Pops Williams Quotes

Mom told me that love is like a seed. You've got to plant it to grow. But that's not all. You need to water it. The sun needs to shine enough, but not too much. The roots have to take hold," he continued, narrowing his eyes in concentration. "And from there, if it pops its head above the surface, there are about a million things that could kill it, so it takes a whole lot of luck too.

Praise everybody, I say to such: never be squeamish, but speak out your compliment both point-blank in a man's face, and behind his back, when you know there is a reasonable chance of his hearing it again. Never lose a chance of saying a kind word. As Collingwood never saw a vacant place in his estate but he took an acorn out of his pocket and popped it in; so deal with your compliments through life. An acorn costs nothing; but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of timber.

What were you guys doing in there?” Bill sounded perturbed. “We’ve been waiting for you forever.” “William,” David hung his arm over Bill’s shoulder, “A man always waits patiently for his ladylove.” “Are you for real?” Bill’s eyes narrowed. “What black and white movie did you pop out of?

Squatting on old bones and excrement and rusty iron, in a white blaze of heat, a panorama of naked idiots stretches to the horizon. Complete silence - their speech centres are destroyed - except for the crackle of sparks and the popping of singed flesh as they apply electrodes up and down the spine. White smoke of burning flesh hangs in the motionless air. A group of children have tied an idiot to a post with barbed wire and built a fire between his legs and stand watching with bestial curiosity as the flames lick his thighs. His flesh jerks in the fire with insect agony.

Step 6: Stop enjoying things ironically. Just enjoy them Know what? I love Britney Spears and Forever 21. And I could pretend like it’s this whole meta thing where I’m not actually enjoying it but rather just making this esoteric statement on lowbrow culture, but (insert handjob motion here). The truth is that I love trashy dance pop and the garments that are its clothing equivalent. You don’t need to make your tastes a self-conscious statement about who you are. Just unapologetically like the things you like.

Never give reasons for what you think or do until you must. Maybe after a while, a better reason will pop into your head.

Case gradually became aware of the music that pulsed constantly through the cluster. It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries of digitalized pop;

justice hath no meaning lest it be tempered with mercy.”26

It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries of digitalized pop; it was worship, Molly said, and a sense of community.

KAREN On Wednesdays, we array ourselves in pink!

The pop star, as we knew her" – and here he bowed slightly, in her direction – "was actually an artefact of preubiquitous media." "Of -?" "Of a state in which 'mass' media existed, if you will, within the world." "As opposed to?" "Comprising it.

And waking, once again, face smudged into Andrea's couch, the red quilt humped around her shoulders, smelling coffee, while Andrea hummed some Tokyo pop song to herself in the next room, dressing, in a gray morning of Paris rain.

Praise everybody, I say… Never be squeamish, but speak out your compliment both point-blank in a man’s face, and behind his back, when you know there is a reasonable chance of his hearing it again. Never lose a chance of saying a kind word. As Collingwood never saw a vacant place in his estate but he took an acorn out of his pocket and popped it in; so deal with your compliments through life. An acorn costs nothing; but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of timber.

I have never battled a gargoyle before.” Zacharel shook his head, a dark lock of hair tumbling into one emerald eye. Damp from the melting snow, the hair stuck to his skin. He didn’t seem to notice. “But I am certain these will murder Paris before willingly carrying him inside.” As if he were the only intelligent life form left in existence, William splayed his arms. “And the problem with that? He’ll still be inside, exactly where he wants to be. And by the way,” he added, blinking at Paris with lashes so long they should have belonged to a girl. “Your new permanent eyeliner is very pretty. You’ll make a good-looking corpse.” Do not react. He did, and the teasing about his ash/ambrosia tattoos would never end. “Thanks.” “I prefer the lip liner, though. A nice little feminine touch that really makes your eyes pop.” “Again, thanks,” he gritted. He wants us! Stupid demon. William grinned. “Maybe we can make out later. I know you want me.” Tell him yes! Not another word out of you, or— “Paris? Warrior?” Zacharel said. “Are you listening to me?” “No.” Zach nodded, apparently not the least offended. “I enjoy your honesty, though I believe you suffer from what the humans call ADD.” “Oh, yeah. I definitely have attention deficient demon.

The computer-simulated dreamworld of the Matrix trilogy is a technological version of Descartes’s evil demon. In essence it represents the idea of a mind (the Architect) more powerful than our own that is intent on deceiving us whenever, and however, it sees fit.

REGINA Come hither, folly-fallen Cady, come! We shall anon unto the shopping mall.

There are no rules within this house of mine— I am no mother regular, forsooth! A cool mom I, ’tis so, Regina, yea?

DAMIAN She doth not even go here!

Usually we think a person is obligated to do something that would benefit many people, but what if that “something” is committing murder? Which is more important, doing good—or not doing wrong?

I sat there listening to him talk and talk and I realised something really important. I thought I was in love with him for all those years but it turned out I was in love with the idea of William. The actual reality was a bit of an anti-climax. I thought, well, William would never shove the word WAG into pop songs to make me laugh and he wouldn’t bite the chocolate off chocolate-covered strawberries for me and he’d never, ever watch a film with Sandra Bullock in it, unless it was a Shakespeare adaptation and then he’d spend the entire film listing all the historical inaccuracies and he’d never go down on me for half an hour because he’d lost a game of Scrabble. Point of fact, I can’t imagine William doing anything that would mess up his hair, and he’s started popping the collars of his shirts and have I mentioned that he’s not you? He’s not you, Max, and that’s why I’m actually really pleased that he’s engaged and he’s moving to Warwickshire so I don’t have a constant reminder of what an idiot I’ve been.

It could be worse, Shawn said... We're all sitting around this fire not knowing which one among us is the person who has been systematically picking us off... Now imagine that while we're sitting here, Reggie's head falls off his body, grows spider legs, and runs away into the darkness. The silence following Shawn's remark was the quietest Gus had ever heard. Even the fire stopped popping and sparking for a moment.

two of the most fascinating yet troublesome topics in moral philosophy—forgiveness and redemption—issues that must be dealt with together. Without forgiveness there can be no redemption, and forgiveness that does not grant redemption is hollow.

