Power Socket Quotes

My cheek stung and throbbed. I remained on the floor of the cave. Belen stood between me and Kerrick. "...temper in check. She's a sweet girl," Belen said. "She's a healer, Belen. And no longer a girl. Healing Ryne is all I care about. All you should care about, as well. You know-" "Yes, I know what's at stake." Belen spat the words. "But if you raise your hand to her again, I'll rip your arm from its socket.

This week in live current events: your eyes. All power can be dangerous: Direct or alternating, you, socket to me. Plugged in and the grid is humming, this electricity, molecule-deep desire: particular friction, a charge strong enough to stop a heart or start it again; volt, re-volt-- I shudder, I stutter, I start to life. I've got my ion you, copper-top, so watch how you conduct yourself. Here's today's newsflash: a battery of rolling blackouts in California, sudden, like lightning kisses: sudden, whitehot darkness and you're here, fumbling for that small switch with an urgent surge strong enough to kill lesser machines. Static makes hair raise, makes things cling, makes things rise like a gathering storm charging outside our darkened house and here I am: tempest, pouring out mouthfulls of tsunami on the ground, I've got that rain-soaked kite, that drenched key. You know what it's for, circuit-breaker, you know how to kiss until it's hertz.

But the point is, when the writer turns to address the reader, he or she must not only speak to me—naively dazzled and wholly enchanted by the complexities of the trickery, and thus all but incapable of any criticism, so that, indeed, he can claim, if he likes, priestly contact with the greater powers that, hurled at him by the muse, travel the parsecs from the Universe’s furthest shoals, cleaving stars on the way, to shatter the specific moment and sizzle his brains in their pan, rattle his teeth in their sockets, make his muscles howl against his bones, and to galvanize his pen so the ink bubbles and blisters on the nib (nor would I hear her claim to such as other than a metaphor for the most profound truths of skill, craft, or mathematical and historical conjuration)—but she or he must also speak to my student, for whom it was an okay story, with just so much description.

Look everywhere. There are miracles and curiosities to fascinate and intrigue for many lifetimes: the intricacies of nature and everything in the world and universe around us from the miniscule to the infinite; physical, chemical and biological functionality; consciousness, intelligence and the ability to learn; evolution, and the imperative for life; beauty and other abstract interpretations; language and other forms of communication; how we make our way here and develop social patterns of culture and meaningfulness; how we organise ourselves and others; moral imperatives; the practicalities of survival and all the embellishments we pile on top; thought, beliefs, logic, intuition, ideas; inventing, creating, information, knowledge; emotions, sensations, experience, behaviour. We are each unique individuals arising from a combination of genetic, inherited, and learned information, all of which can be extremely fallible. Things taught to us when we are young are quite deeply ingrained. Obviously some of it (like don’t stick your finger in a wall socket) is very useful, but some of it is only opinion – an amalgamation of views from people you just happen to have had contact with. A bit later on we have access to lots of other information via books, media, internet etc, but it is important to remember that most of this is still just opinion, and often biased. Even subjects such as history are presented according to the presenter’s or author’s viewpoint, and science is continually changing. Newspapers and TV tend to cover news in the way that is most useful to them (and their funders/advisors), Research is also subject to the decisions of funders and can be distorted by business interests. Pretty much anyone can say what they want on the internet, so our powers of discernment need to be used to a great degree there too. Not one of us can have a completely objective view as we cannot possibly have access to, and filter, all knowledge available, so we must accept that our views are bound to be subjective. Our understanding and responses are all very personal, and our views extremely varied. We tend to make each new thing fit in with the picture we have already started in our heads, but we often have to go back and adjust the picture if we want to be honest about our view of reality as we continually expand it. We are taking in vast amounts of information from others all the time, so need to ensure we are processing that to develop our own true reflection of who we are.

He felt like a man with a power cord in one hand, groping around a dark and unfamiliar room for a socket. If he could find it he would be rewarded with a view of wonders.

By being grounded to the Earth, Gaia charged us with her power. Almost like we were plugged into a socket.

Having a clone to bounce ideas off of would be a way to generate more ideas. Another way would be to build an idea generator that plugs into a wall socket and works only when the power has gone out.

