Bertie?" I gazed at the man, revolted. That he could have been a pal of mine all these years and think me capable of insulting the old tum with this sort of stuff cut me to the quick. "Or how about a bit of hot steak-pudding, with a sparkling limado to wash it down?" said Bingo. You know, the way love can change a fellow is really frightful to contemplate. This chappie before me, who spoke in that absolutely careless way of macaroons and limado, was the man I had seen in happier days telling the head-waiter at Claridge's exactly how he wanted the chef to prepare the sole frite au gourmet au champignons, and saying he would jolly well sling it back if it wasn't just right. Ghastly! Ghastly! A roll and butter and a small coffee seemed the only things on the list that hadn't been specially prepared by the nastier-minded members of the Borgia family for people they had a particular grudge against, so I chose them, and Mabel hopped it.

metastases has become talk of a few months left. When I saw her in A&E, despite obvious suspicions, I didn’t say the word ‘cancer’ – I was taught that if you say the word even in passing, that’s all a patient remembers. Doesn’t matter what else you do, utter the C-word just once and you’ve basically walked into the cubicle and said nothing but ‘cancer cancer cancer cancer cancer’ for half an hour. And not that you’d ever want a patient to have cancer of course, I really really didn’t want her to. Friendly, funny, chatty – despite the litres of fluid in her abdomen splinting her breathing – we were like two long-lost pals finding themselves next to each other at a bus stop and catching up on all our years apart. Her son has a place at med school, her daughter is at the same school my sister went to, she recognized my socks were Duchamp. I stuck in a Bonanno catheter to take off the fluid and admitted her to the ward for the day team to investigate. And now she’s telling me what they found. She bursts into tears, and out come all the ‘will never’s, the crushing realization that ‘forever’ is just a word on the front of Valentine’s cards. Her son will qualify from medical school – she won’t be there. Her daughter will get married – she won’t be able to help with the table plan or throw confetti. She’ll never meet her grandchildren. Her husband will never get over it. ‘He doesn’t even know how to work the thermostat!’ She laughs, so I laugh. I really don’t know what to say. I want to lie and tell her everything’s going to be fine, but we both know that it won’t. I hug her. I’ve never hugged a patient before – in fact, I think I’ve only hugged a grand total of five people, and one of my parents isn’t on that list – but I don’t know what else to do. We talk about boring practical things, rational concerns, irrational concerns, and I can see from her eyes it’s helping her. It suddenly strikes me that I’m almost certainly the first person she’s opened up to about all this, the only one she’s been totally honest with. It’s a strange privilege, an honour I didn’t ask for. The other thing I realize is that none of her many, many concerns are about herself; it’s all about the kids, her husband, her sister, her friends. Maybe that’s the definition of a good person.

Hey Porkins,” said Carl, “you reckon you could hit that cactus over there? You’re a good shot with an arrow, but how about pearl throwing?” “Watch and see,” grinned Porkins. “Your old pal Porkins is a terrific shot—even if I do say so myself!” He threw the pearl and, true to his word, it hit the cactus. Porkins grinned, but then suddenly he was gone—disappearing into thin air. “Where is he?!” said Dave. Then he heard a familiar voice nearby: “Owwww!” Somehow Porkins was on top of the cactus. He jumped off, clutching his behind. Carl was laughing hysterically. “What happened?” said Dave, feeling very confused. “Throwing the pearls makes you teleport,” said Carl, wiping away a tear of laughter. “I found out the other day when I accidentally dropped one.” “You little blighter,” said Porkins, coming back over. He was pulling cactus needles out of his back.

Put your glasses on mate ….. Come down from there, you’re gonna kill yourself …. Well, what does your Method Statement say? …. Right, let’s get you re-inducted. You need a reminder of site rules ….. Where are your outriggers, mate? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Put your glasses on …. Put your glasses on …. Oh, they steam up, do they? I’ve never heard that one before …. Where’s your mask? If you breathe this shit in you’re going to kill yourself. Silicosis is incurable ….. Right STOP! Do not reverse another inch without a banksman ….. Don’t put your glasses on just because you see me walk around the corner. They won’t protect MY eyes …. Hook yourself on, what’s the matter with you? Are all you scaffolders superhuman or something? ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! What stops me walking right in there? Where’s your barriers and signage? ….. Oi! I’m getting showered in fucking sparks here. And so is that can of petrol ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the flashback arrestor on this bottle of propane? ….. Hey, pal, stop welding until you’ve sheeted up ….. What are you doing climbing up there? Where’s your supervisor? What did he say about access in this morning’s Safe Start briefing? Nothing? Right, he can sit through another induction tomorrow ….. Where are the retaining pins to the joint clamps in this concrete pump line? SEAMUS! Fucking deal with this, will you? ….Put your glasses on …. Hey! Hey! Come here! Why have you got a nail instead of an ‘R’ clip to the quick-hitch system on your excavator bucket? NO! IT WON’T DO! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? If that bucket falls on someone they’re not going to get up again. And you trust a fucking nail to hold it in position! Take this machine out of service immediately until you’ve got the proper ‘R’ clip! ….. Put your glasses on …. Where’s the edge protection. Who removed the edge protection? Right, let me phone for a scaffolder ….. Put your glasses on ….. Oi! Get out from under there! Never, ever stand underneath a suspended load. Even if all the equipment’s been inspected, which it obviously has, you can never trust the crane driver. He can be taken ill suddenly ….. Come here, mate, let’s have a little chat. Why are you working on Fall Arrest? You’re supposed to be working on Fall Restraint (FR ‘restrains’ you going near the perimeter edge of the building, FA ‘arrests’ your fall if, well, if you fall. If you’re hanging off a building we’ve got less than ten minutes to reach you before you start going into toxic shock brought on by suspension trauma. In other words, we need a Rescue Plan, which is why we’d prefer people work on Fall Restraint)

Aunt Lou was up early, dressed in overalls. She and Papa sat at the table drinking coffee and having a peppy discussion. Jack sat between them, his head turning from one side to the other as they talked. I stood in the doorway, listening. “Why?” asked Papa. “I want to,” said Aunt Lou. “Do you have a permit to drive?” asked Papa. “Yes,” said Aunt Lou quickly. Papa smiled slightly. Jack smiled, too. “Well…where is it?” asked Papa. Aunt Lou took a deep breath and went to find her bag. “Good morning, Cassie,” said Papa. “Good morning,” I said, coming into the kitchen. Grandfather came after me, pouring coffee and sitting next to Jack. “Pal!” said Jack. “Pal,” said Grandfather, putting his hand over Jack’s hand. Aunt Lou handed Papa a folded piece of paper. “Here.” Papa looked at it, then at Aunt Lou. “This says Lou can drive, signed, Horace Bricker.” Aunt Lou nodded. “Yes, Horace taught me how to drive. That’s proof.” Papa’s mouth opened. He looked at me, then closed it again.

—and we have to send you home. Just do a few little things for us, and—“ “What sort of things?” Yossarian interrupted with belligerent misgiving. “Oh, tiny, insignificant things. Really, this is a very generous deal we’re making with you. We will issue orders returning you to the States—really, we will—and all you have to do in return is...” “What? What must I do?” Colonel Korn laughed curtly. “Like us.” Yossarian blinked. “Like you?” “Like us.” “Like you?” “That’s right,” said Colonel Korn, nodding, gratified immeasurably by Yossarian’s guileless surprise and bewilderment. “Like us. Join us. Be our pal. Say nice things about us here and back in the States. Become one of the boys. Now, that isn’t asking too much, is it?” “You just want me to like you? Is that all?” “That’s all.” “That’s all?” “Just find it in your heart to like us.” Yossarian wanted to laugh confidently when he saw with amazement that Colonel Korn was telling the truth. “That isn’t going to be too easy,” he sneered.

So, about that one sentence of advice: Don’t feel behind. Two Roman historians recorded that when Julius Caesar was a young man he saw a statue of Alexander the Great in Spain and broke down in tears. “Alexander at my age had conquered so many nations, and I have all this time done nothing that is memorable,” he supposedly said. Pretty soon, that concern was a distant memory and Caesar was in charge of the Roman Republic—which he turned into a dictatorship before he was murdered by his own pals. It’s fair to say that like most youth athletes with highlight reels, he peaked early. Compare yourself to yourself yesterday, not to younger people who aren’t you. Everyone progresses at a different rate, so don’t let anyone else make you feel behind. You probably don’t even know where exactly you’re going, so feeling behind doesn’t help. Instead, as Herminia Ibarra suggested for the proactive pursuit of match quality, start planning experiments. Your personal version of Friday night or Saturday morning experiments, perhaps.

Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain heavy casualties,” said Kingsley. “However, we continue to hear truly inspirational stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, often without the Muggles’ knowledge. I’d like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives could be saved if such simple measures are taken.” “And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these dangerous times, it should be ‘Wizards first’?” asked Lee. “I’d say that it’s one short step from ‘Wizards first’ to ‘Purebloods first,’ and then to ‘Death Eaters,’” replied Kingsley. “We’re all human, aren’t we? Every human life is worth the same, and worth saving.” “Excellently put, Royal, and you’ve got my vote for Minister of Magic if ever we get out of this mess,” said Lee. “And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature ‘Pals of Potter.

Jake opened his mouth to say something--he had no idea what--and then, incredibly, Roland's voice was in his mind, filling it. Distract them, Jake--and if there's a button that opens the door, get close to it. The Tick-Tock Man was watching him closely. "Something just came into your mind, didn't it, cully? I always know. So don't keep it a secret; tell your old friend Ticky." Jake caught movement in the corner of his eye. Although he did not dare glance up at the ventilator panel--not with all the Tick-Tock Man's notice bent upon him--he knew that Oy was back, peering down through the louvers. Distract them...and suddenly Jake knew just how to do that. "I did think of something," he said, "but it wasn't about computers. It was about my old pal Gasher. And his old pal, Hoots." "Here! Here!" Gasher cried. "What are you talking about, boy?" "Why don't you tell Tick-Tock who really gave you the password, Gasher? Then I can tell Tick-Tock where you keep it." The Tick-Tock Man's puzzled gaze shifted from Jake to Gasher. "What's he talking about?

The Rev, and the whole Church, and their religious joined-at-the-hippers like the Known Fruits, and their political pals–they were all death on ecofreaks. Their ads featured stuff like a cute little blond girl next to some particularly repellent threatened species, such as the Surinam toad or the great white shark, with a slogan saying: This? or This? Implying that all cute little blond girls were in danger of having their throats slit so the Surinam toads might prosper. By extension, anyone who liked smelling the daisies, and having daisies to smell, and eating mercury-free fish, and who objected to giving birth to three-eyed infants via the toxic sludge in their drinking water was a demon-possessed Satanic minion of darkness, hell-bent on sabotaging the American Way and God’s Holy Oil, which were one and the same. And Bearlift, despite its fuzzy reasoning and its clumsy delivery system, was in a geographical area where more oil might well be discovered, or through which it might well be piped, with the usual malfunctions, spills, and coverups.