Diane laughed. "Still serious, but did I mention I'm seeing a woman?" "Um, no. You left that part out." I had known Diane since we were kids. I never had an inkling she was attracted to women. It wasn't exactly like hearing that Michael Jackson had died, but it did prove that you absolutely never know who is going to pop out of the closet and shock the shit out of you.

His fists raised, his cheeks flushed with rage, his whole body trembling, the man stood there in front of me, beside himself with fury and having lost all self-control. After each outburst Hitler would stride up and down the carpet edge, then suddenly stop immediately before me and hurl his next accusation in my face. He was almost screaming, his eyes seemed to pop out of his head and the veins stood out in his temples.

Out popped Paul Duffy, in plain clothes except for a state police windbreaker and a badge clipped to his belt. He looked at me - I think by now I had dropped the bat to my side, at least, though I must have looked ridiculous anyway - and he raised his eyebrows. 'Get back in the house, Babe Ruth.

There is something about a fire on a dark night, a fire shared with others, that pulls the gloom right out of you. We sat around the cheery little blaze with the branches popping as they burned with the flames dancing, and although we hadn't eaten that day, I could feel our spirits rise along with the smoke that drifted toward the stars.

We all feel shame when we’re sitting on the cushion and stuff pops up in our head.

REGINA —Nay, Gretchen, “fetch” shall never catch, Stop hosting an event no one attends. It shall not hap—the zeitgeist thou art not. The fad is bad; I’m mad and thou art sad.

Twas on October third he ask’d the date— By calendar, not for a date, I mean. ’Twas two weeks later when we spake again.

Honor Is Like the Hawk . . . For my own part, regret nothing. Have lived life, free from compromise . . . and step into the shadow now without complaint. —Rorschach’s journal,

a famous quote by Nietzsche, “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster.

Roy H. Williams defines branding as the sum total of all the things a company says about itself—the things that pop into your customers’ minds when they hear your name.

White vividly recalled sitting “pop-eyed with wonder” at the edge of his chair while Roosevelt spoke “with a kind of dynamic, burning candor” about his plans.

I could hear the pop of bed linen snapping in the wind.

Facts and logical arguments no longer matter; people decide what to believe based on tribal alliances, on what they want to believe, or what they feel is true.

A recent study shows that one hundred per cent of youngsters on hard drugs had at some time in their lives listened to so-called pop music

The blaze of sun wrung pops of sweat from the old man’s brow, yet he cupped his hands around the glass of hot sweet tea as if to warm them. In forgetting, they were trying to remember.

Superman’s cosmopolitan decision could be interpreted simply as DC Comics attempting to appeal to the global market for Superman stuff. Less cynically, though, one blogger said, “It’s refreshing to see an alien refugee tell the United States that it’s as important to him as any other country on Earth—which, in turn, is as important to Superman as any other planet in the multiverse.

Luckily, literature—and by “literature” I mean comic books—provides us a way to discuss issues like these without having to experience them. We don’t have to trick people into standing in front of a runaway trolley, and we don’t have to have a real-life Batman and Joker. That’s what thought experiments are for—they let us play through an imaginary scenario and imagine what we should or shouldn’t do.

Okay, the question is, 'What enormously popular novel by William Peter Blatty, set in the posh Washington D.C. suburb of Georgetown, concerned the demonic possesion of a young girl?' '' ''Johnny Cash'', Henry replied. ''Jesus Christ!'' Tricks Postino yelled. ''That's what you say to everythin! Johnny Cash, that's what you say to fuckin everythin!'' ''Johnny Cash is everything,'' Heny replied gravely...

Atrocitus: You believe fear to be the most powerful force in the universe? Fear is inaction. Fear is hiding away. Fear is cowering and begging. Rage is action. Rage is spilling blood. Sinestro: Rage is uncontrollable.

Hey, I said we don't carry weapons, I didn't say we couldn't defend ourselves." Captain Stanley Memphis, head of alien team disguised as pint-sized critters on a quest to learn if humans are savage bastards or a benevolent tribe.

quite opposite to Descartes’s organ metaphor, our global neuronal workspace does not operate in an input-output manner, waiting to be stimulated before producing its outputs. On the contrary, even in full darkness, it ceaselessly broadcasts global patterns of neural activity, causing what William James called the “stream of consciousness”—an uninterrupted flow of loosely connected thoughts, primarily shaped by our current goals and only occasionally seeking information in the senses. René Descartes could not have imagined a machine of this sort, where intentions, thoughts, and plans continually pop up to shape our behavior. The outcome, I argue, is a “free-willing” machine that resolves Descartes’s challenge

Rorschach did not seek death; he didn’t commit suicide by Manhattan. But he understood what the others did not. “It is better to sacrifice life than to forfeit morality. It is not necessary to live, but it is necessary that, so long as we live, we do so honourably.”18

Here I sit with my three old cats, getting closer to eternity all the time, on a twine chair—(Van Gogh) and me too—and it gets very depressing. What can I do? I had high hopes. We all did. Remember just outside the Tangier Consulate: “Have you met the Skipper yet?” Later I did. And now no skipping, no transport anywhere, except to a cut-rate mortuary. Where were you when I wasn’t there? “Hound of Hell!!” screamed the Pop Star, and kicked the fink dog in the nuts. “Only decent thing I done.” “Forget the whole thing. I have.” Great gasp at this point. How much time? have I left? Not much it seems.

For each desire we fulfill in accordance with this strategy, a new desire will pop into our head to take its place. This means that no matter how hard we work to satisfy our desires, we will be no closer to satisfaction than if we had fulfilled none of them. We will, in other words, remain dissatisfied.

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In the first place, I think there's going to be more and more merging of art and science. Scientists are already studying the creative process, and I think the whole line between art and science will break down and that scientists, I hope, will become more creative and writers more scientific. And I see no reason why the artistic world can't absolutely merge with Madison Avenue. Pop art is a move in that direction. Why can't we have advertisements with beautiful words and beautiful images? Already some of the very beautiful color photography appears in whiskey ads, I notice. Science will also discover for us how association blocks actually form.