The female runner still lags behind the male, and blame rests on the pelvis. The projections on the man’s pelvis allow for more powerful muscles, but a woman equipped with them could not bear a child. Similarly, a man’s hip sockets are closer together, nearer the center of gravity, which enables more efficient movement. If a woman’s were similarly designed, there would be no room for the baby’s head to extrude. So the odd pelvic bone represents a summation of many different requirements. When a woman wishes she could run faster or sway less or have a narrower base, let her know that the survival of the human race depends upon her being just the shape she is.

Before every performance of New Power Generation—or any version of Prince that I was around—we all gathered in his dressing room to pray. No matter what else was happening, we came together and joined hands. He’d ask for God’s hand on us, that He would give us strength and send angels to protect us from injury, that the Holy Spirit would lift up the music, that the audience would be blessed and happy and safe from harm. It was a powerful ritual, centering, and we never took the stage without it. The Tokyo Dome was filled almost to capacity—an audience of forty-eight thousand—and the torrent of energy that came from the crowd made me feel like a fork in a light socket. I’d spent two-thirds of my life onstage, but this was a whole new level of performance high. The show started with a stirring rendition of “Take My Hand, Precious Lord” and ended with “Peter Gunn” and visited some of his

Mister Geoffrey, my experiment shows that the dynamo and the bulb are both working properly," I said. "So why won't the radio play?" "I don't know," he said. "Try connecting them here." He was pointing toward a socket on the radio labeled "AC," and when I shoved the wires inside, the radio came to life. We shouted with excitement. As I pedaled the bicycle, I could hear the great Billy Kaunda playing his happy music on Radio Two, and that made Geoffrey start to dance. "Keep pedaling," he said. "That's it, just keep pedaling." "Hey, I want to dance, too." "You'll have to wait your turn." Without realizing it, I'd just discovered the difference between alternating and direct current. Of course, I wouldn't know what this meant until much later. After a few minutes of pedaling this upside-down bike by hand, my arm grew tired and the radio slowly died. So I began thinking, "What can do the pedaling for us so Geoffrey and I can dance?

Meg slashed through the last of Tarquin’s minions. That was a good thing, I thought distantly. I didn’t want her to die, too. Hazel stabbed Tarquin in the chest. The Roman king fell, howling in pain, ripping the sword hilt from Hazel’s grip. He collapsed against the information desk, clutching the blade with his skeletal hands. Hazel stepped back, waiting for the zombie king to dissolve. Instead, Tarquin struggled to his feet, purple gas flickering weakly in his eye sockets. “I have lived for millennia,” he snarled. “You could not kill me with a thousand tons of stone, Hazel Levesque. You will not kill me with a sword.” I thought Hazel might fly at him and rip his skull off with her bare hands. Her rage was so palpable I could smell it like an approaching storm. Wait…I did smell an approaching storm, along with other forest scents: pine needles, morning dew on wildflowers, the breath of hunting dogs. A large silver wolf licked my face. Lupa? A hallucination? No…a whole pack of the beasts had trotted into the store and were now sniffing the bookshelves and the piles of zombie dust. Behind them, in the doorway, stood a girl who looked about twelve, her eyes silver-yellow, her auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was dressed for the hunt in a shimmering gray frock and leggings, a white bow in her hand. Her face was beautiful, serene, and as cold as the winter moon. She nocked a silver arrow and met Hazel’s eyes, asking permission to finish her kill. Hazel nodded and stepped aside. The young girl aimed at Tarquin. “Foul undead thing,” she said, her voice hard and bright with power. “When a good woman puts you down, you had best stay down.” Her arrow lodged in the center of Tarquin’s forehead, splitting his frontal bone. The king stiffened. The tendrils of purple gas sputtered and dissipated. From the arrow’s point of entry, a ripple of fire the color of Christmas tinsel spread across Tarquin’s skull and down his body, disintegrating him utterly. His gold crown, the silver arrow, and Hazel’s sword all dropped to the floor. I grinned at the newcomer. “Hey, Sis.

I turned the final page. RATHANAEL THE SCORNED, read the lettering. Above it hung a skeleton twined in a ragged shroud, with two pairs of tattered, crowlike wings. Its fleshless skull grinned out at me, the eye sockets bound behind dark wrappings. It held an iron torch clasped in front of its rib cage, the top spiked like a crown, the flames roaring up, enveloping its body and wings in fire. The silver of its form had a dark, tarnished look like an old mirror, but I couldn’t tell if that was intentional or a result of the gilt flaking with age. Some powerful spirits held objects, like riveners did swords. It represented something important about their nature, but I had no idea what a torch might signify and doubted the revenant did either—only how ironic it was that I’d ended up with the revenant associated with fire. I absorbed its deadly visage, trying and failing to match it with the voice in my head. The revenant had devoured the populations of entire cities; it was also the entity who ordered me to eat my pottage. “I’ll have you know that I’m very good-looking by undead standards,” the revenant remarked.

