Pick Up The Tab Quotes

Save your explanations, I got some questions for you first and you'd better answer them!' [slurred Hellian.] 'With what?' [Banaschar] sneered. 'Explanations?' 'No. Answers. There's a difference-' 'Really? How? What difference?' 'Explanations are what people use when they need to lie. Y'can always tell those,'cause those don't explain nothing and then they look at you like they just cleared things up when really they did the opposite and they know it and you know it and they know you know and you know they know that you know and they know you and you know them and maybe you go out for a pitcher later but who picks up the tab? That's what I want to know.' 'Right, and answers?' 'Answers is what I get when I ask questions. Answers is when you got no choice. I ask, you tell. I ask again, you tell some more. Then I break your fingers, 'cause I don't like what you're telling me, because those answers don't explain nothing!

Another tip you picked up from my books?” “Those things are like a treasure map. Just follow the tabs and highlights to find the pot of gold.

What the fuck is love anyway? Is it a phone call the next morning? Is it picking up a hundred-dollar-meal tab? Is it flowers on the fifth date? Or is it sleeping on the wet spot?

If I understand anything about that afternoon, about the whole of my life, it's that sometimes the worst moments in our lives, the moments that set us spinning with ugly desires, that threaten to unglue us with the sheer impossibility of the pain we must endure, are in face the moments that bring us to understand our worth. It's as if we become aware of ourselves as a bridge between all that's been and all that will be. We become aware of all we've received and what we can choose-or choose not-to perpetuate. It's like vertigo, thrilling and terrifying, the past and the future surrounding us like a vast but traversable canyon. Small as we are in the big scheme of universe and time, each of us is a little mechanism that keeps the whole wheel spinning. And what will we power with the wheel of our own life? Will we keep pushing the same piston of loss or regret? Will we reengage and reenact all the hurts of our own abandonment? Will we make our children pick up the tab for our losses? Or will we take the best of what we know and let a new crop flourish from the field of our life?

You can go a hundred miles a second Don't have to drive no lousy cab Got everything you want and more man And the King picks up the tab You walk around on streets of gold all day And you never have to listen To what these customers say and I know...

Operating at a loss is one way NASA keeps its grip on space, the SFF lawyers accused. And taxpayers pick up the tab. “This

Small as we are in the big scheme of universe and time, each of us is a little mechanism that keeps the whole wheel spinning. And what will we power with the wheel of our own life? Will we keep pushing the same piston of loss or regret? Will we reengage and reenact all the hurts of our own abandonment? Will we make our children pick up the tab for our losses? Or will we take the best of what we know and let a new crop flourish from the field of our life?

Herbert opined of Lucas’ possible plagiarism: I think there’s reason to believe he did. Whether it’s actionable, I’m not the one to judge. Larry Niven, Jerry Pournelle, Ted Sturgeon, Isaac Asimov, Barry Malzberg, and a few others of us who recognized elements of things we had done—or thought we did at least—in Star Wars are starting an organization that will be called, “We’re Too Big to Sue George Lucas.” This will only be viable if Lucas agrees to become an honorary member and picks up all the dinner tabs whenever we get together.

Another tip you picked up from my books?” “Those things are like a treasure map. Just follow the tabs and highlights to find the pot of gold.

You realise that people actually have to live in among all this and that east London is the bill, the tab that these cunts are picking up so that you can live in west London.

It’s hard to pay your own way when you’re used to someone else picking up the tab.

Small as we are in the big scheme of universe and time, each of us is a little mechanism that keeps the whole wheel spinning. And what will we power with the wheel of our own life? Will we keep pushing the same piston of loss or regret? Will we reengage and reenact all the hurts from the past? Will we abandon the people we love as a consequence of our own abandonment? Will we make our children pick up the tab for our losses? Or will we take the best of what we know and let a new crop flourish from the field of our life?