Wilderness by Carl Sandburg There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross. There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis. There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot’s hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so. There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness. O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

You have many faults, of course. I shall be pointing some of them out when I am at leisure. For one thing,' she said, not waiting till she was at leisure, 'you smoke too much. You must give that up when we are married. Smoking is just a habit. Tolstoy,' she said, mentioning someone I had not met, 'says that just as much pleasure can be got from twirling the fingers.' My impulse was to tell her Tolstoy was off his onion, but I choked down the heated words. For all I knew, the man might be a bosom pal of hers and she might resent criticism of him, however justified. And one knew what happened to people, policemen for instance, whose criticism she resented. 'And that silly laugh of yours, you must correct that. If you are amused, a quiet smile is ample. Lord Chesterfield said that since he had had the full use of his reason nobody had ever heard him laugh. I don't suppose you have read Lord Chesterfield's Letters To His Son?' . . .Well, of course I hadn't. Bertram Wooster does not read other people's letters. If I were employed in the post office, I wouldn't even read the postcards.

It was friendly. That was a friend thing." He seemed anxious for Gansey to believe that his motives were pure, so Gansey said quickly, "I know that. Just--I don't meet many people who make friends like I do. So--fast." Henry flipped crazy devil horns at him. "Jeong, bro." "What's that mean?" "Who knows," Henry said. "It means being Henry. It means being Richardman. Jeong. You never say the word, but you live it anyway. I will be honest, I did not expect to find it in a guy such as yourself. It's like we've met each other before. No, not really. We are friends are once, we would instantly do what friends would do for each other. Not just pals. Friends. Blood brothers. You just feel it. We instead of you and me. That's jeong." Gansey was aware on a certain level that the description was melodramatic, heightened, illogical. But on a deeper level, it felt, true, familiar, and like it explained much of Gansey's life. It was how he felt about Ronan and Adam and Noah and Blue. With each of them, it had felt instantly right: relieving. Finally, he'd thought, he'd found them. We instead of you and me.

Thiel, the PayPal cofounder who had invested in SpaceX, holds a conference each year with the leaders of companies financed by his Founders Fund. At the 2012 gathering, Musk met Demis Hassabis, a neuroscientist, video-game designer, and artificial intelligence researcher with a courteous manner that conceals a competitive mind. A chess prodigy at age four, he became the five-time champion of an international Mind Sports Olympiad that includes competition in chess, poker, Mastermind, and backgammon. In his modern London office is an original edition of Alan Turing’s seminal 1950 paper, “Computing Machinery and Intelligence,” which proposed an “imitation game” that would pit a human against a ChatGPT–like machine. If the responses of the two were indistinguishable, he wrote, then it would be reasonable to say that machines could “think.” Influenced by Turing’s argument, Hassabis cofounded a company called DeepMind that sought to design computer-based neural networks that could achieve artificial general intelligence. In other words, it sought to make machines that could learn how to think like humans.

The trouble is that she is greatly under the influence of a pal of hers called Tolstoy. I've never met him, but he seems to have the most extraordinary ideas. You won't believe this, Jeeves, but he says that no one needs to smoke, as equal pleasure can be obtained by twirling the fingers. The man must be an ass. Imagine a posh public dinner – one of those "decorations will be worn" things. The royal toast has been drunk, strong men are licking their lips at the thought of cigars, and the toastmaster bellows "Gentlemen, you may twirl your fingers." Don't tell me there wouldn't be a flat feeling, a sense of disappointment. Do you know anything about this fellow Tolstoy? You ever heard of him?' 'Oh, yes, sir. He was a very famous Russian novelist.' 'Russian, eh? Well, there you are. And a novelist? He didn't write By Order Of The Czar, did he?' 'I believe not, sir.' 'I thought he might have under another name. You say "was". Is he no longer with us?' 'No, sir. He died some years ago.' 'Good for him. Twirl your fingers! Too absurd. I'd laugh only she says I mustn't laugh because another pal of hers, called Chesterfield, didn't.

But this is something you need to know: when you find a place that suits you, where you decide to go back to often, to meet your pals there, if you want to feel at home and not discover some snag at the wrong moment, sit yourself in a corner, write letters, read, try and eat there, and watch what goes on for a whole day. At least twice during the day, and three times if the place is open at night, there’s that moment of “temporal void”. It happens every day, at the very same hour, at the very same minute, but it varies from place to place. People are talking, letting their hair down, having a drink together, and all of a sudden, the moment of silence: everyone turns stock still, with their glasses in the air, their eyes fixed. Immediately afterwards the hubbub resumes. But that moment when nothing’s happening - it can last five, ten minutes. And during that time, outside and everywhere else, for other people life goes on, faster, much faster, like an avalanche. If you’re prepared for it, and take advantage of that moment not to be fazed and to have your say, you’re certain to be heard, and if necessary even obeyed. Try it. You’ll see.

You look…exactly the same.” Gulp. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? “I do?” I get up on my tiptoes. “I think I’ve grown at least an inch since eighth grade.” And my boobs are at least a little bigger. Not much. Not that I want John to notice--I’m just saying. “No, you look…just like how I remembered you.” John Ambrose reaches out, and I think he’s trying to hug me but he’s only trying to take my bag from me, and there’s a brief but strange dance that mortifies me but he doesn’t seem to notice. “So thanks for inviting me.” “Thanks for coming.” “Do you want me to take this stuff up for you?” “Sure,” I say. John takes the bag from me and looks inside. “Oh, wow. All of our old snacks! Why don’t you climb up first and I’ll pass it to you.” So that’s what I do: I scramble up the ladder and he climbs up behind me. I’m crouched, arms outstretched, waiting for him to pass me the bag. But when he gets halfway up the ladder, he stops and looks up at me and says, “You still wear your hair in fancy braids.” I touch my side braid. Of all the things to remember about me. Back then, Margot was the one who braided my hair. “You think it looks fancy?” “Yeah. Like…expensive bread.” I burst out laughing. “Bread!” “Yeah. Or…Rapunzel.” I get down on my stomach, wriggle over to the edge, and pretend like I’m letting down my hair for him to climb. He climbs up to the top of the ladder and passes me the bag, which I take, and then he grins at me and gives my braid a tug. I’m still lying down but feel an electric charge like he’s zapped me. I’m suddenly feeling very anxious about the worlds that will be colliding, the past and the present, a pen pal and a boyfriend, all in this little tree house. Probably I should have thought this through a bit better. But I was so focused on the time capsule, and the snacks, and the idea of it--old friends coming back together to do what we said we’d do. And now here we are, in it. “Everything okay?” John asks, offering me his hand as I rise to my feet. I don’t take his hand; I don’t want another zap. “Everything’s great,” I say cheerily. “Hey, you never sent back my letter,” he says. “You broke an unbreakable vow.” I laugh awkwardly. I’d kind of been hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. “It was too embarrassing. The things I wrote. I couldn’t bear the thought of another person seeing it.” “But I already saw it,” he reminds me.

Why did you come? Oh, I know what you are going to say. You felt that, cost what it might, you had to see me again, just once. You could not resist the urge to take away with you one last memory, which you could cherish down the lonely years. Oh, Bertie, you remind me of Rudel.” The name was new to me. “Rudel?” “The Seigneur Geoffrey Rudel, Prince of Blay-en-Saintonge.” I shook my head. “Never met him, I’m afraid. Pal of yours?” “He lived in the Middle ages. He was a great poet. And he fell in love with the wife of the Lord of Tripoli.” I stirred uneasily. I hoped she was going to keep it clean. “For years he loved her, and at last could resist no longer. He took ship to Tripoli, and his servants carried him ashore.” “Not feeling so good?” I said, groping. “Rough crossing?” “He was dying. Of love.” “Oh, ah.” “They bore him into the Lady Melisande’s presence on a litter, and he had just strength enough to reach out and touch her hand. Then he died.” She paused, and heaved a sigh that seemed to come straight up from the cami-knickers. A silence ensued. “Terrific”, I said, feeling that I had to say something, though personally I didn’t think the story a patch on the one about the travelling salesman and the farmer’s daughter. Different, of course, if one had known the chap.

I heard the door at the far end of the hallway swing open. Then I heard familiar footsteps approaching. After going to three different schools for seven years, I knew it was Mark. “Hi, Mark,” I said. “Hey, pal. I thought I’d find you here,” Mark said. I sighed wearily. “Did you find her?” Mark asked tentatively. “Yeah.” “Did you tell her how you feel?” “In a manner of speaking, yes.” “What did she say?” I turned around to face my best friend. Concern born of seven years’ worth of friendship was written on his open face. Whatever his faults, you could never accuse Mark of being unconcerned. “I – ah – wrote her a letter,” I said slightly embarrassed. “I see,” he said quietly. He pursed his lips. “Did she say anything?” “I asked her not to read it until after commencement.” “I see,” he said again. I could tell he was disappointed in me. There was another one of those awkward silences. I felt oddly like a mischievous schoolboy who’d been sent to the principal’s office for some infraction of the rules. Mark just shook his head in disbelief and gave me a tut-tut look. “You know,” he said quietly, “sometimes playing it safe can be the worst thing you can do.” “Macht nichts,” I said bitterly. “Like hell, macht nichts, pal. It makes a hell of a difference, if you ask me.” Mark shook his head sadly. “I really don’t want to be there when you find out for yourself what a stupid mistake it is that you made today.

values of commons-based sharing and of private enterprise often conflict, most notably over the extent to which innovations should be patent-protected. The commons crowd had its roots in the hacker ethic that emanated from the MIT Tech Model Railroad Club and the Homebrew Computer Club. Steve Wozniak was an exemplar. He went to Homebrew meetings to show off the computer circuit he built, and he handed out freely the schematics so that others could use and improve it. But his neighborhood pal Steve Jobs, who began accompanying him to the meetings, convinced him that they should quit sharing the invention and instead build and sell it. Thus Apple was born, and for the subsequent forty years it has been at the forefront of aggressively patenting and profiting from its innovations. The instincts of both Steves were useful in creating the digital age. Innovation is most vibrant in the realms where open-source systems compete with proprietary ones. Sometimes people advocate one of these modes of production over the others based on ideological sentiments. They prefer a greater government role, or exalt private enterprise, or romanticize peer sharing. In the 2012 election, President Barack Obama stirred up controversy by saying to people who owned businesses, “You didn’t build that.” His critics saw it as a denigration of the role of private enterprise. Obama’s point was that any business benefits from government and peer-based community support: “If you were successful, somebody along the line gave you some help.