William looked at the mushrooms warily. “You know your way around these things, do you?” “I do. An archer knows all the poisons in the woods. They’re useful for tipping arrows. These are perfectly harmless.” He popped one in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “If I’m not dead by the time the bird is cooked, you will know I speak true. Now for dessert….” He took another cloth from inside his shirt and opened it. “Blackberries.” They

When he tried to tell me about some renovations he was having done to his home office, I said, "Oh, I don't think I'm interested in hearing about that." I carried on talking. I spoke all my unspoken thoughts and ideas. I spoke any notion that popped into my head. When I didn't think he was properly listening to me, I repeated myself. When he interrupted, I said, "I've not finished yet." When he told me something I already knew, I said, "Thank you, but I obviously already know that.

To make the timing work and get Mark a slot onstage after the UN luncheon and the pop-up, I’d asked the festival organizers to move Big Bird. They initially said no, insisting that my Big Bird problem created issues for Malala and Beyoncé. Then they relented and moved Big Bird so he’s right before Mark. Big Bird’s fine with this, but the Facebook team does not think that this sets the right tone—Elliot doesn’t want Mark to follow a giant yellow Muppet—so I need Big Bird moved again.

Pop told me many times after that that he had sent a wire forthwith to Jesse Paine, an old friend and neighbor of ours from Passaic Avenue, then residing in Los Angeles, asking what, if anything, had happened to Lou, his wife. Two weeks later he received a letter saying that Jesse was sorry not to have been able to answer the telegram sooner, the reason being that Lou had been ill; in fact at the time the telegram had arrived, she was in the hospital where, that day, she had been given up for dead, following a serious abdominal operation

Pynchon has been a favorite writer and a major influence all along. In many ways I see him as almost the start of a certain mutant pop culture imagery with esoteric historical and scientific information. Pynchon is a kind of mythic hero of mine, and I suspect that if you talk with a lot of recent SF writers you'll find they've all read Gravity's Rainbow (1973) several times and have been very much influenced by it. I was into Pynchon early on- I remember seeing a New York Times review of V. when it first came out- I was just a kid- and thinking, Boy, that sounds like some really weird shit!

Sounds of The Fleetwoods singing, “Come Softly to Me” and Robin Luke singing “Susie Darlin” and Little Anthony popping the vocal on “I Ran All the Way Home.” Were they all hits in that summer of 1960? Yes and no. Mostly yes. In the long purple evenings when rock and roll from WLAM blurred into night baseball from WCOU, time shifted. I think it was all 1960 and that the summer went on for a space of years, held magically intact in a web of sounds: the sweet hum of crickets, the machine-gun roar of playing-cards riffling against the spokes of some kid’s bicycle as he pedaled home for a late supper of cold cuts and iced tea, the flat Texas voice of Buddy Knox singing “Come along and be my party doll, and I’ll make love to you, to you,” and the baseball announcer’s voice mingling with the song and with the smell of freshly cut grass: “Count’s three and two now. Whitey Ford leans over ... shakes off the sign ... now he’s got it ... Ford pauses ... pitches ... and there it goes! Williams got all of that one! Kiss it goodbye! RED SOX LEAD, THREE TO ONE!” Was Ted Williams still playing for the Red Sox in 1960? You bet your ass he was—.316 for my man Ted. I remember that very clearly. Baseball

Kant stated simply enough, “[Punishment] must always be inflicted upon [the criminal] only because he has committed a crime.”7 Punishment shouldn’t be meted out for the criminal’s own good, for example, for reformation or rehabilitation. This would be treating him like an animal, like a dog. Also, punishment shouldn’t be handed out for the good of society, such as for security, deterrence, or crime prevention or any other desirable end. The criminal shouldn’t be treated as a mere means; we shouldn’t use people for society’s ends, “for a human being can never be treated merely as a means to the purposes of another.

According to Reggie Tasker’s notes, Nurse Dennison returned with her treat and immediately prepared a drink of orange pop for her niece Shirley. For the next hour or so she observed the child’s convulsions with a most flattering concern; later on, perhaps because the child’s stamina seemed about to triumph over her aunt’s intention, Nurse Dennison said that, in her opinion, what little Shirley needed at this point in her illness was another sip or two of orange pop; it was sure to settle her stomach and return her to her customary bouncing health. She tendered the cup, and Shirley, a sweet, obedient child, drank at her aunt’s bidding.

There had been an attempt over the summer to mix that Camden Lock lot with this Caldwell lot, but Keisha Blake did not especially care for Baudelaire or Bukowski or Nick Drake or Sonic Youth or Joy Division or boys who looked like girls or vice versa or Anne Rice or William Burroughs of Kafka's Metamorphosis or CND or Glastonbury or the Situationists or Breathless or Samuel Beckett or Andy Warhol or a million other Camden things, and when Keisha brought a wondrous Monie Love 7-inch to play on Leah's hi-fi there was something awful in the way Leah blushed and conceded it was probably OK to dance to. They had only Prince left, and he was wearing thin.

The outhouse falls in a cloud of powdered wood and termites, and the Human Projectile stands there in his black shit suit. A giant rubber asshole in a limestone cliff clicks open and sucks the Human Projectile in like spaghetti. Noise of distant thunder and the Projectile pops out with a great fart, flies a hundred feet through the air into a net supported by four gliders. His shit suit splits and a round worm emerges and does a belly dance. The worm suit peels off like a condom and the Aztec Youth stands naked with a hard-on in the rising sun, ejaculates bloody crystals with a scream of agony. The crowd moans and whimpers and writhes. They snatch up the stones dissolve in red and crystal light.... The boy has gone away through an invisible door.

Mother, who was known among her intimates as a medium, suddenly said to my father, looking right and left at Ed and me, “So these are the boys. How they have grown. Come here, my dears,” she said to us, reaching out her hands, “and let me see you!” This to her own children whom she had been caring for all day. Pop, who was accustomed to such occasions, told us gently, bewildered as we must have been, to do as we were bid—to go to Mother, which we did, one on either side. She put her hands on each of our heads and patted us with smiles of approval and loving affection. “How well they look. I am so happy.” At this Pop said to her, to his own wife, “Who is this we have the pleasure of talking to?” “Don’t you know me?” Mother answered. “Why I’m Lou Paine.