This is madness, Sergeant! Let go of me – I can explain—’ ‘Save your explanations. I got some questions for you first and you’d better answer them!’ ‘With what?’ he sneered. ‘Explanations?’ ‘No. Answers. There’s a difference—’ ‘Really? How? What difference?’ ‘Explanations are what people use when they need to lie. Y’can always tell those, ’cause those explanations don’t explain nothing and then they look at you like they just cleared things up when really they did the opposite and they know it and you know it and they know you know and you know they know that you know and they know you and you know them and maybe you go out for a pitcher later but who picks up the tab? That’s what I want to know.’ ‘Right, and answers?’ ‘Answers is what I get when I ask questions. Answers is when you got no choice. I ask, you tell. I ask again, you tell some more. Then I break your fingers, ’cause I don’t like what you’re telling me, because those answers don’t explain nothing!’ ‘Ah! So you really want explanations!’ ‘Not till you give me the answers!’ ‘So what are your questions?’ ‘Who said I got questions? I already know what your answers are, anyway. No point in questions, really.’ ‘And

Black women are acting irresponsibly by giving birth to baby after baby out of wedlock. Most of these children are from different fathers as well. These irresponsible men simply roam like wild beasts in heat from one woman to another and impregnate as many as possible without regard for the women or their children, dodging accountability as they go. These foolish women allow themselves to be used by these sexual predators and continue to give birth to babies who grow up without fathers. And, with fathers ducking responsibility, the welfare system picks up the tab for a big percentage of these illegitimate children. The irresponsibility of black men and women is creating a cycle of poverty, mental disorders, and violence within the black community. This is not the result of white racism but immorality and the lack of character!

From working with black males for more than a dozen years, I can say with confidence that many black males are both lazy and irresponsible. This view isn't popular with problem profiteers who blame all black woes upon white racism or poverty, but it is true, nonetheless. The young men I work with represent just the tip of the iceberg of a far larger laziness problem within the black male population. The typical black male I work with has no work ethic, has little sense of direction in his life, is hostile toward whites and women, has an attitude of entitlement, and has an amoral outlook on life. He has no strong male role model in his life to teach him the value of hard work, patience, self-control, and character. He is emotionally adrift and is nearly illiterate-either because he dropped out of school or because he's just not motivated enough to learn. Many of the black males I've worked with have had a "don't give a damn" attitude toward work and life and believe that "white America" owes them a living. They have no shame about going on welfare because they believe whites owe them for past discrimination and slavery. This absurd thinking results in a lifetime of laziness and blaming, while taxpayers pick up the tab for individuals who lack character and a strong work ethic. Frequently, blacks who attempt to enter the workforce often become problems for their employers. This is because they also have an entitlement mentality that puts little emphasis on working hard to get ahead. They expect to be paid for doing little work, often show up late, and have bad attitudes while on the job. They're so sensitized to "racism" that they feel abused by every slight, no matter if it's intentional, unconscious, or even based in reality.

At a certain level, credible deterrence depends on a credible enemy. The Soviet Union disintegrated, but the surviving superpower's instinct to de-escalate intensified: In Kirkuk as in Kandahar, every Lilliputian warlord quickly grasped that you could provoke the infidel Gulliver with relative impunity. Mutually assured destruction had curdled into Massively Applied Desultoriness. Clearly, if one nation is responsible for near half the world's military budget, a lot of others aren't pulling their weight. The Pentagon outspends the Chinese, British, French, Russian, Japanese, German, Saudi, Indian, Italian, South Korean, Brazilian, Canadian, Australian, Spanish, Turkish, and Israeli militaries combined. So why doesn't it feel like that? Well, for exactly that reason: If you outspend every serious rival combined, you're obviously something other than the soldiery of a conventional nation state. But what exactly? The geopolitical sugar daddy is so busy picking up the tab for the global order he's lost all sense of national interest.