Do you know what I remember?” I ask suddenly. “What?” “The time Trevor’s shorts split open when you guys were playing basketball. And everybody was laughing so hard that Trevor started getting mad. But not you. You got on your bike and you rode all the way home and brought Trevor a pair of shorts. I was really impressed by that.” He has a faint half smile on his face. “Thanks.” Then we’re both quiet and still dancing. He’s an easy person to be quiet with. “John?” “Hmm?” I look up at him. “I have to tell you something.” “What?” “I’ve got you. I mean, I have your name. In the game.” “Seriously?” John looks genuinely disappointed, which makes me feel guilty. “Seriously. Sorry.” I press my hands against his shoulders. “Tag.” “Well, now you have Kavinsky. I was really looking forward to taking him out, too. I had a whole plan and everything.” All eagerness I ask, “What was your plan?” “Why should I tell the girl who just tagged me out?” he challenges, but it’s a weak challenge, just for show, and we both know he’s going to tell me. I play along. “Come on, Johnny, I’m not just the girl who tagged you out. I’m your pen pal.” John laughs a little. “All right, all right. I’ll help you.” The song ends and we step apart. “Thanks for the dance,” I say. After all this time, I finally know what it’s like to dance with John Ambrose McClaren. “So what would you have asked for if you won?” He doesn’t hesitate even one beat. “Your peanut butter chocolate cake with my name written in Reese’s Pieces.” I stare at him in surprise. That’s what he would have wished for? He could have anything and he wants my cake? I give him a curtsy. “I’m so honored.” “Well, it was a really good cake,” he says.

Stop it! Just give me a second!” “Alright, alright, everyone—” Hank flashed his palms like stop signs and then waved them around as if he were a city flagman exercising his authority to halt traffic. “Stand back, stand back—hands to yourself... in your pockets… there you go.” Hank loved the spotlight and demanded it whenever opportunity presented itself. For once, I actually welcomed his inflated need for attention. The pressing against my back let up, and my friends stepped aside. Pausing first for dramatic effect (typical Hank) he drew in a deep breath and delivered an improvised monologue (also typical Hank.) “People, people, people… look at what you’re doing. Can’t you see the effect you’re having on this sweet, innocent frightened child? I mean, what is up with the sudden aggressive-mob behavior here? Remember, people, this is our friend! Our colleague! Our schoolmate, chum, pal, our number-one supporter most days! Does she deserve this kind of peer pressure? …this group coercion? …this physical harassment? I say nay! Nay, I tell you! Now I know how excited you are to see her fi~nal~ly agree—after many, many grueling months of relentless persuading—to become one of us. To attempt a mad stab at initiation. To feel what it is to be spectacular! But give the girl some room to breathe! If you push a frightened lamb, she’s gonna turn tail and scamper off in the opposite direction, baaaahhing all the way. Then what will our efforts be for? For naught, I say! For naught! So the question here isn’t will she move or not move, but rather will she dare or not dare?” “The actual question is: are you gonna shut it or have us shut it for you?” Cory piped in with a pantomimed zip of the lip. Hank scoffed, blowing his bangs out of his face with a contrary huff, but he didn’t say another word.

Zap. Sports channel. Normal is nine innings, four balls, three strikes, somebody wins, somebody loses, there’s no such thing as a tie. Zap. Normal is unreal people, mostly rich unreal people, having sex with rappers and basketball players and thinking of their unreal family as a real-world brand, like Pepsi or Drano or Ford. Zap. News channels. Normal is guns and the normal America that really wants to be great again. Then there’s another normal if your skin color is the wrong color and another if you’re educated and another if you think education is brainwashing and there’s an America that believes in vaccines for kids and another that says that’s a con trick and everything one normal believes is a lie to another normal and they’re all on TV depending where you look, so, yeah, it’s confusing. I’m really trying to understand which this is America now. Zap zap zap. A man with his head in a bag being shot by a man without a shirt on. A fat man in a red hat screaming at men and women also fat also in red hats about victory, We’re undereducated and overfed. We’re full of pride over who the f*ck knows. We drive to the emergency room and send Granny to get our guns and cigarettes. We don’t need no stinkin’ allies cause we’re stupid and you can suck our dicks. We are Beavis and Butt-Head on ’roids. We drink Roundup from the can. Our president looks like a Christmas ham and talks like Chucky. We’re America, bitch. Zap. Immigrants raping our women every day. We need Space Force because Space ISIS. Zap. Normal is Upside-Down Land. Our old friends are our enemies now and our old enemy is our pal. Zap, zap. Men and men, women and women in love. The purple mountains’ majesty. A man with an oil painting of himself with Jesus hanging in his living room. Dead schoolkids. Hurricanes. Beauty. Lies. Zap, zap, zap. “Normal doesn’t feel so normal to me,” I tell him. “It’s normal to feel that way,” he replies.

Patrick Vlaskovits, who was part of the initial conversation that the term “growth hacker” came out of, put it well: “The more innovative your product is, the more likely you will have to find new and novel ways to get at your customers.”12 For example: 1. You can create the aura of exclusivity with an invite-only feature (as Mailbox did). 2. You can create hundreds of fake profiles to make your service look more popular and active than it actually is—nothing draws a crowd like a crowd (as reddit did in its early days). 3. You can target a single service or platform and cater to it exclusively—essentially piggybacking off or even stealing someone else’s growth (as PayPal did with eBay). 4. You can launch for just a small group of people, own that market, and then move from host to host until your product spreads like a virus (which is what Facebook did by starting in colleges—first at Harvard—before taking on the rest of the population). 5. You can host cool events and drive your first users through the system manually (as Myspace, Yelp, and Udemy all did). 6. You can absolutely dominate the App Store because your product provides totally new features that everyone is dying for (which is what Instagram did—twenty-five thousand downloads on its first day—and later Snapchat). 7. You can bring on influential advisors and investors for their valuable audience and fame rather than their money (as About.me and Trippy did—a move that many start-ups have emulated). 8. You can set up a special sub-domain on your e-commerce site where a percentage of every purchase users make goes to a charity of their choice (which is what Amazon did with Smile.Amazon.com this year to great success, proving that even a successful company can find little growth hacks). 9. You can try to name a Planned Parenthood clinic after your client or pay D-list celebrities to say offensive things about themselves to get all sorts of publicity that promotes your book (OK, those stunts were mine).

Like,” he repeats with distaste. “How about I tell you what I don’t like? I do not like postmodernism, postapocalyptic settings, postmortem narrators, or magic realism. I rarely respond to supposedly clever formal devices, multiple fonts, pictures where they shouldn’t be—basically, gimmicks of any kind. I find literary fiction about the Holocaust or any other major world tragedy to be distasteful—nonfiction only, please. I do not like genre mash-ups à la the literary detective novel or the literary fantasy. Literary should be literary, and genre should be genre, and crossbreeding rarely results in anything satisfying. I do not like children’s books, especially ones with orphans, and I prefer not to clutter my shelves with young adult. I do not like anything over four hundred pages or under one hundred fifty pages. I am repulsed by ghostwritten novels by reality television stars, celebrity picture books, sports memoirs, movie tie-in editions, novelty items, and—I imagine this goes without saying—vampires. I rarely stock debuts, chick lit, poetry, or translations. I would prefer not to stock series, but the demands of my pocketbook require me to. For your part, you needn’t tell me about the ‘next big series’ until it is ensconced on the New York Times Best Sellers list. Above all, Ms. Loman, I find slim literary memoirs about little old men whose little old wives have died from cancer to be absolutely intolerable. No matter how well written the sales rep claims they are. No matter how many copies you promise I’ll sell on Mother’s Day.” Amelia blushes, though she is angry more than embarrassed. She agrees with some of what A.J. has said, but his manner is unnecessarily insulting. Knightley Press doesn’t even sell half of that stuff anyway. She studies him. He is older than Amelia but not by much, not by more than ten years. He is too young to like so little. “What do you like?” she asks. “Everything else,” he says. “I will also admit to an occasional weakness for short-story collections. Customers never want to buy them though.” There is only one short-story collection on Amelia’s list, a debut. Amelia hasn’t read the whole thing, and time dictates that she probably won’t, but she liked the first story. An American sixth-grade class and an Indian sixth-grade class participate in an international pen pal program. The narrator is an Indian kid in the American class who keeps feeding comical misinformation about Indian culture to the Americans. She clears her throat, which is still terribly dry. “The Year Bombay Became Mumbai. I think it will have special int—” “No,” he says. “I haven’t even told you what it’s about yet.” “Just no.” “But why?” “If you’re honest with yourself, you’ll admit that you’re only telling me about it because I’m partially Indian and you think this will be my special interest. Am I right?” Amelia imagines smashing the ancient computer over his head. “I’m telling you about this because you said you liked short stories! And it’s the only one on my list. And for the record”—here, she lies—“it’s completely wonderful from start to finish. Even if it is a debut. “And do you know what else? I love debuts. I love discovering something new. It’s part of the whole reason I do this job.” Amelia rises. Her head is pounding. Maybe she does drink too much? Her head is pounding and her heart is, too. “Do you want my opinion?” “Not particularly,” he says. “What are you, twenty-five?” “Mr. Fikry, this is a lovely store, but if you continue in this this this”—as a child, she stuttered and it occasionally returns when she is upset; she clears her throat—“this backward way of thinking, there won’t be an Island Books before too long.

Robert Askins Brings ‘Hand to God’ to Broadway Chad Batka for The New York Times Robert Askins at the Booth Theater, where his play “Hand to God” opens on Tuesday. By MICHAEL PAULSON The conceit is zany: In a church basement, a group of adolescents gathers (mostly at the insistence of their parents) to make puppets that will spread the Christian message, but one of the puppets turns out to be more demonic than divine. The result — a dark comedy with the can-puppets-really-do-that raunchiness of “Avenue Q” and can-people-really-say-that outrageousness of “The Book of Mormon” — is “Hand to God,” a new play that is among the more improbable entrants in the packed competition for Broadway audiences over the next few weeks. Given the irreverence of some of the material — at one point stuffed animals are mutilated in ways that replicate the torments of Catholic martyrs — it is perhaps not a surprise to discover that the play’s author, Robert Askins, was nicknamed “Dirty Rob” as an undergraduate at Baylor, a Baptist-affiliated university where the sexual explicitness and violence of his early scripts raised eyebrows. But Mr. Askins had also been a lone male soloist in the children’s choir at St. John Lutheran of Cypress, Tex. — a child who discovered early that singing was a way to make the stern church ladies smile. His earliest performances were in a deeply religious world, and his writings since then have been a complex reaction to that upbringing. “It’s kind of frustrating in life to be like, ‘I’m a playwright,’ and watch people’s face fall, because they associate plays with phenomenally dull, didactic, poetic grad-schoolery, where everything takes too long and tediously explores the beauty in ourselves,” he said in a recent interview. “It’s not church, even though it feels like church a lot when we go these days.” The journey to Broadway, where “Hand to God” opens on Tuesday at the Booth Theater, still seems unlikely to Mr. Askins, 34, who works as a bartender in Brooklyn and says he can’t afford to see Broadway shows, despite his newfound prominence. He seems simultaneously enthralled by and contemptuous of contemporary theater, the world in which he has chosen to make his life; during a walk from the Cobble Hill coffee shop where he sometimes writes to the Park Slope restaurant where he tends bar, he quoted Nietzsche and Derrida, described himself as “deeply weird,” and swore like, well, a satanic sock-puppet. “If there were no laughs in the show, I’d think there was something wrong with him,” said the actor Steven Boyer, who won raves in earlier “Hand to God” productions as Jason, a grief-stricken adolescent with a meek demeanor and an angry-puppet pal. “But anybody who is able to write about such serious stuff and be as hilarious as it is, I’m not worried about their mental health.” Mr. Askins’s interest in the performing arts began when he was a boy attending rural Texas churches affiliated with the conservative Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod denomination; he recalls the worshipers as “deeply conservative, old farm folks, stone-faced, pride and suffering, and the only time anybody ever really livened up was when the children’s choir would perform.” “My grandmother had a cross-stitch that said, ‘God respects me when I work, but he loves me when I sing,’ and so I got into that,” he said. “For somebody who enjoys performance, that was the way in.” The church also had a puppet ministry — an effort to teach children about the Bible by use of puppets — and when Mr. Askins’s mother, a nurse, began running the program, he enlisted to help. He would perform shows for other children at preschools and vacation Bible camps. “The shows are wacky, but it was fun,” he said. “They’re badly written attempts to bring children to Jesus.” Not all of his formative encounters with puppets were positive. Particularly scarring: D