The silences between them were peculiar. There would be the swift, slight 'cluck' of her needle, the shard 'pop' of his lips as he let out the smoke, the warmth, the sizzle on the bars as he spar in the fire. Then her thoughts turned to William... she saw him a man, young, full of vigour, making the world glow again for her. And Morel sitting there, quite alone, and having nothing to think about, would be feeling vaguely uncomfortable. His soul would reach out in its blind way to her, and find her gone. He felt a sort of emptiness, almost like a vacuum in his soul. He was unsettled and restless. Soon he could not live in that atmosphere, and he affected his wife. Both felt an oppression on their breathing, when they were left together for some time. Then he went to bed, and she settled down to enjoy herself alone, working, thinking, living.

Things are so relaxed and uneventful that he thinks to himself in passing, “It is times like these that Murphy strikes.” The PJ is thinking about Murphy’s Law: “If anything can go wrong it will.” Murphy’s Law is particularly notorious for rearing its ugly head during complex military operations. Seconds later, Dan’s thoughts of Murphy prove prophetic. Even though he is wearing a noise-canceling headset, Sergeant Houghton hears a loud pop. He is a trained aircrew member and the unusual noise sets off internal alarm bells in his head. He looks around; the rest of the passengers remain oblivious, but Sergeant Houghton notices flight engineers moving around, nervously referring to their checklists. And then he hears the ominous sound of an engine winding down and losing power. He flips up his night vision goggles and mentally takes stock of his situation. Word quickly circulates around the cabin—hold on!

You Are What You Eat Take food for example. We all assume that our craving or disgust is due to something about the food itself - as opposed to being an often arbitrary response preprogrammed by our culture. We understand that Australians prefer cricket to baseball, or that the French somehow find Gerard Depardieu sexy, but how hungry would you have to be before you would consider plucking a moth from the night air and popping it, frantic and dusty, into your mouth? Flap, crunch, ooze. You could wash it down with some saliva beer.How does a plate of sheep brain's sound? Broiled puppy with gravy? May we interest you in pig ears or shrimp heads? Perhaps a deep-fried songbird that you chew up, bones, beak, and all? A game of cricket on a field of grass is one thing, but pan-fried crickets over lemongrass? That's revolting. Or is it? If lamb chops are fine, what makes lamb brains horrible? A pig's shoulder, haunch, and belly are damn fine eatin', but the ears, snout, and feet are gross? How is lobster so different from grasshopper? Who distinguishes delectable from disgusting, and what's their rationale? And what about all the expectations? Grind up those leftover pig parts, stuff 'em in an intestine, and you've got yourself respectable sausage or hot dogs. You may think bacon and eggs just go together, like French fries and ketchup or salt and pepper. But the combination of bacon and eggs for breakfast was dreamed up about a hundred years aqo by an advertising hired to sell more bacon, and the Dutch eat their fries with mayonnaise, not ketchup. Think it's rational to be grossed out by eating bugs? Think again. A hundred grams of dehydrated cricket contains 1,550 milligrams of iron, 340 milligrams of calcium, and 25 milligrams of zinc - three minerals often missing in the diets of the chronic poor. Insects are richer in minerals and healthy fats than beef or pork. Freaked out by the exoskeleton, antennae, and the way too many legs? Then stick to the Turf and forget the Surf because shrimps, crabs, and lobsters are all anthropods, just like grasshoppers. And they eat the nastiest of what sinks to the bottom of the ocean, so don't talk about bugs' disgusting diets. Anyway, you may have bug parts stuck between your teeth right now. The Food and Drug Administration tells its inspectors to ignore insect parts in black pepper unless they find more than 475 of them per 50 grams, on average. A fact sheet from Ohio State University estimates that Americans unknowingly eat an average of between one and two pounds of insects per year. An Italian professor recently published Ecological Implications of Mini-livestock: Potential of Insects, Rodents, Frogs and Snails. (Minicowpokes sold separately.) Writing in Slate.com, William Saletan tells us about a company by the name of Sunrise Land Shrimp. The company's logo: "Mmm. That's good Land Shrimp!" Three guesses what Land Shrimp is. (20-21)

(It’s a doozy! I could listen to it all day long.) Nikki Lane—“Gone, Gone, Gone,” “Coming Home to You” Patterson Hood—“Belvedere,” “Back of a Bible” Ryan Bingham—“Guess Who’s Knocking” American Aquarium—“Casualties” Devil Doll—“The Things You Make Me Do” American Aquarium—“I’m Not Going to the Bar” Hank Williams Jr.—“Family Tradition” David Allan Coe—“Mama Tried” John Paul Keith—“She’ll Dance to Anything” Carl Perkins—“Honey, Don’t” Scott H. Biram—“Lost Case of Being Found” The Cramps—“The Way I Walk” The Reverend Horton Heat—“Jimbo Song” Justin Townes Earle—“Baby’s Got a Bad Idea” Old Crow Medicine Show—“Wagon Wheel,” “Hard to Love” Dirty River Boys—“My Son” JD McPherson—“Wolf Teeth” Empress of Fur—“Mad Mad Bad Bad Mama” Dwight Yoakam—“Little Sister” The Meteors—“Psycho for Your Love” Hayes Carll—“Love Don’t Let Me Down” HorrorPops—“Dotted with Hearts” Buddy Holly—“Because I Love You” Chris Isaak—“Baby Did a Bad Bad Thing” Jason Isbell—“The Devil Is My Running Mate” Lindi Ortega—“When All the Stars Align” Three Bad Jacks—“Scars” Kasey Anderson and the Honkies—“My Blues, My Love

Although the strategy of gaining happiness by working to get whatever it is we find ourselves wanting is obvious and has been used by most people throughout recorded history and across cultures, it has an important defect, as thoughtful people throughout recorded history and across cultures have realized: For each desire we fulfill in accordance with this strategy, a new desire will pop into our head to take its place. This means that no matter how hard we work to satisfy our desires, we will be no closer to satisfaction than if we had fulfilled none of them. We will, in other words, remain dissatisfied. A much better, albeit less obvious way to gain satisfaction is not by working to satisfy our desires but by working to master them. In particular, we need to take steps to slow down the desire-formation process within us. Rather than working to fulfill whatever desires we find in our head, we need to work at preventing certain desires from forming and eliminating many of the desires that have formed. And rather than wanting new things, we need to work at wanting the things we already have. This

The Chocolate meditation Choose some chocolate—either a type that you’ve never tried before or one that you have not eaten recently. It might be dark and flavorsome, organic or fair-trade or whatever you choose. The important thing is to choose a type you wouldn’t normally eat or that you consume only rarely. Here goes: Open the packet. Inhale the aroma. Let it sweep over you. Break off a piece and look at it. Really let your eyes drink in what it looks like, examining every nook and cranny. Pop it in your mouth. See if it’s possible to hold it on your tongue and let it melt, noticing any tendency to suck at it. Chocolate has over three hundred different flavors. See if you can sense some of them. If you notice your mind wandering while you do this, simply notice where it went, then gently escort it back to the present moment. After the chocolate has completely melted, swallow it very slowly and deliberately. Let it trickle down your throat. Repeat this with the next piece. How do you feel? Is it different from normal? Did the chocolate taste better than if you’d just eaten it at a normal breakneck pace?