joke around—nothing serious—as I work to get my leg back to where it was. Two weeks later, I’m in an ankle-to-hip leg brace and hobbling around on crutches. The brace can’t come off for another six weeks, so my parents lend me their townhouse in New York City and Lucien hires me an assistant to help me out around the house. Some guy named Trevor. He’s okay, but I don’t give him much to do. I want to regain my independence as fast as I can and get back out there for Planet X. Yuri, my editor, is griping that he needs me back and I’m more than happy to oblige. But I still need to recuperate, and I’m bored as hell cooped up in the townhouse. Some buddies of mine from PX stop by and we head out to a brunch place on Amsterdam Street my assistant sometimes orders from. Deacon, Logan, Polly, Jonesy and I take a table in Annabelle’s Bistro, and settle in for a good two hours, running our waitress ragged. She’s a cute little brunette doing her best to stay cheerful for us while we give her a hard time with endless coffee refills, loud laughter, swearing, and general obnoxiousness. Her nametag says Charlotte, and Deacon calls her “Sweet Charlotte” and ogles and teases her, sometimes inappropriately. She has pretty eyes, I muse, but otherwise pay her no mind. I have my leg up on a chair in the corner, leaning back, as if I haven’t a care in the world. And I don’t. I’m going to make a full recovery and pick up my life right where I left off. Finally, a manager with a severe hairdo and too much makeup, politely, yet pointedly, inquires if there’s anything else we need, and we take the hint. We gather our shit and Deacon picks up the tab. We file out, through the maze of tables, and I’m last, hobbling slowly on crutches. I’m halfway out when I realize I left my Yankees baseball cap on the table. I return to get it and find the waitress staring at the check with tears in her eyes. She snaps the black leather book shut when she sees me and hurriedly turns away. “Forget something?” she asks with false cheer and a shaky smile. “My hat,” I say. She’s short and I’m tall. I tower over her. “Did Deacon leave a shitty tip? He does that.” “Oh no, no, I mean…it’s fine,” she says, turning away to wipe her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just…um, kind of a rough month. You know how it is.” She glances me up and down in my expensive jeans and designer shirt. “Or maybe you don’t.” The waitress realizes what she said, and another round of apologies bursts out of her as she begins stacking our dirty dishes. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Really. I have this bad habit…blurting. I don’t know why I said that. Anyway, um…” I laugh, and fish into my back pocket for my wallet. “Don’t worry about it. And take this. For your trouble.” I offer her forty dollars and her eyes widen. Up close, her eyes are even prettier—large and luminous, but sad too. A blush turns her skin scarlet “Oh, no, I couldn’t. No, please. It’s fine, really.” She bustles even faster now, not looking at me. I shrug and drop the twenties on the table. “I hope your month improves.” She stops and stares at the money, at war with herself. “Okay. Thank you,” she says finally, her voice cracking. She takes the money and stuffs it into her apron. I feel sorta bad, poor girl. “Have a nice day, Charlotte,” I say, and start to hobble away. She calls after me, “I hope your leg gets better soon.” That was big of her, considering what ginormous bastards we’d been to her all morning. Or maybe she’s just doing her job. I wave a hand to her without looking back, and leave Annabelle’s. Time heals me. I go back to work. To Planet X. To the world and all its thrills and beauty. I don’t go back to my parents’ townhouse; hell I’m hardly in NYC anymore. I don’t go back to Annabelle’s and I never see—or think about—that cute waitress with the sad eyes ever again. “Fucking hell,” I whisper as the machine reads the last line of

These staffers call themselves CEOs, “chief entertainment officers,” because they’re constantly picking up the tab for meals, drinks and trips to the local karaoke joint (“chief enticement officer” might be a better title).

That’s what is meant by the tragedy of the commons. A bunch of individuals, acting independently and out of self-interest, may deplete a shared resource even though it hurts everyone in the long run. It applies to corporations that externalize costs such as pollution, but it’s what happens when net users illegally download music and movies, expecting others to pick up the tab. It is in each person’s short-term self-interest to steal the music. Only the sucker pays. But when everyone thinks that way, there’s no one left to pay for the musician, and the music stops altogether. The individualistic act of stealing the music or depleting the resource is a form of compression, robbing from the future to enjoy something in the present at no cost. As long as we live as individuals, the distant future doesn’t really matter so much. The philosophy of the long now would suggest that the only way to see past this immediate, consumer-era self-satisfaction is to look further in the future. Have kids. Once we see that our long-term self-interest is no longer served, we may all, individually, change our behaviors. Even if we are thinking selfishly, prioritizing “me in the long run” isn’t quite so bad as “me right now.