If he got a thrill out of transforming these ill-gotten goods into legit merchandise, a zap-charge in his blood like he’d plugged into a socket, he was in control of it and not the other way around. Dizzying and powerful as it was. Everyone had secret corners and alleys that no one else saw—what mattered were your major streets and boulevards, the stuff that showed up on other people’s maps of you.

For instance, if a computer does not power up, you can start testing at the electrical socket; move to the power supply, power supply connectors, power switch, motherboard; and then move to the devices. This process moves through the sequential chain along the possible path that power would flow. Following a possible resolution path from one end to the other is sometimes referred to as the layered or linear approach.

Feeling loquacious now, Switters might have gone on to offer his theory on suicide bombers, to wit: Islamic terrorist groups were successful in attracting volunteer martyrs because the young men got to strap explosives on themselves and blast valuable public property to smithereens. Exhilarating boom-boom power. If they were required to martyr themselves by being dragged behind a bus or sticking a wet finger in a light socket, volunteers would be few and far between.

Many studies link addiction to the orbitofrontal cortex (OFC), a cortical segment found near the eye socket, or orbit.5 In drug addicts, whether they are intoxicated or not, it doesn’t function normally. The OFC’s relationship with addiction arises from its special role in human behavior and from its abundant supply of opioid and dopamine receptors. It is powerfully affected by drugs and powerfully reinforces the drug habit. It also plays an essential supporting role in nondrug addictions. Of course, it doesn’t function (or malfunction) on its own but forms part of an extensive and incredibly complex, multifaceted network—nor is it the only cortical area implicated in addiction.

The main circulating pumps began to cavitate and fill with steam, reducing the flow of valuable cooling water and allowing steam voids (pockets of steam where there should be water) to form in the core. A positive void coefficient was occurring: the absence of cooling water causing an exponential power increase. In simple terms, more steam = less water = more power = more heat = more steam. Because 4 of the 8 water pumps were running off the decelerating turbine, less and less water was supplied to the reactor as power increased. Throughout the building, ‘knocks’ were heard from the direction of the main reactor hall. Akimov’s control board indicated that the rods hadn’t moved far before freezing, only 2.5 meters from their raised position. Thinking quickly, he released the clutch on their servomotors to allow the heavy rods to fall into the core under their own weight, but they didn’t move: jammed. “I thought my eyes were coming out of my sockets. There was no way to explain it,” recalled Dyatlov, six years later. “It was clear that this was not a normal accident, but something much more terrible. It was a catastrophe.”118

Stupendous carnage was painted on the canvas, A depiction of repulsion was executed around the structure. It revealed its dark emblem by painting its sinister Red. Three intertwined bloated eyes are encrusted together, awfully deformed - the horrendous stench of decay can be smelt from it, for it exudes a sulfurous aroma of rotting animals. A torn torso of a butchered rabbit laid on the eye sockets, with all its arms, legs, and head severed off. A sludge-like, bubbling, dripping fluid oozed from the abnormally large eyes, leaving the ground deserted to rust and becoming the midst of a terrible famine. Blood Gushes from the slashes of each hideous eye, gouging out gore from the torn skin, spluttering and erupting gasping cries as it struggles in its own twisted misery of giving birth, as it was preparing to give shape-shifting life to a black-glass body, horn-like entity, unlike any childbirth you have ever witnessed. Satanic was this creature, whose muscle mass was disintegrated. All of his blood was squeezed out, forlorn and cold to the touch. The thorns on his head were intertwined into horns. A serpent's nose and wolf-like fangs were all this child had, as he had no gift of sight or hearing, he had only the smell of terror as his power.