...but in 1917 we had no cares except the mundane ones of starvation and occupation and civil war, and for those of us in our armored trains traveling up and down the front waging brilliant campaigns, or for our young Natashas and Alyoshas experiencing the education and class steeling of the Komsomol for the first time, learning to ask in every historical situation: How many workers are there? how many peasants, intellectuals? how do they stand on this issue? it was a very exciting and romantic period; what I am getting at is that probably no one felt alone as Bug had felt alone; for everyone worked together and loved each other- oh, I hope that that was true. For if life is worth living at all you can have your cake and eat it, too (съесть ее тунцом as the Russians say, и ее мудак- literally to eat out her tuna and her asshole); when you fight together you feel together; love and politics go hand in hand, and I can demonstrate this feasibly with another linguistic point. A girl's cherry is her tsélka. Raskobót cya kak tsélochka, to pop like a little cherry, means in fact to crack under interrogation. I want to draw your attention, comrades, to that highly significant trope.

Senator Lieberman took it as a call to arms. "After watching these society. violent video games," he said, "I personally believe it is irresponsible for some in the video game industry to produce them. I wish we could ban them." This wasn't the first time that America's political and moral estab lishment had tried to save youth from their own burgeoning culture. Shortly after the Civil War, religious leaders assailed pulp novels as "Satan's efficient agents to advance his kingdom by destroying the young. rupter "In the twenties, motion pictures were viewed as the new cors/ of children, inspiring sensational media-effects research that would be cited for decades. In the fifties, Elvis was shown only from the waist up on television; AD magazine's publisher, William Gaines. was brought before Congress. In the seventies, Dungeons and Dragons with all its demons and sorcery, became associated with Satanist particularly after a player enacting the game disappeared under the steam tunnels of a Michigan university. In the eighties, heavy metal artists like Judas Priest and Ozzy Osbourne were sued for allegedly invoking young listeners to commit suicide. In the nineties, video games were the new rock 'n' roll-dangerous and uncontrolled.

What's that?" he asked. "A balance sheet," I said. "To keep track of your payments." He asked whether Pop had written it or me. When I answered truthfully, he handed the paper back like the useless thing it was. "Thank you," he said. "I won't be needing this." Which took me by surprise and set me stammering how it was proof he was making his payments, and how he should take it because it was the right and proper way to do business. "The rules aren't the same for me as they are for you," Joseph replied, shaking his head. "Don't you know that, Will?" Which put my nose out of joint so bad that I told him he was being rude, and that I was only trying to do him a favor at no small risk to myself. Joseph's face went blank as the cloudless sky overhead. He eyed the receipt. Said, "Thank you, Mr. William. But I can't accept." And got back on his bicycle. "That all you got to say?" I near shouted, frustrated at how easily he'd turned my good intentions into a fool's errand. And the quickest flash of hate you ever did see danced across the dark of his eyes. I stood there, feeling awkward and a fool. Joseph put one foot on a pedal and said, real quiet, "If you'll excuse me, I've a funeral to attend." Only then did I notice the band of mourning black around his upper arm. "Who died?" I asked stupidly. Joseph's eyes were flat. "Nobody important, Mr. William. Only a Negro boy like me.

My interest in comics was scribbled over with a revived, energized passion for clothes, records, and music. I'd wandered in late to the punk party in 1978, when it was already over and the Sex Pistols were history. I'd kept my distance during the first flush of the new paradigm, when the walls of the sixth-form common room shed their suburban-surreal Roger Dean Yes album covers and grew a fresh new skin of Sex Pistols pictures, Blondie pinups, Buzzcocks collages, Clash radical chic. As a committed outsider, I refused to jump on the bandwagon of this new musical fad, which I'd written off as some kind of Nazi thing after seeing a photograph of Sid Vicious sporting a swastika armband. I hated the boys who'd cut their long hair and binned their crappy prog albums in an attempt to join in. I hated pretty much everybody without discrimination, in one way or another, and punk rockers were just something else to add to the shit list. But as we all know, it's zealots who make the best converts. One Thursday night, I was sprawled on the settee with Top of the Pops on the telly when Poly Styrene and her band X-Ray Spex turned up to play their latest single: an exhilarating sherbet storm of raw punk psychedelia entitled "The Day the World Turned Day-Glo" By the time the last incandescent chorus played out, I was a punk. I had always been a punk. I would always be a punk. Punk brought it all together in one place for me: Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels were punk. Peter Barnes's The Ruling Class, Dennis Potter, and The Prisoner were punk too. A Clockwork Orange was punk. Lindsay Anderson's If ... was punk. Monty Python was punk. Photographer Bob Carlos Clarke's fetish girls were punk. Comics were punk. Even Richmal Crompton's William books were punk. In fact, as it turned out, pretty much everything I liked was punk. The world started to make sense for the first time since Mosspark Primary. New and glorious constellations aligned in my inner firmament. I felt born again. The do-your-own-thing ethos had returned with a spit and a sneer in all those amateurish records I bought and treasured-even though I had no record player. Singles by bands who could often barely play or sing but still wrote beautiful, furious songs and poured all their young hearts, experiences, and inspirations onto records they paid for with their dole money. If these glorious fuckups could do it, so could a fuckup like me. When Jilted John, the alter ego of actor and comedian Graham Fellows, made an appearance on Top of the Pops singing about bus stops, failed romance, and sexual identity crisis, I was enthralled by his shameless amateurism, his reduction of pop music's great themes to playground name calling, his deconstruction of the macho rock voice into the effeminate whimper of a softie from Sheffield. This music reflected my experience of teenage life as a series of brutal setbacks and disappointments that could in the end be redeemed into art and music with humor, intelligence, and a modicum of talent. This, for me, was the real punk, the genuine anticool, and I felt empowered. The losers, the rejected, and the formerly voiceless were being offered an opportunity to show what they could do to enliven a stagnant culture. History was on our side, and I had nothing to lose. I was eighteen and still hadn't kissed a girl, but perhaps I had potential. I knew I had a lot to say, and punk threw me the lifeline of a creed and a vocabulary-a soundtrack to my mission as a comic artist, a rough validation. Ugly kids, shy kids, weird kids: It was okay to be different. In fact, it was mandatory.