Let my people go,” said Joshua, as Moses. “Okay.” “You can’t just say, ‘Okay.’” “I can’t?” “No, the Lord has hardened your heart against my demands.” “Why’d he do that?” “I don’t know, he just did. Now, let my people go.” “Nope.” I crossed my arms and turned away like someone whose heart is hardened. “Behold as I turn this stick into a snake. Now, let my people go!” “Okay.” “You can’t just say ‘okay’!” “Why? That was a pretty good trick with the stick.” “But that’s not how it goes.” “Okay. No way, Moses, your people have to stay.

I’m sweaty. I’m tired. And I stink in places I really shouldn’t be stinking.” I whine and shoot a glare to Dean, who’s sitting in the passenger seat looking sheepish. “What?” he exclaims with his hands raised. “I didn’t know we’d have fucking car trouble. Your car isn’t even a year old.” “I know!” I snap, hitting my hand on the wheel and growling in frustration. “Stupid old lady car!” I exclaim and push my head closer to the window for a breeze. “The frickin’ air conditioning isn’t even working anymore. Me and this car are officially in a fight.” “I think we all just need to remain calm,” Lynsey chirps from the back seat, leaning forward so her head comes between Dean’s and mine. “Because, as horrible as this trip was, after everything that’s happened between the three of us the past couple of years, I think this was really healing.” I close my eyes and shake my head, ruing the moment I agreed that a road trip to the Rocky Mountains to pick up this four-thousand-dollar carburetor from some hick who apparently didn’t know how to ‘mail things so they don’t get lost.’” Honestly! How are people who don’t use the mail a thing? Though, admittedly, when we got to the man’s mountain home, I realized that he was probably more familiar with the Pony Express. And I couldn’t be sure his wife wasn’t his cousin. But that’s me being judgmental. Still, though, it’s no wonder he wouldn’t let me PayPal him the money. I had to get an actual cashier’s check from a real bank. Then on our way back down the mountain, I got a flat tire. Dean, Lynsey, and I set about changing it together, thinking three heads could figure out how to put a spare tire on better than one. One minute, I’m snapping at Dean to hand me the tire iron, and the next minute, he’s asking me if I’m being a bitch because he told me he had feelings for me. Then Lynsey chimes in, hurt and dismayed that neither of us told her about our conversation at the bakery, and it was a mess. On top of all of that, my car wouldn’t start back up! It was a disaster. The three of us fighting with each other on the side of the road looked like a bad episode of Sister Wives: Colorado Edition. I should probably make more friends. “God, I hope this thing is legit,” Dean states, turning the carburetor over in his hands. “Put it down. You’re making me nervous,” I snap, eyeing him cautiously. We’re only five miles from Tire Depot, and they close in ten, so my nerves are freaking fried. “I just want to drop this thing off and forget this whole trip ever happened.” “No!” Lynsey exclaims. “Stick to the plan. This is your grand gesture! Your get out of jail free card.” “I don’t want a get out of jail free card,” I cry back. “The longer we spent on that hot highway trying to figure out what was wrong with my car, the more ridiculous this plan became in my head. I don’t want to buy Miles’s affection back. I want him to want me for me. Flaws and all.” “So what are you going to do?” Dean asks, and I feel his concerned eyes on mine. “I’m going to drop this expensive hunk of metal at the counter and leave. I’m not giving it to him naked or holding the thing above my head like John Cusack in Say Anything. I’ll drop it off at the front counter, and then we’ll go. End of story.” Lynsey’s voice pipes up from behind. “That sounds like the worst ending to a book I’ve ever heard.” “This isn’t a book!” I shriek. “This is my life, and it’s no wonder this plan has turned into such a mess. It has desperation stamped all over it. I just want to go home, eat some pizza, and cry a little, okay?” The car is dead silent as we enter Boulder until Dean’s voice pipes up. “Hey Kate, I know you’re a little emongry right now, but I really don’t think you should drive on this spare tire anymore. They’re only manufactured to drive for so many miles, you know.” I turn and glower over at him. He shrinks down into his seat a little bit.

for pub meals and never forgot either of their birthdays. The truth was, if he could ask Cadi if she minded, she’d probably stare at him with big brown eyes, curled up on the sofa next to her Golden Lab pal Bouncer, and likely say, ‘And your point is?’ Molly, on the other hand, was a different kettle of herring. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all before,’ she said when he explained that he was unlikely to be home at anything like a reasonable time and so had okayed it with the Dawes for Cadi to stay with them overnight. That way, he was certain she’d get a walk. ‘I could have done that,’ Molly said, piqued. ‘Yes, I realise that, but the weather is, for want of a better word, shite. And you’re still at Gwen’s, right?’ ‘How do you know?’ ‘You told me this morning.’ ‘Did I? For a minute there I thought you had a GPS tracer on my car.’ ‘That can be arranged. I’m well aware you can look after yourself, Molly, but the whole point of you staying at mine is that I’m there.’ ‘As a minder?

Then he says quietly, “Kayla, be careful with me.” Surprised by that, I ask, “What do you mean?” “I know you think I’m strong. But the problem with strong things is that they’re brittle. They can’t bend under stress. They just break.

No one told us hitting midlife would be so bloody hard!" says my old school pal, Friend Number One. "I mean, as if we haven't been through enough and then we are hit with peri menopause, menopause, medical stuff, kids turning into humans with their own brains, divorce, work burnout, parents getting old and sometimes dying–very inconsiderate of them.

Your guess is as good as mine, pal. Every time I tried to touch her, she made this face, as if she was going to bravely endure. She didn’t have to worry. I would never put my “big rough hands” all over her unless I thought she wanted it. She would consent, but she didn’t want me, and that killed it for me. I realized I didn’t really give a damn that another male was openly staring at my date. What did that say about Myong and me, exactly? That our relationship would never go anywhere.

Joshua’s ministry was three years of preaching, sometimes three times a day, and although there were some high and low points, I could never remember the sermons word for word, but here’s the gist of almost every sermon I ever heard Joshua give. You should be nice to people, even creeps. And if you: a) believed that Joshua was the Son of God (and) b) he had come to save you from sin (and) c) acknowledged the Holy Spirit within you (became as a little child, he would say)(and) d) didn’t blaspheme the Holy Ghost (see c), then you would: e) live forever f) someplace nice g) probably heaven. However, if you: h) sinned (and/or) i) were a hypocrite (and/or) j) valued things over people (and) k) didn’t do a, b, c, and d, then you were: l) fucked

Yeah, Gaspar’ll never get that one either. That’s why they killed the yeti, you know that, don’t you?” “Who?” “The mountain people. They killed the yeti because they couldn’t understand a creature who wasn’t as evil as they were.” “The mountain people were evil?” “All men are evil, that’s what I was talking to my father about.” “What did he say?” “Fuck ’em.” “Really?” “Yeah.” “At least he answered you.” “I got the feeling that he thinks it’s my problem now.” “Makes you wonder why he didn’t burn that on one of the tablets. ‘HERE, MOSES, HERE’S THE TEN COMMANDMENTS, AND HERE’S AN EXTRA ONE THAT SAYS FUCK ’EM.’” “He doesn’t sound like that.

Well Xmas is coming and the geese are getting fat, please put a penny in the blind man’s hat as the old saying use to go but not that I am asking you to put a penny in my hat or am not a blind man either as far as that is concerned. I never saw the day wherein no matter how much moola I had I could not use some more but I am saving you for a big touch in case I want to start my own band in competition with you (who knows I may be kidding on the level and that would be quite irony if it ever happened?) I do not know why it is that I sound like everything was sharp and I was right up there because if you want the truth and the whole truth and nothing but the truth you pal Joey is on the cake line. That is my way of putting it that I am on the bread line only I am still a little better off.

Well Merry Christmas, as the saying goes. Guess I will have to go to bed for 24 hrs so I dont have to stop hating my fellow men. But that does not go for you, Ted. The best. Pal Joey

Yeah. When thirty still feels like a big scary monster on the horizon, forty seems like death. But you take all that biology out of the equation and it’s pretty fucking great, actually. I’m not in a race to procreate before my body trips me up; I’ve been around long enough to know what sort of clothes, drink and pals do and don’t suit me; I don’t feel the need to apologize for who I am any more. So, you have to say your farewells to the people who got you through the first bit of growing up, and that’s the toughest hurdle to face. But if you have a

He apprisiated my singing I will say that for him altho always asking why didnt I sing like Oh you beautiful doll which you are too young to remember and so am I but the story I hear is that when the Titantic went down (a ship) people sang it or hummed a couple bars and then said the hell with this and jumped the hell off the boat so they would not have to finish singing it.

Moo,” said my bovine buddy reminding me just to be grateful. “Yeah, I know,” I admitted. “At least I won’t have to worry about starving. In fact, I think there’s a saying where I come from: Don’t live to eat, just eat to live.” I looked up at the setting sun, thinking of tonight’s zombies in a whole new way. “Thank you,” I told Moo, milking her for another pail, “not just for this, but for, you know, everything, even after what I almost did to you.” And then my generous, nurturing, unbelievably awesome pal gave me the third and final gift of friendship that day. “Moo,” she said, which I knew meant, “I forgive you.