By June the revival began to wane. But Roberts’s vision had been realized. An estimated 100,000 confessed Christ. The Congregationalists added 26,500 members. Another 24,000 Welsh joined the Calvinist Methodist Church. About 4,000 opted for the Wesleyan Church. The remainder were split between the Anglicans and several Baptist groups.13 The effect on Welsh society was undeniable. Output from the coal mines famously slowed because the horses wouldn’t move. Miners converted in the revival no longer kicked or swore at the horses, so the horses didn’t know what to do.14 Judges closed their courtrooms with nothing to judge. Christians wielded the revival as apologetic against the growing number of skeptics who derided religion. Stead argued: The most thoroughgoing materialist who resolutely and forever rejects as inconceivable the existence of the soul in man, and to whom “the universe is but the infinite empty eye-socket of a dead God,” could not fail to be impressed by the pathetic sincerity of these men; nor, if he were just, could he refuse to recognize that out of their faith in the creed which he has rejected they have drawn, and are drawing, a motive power that makes for righteousness, and not only for righteousness, but for the joy of living, that he would be powerless to give them.15

I kicked a rib cage off my foot and swaggered around the tree as if I owned the place. “Hey there!” Startled, Nidhogg stopped in mid-mutter. He stared at me, his huge yellow eyes blinking in confusion. Then, nostrils flaring dangerously, he let out a bellow that doubled as an impressive display of razor-sharp fangs. My heart faltered, but I swallowed my fear and pressed on. “Is that supposed to intimidate me?” I made a big show of rolling my eyes. “I’ve heard louder roars from Thor’s butt.” Nidhogg flinched as if I’d whacked him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. “That wasn’t very nice.” He sounded so hurt I almost felt sorry for him. Instead, I snorted with derision. “Buddy, I insult everyone.” I waved my daggers. “See these? They’re sharp, but not as sharp as my tongue.” Or your fangs, I added to myself as the dragon loomed in closer to inspect my blades. “Wow. Those are pointy.” Nidhogg looked genuinely impressed. “Are your insults really sharper than that?” “Mister, that question is so dumb it makes me think your brain is like Odin’s left eye socket—completely empty.” Nidhogg winced. “Wow. That really, really hurt. But you’re right, of course.” He tapped a daggerlike claw against his skull. “My brain is empty. Of insults, anyway.” That was my opening. I sheathed my daggers and cocked my head to one side as if considering something. “You know, I have some powerful one-liners that never fail to infuriate. I’d be willing to share a few, but what’s in it for me?” Nidhogg scratched his belly. “Well, for starters, I won’t eat you,” he offered. “Hmm. Tell you what. Let me climb up Yggdrasil when we’re done, and you’ve got a deal.” Nidhogg stuck out a claw. I thought he was going to slice me to ribbons, but then I realized he wanted to shake on it. I did so, very carefully. “Okay,” I said.

Celeste was finally looking at Victor—at the beast he had become—and I could see the terror and disbelief on her face. “No,” she breathed as he lifted her, his scarlet animal eyes glaring into hers. “No, it can’t be. The curse—it’s not true. It’s all superstition and nonsense!” Victor raised her higher and growled, deep in his throat. Celeste screamed and tried to break his grip but she couldn’t get free. She looked like a doll in his massive hands, a tiny blonde doll that kicked and shrieked as he brought her closer and closer to his gaping jaws. “Get back! Get away!” Celeste reached out with one hand and clawed at his eyes. She got the side of his face instead—the side she’d so recently branded. Victor’s beast snarled in pain and anger. He grabbed her arm and I heard a low popping sound as her shoulder disconnected from the socket. Then he simply yanked the arm off, like a hungry man twisting off a chicken drumstick. Celeste shrieked in mingled pain and disbelief, staring at the bloody socket where her arm had been. I understood her confusion—Victor shouldn’t have been able to tear her apart like this. She was a three-star vampire—one of the strongest beings on the planet. But clearly the beast inside him was stronger. “You can’t do this to me!” she screamed, lashing out with her other arm and baring her fangs. “I have lived for centuries and soon I will have the power to—” The beast’s jaws opened wide and I saw teeth as long as my hand glitter in the moonlight. He clamped down hard and bit into the slender white column of her throat. Celeste shrieked again, a high, terrified sound that ended abruptly in a dull, crunching—the bones of her neck being crushed, I realized. As I watched, the beast’s jaws met completely and I saw that he had bitten clean through her throat and spinal column. Her eyes were still wide with horror as her head toppled off and rolled to the ground at his feet.