American DEWAR FAMILY Cameron Dewar Ursula “Beep” Dewar, his sister Woody Dewar, his father Bella Dewar, his mother PESHKOV-JAKES FAMILY George Jakes Jacky Jakes, his mother Greg Peshkov, his father Lev Peshkov, his grandfather Marga, his grandmother MARQUAND FAMILY Verena Marquand Percy Marquand, her father Babe Lee, her mother CIA Florence Geary Tony Savino Tim Tedder, semiretired Keith Dorset OTHERS Maria Summers Joseph Hugo, FBI Larry Mawhinney, Pentagon Nelly Fordham, old flame of Greg Peshkov Dennis Wilson, aide to Bobby Kennedy Skip Dickerson, aide to Lyndon Johnson Leopold “Lee” Montgomery, reporter Herb Gould, television journalist on This Day Suzy Cannon, gossip reporter Frank Lindeman, television network owner REAL HISTORICAL CHARACTERS John F. Kennedy, thirty-fifth U.S. president Jackie, his wife Bobby Kennedy, his brother Dave Powers, assistant to President Kennedy Pierre Salinger, President Kennedy’s press officer Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference Lyndon B. Johnson, thirty-sixth U.S. president Richard Nixon, thirty-seventh U.S. president Jimmy Carter, thirty-ninth U.S. president Ronald Reagan, fortieth U.S. president George H. W. Bush, forty-first U.S. president British LECKWITH-WILLIAMS FAMILY Dave Williams Evie Williams, his sister Daisy Williams, his mother Lloyd Williams, M.P., his father Eth Leckwith, Dave’s grandmother MURRAY FAMILY Jasper Murray Anna Murray, his sister Eva Murray, his mother MUSICIANS IN THE GUARDSMEN AND PLUM NELLIE Lenny, Dave Williams’s cousin Lew, drummer Buzz, bass player Geoffrey, lead guitarist OTHERS Earl Fitzherbert, called Fitz Sam Cakebread, friend of Jasper Murray Byron Chesterfield (real name Brian Chesnowitz), music agent Hank Remington (real name Harry Riley), pop star Eric Chapman, record company executive German FRANCK FAMILY Rebecca Hoffmann Carla Franck, Rebecca’s adoptive mother Werner Franck, Rebecca’s adoptive father Walli Franck, son of Carla Lili Franck, daughter of Werner and Carla Maud von Ulrich, née Fitzherbert, Carla’s mother Hans Hoffmann, Rebecca’s husband OTHERS Bernd Held, schoolteacher Karolin Koontz, folksinger Odo Vossler, clergyman REAL HISTORICAL PEOPLE Walter Ulbricht, first secretary of the Socialist Unity Party (Communist) Erich Honecker, Ulbricht’s successor Egon Krenz, successor to Honecker Polish Stanislaw “Staz” Pawlak, army officer Lidka, girlfriend of Cam Dewar Danuta Gorski, Solidarity activist REAL HISTORICAL PEOPLE Anna Walentynowicz, crane driver Lech Wałesa, leader of the trade union Solidarity General Jaruzelski, prime minister Russian DVORKIN-PESHKOV FAMILY Tanya Dvorkin, journalist Dimka Dvorkin, Kremlin aide, Tanya’s twin brother Anya Dvorkin, their mother Grigori Peshkov, their grandfather Katerina Peshkov, their grandmother Vladimir, always called Volodya, their uncle Zoya, Volodya’s wife Nina, Dimka’s girlfriend OTHERS Daniil Antonov, features editor at TASS Pyotr Opotkin, features editor in chief Vasili Yenkov, dissident Natalya Smotrov, official in the Foreign Ministry

Should I be scared?” “I think you should get ready for quite an inquiry, but they’re necessary questions that must be answered if I want to ask you out on a second date.” “What if I don’t want to go on a second date?” “Hmm.” He taps his chin with his fork, ready to dig in the minute the plate arrives at our table. “That’s a good point. All right. If the question arose, would you go on a second date with me?” “Well, now I feel pressured to say yes just so I can hear the inquiry.” “You’re going to have to deal with the pressure, sweet cheeks.” “Fine. Hypothetically, if you were to ask me out on a second date, I would hypothetically, possibly say yes.” “Great.” He bops his own nose with his fork and then sets it down on the table. “Here goes.” He looks serious; both his hands rest palm down on the table and his shoulders stiffen. Looking me dead in the eyes, he asks, “Bobbies and Rebels are in the World Series, what shirt do you wear?” “Bobbies obviously.” He blinks. Sits back. “What?” “Bobbies for life.” “But I’m on the Rebels.” “Yes, but are we dating, are we married? Are we just fooling around? There’s going to have to be a huge commitment on my part in order to put a Rebels shirt on. Sorry.” “We’re dating.” “Eh.” I wave my hand. “Fine. We’re living together.” “Hmm, I don’t know.” I twist a strand of hair in my finger. “Christ, we’re married.” “Ugh.” I wince. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think it will ever happen.” “Not even if we’re married, for fuck’s sake?” he asks, dumbfounded. It’s endearing, especially since he’s pushing his hand through his hair in distress, tousling it. “Do we have kids?” I ask. “Six.” “Six?” Now it’s time for my eyes to pop out of their sockets. “Do you really think I want to birth six children?” “Hell, no.” He shakes his head. “We adopted six kids from all around the world. We’re going to have the most diverse and loving family you’ll ever see.” Adopting six kids, now that’s incredibly sweet. Or mad? No, it’s sweet. In fact, it’s extremely rare to meet a man who not only knows he wants to adopt kids, but is willing to look outside of the US, knowing how much he could offer that child. Good God, this man is a unicorn. “We have the means for it, after all,” he says, continuing. “You’re taking over the city of Chicago, and I’ll be raining home runs on every opposing team. We would be the power couple, the new king and queen of the city. Excuse me, Oprah and Steadman, a new, hip couple is in town. People would wear our faces on their shirts like the royals in England. We’re the next Kate and William, the next Meghan and Harry. People will scream our name and then faint, only for us to give them mouth-to-mouth because even though we’re super famous, we are also humanitarians.” “Wow.” I sit back in my chair. “That’s quite the picture you paint.” I know what my mom will say about him already. Don’t lose him, Dorothy. He’s gold. Gorgeous and selfless. “So . . . with all that said, our six children at your side, would you wear a Rebels shirt?” I take some time to think about it, mulling over the idea of switching to black and red as my team colors. Could I do it? With the way Jason is smiling at me, hope in his eyes, how could I ever deny him that joy—and I say that as if we’ve been married for ten years. “I would wear halfsies. Half Bobbies, half Rebels, and that’s the best I can do.” He lifts his finger to the sky. “I’ll take it.