When I’m looking at him, he says, “You said you were a good BS spotter. So tell me if you think this is BS. I want you. You want me, too. You’re sad. I want to make you feel better, even if that only means for tonight. You’re not afraid of me. You know I won’t hurt you. You’re just a little fucked up right now, you’re not used to people saying exactly what they mean, and you’re not sure how to handle it.

As a result men—even men she has been intimate with—do not now gaze upon her with dismay, as upon a beloved landscape devastated by fire, flood, or urban development. They do not mind that Vinnie Miner, who was never much to look at, now looks old. After all, they hadn’t slept with her out of romantic passion, but out of comradeship and temporary mutual need—often almost absent-mindedly, to relieve the pressure of their desire for some more glamorous female. It wasn’t uncommon for a man who had just made love to Vinnie to sit up naked in bed, light a cigarette, and relate to her the vicissitudes of his current romance with some temperamental beauty-breaking off occasionally to say how great it was to have a pal like her

Uh-huh. I’m a very smart guy. I haven’t a feeling or a scruple in the world. All I have the itch for is money. I am so money greedy that for twenty-five bucks a day and expenses, mostly gasoline and whiskey, I do my thinking myself, what there is of it; I risk my whole future, the hatred of the cops and of Eddie Mars and his pals, I dodge bullets and eat saps, and say thank you very much, if you have any more trouble, I hope you’ll think of me, I’ll just leave one of my cards in case anything comes up. I do all this for twenty-five bucks a day—and maybe just a little to protect what little pride a broken and sick old man has left in his blood, in the thought that his blood is not poison, and that although his two little girls are a trifle wild, as many nice girls are these days, they are not perverts or killers. And that makes me a son of a bitch. All right. I don’t care anything about that. I’ve been called that by people of all sizes and shapes, including your little sister. She called me worse than that for not getting into bed with her. I got five hundred dollars from your father, which I didn’t ask for, but he can afford to give it to me. I can get another thousand for finding Mr. Rusty Regan, if I could find him. Now you offer me fifteen grand. That makes me a big shot. With fifteen grand I could own a home and a new car and four suits of clothes. I might even take a vacation without worrying about losing a case. That’s fine. What are you offering it to me for? Can I go on being a son of a bitch, or do I have to become a gentleman, like that lush that passed out in his car the other night?

Has he been to America? He makes a kind of scoffing sound, as in: Right, pal, I'm going to America. "America does not like Arabs," he says. "They think we are... I will not even say the word." "Terrorists," I say. He shuts his eyes in offended agreement.

We were on a swing through the Midwest, and Brian’s asthma had got him and he was in hospital in Chicago. And, hey, when a guy’s sick, you double for him. But then we saw pictures of him zooming around Chicago, hanging at a party with so-and-so, fawning over stars with a silly little bow around his neck. We’d done three, four gigs without him. That’s double duty for me, pal. There’s only five of us, and the whole point of the band is that it’s a two-guitar band. And suddenly there’s only one guitar. I’ve got to figure out whole new ways to play all of these songs. I’ve got to perform Brian’s part as well. I learned a lot about how to do two parts at once, or how to distill the essence of what his part was and still play what I had to play, and throw in a few licks, but it was damn hard work. And I never got a thank-you from him, ever, for covering his arse. He didn’t give a shit. “I was out of it.” That’s all I would get. All right, are you gonna give me your pay? That’s when I had it in for Brian. One can get very sarcastic on the road and quite vicious. “Just shut up, you little creep. Preferred it when you weren’t here.” He had this way of ranting on, saying things that would just grate. “When I played with so-and-so…” He was totally starstruck. “I saw Bob Dylan yesterday. He doesn’t like you.” But he had no idea how obnoxious he was being. So it would start off, “Oh, shut up, Brian.” Or we’d imitate the way he cringed his head into his nonexistent neck. And then it went to baiting him in a

Deb says, “I’m so jealous. I don’t have a creative bone in my body.” Jake snorts. “Don’t know about that. You come up with some pretty creative stories every month when the credit card bill comes and you have to explain why you spent so much on Amazon.” She waves a hand dismissively in his direction. “I keep telling you, honey, everything I buy is absolutely essential.

You say that like negotiating is your favorite thing.” “It is.” “Hmm. I would’ve guessed charming potential clients with your dazzling sense of humor.” “No. That’s my second favorite thing.” We’re staring at each other again. Once again, neither of us is smiling.

You said you were a good BS spotter. So tell me if you think this is BS. I want you. You want me, too. You’re sad. I want to make you feel better, even if that only means for tonight. You’re not afraid of me. You know I won’t hurt you. You’re just a little fucked up right now, you’re not used to people saying exactly what they mean, and you’re not sure how to handle it.

I say firmly, “I’m not having sex with you.” “Okay.” “I’m serious, Aidan. I’m not in the right headspace to be hooking up with anyone right now.” “I hear you.” I narrow my eyes and examine his expression. “Why does that sound like you still think I’m going to sleep with you?” “Because I do. But I could be wrong. It happens.” We stare at each other for a moment, until he says softly, “I hope I’m not, though. I really want to make you come.

We need to have a safe word just in case.” “What exactly is a safe word?” “It’s a word that makes everything stop when you say it.” “Hmm. How about cheesy?” He arches his brows, waiting for an explanation. “Because it is cheesy.” “No, it’s necessary. We need to communicate clearly about these things.

Thanks for sharing your opinion on the subject. That’s the last time you get to do it. Mention money to me again, and you know what you’ve got coming.” When I only stand there staring at him, he prompts, “Acknowledge that you know what you’ve got coming.” “Why?” “It’s called consent.” I say haughtily, “I don’t consent to a spanking over money.

When I’m looking at him, he says, “You said you were a good BS spotter. So tell me if you think this is BS. I want you. You want me, too. You’re sad. I want to make you feel better, even if that only means for tonight. You’re not afraid of me. You know I won’t hurt you. You’re just a little fucked up right now, you’re not used to people saying exactly what they mean, and you’re not sure how to handle it.” His gaze drops to my mouth again. His voice comes out husky. “And you want me to kiss you.

That now I know what you sound like when you come.” “So what about it?” He lowers his head and bites my earlobe, then says gruffly, “So it’s my new favorite sound. I want to hear it again.

What if I want to leave?” “You don’t.” “You seem pretty sure of that.” He kisses me softly on the lips. Smiling, he says, “I like it when I irritate you.” “That’s unfortunate, because I like it when I’m not being irritated.” “Your mouth gets all puckered and your nose wrinkles up. You look like a prissy little old lady.” “Whoa, slow down with the compliments, Romeo! I’ll swoon hard and hit my head on something.” “Know what I just realized?” he whispers, eyes burning.

What if I want to leave?” “You don’t.” “You seem pretty sure of that.” He kisses me softly on the lips. Smiling, he says, “I like it when I irritate you.” “That’s unfortunate, because I like it when I’m not being irritated.

You don’t know who you’re messing with,” I reply through clenched teeth. “No, but I’m dying to meet her,” he says, his lips lifting into a smirk.

Being trapped in limbo is terribly confusing. In fact, this ghost of yours most likely doesn’t even know he’s dead.” “I already told her that,” says Fiona. “So he needs me to help him remember.” I look at the letters again. “Remind me why I can’t just tell him he’s dead?

Oh, hell no, you’re not going anywhere,” Jack said. “My sister’s having a baby, her first, and this is the cheering section.” “Wait a minute here,” he said. “I’m not real big on babies. We’ve been over this—I have no idea what to do with them.” “Well, for God’s sake, we’re not going to make you do anything.” Jack laughed. “You know how to eat, raise a glass, smoke a cigar? The delivery team is taking care of the messy stuff.” “Shouldn’t it be real quiet around here? Fewer people?” “We’ll be quiet, we’ll stay out of the way.” Preacher handed Jack a bottle for David. “This guy’s going to break in the new crib. Say good-night, David.” The boy had the bottle in his mouth that fast, leaned his head against Jack’s shoulder sleepily and opened and closed the fingers of one pudgy little hand, holding his bottle with the other. “What if she…” Luke couldn’t go on. “What if she what?” “Screams or something,” he said squeamishly. Jack put his free arm around Luke’s shoulders. “See, you need to be here, buddy. It’s time you learn about the cycle of life. You never know, this could happen to you someday.” “This is not happening to me someday. I’m way past all this.” A few male heads came up. There was some subdued laughter. “Is that so?” Jack said. “Cry me a river, pal, I was over forty when Mel tripped me up. We’re all about the same age around here, except Preacher. He’s still a pup, even though he looks older than the rest of us.” Walt handed Luke a drink. “I was forty-four when Tom was born. I think I’m holding up all right, to tell the truth.” “You’re going to have to come up with a better excuse,” Jack said.

Character- building education is what the world needs – education, that will empower the mind with such an unimaginable strength that one would meet death face to face and say “some other time, pal!

We called him Mr. Cold. A name, I think, Zeke made up. Anyway, Zeke was the first one I heard say it during third-period art one day, and my laughter turned from tittering to inconsolable, if laughter can be called inconsolable. Mr. Coles had a young, elfin face with tidily groomed hair on his cheeks and chin, none on his upper lip. He was handsome. Impossibly, even freakishly, handsome—strong cheekbones and a smooth dark complexion—a fact I had to reluctantly admit and one that most of the girls never let anyone forget. Hair all black while most of his peers sported grays and bad dye jobs. And Mr. Coles always smiled, even when angry and trying to be stern, especially when angry and trying to be stern. All of this is why we treated him poorly and why he overcompensated, first attempting to come across as a pal, a trustworthy big brother, and when that failed turning into a hard-ass for a time, though he was a phony hard-ass, one we could see clear through. Rarely, if ever, did we tremble in fear at his silly yelling and stiff pointing finger. Marshall, Mr. Coles called to me as I choked on laughter after he grew upset from Zeke’s taunting. Marshall, it’s funny, but that’s enough. This just caused us to laugh more. The warmest man in the school, Mr. Cold, then sent Ezekiel into the hallway as his mentor, Mr. Drayton, probably advised him to do. Damn, that’s cold-blooded, Mr. Cold, a proud and smiling Zeke said on his way out to another rise in laughter. The next time we saw Mr. Coles, he was stiff and stern. Even his movements changed to reflect the new him.

I dinnae say I might paint when I grow up. I dinnae say I’ll learn French, so I can read every book in the main library in Paris one day, including encyclopedias and obscure manuals. I dinnae say I’ll volunteer to help some old lady with her shopping, and her cleaning, and if I’m really fucking lucky she’ll take me under her wing and get tae like me and feed me apple pie and gin—and tell me all her stories about the good old days. Those urnay the things I say. We stop at the traffic lights. There’s a bunch of girls about my age standing there, but they dinnae look like me. They look young. I turn the music up, sneakers off, feet on the dash. I light a fag and look out the window at one of the girls. She’s got great legs, really slim but nice. She turns around, laughing tae her pal, and her smile is stunning. “I’d shag that,” I say, and flick my ash away.