Yet in 2012, he returned. Plenty of the speechwriters were livid. The club was the embodiment of everything we had promised to change. Was it really necessary to flatter these people, just because they were powerful and rich? In a word, yes. In fact, thanks to the Supreme Court, the rich were more powerful than ever. In 2010, the court’s five conservative justices gutted America’s campaign finance laws in the decision known as Citizens United. With no more limits to the number of attack ads they could purchase, campaigns had become another hobby for the ultrawealthy. Tired of breeding racehorses or bidding on rare wines at auction? Buy a candidate instead! I should make it clear that no one explicitly laid out a strategy regarding the dinner. I never asked point-blank if we hoped to charm billionaires into spending their billions on something other than Mitt Romney’s campaign. That said, I knew it couldn’t hurt. Hoping to mollify the one-percenters in the audience, I kept the script embarrassingly tame. I’ve got about forty-five more minutes on the State of the Union that I’d like to deliver tonight. I am eager to work with members of Congress to be entertaining tonight. But if Congress is unwilling to cooperate, I will be funny without them. Even for a politician, this was weak. But it apparently struck the right tone. POTUS barely edited the speech. A few days later, as a reward for a job well done, Favs invited me to tag along to a speechwriting-team meeting with the president. I had not set foot in the Oval Office since my performance of the Golden Girls theme song. On that occasion, President Obama remained behind his desk. For larger gatherings like this one, however, he crossed the room to a brown leather armchair, and the rest of us filled the two beige sofas on either side. Between the sofas was a coffee table. On the coffee table sat a bowl, which under George W. Bush had contained candy but under Obama was full of apples instead. Hence the ultimate Oval Office power move: grab an apple at the end of a meeting, polish it on your suit, and take a casual chomp on your way out the door. I would have sooner stuck my finger in an electrical socket. Desperate not to call attention to myself, I took the seat farthest away and kept my eyes glued to my laptop. I allowed myself just one indulgence: a quick peek at the Emancipation Proclamation. That’s right, buddy. Look who’s still here. It was only at the very end of the meeting, as we rose from the surprisingly comfy couches, that Favs brought up the Alfalfa dinner. The right-wing radio host Laura Ingraham had been in the audience, and she was struck by the president’s poise. “She was talking about it this morning,” Favs told POTUS. “She said, ‘I don’t know if Mitt Romney can beat him.

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.

Reaching the door of his mother’s apartments, Marcus found it locked. He rattled the handle violently. “Open it,” he bellowed. “Open it now!” Silence, and then a maid’s frightened reply from within. “Milord… the countess bade me to tell you that she is resting.” “I’ll send her to her eternal fucking rest,” Marcus roared, “if this door isn’t opened now.” “Milord, please—” He drew back three or four paces and hurled himself against the door, which shook on its hinges and partially gave with a splintering sound. There were fearful cries in the hallway from a pair of female guests who happened to witness the astonishing display of raging frenzy. “Dear God,” one exclaimed to the other, “he’s gone berserk!” Marcus drew back again and lunged at the door, this time sending chunks of paneling flying. He felt Simon Hunt’s hands grasp him from behind, and he whirled with his fist drawn back, ready to launch an attack on all fronts. “Jesus,” Hunt muttered, retreating a step or two with his hands raised in a defensive gesture. His face was taut and his eyes were wide, and he stared at Marcus as if he were a stranger. “Westcliff—” “Stay the hell out of my way!” “Gladly. But let me point out that if our positions were reversed, you would be the first to tell me to keep a cool—” Ignoring him, Marcus swerved back to the door and targeted the disjointed lock with a powerful, accurately aimed blow of his boot heel. The housemaid’s scream shot through the doorway as the ruined portal swung open. Bursting into the receiving room, Marcus charged toward the bedchamber, where the countess sat in a chair by a small hearth fire. Fully dressed and swathed in ropes of pearls, she stared at him with amused disdain. Breathing heavily, Marcus advanced on her with bloodlust racing through his veins. It was certain that the countess had no idea that she was in mortal danger, or she would not have received him so calmly. “Full of animal spirits today, are we?” she asked. “Your descent from gentleman to savage brute has been accomplished so very quickly. I must offer Miss Bowman my compliments on her efficacy.” “What have you done with her?” “Done with her?” Her expression taunted him with its innocent perplexity. “What the devil do you mean, Westcliff?” “You met with her at Butterfly Court this morning.” “I never walk that far from the manor,” the countess said haughtily. “What a ridiculous asser—” She let out a strident cry as Marcus seized her, his fingers wrapping around the pearl ropes and tightening them around her throat. “Tell me where she is, or I’ll snap your neck like a wishbone!” Simon Hunt seized him from behind once more, determined to prevent a murder from occurring. “Westcliff!” Marcus closed his hand in a harder grip around the pearls. He glared without blinking into his mother’s face, not missing the flicker of vindictive triumph that lurked in her eyes. He did not take his gaze from hers even as he heard his sister Livia’s voice. “Marcus,” she said urgently. “Marcus, listen to me! You have my permission to throttle her later. I’ll even help. But at least wait until we’ve found out what she’s done.” Marcus tightened the tension of the pearls until the elderly woman’s eyes seemed to protrude from their shallow sockets. “Your only value to me,” he said in a low tone, “is your knowledge of Lillian Bowman’s whereabouts. If I can’t obtain that from you, I’ll send you to the devil. Tell me, or I’ll choke it from you. And believe that I have enough of my father in me to do it without a second thought.