Manfred was the patriarch, and William was his son. William begat Gravier. Gravier begat Pops. And Pops, late in life when he and Sweetheart had despaired of having a child, begat Patsy. At age sixteen, Patsy gave birth to me and named me Tarquin Anthony Blackwood. As to my father, let me state now plainly and unequivocally that I don’t have one. “Patsy

NURSE (rising and taking her bag from the sofa): Well, I've that confined lady still waiting in Shepperley. (Going into the hall) Toodle-oo! MRS. BRAMSON: Mind you call again Wednesday. In case my neuritis sets in again. NURSE (turning in the hall): I will that. And if paralysis pops up, let me know. Toodle-oo! She marches cheerily out of the front door. MRS. BRAMSON cannot make up her mind if the last remark is sarcastic or not.

In Avatar Jake embarks on a journey of self-discovery and self-realization, advancing along a path that can map out with the aid of these seven main energy center chakras.

One of the aims of Tantra is to recognize the divine perfection of the world by seeing it as a mandala "a celestial mansion.

Jake Sully went from being a self-centered individual, only concerned with regaining the use of his legs, to being the defender of an entire world.

Someone you know has just seen a great movie. Someone else had an idle thought. There’s been a suicide bombing in South Asia. Stocks soared today. Pop star has a painful secret. Someone has a new opinion. Someone is in a taxi. Please support this worthy cause. He needs that report from you—where is it? Someone wants you to join the discussion. A manhunt is on for the killers. Try this in bed. Someone’s enjoying sorbet, mmmm. Your account is now overdue. Easy chicken pot pie. Here’s a brilliant analysis. Latest vids from our African safari! Someone responded to your comment. Time’s running out, apply now. This is my new hair. Just heard an awesome joke. Someone is working hard on his big project. They had their baby! Click here for the latest vote count…

Hank was happy to cash the checks as the palm court orchestras played his songs, but on a far deeper level he was suspicious of the trend, seeing it as a dilution of his music. “These pop bands,” he told an interviewer in Charleston, South Carolina, “will play our hillbilly songs when they cain’t eat any other way.

the tag pops off,

In Shakespeare’s London, most plays were only performed a handful of times before being discarded and replaced with ‘the latest thing’. This provides a stark contrast to the Royal Shakespeare Company’s schedule in current times. Shakespeare’s theatre, just like the rock music of Dylan’s decades, was inherently influenced by changes in fashion and style. Relentless demands for novelty and hits drove both industries and this had an impact on our two artists in fundamental ways. Just as Dylan went after the latest, but deeply unpleasant, studio sound in the mid-Eighties and jumped, or rather sank, into the pop video market, so Shakespeare had to move into whatever area the current fashion dictated. If plays featuring prostitutes and witches were in demand, then that is what was written. Popular entertainers need to remain fashionable.

problems—evading income-tax convictions, allegedly violating the Trading with the Enemy Act, and fleeing the country for Hong Kong.17 However, in California Chinatowns and in Hoisan County, Guangdong Province, China, where he was born (Pop’s birthplace, too), his philanthropy and business acumen made him a hero.

DAMIAN ’Tis, peradventure, why her hair is large: The secrets she doth carry in her pate.

REGINA By all that is divine, behold thy bracelet— A stunning piece of jewelry it is! How didst thou come by such a lovely thing? CADY My mother fashion’d it and gave it me. REGINA ’Tis worthy of the public’s admiration. GRETCHEN So fetch it is, it fetcheth ev’ry glance. REGINA What is this “fetch” and, pray, whence cometh it? GRETCHEN A word come swimming ’cross the ocean blue, From England’s ruddy shores. Know’st thou this country?

KAREN Alas, Regina, I cannot go out. Cough, cough—I am unwell, as thou canst hear. REGINA Boo, whore.

REGINA [to Cady:] Is butter such as may be call’d a carb?

GRETCHEN I can say little more than I have studied— This question’s out of my part: what art thou? KAREN A mouse, of course, I bid

GRETCHEN I can say little more than I have studied— This question’s out of my part: what art thou? KAREN A mouse, of course, I bid thee see mine ears!

GRETCHEN O, Cady, if thou only knew’st how vile, How reprehensible, how knavish, and How horrible Regina truly is! Thou knowest I may not hoop earrings wear? ’Twas two full years ago she did declare Hoop earrings as her purview only, yea— The bound’ry circular of her domain— Ne’ermore would I be sanction’d in the wearing. When I, for Hanukkah, receiv’d a pair From my dear parents—white gold hoops were they, Expensive in the buying, priceless in The giving generous—yet ’twas my lot To act as though I could not stand the things. She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it, But must contest her wickedness anon. Know’st thou she cheateth frequently on Aaron, Doth make him cuckold for another’s lust? Each Thursday, when he thinks she is engag’d In preparation for the SAT, She earns him horns by being horny with Shane Oman, o’er in the projection room, Which sits above the auditorium. Ne’er have I shar’d this secret with a soul Because I am, I grant, a perfect friend. Yet knowledge of it nearly makes me burst, For Aaron is, in sooth, an innocent man— If there’s a chance of resurrecting love, I’m not above returning to the start, To find out where the heartache did begin.