It’s funny how things work out,” she said, wrapping her arms around the dog and squeezing her tight. “All this time we spent hating each other when we could have spent it--” “Together.” Jeremy kneeled beside the dog and looked directly at Madison. “I guess that’s irony to the tenth power.” His mention of irony and math reminded her that he not only was Jeremy, but he was also her Heart-2-Heart pal, Blue. And only two hours before, she had stood him up. Madison didn’t know how to bring it up. If she confessed to being Pinky, would it look like another conspiracy to make a fool out of him? She couldn’t decide. Jeremy’s face was inches from hers. She could see little gold flecks in his eyes. Yes, he definitely was weak-in-the-knees handsome. She managed to murmur, “I guess we’re older now and, well, you have that girlfriend.” Jeremy’s face reddened, and he looked down at his dog. “Um, I’m not so sure about that,” he admitted, embarrassed. “I was supposed to meet her at the Space Needle today, but she never showed.” Madison’s heart ached seeing him look so defeated. She wanted to blurt everything out right then, but something made her keep her secret. Instead, she said, “Well, it may have been a big misunderstanding. I mean, there I was, following you around and screaming like a lunatic. She may have thought we meant something to each other.” Jeremy laughed. “That would be pretty ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” “Maybe you should call her,” Madison said, knowing he didn’t know “Pinky’s” phone number. “Or write her and explain.” Jeremy nodded briskly. “I’ll do that.” They sat for a few moments in awkward silence. Finally, Madison clapped her hands together. “In the meantime, we have another big problem on our hands.” “You’re right,” Jeremy agreed. “I’m thirsty. What do you say we go for a Coke at Ruby’s favorite watering hole? My treat.” At the mention of her name, Ruby leaped to her feet, wagging her tail. Madison chuckled. “I’m up for that. And while we’re at it, we can figure out what to do about Reed Rawlings.

If your believed in and imagined god or beloved self-proclaimed messiah behaves like a scoundrel, in all probability, my pal up in the sky says, you too are one such mongrel.

I haven’t even checked to see if my Heart-2-Heart pal wrote back.” Madison plucked at the fuzzy strands of yarn on her pillow. “You should. I love this program! We can tell each other anything. It’s so great!” “And this guy’s name is Blue?” Piper’s voice sounded doubtful. “I don’t remember any kid at school named Blue. There was that one guy we called Green in our chem lab, remember? But I think we called him that because his last name was Green and we could never remember his first name.” Madison giggled even more. She was feeling like a fizzy soda pop, bubbly all over. “Oh, Piper, his name isn’t really Blue. That’s just his nickname.” “Do you have a nickname?” “Of course,” Madison said. “But I don’t want to tell you what it is. You’ll think it’s ridiculous.” “I can’t believe you won’t tell me,” Piper protested. “I’m your BFF. We share everything!” “I know…”” “Come on, tell me!” Piper pleaded. “Look, I told you about the time I wet my pants in second grade, and that I had a total crush on Mr. Proctor, our fifth-grade teacher. And last year, when I--” “This is different, Piper,” Madison tried to explain. “We can tell our deepest secrets to our Heart-2-Heart pal because they don’t know who we are.” “I just can’t believe this,” Piper continued in a really hurt voice. “Didn’t I tell you about that D I almost got in Algebra I and the secret tutor I had to hire to bring up my grade? God, I even told you about that mole on my butt that I had to have removed. If that’s not a deep secret, I don’t know what is.” “Okay, okay!” Madison sat up. “I’ll tell you. It’s Pinky.” There was a long pause. “Pinky? That’s ridiculous.” “See?” Madison shouted into the phone. “I knew you’d say that.” She got up and crossed to her vanity mirror. She tousled her hair with one hand to make it stand up. “It had to do with dyeing my hair pink.” There was an even longer pause. “You’re not going to do that, are you?” Piper asked quietly. “Because I don’t think it will help the campaign. Oh, it might steal a few votes from Jeremy--but do we really need them? I’m not sure.” “Piper, relax,” Madison said. “I was just joking about doing it.

Foes I sniff, when I have less to shout or murmur. Pals alone enormous sounds downward & up bring real. Loss, deaths, terror. Over & out, beloved: thanks for cabbage on my wounds: I'll feed you how I feel:-- of avocado moist with lemon, yea formaldehyde & rotting sardines O in our appointed time I would I could a touch more fully say my countless mind. The senses are below, which in this air sublime do I repudiate. But foes I sniff! My nose in all directions! I be so brave I creep into an Arctic cave for the rectal temperature of the biggest bear, hibernating -- in my left hand sugar. I totter to the lip of the cliff.

Being a shepherd seems easy. I went with Kaliel last week to tend his flock. The Law says that two must go with the flock to keep an abomination from happening. I can spot an abomination from fifty paces.” Maggie smiled. “And did you prevent any abominations?” “Oh yes, I kept all of the abominations at bay while Kaliel played with his favorite sheep behind the bushes.” “Biff,” Joshua said gravely, “that was the abomination you were supposed to prevent.” “It was?” “Yes.” “Whoops. Oh well, I think I would make an excellent mourner.

What America is, to me, is a guy doesn’t want to buy, you let him not buy, you respect his not buying. A guy has a crazy notion different from your crazy notion, you pat him on the back and say, Hey pal, nice crazy notion, let’s go have a beer. America, to me, should be shouting all the time, a bunch of shouting voices, most of them wrong, some of them nuts, but please, not just one droning glamorous reasonable voice.

Do you remember old Harry Hopwood, Inspector?” “Of course. He was one of the first major arrests I made.” “Right. Nabbed him after that break-in on Greek Street you did. But there was a good deal of swag that was never recovered. Lot of old coins, for instance.” “Yes. There was a goodish reward offered for their return.” “Right. Well, old Harry’s dead, died about two months ago. We was pals in the clink, and knowing he was mortal sick and not likely to make it out the gate, he told me where he’d hid the stuff, and I thought I’d like to tell you.” “Oh? To collect the reward?” “No. I don’t want the reward. They can give it to Mr. Norwood here for that society of his. I’m just trying to prove to everyone that, from now on, I’m really going straight.” “Nifty, I won’t say I’m surprised,” said Wyatt, “because I’m not. I’m dumbfounded, dumb-foozled, and just plain bowled-over!

If you say your ancestral god is true, well then, my imaginary pal up there, Mr. NOT, is too. Oh! And my Mr. NOT says it is the duty of his ism's faithful to kick the butt of every other god, and of this illusory fellow's followers, like you. NOW, is ALL THIS it okay with YOU?

10/10/10 provides distance by forcing us to consider future emotions as much as present ones. • A 10/10/10 analysis tipped Annie toward saying “I love you” first to Karl. 4. Our decisions are often altered by two subtle short-term emotions: (1) mere exposure: we like what’s familiar to us; and (2) loss aversion: losses are more painful than gains are pleasant.     •  How many of our organizational truths are ideas that we like merely because they’ve been repeated a lot?     •  Students given a mug won’t sell it for less than $7.12, even though five minutes earlier they wouldn’t have paid more than $2.87! 5. Loss aversion + mere exposure = status-quo bias. • PayPal: Ditching the PalmPilot product was a no-brainer—but it didn’t feel that way. 6. We can attain distance by looking at our situation from an observer’s perspective. • Andy Grove asked, “What would our successors do?”     •  Adding distance highlights what is most important; it allows us to see the forest, not the trees. 7. Perhaps the most powerful question for resolving personal decisions is “What would I tell my best friend to do in this situation?

My god, Mr. NOT, would like to kiss your inherited fancy, the only God. Could you forward the address of your pal up there? If you do not, then, my personal fancy says it is my fundamental religious duty to religiously kick yours, and his ass!

Every time some two-cent bum gets arrested, they say he was a pal of mind, and when some other two-cent bum gets killed, they say I ordered him killed. Somebody I don't know from Adam.

Kotov looked like an abandoned statue on the beach in the Plaza de Cataluna. The spring was at is height and the warm un bathed the city. The adviser, with his face slightly raised, was receiving the heat like a lizard slothful from the rays that were injecting him with life. He had even taken off his jacket and the printed kerchief he regularly wore after Ramon sat down at his side. 'What a marvelous country!' he said at last, and smiled. 'I could live here for the rest of my life.' 'Despite the Spaniards?' 'Precisely because of you. Where I come from, the people are like stones. You are all flowers. My country smells like smoked herring and hops; here it smells of olive oil and wine.' 'Your pals say we're primitive and practically dumb.' 'Don't pay too much attention to those lunatics. They confuse ideology with mysticism, and they are no more than walking machines - worse still, they're fanatics. Here they make themselves look tough, but you should see them when Moscow calls for them... Na khuy. They shit themselves. Don't look to them as an example; you don't want to be like them. You can be so much more.' p. 162

The spread of flash talk to the general population would prove to be a permanent shift in the English language. When you say “so long” to your “pal” in parting, you are participating in a subversive cultural phenomenon dating back to 1530 and the Derbyshire scoundrels who first developed a secret language all their own.

I suggest you leave.” Finn walked over to an easy chair and flopped into it. “You weren’t invited either, pal, so unless it’s a formal interview I’m staying. If it is formal then Thom isn’t saying another word until his lawyer arrives.

Does anyone really know their friends? Close friends even? Can you really say, hand on heart, that you know what your pal's thinking, even if you've known them intimately all their life?

A guy is sitting in a bar getting bored, looking to strike up a conversation. He turns to the bartender and says, “Hey, about those Democrats in Congress...” “STOP pal—I don’t allow talk about politics in my bar!” interrupted the bartender. A few minutes later the guy tries again: “You know what some people say about the pope?” “NO religion talk, either,” the bartender cuts in. One more try to break the boredom: “This year, I really thought the Yankees would...” “NO sports talk. That’s how fights start in bars!” the barman says. “Look, how about sex. Can I talk to you about sex?” “Sure, that we can talk about any time,” replies the barkeep. “GREAT... GO FUCK YOURSELF!

Cole, did you ever stop to think maybe on some level Brandon knew you always loved Gemma and maybe this was his way of driving you two together?” Cole went quiet for a moment, then angled his head. “Have you been taking shrink classes, pal?” Jack laughed and toyed with his dog tags. “No, but I’ve been to enough of them to know how this all works.” He got quiet for a moment, like he was thinking about his own demons, before saying, “I know Brandon asked you to watch over her, but she’s a strong, independent woman. Maybe she’s not in need of your protection.

My imaginary pal up there, Mr. NOT, tells me it's my dog-damn ism to kick your illusory he-man's ass. Now, what do you say to that?