STEP 4: BEWARE OF LIMINAL MOMENTS Liminal moments are transitions from one thing to another throughout our days. Have you ever picked up your phone while waiting for a traffic light to change, then found yourself still looking at your phone while driving? Or opened a tab in your web browser, got annoyed by how long it’s taking to load, and opened up another page while you waited? Or looked at a social media app while walking from one meeting to the next, only to keep scrolling when you got back to your desk? There’s nothing wrong with any of these actions per se. Rather, what’s dangerous is that by doing them “for just a second,” we’re likely to do things we later regret, like getting off track for half an hour or getting into a car accident. A technique I’ve found particularly helpful for dealing with this distraction trap is the “ten-minute rule.” If I find myself wanting to check my phone as a pacification device when I can’t think of anything better to do, I tell myself it’s fine to give in, but not right now. I have to wait just ten minutes. This technique is effective at helping me deal with all sorts of potential distractions, like googling something rather than writing, eating something unhealthy when I’m bored, or watching another episode on Netflix when I’m “too tired to go to bed.” This rule allows time to do what some behavioral psychologists call “surfing the urge.” When an urge takes hold, noticing the sensations and riding them like a wave—neither pushing them away nor acting on them—helps us cope until the feelings subside.

it putted to life after one try. He patted the handlebars and muttered, “Good loyal girl.” He put it into gear and pulled away from the ditch, running with filthy water. Soon he’d maneuvered himself along a parallel road. He couldn’t see them but knew from the updates that they were one block away, still moving north. He scowled. Soon that road would leave the congestion of city traffic, and his updates would stop as the car would outdistance his people on bicycles trying to keep tabs on them. Time to move over and get on the same road. But before he did, it dawned on him. He slammed his hand on the handlebars and picked up the walkie-talkie. “Break off,” he said in Spanish. “I know where they’re going.” Instead of veering onto their road, he accelerated. Traffic on this road was much lighter than the main road, and what little there was, he could easily avoid. “She’s a clever one,” he said, and he rubbed the speedometer lovingly. Soon he topped out his speed and his road merged with the main road. He chanced a glance behind, but didn’t see them yet. He didn’t doubt their destination for an instant, though. It made perfect sense. The Americans would need proof that she wasn’t a Nazi spy, and showing them a couple of dead Nazis she’d killed would be just the thing. He didn’t know what they’d do with her then, but he’d be close by if she needed him. He could feel the weight of the .38-caliber pistol he had shoved into his waistband. He hoped he wouldn’t need to use it, but he wouldn’t hesitate. * * * “Pull in here.” Ilsa pointed to a wide point in the road. The driver veered in and stopped in front of a seemingly impregnable wall of green jungle. Portman, in the front passenger seat, asked, “Here?” Ilsa nodded. Mr. Portman held an M1 carbine. He stepped out and ordered, “Keep her there while I check it out.” Ilsa, Mr. Blake, and the driver watched him walk around, searching for an ambush.

The uncomfortable assumption had begun to dawn on me that maybe this was all some sex-related thing I was better off not knowing. I looked at the side of his face: petulant, irritable, glasses low on the tip of his sharp little nose and the beginnings of jowls at his jawline. Might Henry have made a pass at him in Rome? Incredible, but a possible hypothesis. If he had, certainly, all hell would have broken loose. I could not think of much else that would involve this much whispering and secrecy, or that would have had so strong an effect on Bunny. He was the only one of us who had a girlfriend and I was pretty sure he slept with her, but at the same time he was incredibly prudish — touchy, easily offended, at root hypocritical. Besides, there was something unquestionably odd about the way Henry was constantly shelling out money to him: paying his tabs, footing his bills, doling out cash like a husband to a spendthrift wife. Perhaps Bunny had allowed his greed to get the better of him, and was angry to discover that Henry's largesse had strings attached. But did it? There were certainly strings somewhere, though — easy as it seemed on the face of it — I wasn't sure that this was where those particular strings led. There was of course that thing with Julian in the hallway; still, that had been very different. I had lived with Henry for a month, and there hadn't been the faintest hint of that sort of tension, which I, being rather more disinclined that way than not, am quick to pick up on. I had caught a strong breath of it from Francis, a whiff of at times from Julian; and even Charles, who I knew was interested in women, had a sort of naive, prepubescent shyness of them that a man like my father would have interpreted alarmingly — but with Henry, zero. Geiger counters dead. If anything, it was Camilla he seemed fondest of, Camilla he bent over attentively when she spoke, Camilla who was most often the recipient of his infrequent smiles. And even if there was a side of him which I was unaware (which was possible) was it possible that he was attracted to Bunny? The answer to this seemed, almost unquestionable, No. Not only did he behave as if he wasn't attracted to Bunny, he acted as if he were hardly able to stand him. And it seemed that he, disgusted by Bunny in what appeared to be virtually all respects, would be far more disgusted in that particular one than even I would be. It was possible for me to recognize, in a general sort of way, that Bunny was handsome, but if I brought the lens any closer and tried to focus on him in a sexual light, all I got was a repugnant miasma of sour-smelling shirts and muscles gone to fat and dirty socks. Girls didn't seem to mind that sort of thing, but to me he was about as erotic as an old football coach.