KAREN My fist entire doth fit within my mouth, An ’twere circumf’rence of the world entire. Wouldst thou bear witness to the awesome feat?

KAREN An thou can keep the confidence, hear on: I am most nearly psychic, Cady, yea— A fifth sense I possess. CADY —What dost thou mean? KAREN ’Tis almost like I have ESPN. My breasts are like a twin prognosticatrix— Protruding like a pair of weather vanes— And can predict when clouds shall form above To drop sweet rain upon the earth below.

JANIS ’Tis what you Plastics do with utmost skill: Ye think the world enamor’d of yourselves, When ’tis far truer ye are hated widely. Take Aaron Samuels, whom thou fawnest for— He broke with his Regina. Nonetheless, He still doth not regard thee with love’s eye. Then wherefore dost thou meddle with Regina? Here is the reason: thou a mean girl art— A wench, a strumpet, and a soulless rogue!

NORBURY A point well ta’en, Miss George, and likely true: How many of ye here have pers’nally felt Ye have been victimized e’en by Regina?

goes wrong. It saves me a massive amount of time as I start trying to work through the problem as soon as it pops up. Here is a trick that has worked for me over the years and seems to be working for many artists working in the industry today. The next time you’re deep in production, and the software crashes or doesn’t give you the result you’re after, ask yourself, “What did I do wrong?” Don’t assume it is a bug in the software or blame the computer, even if it turns out that

By the time we finished the soup and washed the dishes, Pop still hadn’t arrived back from the main house. Susana wanted to make up some excuse to go visit Mrs. Rainsford, bring her a neighborly food hamper or something, but I insisted it could wait for another day. Mrs. Rainsford would be getting the kids their supper right now, getting them bathed and in bed, and she wouldn’t appreciate neighbors stopping by with their hampers of curiosity.

When they’d strung the cables, according to some complex scheme of Molly’s, they hung them with battered sheets of yellow plastic. As they worked, Case gradually became aware of the music that pulsed constantly through the cluster. It was called dub, a sensuous mosaic cooked from vast libraries of digitalized pop; it was worship, Molly said, and a sense of community. Case heaved at one of the yellow sheets; the thing was light but still awkward. Zion smelled of cooked vegetables, humanity, and ganja.

Meanwhile, John Barentine, an astronomer with the Arizona-based dark-sky conservation organization Dark Sky Consulting, found a more accidental finding in one of JWST's first photographs. The image of the Southern Ring Nebula, which is 2,500 light-years away from Earth, was exceptionally clear. A fascinating galaxy seen on the edge-on (a unique vantage position for examining the galaxy's core bulge) popped into view off to the side, earlier misunderstood as part of the nebula itself. "We have this extremely sensitive equipment that will disclose stuff we didn't even know we were searching for," Barentine said. "It's worth looking about in the backdrop of practically every photograph Webb shoots.

Red Fox dying ushered in a series of struggles that anyone I asked attributed to “life out in the country,” but secretly, I knew were happening because I lacked the courage to make them stop. Any calm confidence I’d felt before was officially gone. I spent the days worrying and reacting to a hemorrhage I couldn’t staunch. Such as the lump in William’s leg. Hang Judith’s old warnings about doctors—I took him to the only doctor in town, terrified it was a tumor. “Do you have cats?” asked the doctor. “Particularly un-vetted cats?” We were overrun with the cats by now. Today’s count was thirty-eight, and just this morning, in my hurry, I’d popped the head of a kitten when I backed out the van. I’d scraped the little body into a bag, careful not to let the kids see, and choked back my tears because I didn’t want them to see me cry either. “I think your son has cat-scratch fever, not cancer. Here’s a prescription. Get rid of the cats,” he said, tearing a paper for antibiotics off his pad. Next came the intestinal symptoms that ravaged little Liam’s gut. We went to Children’s Hospital for that, in Knoxville, because he needed a colonoscopy and eventually a PICC line. The doctor said stress and bacteria were the likely culprits, and could I please tell him what life was like at home.

Sir Cliff Richard With more than 150 singles, albums, and EPs to reach the top twenty in the United Kingdom, British pop star Sir Cliff Richard is one of the most successful musicians in the UK’s recent history. Knighted by Queen Elizabeth II in 1995, Sir Cliff Richard was the first rock star ever to receive the national honor. I wonder whether Prince William and Prince Harry will remember their first Royal Command Performance? I was skiing at Lech, in Austria, and Princess Diana and the boys were staying at the same hotel. Somehow Princess Diana got to hear of the sing-alongs my party had in the hotel bar as part of the après-ski, and she asked me whether I’d mind singing for her sons one evening. Well, it was as close to a royal command as you could get, so there I was, rattling off all my old 1960s hits, and there were William and Harry trying hard to stifle yawns! It was Harry who suddenly chirped up in the most regal of voices, “I say, do you know ‘Great Balls of Fire’?” I did, and that night Diana and the boys heard probably the most energetic rendition ever!

Their hair in curlers and their heads wrapped in loud scarves, young mothers, fattish in trousers, lounge about in the speedwash, smoking cigarettes, eating candy, drinking pop, thumbing magazines, and screaming at their children above the whir and rumble of the machines. At the bank a young man freshly pressed is letting himself in with a key. Along the street, delicately teetering, many grandfathers move in a dream. During the murderous heat of the summer, they perch on window ledges, their feet dangling just inside the narrow shelf of shade the store has made, staring steadily into the street. Where their consciousness has gone I can’t say. It’s not in the eyes. Perhaps it’s diffuse, all temperature and skin, like an infant’s, though more mild. Near the corner there are several large overalled men employed in standing. A truck turns to be weighed on the scales at the Feed and Grain. Images drift on the drugstore window. The wind has blown the smell of cattle into town. Our eyes have been driven in like the eyes of the old men. And there’s no one to have mercy on us.

We are not Republicans, not Democrats, not Greenback and not Prohibitionists. We simply intend to support good men and condemn bad ones, no matter what party they belong to. We shall tell no lies about persons for love, malice or money. It is no part of a newspapers business to array itself on the side of this or that party, or fight, lie or wrangle for it.77