In mid-January 1999, prior to my subpoena and unbeknownst to me while I was at JJRTC, Monica Lewinsky had signed an affidavit, a sworn statement, about her affair. In a Pentagon City, VA hotel, Monica also handed Linda Tripp, her Pentagon staffer pen pal, a document (“Points to Make in an Affidavit”) detailing what to say on an affidavit so as to protect Clinton from charges of sexual harassment made by White House volunteer aide Kathleen Willey. Where that document originated is a mystery. But it was amateur hour for Monica, as usual. Monica and President Clinton had been subpoenaed by the Paula Jones lawyers and both swore in a public civil case, under penalty of perjury—an impeachable offense for the president—that they did not have a sexual relationship. The Clintons and Monica didn’t know it, but Linda Tripp was no Clintonite. She was feeding information on them all to Newsweek and to Ken Starr. Tripp had the affidavit document proving conspiracy, and Starr had his carte blanche. Janet Reno signed off on the Justice Department and FBI expanding their investigations from the Whitewater scandal—in which their main witness, Jim McDougal, mysteriously died—into conspiracy and perjury in Paula Jones’s sexual harassment case regarding a government employee. Tripp had taped her phone conversations with Monica detailing her affair with the president, how in the Oval Office she gave him oral sex while he was on the phone with ambassadors and with Dick Morris. President Clinton paid for a White House mistress with taxpayer funds and jeopardized national security with her compromisable and corruptible presence in a secure area, all for little more than on-demand oral sex. We thought we knew what was going on. We didn’t know the half of it.

Shit Can Happen" Bitch Yeah... [1] - Shit can happen [8X] [Kon Artis] Yo, yo, huh, yo, yo, yo That's right motherfuckers we back Same slanging, orangatangin, wilding out on hoodrats They say I act like I'm too famous to say hi And tell 'em what my name is but really I'm still nameless... You niggas don't get it yet do you Dealing out platinum or flop I still put it through you Wit a luger that'll spit fire And hit higher than a pitch by a bitch like Mariah You think for one second since we got a deal That we won't deal wit you in front of St Andrew's still? You gay rappers better learn that I won't stop until I see 'em turn back If you don't slow that roll you got You gonna see these Runyan Ave. niggas that really need some Prozac For' sure' that, ask the others But gator lay you down next to your mother's mother's grandmother [Kuniva] You know I'm feeling real rowdy tonight Ready to fight and half the niggas I give dap to I don't even like The same cat who never gave a damn about your name I gives a fuck about it like the next selling Clippers' game I kill you in ways you couldn't even fathom You and your madame, it's really unexplainable how I have 'em Who call theyself screaming about a challenge Nigga we got a gift while you barely making it off mere talent My skills are deeply embedded even your hoe said it She was knock kneed I fucked her now she's bow legged In the middle of rappin I drop the mic And have a stare down and jump in the crowd and start scrappin Kuniva and Kon Artis my nigga we get it cracking While the paramedics pick you up we on the side laughing [HOOK: 1- in background] [Kon Artis] Now this aint funny so don't you dare laugh Shit can happen in him and yo' ass You can be touched don't think you can't Cause niggas aint fucking around no more man [repeat] [Swifty McVay]

All men are evil, that’s what I was talking to my father about.” “What did he say?” “Fuck ’em.

he’ll tell me useless angel stories—of how Gabriel disappeared once for sixty years and they found him on earth hiding in the body of a man named Miles Davis, or how Raphael snuck out of heaven to visit Satan and returned with something called a cell phone. (Evidently everyone has them in hell now.) He watches the television and when they show an earthquake or a tornado he’ll say, “I destroyed a city with one of those once. Mine was better.

So, about that one sentence of advice: Don’t feel behind. Two Roman historians recorded that when Julius Caesar was a young man he saw a statue of Alexander the Great in Spain and broke down in tears. “Alexander at my age had conquered so many nations, and I have all this time done nothing that is memorable,” he supposedly said. Pretty soon, that concern was a distant memory and Caesar was in charge of the Roman Republic—which he turned into a dictatorship before he was murdered by his own pals. It’s fair to say that like most youth athletes with highlight reels, he peaked early. Compare yourself to yourself yesterday, not to younger people who aren’t you.

Wales started with a few dozen prewritten articles and a software application called a Wiki (named for the Hawaiian word meaning “quick” or “fast”), which allows anybody with Web access to go to a site and edit, delete, or add to what’s there. The ambition: Nothing less than to construct a repository of knowledge to rival the ancient library of Alexandria. This was, needless to say, controversial. For one thing, this is not how encyclopedias are supposed to be made. From the beginning, compiling authoritative knowledge has been the job of scholars. It started with a few solo polymaths who dared to try the impossible. In ancient Greece, Aristotle single-handedly set out to record all the knowledge of his time. Four hundred years later, the Roman nobleman Pliny the Elder cranked out a thirty-seven-volume set of the day’s knowledge. The Chinese scholar Tu Yu wrote an encyclopedia on his own in the ninth century. And in the 1700s, Diderot and a few of his pals (including Voltaire and Rousseau) took twenty-nine years to create the Encyclopédie, ou Dictionnaire Raisonné des Sciences, des Arts et des Metiers.

Max Levchin, my co-founder at PayPal, says that startups should make their early staff as personally similar as possible. Startups have limited resources and small teams. They must work quickly and efficiently in order to survive, and that’s easier to do when everyone shares an understanding of the world.

now I know what you sound like when you come.” “So what about it?” He lowers his head and bites my earlobe, then says gruffly, “So it’s my new favorite sound. I want to hear it again.

Aspect of the Cosmic Spider (Fallen): Some say the first spider’s silk still holds the multiverse together. Most call them crazy or Pink Sellis addicts. The aspect may be used to create a powerful spiderweb once a day of desired design, thickness, durability, and stickiness. The time and mana dedicated to the endeavor will dictate the web’s quality.

When you sit, sit. When you breathe, breathe. When you eat, eat,” Gaspar would say, meaning that every bit of our being was to be in the moment, completely aware of the now, no past, no future, nothing dividing us from everything that is. It’s hard for me, a Jew, to stay in the moment. Without the past, where is the guilt? And without the future, where is the dread? And without guilt and dread, who am I?

Wait, what are we giving the meek?” “Let’s see, uh, here: Blessed are the meek, for to them we shall say, ‘attaboy.’” “A little weak.” “Yeah.” “Let’s let the meek inherit the earth.” “Can’t you give the earth to the whiners?” “Well then, cut the whiners and give the earth to the meek.” “Okay. Earth to the meek. Here we go. Blessed are the peacemakers, the mourners, and that’s it.” “How many is that?” “Seven.” “Not enough. We need one more. How about the dumbfucks?” “No, Josh, not the dumbfucks. You’ve done enough for the dumbfucks. Nathaniel, Thomas—” “Blessed are the dumbfucks for they, uh—I don’t know—they shall never be disappointed.” “No, I’m drawing the line at dumbfucks. Come on, Josh, why can’t we have any powerful guys on our team? Why do we have to have the meek, and the poor, the oppressed, and the pissed on? Why can’t we, for once, have blessed are the big powerful rich guys with swords?” “Because they don’t need us.” “Okay, but no ‘Blessed are the dumbfucks.’” “Who then?” “Sluts?” “No.” “How about the wankers? I can think of five or six disciples that would be really blessed.” “No wankers. I’ve got it: Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.” “Okay, better. What are you going to give them?” “A fruit basket.” “You can’t give the meek the whole earth and these guys a fruit basket.” “Give them the kingdom of heaven.” “The poor in spirit got that.” “Everybody gets some.” “Okay then, ‘share the Kingdom of Heaven.’” I wrote it down. “We could give the fruit basket to the dumbfucks.” “NO DUMBFUCKS!” “Sorry, I just feel for them.” “You feel for everyone, Josh. It’s your job.” “Oh yeah. I forgot.

You should be nice to people, even creeps. And if you: a) believed that Joshua was the Son of God (and) b) he had come to save you from sin (and) c) acknowledged the Holy Spirit within you (became as a little child, he would say)(and) d) didn’t blaspheme the Holy Ghost (see c), then you would: e) live forever f) someplace nice g) probably heaven. However, if you: h) sinned (and/or) i) were a hypocrite (and/or) j) valued things over people (and) k) didn’t do a, b, c, and d, then you were: l) fucked

The little ones eat their meal, which at times requires us to coax, plead or threaten, spewing old chestnuts such as, ‘There will be no dessert for you, young man,’ and ‘Do you think dragons leave food on their plates?’ ‘Dragons don’t use plates.’ ‘I know they don’t use plates, I know that. I’m just saying … could you please just finish it.’ After their meal is eaten, sort of, the little ones are allowed to watch a bit of television. Dragons for him, Peppa Pig for her. (There is no question that my wife and I, along with many parents, wish the creators of that irritating animated swine a slow death, but they are so rich they have probably purchased immortality. And yet at the same time said pig allows us respite for half an hour or so every day. May God bless those creators.) While the little kids are immersed, I begin to make culinary preparations for the next ‘sitting’. TV time has ended, and we usher the little ones to bed. As usual the two-year old is screaming between gulps of her bottle because she has had to leave her beloved pink porcine pal. After settling her into her cot, we then take turns reading about dragons to the five-year-old, who proceeds to tell us he’s hungry, so we begrudgingly make him some toast and say something like, ‘I told you to eat your dinner. This is the last time.’ And it is. Until tomorrow.

Dick’s own Jung-inflected mythologizing framed “2-3-74” as a “metanoia,” a transcendence that results in a greater integration of the personality and thus healing. Biographer Arnold argues persuasively that it was nothing of the sort. His “intoxicating taste of radical wholeness and connectedness to the world” gradually slipped from his grasp, leaving him with the same sufferings and problems as well as a brand-new emptiness, a brand-new abandonment to add to his list. Over the following eight years until his death, Dick wrote thousands of pages of analysis to try and understand what had happened to him, and it does not lessen the value or genius of this text, the Exegesis, to say that it was the product of a nervous breakdown. “The Exegesis is the embodiment of Dick’s psychospiritual nostalgia,” Arnold writes.28 It may be that many of the world’s greatest spiritual texts have been produced in such a state of crisis. Fortunately for later students of precognition, this period in Dick’s life also produced some striking precognitive experiences that the writer recorded in fascinating and compelling detail thanks to a new pen pal—and muse—that entered his life just a month after his “2-3-74” visions and dreams began.

If anybody questions you, just say you're friends of the Bayou Kid. That's what some people call me around here. Except for my old fishing pal, Tom Straight, the bartender. He still calls me by my given name.