coffee shop, the corner store, a tiny one-room, freestanding library, and the adorable little cabin in the woods that would be hers, rent-free, for the year of her contract. The town backed up to the amazing sequoia redwoods and national forests that spanned hundreds of miles of wilderness over the Trinity and Shasta mountain ranges. The Virgin River, after which the town was named, was deep, wide, long, and home to huge salmon, sturgeon, steel fish and trout. She’d looked on the internet at pictures of that part of the world and was easily convinced no more beautiful land existed. Of course, she could see nothing now except rain, mud and darkness. Ready to get out of Los Angeles, she had put her résumé with the Nurses’ Registry and one of the recruiters brought Virgin River to her attention. The town doctor, she said, was getting old and needed help. A woman from the town, Hope McCrea, was donating the cabin and the first year’s salary. The county was picking up the tab for liability insurance for at least a year to get a practitioner and midwife in this remote, rural part of the world. “I faxed Mrs. McCrea your résumé and letters of recommendation,” the recruiter had said, “and she

He clutched the handle of the knife with the same strength the gang members used to kick him. He was worthless, like a crumpled bit of trash thrown, but not worth picking up, that doesn’t even deserve a courteous foot nudge to hide. He was unseen, like the skin beneath the toga of a female statue made of stone. He was ugly, like the damaged face of the deformed stranger you try not to look at because you don’t want it in your memory. He was as soft as the pull-tab of a soda can, as easily broken as a straw wrapper, and as close to death as a baby slug crawling next to a group of kids at summer camp.

If you’ve traveled the long, often confounding road of talk therapy, you may know the feeling of giving your power over to a total stranger and struggling to translate what you hear into feeling better, all the while trailed by the never-ending stream of bills (or bar tabs). We are all too susceptible to seduction by navel-gazing. It can be titillating to dig down into the past, lift up the rocks and see what’s down there. You never know what interesting creature will be staring up at you and what fascinating things it will have to say. Over the years I’ve orated a few hundred riveting TED Talks to a rapt audience of one. During those strainings I picked up an encyclopedia’s worth of knowledge about what’s kicking around in my psyche. But all too often the return on investment wasn’t particularly high. The optimal response to our dilemma has little to do with running our mouths.

Nate was looking over, practically undressing me with his eyes, so I decided to mess with him a little. Jaiden let me sit on his knee, joking that if Nate wasn’t beside me within ninety seconds, he would pick up the whole bar tab. It was twenty-seven seconds.

You need a lesson on the birds and the bees?” Paul asks. “You put tab A into slot B.” He makes a crude gesture with his fingers. “Or tab A into slot C.” He grins. “Or Tab A into slot D. But some girls don’t like that, so don’t start there. You might even save that for a birthday or special occasion. Yours. Not hers.” I pick up a pillow and throw it at his head. He laughs and catches it.