He turned to go, then stopped, turned around and said, “Listen, Jack, take it easy on Carpentier. Give the people out there a good run for their money, but be careful. Don’t kill him. Don’t kill everything.” Still the same Rickard. On his way out he almost collided with Gene Fowler, who was stopping in to wish me luck. They had barred him at the gates—he had misplaced his ticket—until he was recognized by a fellow member of the press and was allowed to pass. “Hello, Jack. How’s my pal?” “Fine, pal.” “Say, what’s the matter, Jack? There are 90,000 people out there waiting for you. It’s your big day. In fact, it’s your biggest ever!” “What do you think they’re waitin’ for? My head, pal, that’s what, my head. And if they can’t get that, then it’s my blood!” “Jack, what’re you saying? Say, you’re not scared of going out there, are you?” “Naw. I just want to get this over with!” “Sure, pal. I understand.” “Listen, do me a favor. Talk about anything but the fight.” And he did. He was a reassuring sight, with those light eyes twinkling under that cap of his. I knew he realized what I was going through. Doc rushed in, followed by the press and the usual crew. Gene backed out the door to avoid being crushed. By now I could hear and feel the impatience of the crowd. Jerry worked faster. I shut my eyes. A jittery Doc walked over to me and spat twice on the ground. “Listen, kid, don’t pay any attention to all them stiffs out there. We’ll kill him!

The web began to seem a vast, silent stock exchange trading in ever more anonymous and hostile pen pals. The web was a neighborhood more efficiently lonely than the one it replaced. Its solitude was bigger and fasters. When relentless intelligence finally completed its program, when the terminal drop box brought the last barefoot, abused child on line and everyone could at last say anything instantly to everyone else in existence, it seemed to me we'd still have nothing to say to each other and many more ways not to say it. Yet I could not log off.

Perry says, “Do you remember those feasts we had in the dorm after lights out? And how we ragged about and had idiotic jokes with our pals and yelled our heads off? Then one of the prefects came and said, ‘What a filthy row! Shut up, you little brutes.’ I began to feel old when I became a prefect,” adds Perry smiling ruefully. “You were beastly smug,” declares Bryan. “Lord, how I hated you that term!” “My responsibilities were very heavy,” says Perry laughing. The conversation continues on these lines. Anybody would think my companions were middle-aged at least. “Forty years on,” I tell them.

Dear Mr. Thoughtless There's thing you shouldn't say For the judge can hear you And it soon will be the day Wel, he'll bring the words you spoke And lay them at your feet Syllables and decibels He didn't miss a beat (He didn't, he didn't) And we'll see what you can do to try to buy and lie your way outta this one, pal Cause the world is gonna be Gone, gone All of the world All of the world All of the world Soon will be gone

That’s what my therapist says. But I don’t believe it. Neither did my husband. He left me for someone else. Someone much younger. I just heard they’re having twins.

Max Levchin’s Plan A was not to be. Demand for security on handheld devices never materialized. He remained a vagabond. But he was cooking another idea. Max pursued a Plan B that centered on cryptography software. “It’s really cool, it’s mathematically complex, it’s very secure,” said Levchin.7 But once again, no one really needed it. Plans C, D, and E didn’t work out any better. Levchin’s Plan F, still based on his cryptography expertise, was a system for securely transferring cash from one PalmPilot to another. As part of that effort, Levchin’s team built a Web-based demo version that did everything on a Web site that the PalmPilot version could do. By early 2000, people were using the Web version for actual transactions, and the growth of the Web demo was more impressive than for the handheld version. “Inexplicable,” recalled Levchin. “The handheld one was cool and the Web site was … unsexy … a demo. Then all these people from a site called eBay were contacting us and saying, ‘can I put your logo in my auction?’ We told them ‘No. Don’t do it.’ Eventually, we realized that these guys were begging to be our users. We had the moment of epiphany. For the next twelve months, we just iterated like crazy on the Web site version.”8 Levchin finally had a tool that filled a void, allowing ravenous eBay traders to safely transfer cash from buyer to seller. Plan G—a little outfit called PayPal—was born. And did it strike gold. PayPal is the now dominant system of paying securely for online purchases. Eventually, eBay, whose internally run payment system was floundering, bought PayPal for $1.5 billion.

Guide Note: Remembering is generally a two-stage process involving dialogue between the conscious and subconscious parts of the brain. The subconscious opens proceedings by throwing up the relevant memory, an act which releases a spurt of self-congratulatory endorphins. Well done, matey, says the conscious. That memory is really useful right now, and I couldn’t remember where I’d put it. You and me, pal, says the subconscious, delighted to have its contribution acknowledged for once, we’re in this together. Then the conscious reviews the memory in its in-tray and sends a message down to the sphincter telling it to prepare for the worst. Why did you remind me of this? the conscious rails against the subconscious. This is awful. Terrible. I didn’t want to remember this. Why the Zark do you think I shoved it to the back of my brain? That’s the last time I help you out, the subconscious mutters and retreats to the darker sections of itself where nasty thoughts are housed. I don’t need you, it tells itself. I can make myself another personality out of these things you’ve discarded. And so the seeds of schizophrenia are sown with kernels of childhood bullying, neglect, low self-esteem, and prejudice

An Irishman walks into a Dublin bar, orders three pints of Guinness, and drinks them down, taking a sip from one, then a sip from the next, until they’re gone. He then orders three more. The bartender says, “You know, they’d be less likely to go flat if you bought them one at a time.” The man says, “Yeah, I know, but I have two brothers, one in the States, one in Australia. When we all went our separate ways, we promised each other that we’d all drink this way in memory of the days when we drank together. Each of these is for one of my brothers and the third is for me.” The bartender is touched, and says, “What a great custom!” The Irishman becomes a regular in the bar and always orders the same way. One day he comes in and orders two pints. The other regulars notice, and a silence falls over the bar. When he comes to the bar for his second round, the bartender says, “Please accept my condolences, pal.” The Irishman says, “Oh, no, everyone’s fine. I just joined the Mormon Church, and I had to quit drinking.

It is quite beautiful, that level of death, although to some it could be considered nightmarish. Whatda see old pal? Do you see death? Is he waiting at your doorstep for you and ya kin? Does he carrya scythe? Is he hooded like the healers? Or are you fortunate enough to gaze upon his face? Do you see an old, wrinkled man there? Eyes the only thing darker than his skin, with his hair in stark contrast? You kow what they say, black isn’t a colour, but a shade. Void of all colour, just like my pal there is void of all life. Or do you see a young man hell bent on revenge, trying to bring a loved one back from the grave? Trying so hard he will put every living soul in the ground to lift his love out of it? Is he pissed off that he can grant death, but the one thing he wants, life, is out of his grasp? Does he speak to you at night? When you sleep, with all the lights out, does he glide silently to your bedside and touch you? Does it hurt? Or do you not feel anything, just close your eyes and never open them again? Do you fear death, Steven?

Gazing at me with soft eyes, he says, “I’m not. You’re just drunk with afterglow.” My laugh is low and throaty. “Is that like beer goggles but with sex?

Charlie leaned toward Termite and said, “Pal, don’t let Monk wink at you. He spent time in a monastery with about a hundred other men dressed in robes and . . . well, you know what they say.” Termite looked at Davis. “No kidding?” Davis nodded but never took his eyes off his burgers, which were getting close to perfect. “About two hours outside of Seville, up in the mountains.” Charlie’s little wink and comment did two things: it got me out of having to brush off Davis, and it gave Davis an intro. In a sense, Charlie was watching my back. I wondered if he’d do that if he knew the whole truth. “A monastery,” Termite repeated. “Why’d you want to do something stupid like that?” Davis turned and chewed on his answer before he spoke it. “I was arguing with God.” Charlie spoke up. “Which is a lot harder when you don’t speak for five years.” Termite looked confused. “He took a vow of silence,” I explained. Termite’s eyes grew big, he looked at the floor, at all of us, then back at Davis. “You didn’t say a single word to another

You are going to give us man lessons.”   Ariana let out a sharp bark of laughter, her eyes twinkling. “Him? Are you kidding? He’s going to give us man lessons?”   “We don’t need to look super convincing as men close up,” Kyra said. “We just need to give the impression of men Fred’s taken into his service. If you saw a potion bottle with a red stamp on it, your brain would make you think it was a red skull, and you’d think it was dangerous even if the stamp was actually a grinning squirrel.” Kyra looked at Fred skeptically. “I’m sure Fred can give us a few tips, at least, of how to act like men.”   “Hey! I am more than capable of giving man lessons.” Fred smiled broadly at Kyra. “What do you want to know?”   “For one thing, we need to know how to walk.”   “No problem. I’ve been walking most of my life.” Fred held up a hand. “Stop and watch.”   The girls leaned up against an apple tree with Rosie at their feet.   “First, you aren’t just acting like any kind of men; you’re going to be especially manly men. I picked you up to work for me, after all, and I wouldn’t choose just any men for that sort of thing. I need men who can fight and lift heavy things. You might want to spit occasionally.”   “Why?”   “It helps keep you from looking too smart. Now, because you are so manly, it naturally follows that you have large upper-arm muscles. Huge muscles, really. The way you let people know this is by slightly bending your elbows and holding your arms out from your body, like your muscles are so big they’re getting in the way.”   Kyra and Ariana bent their elbows and pushed their arms a couple of inches away from their bodies.   The edges of Fred’s lips quirked as though he was trying to restrain a smile. “Then you need to let them know that not only are you muscular, you’re confident of your abilities in all areas. You accomplish this by swaggering when you walk. Langley, stay.” He pointed for the dog to sit next to the girls.   Fred sauntered away from them under the lacey white boughs of the trees in a masculine strut.   “Your turn.”   The girls copied Fred’s walk while he stood back and watched.   “A little less hip swinging, Kyra.”   “I’m not—”   “And don’t walk so close together. Imagine there’s at least one invisible guy between you at all times.”   Ariana leaned over and whispered in Kyra’s ear. “He wants us to imagine him between us. Guys are so weird.”   “Men don’t whisper, but if you have to do it, at least do it the right way.”   Ariana and Kyra stopped walking and turned back to Fred.   “If you find you need to whisper, you don’t get up close to the other person and lean into their ear. Stay where you are, a person’s-width apart, and put a hand up on the far side of your face like a shield.” He demonstrated with his hand out straight from one side of his face. “Then turn your head slightly to the other person and say what you need to say.”   The girls exchanged a look.   “No ‘best friends’ glances at each other like that, either. Or ‘dears’ and ‘darlings.’ Men insult each other every chance they get.”   “Men don’t have best friends?” Kyra asked.   “You’d only know it by the ferocity of the insults. If a guy’s your really good pal, you let him have it at every opportunity.”   “Got it, fathead,” Ariana said.   “Perfect.” Fred plucked two blossoms from the tree above him and tucked one behind each girl’s ear, then grabbed another and tucked it behind his own ear. “You have officially completed man lessons. Now that you know how to act like manly men, what’s the plan?

Anyone who says investing in a good pair of boots will save you money in the long term has clearly never been poor.

There’s an urban legend about a woman waking up in the middle of the night with a tongue licking her hand. Assuming it’s her dog, she pets it and falls asleep. The next morning, she wakes up to find her dog murdered along with a note in its blood that says, HUMANS CAN LICK TOO.