In the 1950s, Harry became aware that an extremely important member of Congress was a heroin addict. “He headed one of the powerful9 committees of Congress,” he wrote. “His decisions and statements helped to shape and direct the destiny of the United States and the free world.” Harry went to this man in the corridors of Washington, D.C., and told him sternly he must stop using the drug. “I wouldn’t try to do anything about it, Commissioner,” replied the legislator. “It will be the worse for you.” He would go to the gangsters to get it whatever Harry did, “and if it winds up in a public scandal and that should hurt this country, I wouldn’t care . . . The choice is yours.”10 All over America, Anslinger had cut off legal avenues to drugs and forced addicts to go to gangsters for a filthy supply. But he had always pictured it being done to the “unstable, emotional, hysterical,11 degenerate, mentally deficient and vicious classes.” Now, before Harry, there was a man he respected, and he was an addict. So he assured the legislator that there would be a safe, legal supply for him at a Washington, D.C., pharmacy so he would never have to go to the gangsters or go without. The bureau even picked up the tab until the day the congressman died. A journalist uncovered the story and was about to break it. Harry told him that if he published a word, Harry would have him sent to prison for two years. He smothered the story.12 Years

You’re not dealing with a little boy like you were with Micah. Let me guess, he opens doors and picks up the tab everywhere you go? He calls you instead of firing off a text. You’re dating a grown-up. Grown-ups want grown-up things.

Don't get used to it, this is a once in a lifetime thing." - Captain Bill "Baloney" Cooper, on picking up the beer tab.

The image of the African woman in the mind of the world has been set: she is breeding too may children she cannot tae care of, and for whom she should not expect other people to pick up the tab. She is hungry, and so are her children. In fact, it has become a cliché of Western photojournalism that the African woman is old beyond her years; she is half-naked; her drooped and withered breasts are well exposed; there are flies buzzing around the faces of her children; and she has a permanent begging bowl in her hand.

In the city people bitched when you asked them to help you move. Out here a neighbor would help you shovel shit for eight hours without batting an eye and still pick up the tab when you went to dinner.

In other words, fathers should avoid the “Disneyland Dad” syndrome of constantly making time with their children a party. Children may benefit more from their relationship with dad by helping him cook dinner and do the dishes than by watching him pick up the tab at Burger King.

Examining myself in the restroom mirrors, I decide I’ve achieved a look that fits my new image of myself. Mrs. Steven Gwinn, movie star. Ready to knock Steve’s socks off, I exit the ladies room and head toward our booth. I’m disappointed to discover that he’s not there. I look around for him as I settle back in my seat, wondering if he’s headed back to the car or might be picking up something for us in the convenience store that fills the other half of this building. In the middle of our table sits a neat pile of money topped by our tab and held in place with a salt shaker. I finger my purse sitting beside me, slightly irked that Steve would leave it sitting here unattended, but realizing there’s so little cash in it that it wouldn’t really matter if it were stolen. I wonder what his other little present might be.

It’s not the thing with the dimples again, is it?” he asked innocently. “I don’t know what it is with girls, the way y’all love his--” “Why are you here?” Gage asked. Getting to his feet, he pointed toward the restrooms. “I’ll be right back. You can leave the tip.” “I was going to anyway.” “No, I’m paying for my own.” Miranda picked up the tab, but Etienne’s hand came firmly down on hers. “Gage and me, we are nothing if not true southern gentlemen. And a lady never pays on her first date.” Now Miranda was flustered. “It’s not a date. We really were talking about that building.” “I know that.” Shrugging, he yanked a napkin from the metal holder. “I also know Beth, your waitress. She’s the one who heard you teasing Gage.” “You are so bad.” With a vague frown, Miranda settled back to watch him eat. Unlike Gage, it didn’t seem to bother him, being the object of her scrutiny. She could only marvel at his focus.

Afterward, we drove out of the high country, gassed up the truck, and headed to West Yellowstone through an awful snowstorm. The flakes were so thick in the headlights that the yellow line clocked in and out of view. In other circumstances it would have seemed like pretty nervy driving. In the rescued pickup, which we had taken as a sort of trophy, the weather was just smoother reminder of our success and competence. We ate pizza and drank beer in West Yellowstone, ands Jeremy picked up the tab on the company credit card. He called it overtime, but the meal felt more like tribute paid from the people who owned the land on paper to those who bought it daily with measures of skill and sweat

Humans are the only species who pay to live on the planet. Truth is the planet is really the one picking up the tab.