He didn't need the money. He lived alone and drew a modest pension and lived simply, in a small wooden house built so long ago it contained just one electrical outlet. Into the top socket was plugged his half-size refrigerator; the bottom socket sat empty. A tiny red spider sometimes appeared there, which Nao thought lucky. Nao owned a small TV and enjoyed certain weekly dramas enough to pay the NHK subscription fee, but rather than use the vacant socket to power the TV, he unplugged the refrigerator. Nao belived in spiders' rights. He also believed that life offered answers to those who stood still enough to hear them. (from the story Wisher)

I’m going to guess that in our seventeen years together, Joe and I have eaten an average of at least one meal out a week—plus at least one or two weeks a year when we are on vacation and we get to enjoy twenty-one restaurant meals. Using this rough calculation, I have heard my husband utter that exact line approximately one thousand four hundred times. If I didn’t madly love the man, or I had years of bitter resentment born of unmet needs and unheard desires festering in me, I can see where this might make me want to stick something sharp into his eye socket and twist it around a few dozen times for good measure. But I do and I don’t, respectively, so his attempted joke is actually endearing. It’s one of his things that I’d miss tragically if it went away. It would be that “Yeah, I hated it” line—not his dashing good looks or prowess with power tools or skills on the basketball court or anything else the rest of the world can plainly see—that I’d get most choked up on if I were delivering his eulogy today. There was a breakthrough, pivotal scene in the epically good movie Good Will Hunting, where Robin Williams plays a therapist reminiscing about his dead wife with his patient (Matt Damon). “She used to fart in her sleep,” Williams tells the clueless Damon character during an otherwise unproductive therapy session. “One night it was so loud it woke the dog up . . . She’s been dead two years, and that’s the shit I remember . . . little things like that, those are the things I miss the most. Those little idiosyncrasies that only I knew about; that’s what made her my wife. People call these things imperfections, but they’re not. No, that’s the good stuff.” That.

To take showers, one needs to heat water in a bucket by using two induction cables, which are either connected to a socket or plugged directly into a power generator. If this method sounds dangerous, rest assured, it is. One time, I touched the water while my cousin was warming it for his shower. The electric shock threw me back.

No, you’re just wasting your time with that! Who cares about the Apple II? The Apple II will be dead in a few years. Your OS will be obsolete before it’s finished. The Macintosh is the future of Apple, and you’re going to start on it now!” With that he walked over to my desk, found the power cord to my Apple II, gave it a sharp tug and pulled it out of the socket, causing my machine to lose power and the code I was working on to vanish. He unplugged my monitor, put it on top of the computer, and then picked both of them up and started walking away. “Come with me. I’m going to take you to your new desk.

Energy Saver Pro is a efficient and effective power-saving tool that may help in saving plenty of money every month. it's been in tremendous demand and it is very easy to apply as well. you could sincerely plug it in any line or socket. it's far a noticeably secure and dependable tool due to the fact all of the critical protection measures are taken. it's far just like an terrific gain on your electric appliances. it'll start saving more electricity with ordinary use

Check for Power If the connection to the NAND-gate IC is correct, use a multimeter to measure the output voltage from the start/stop circuit to see whether it’s working correctly. Set your multimeter to measure voltage. Make sure the black measurement lead is connected to the multimeter’s COM socket, and the red measurement lead is connected to the V socket. Touch the tip of the black lead of the multimeter to the negative side of the battery, and touch the red lead to pin 11 on the 4011 NAND-gate IC. You should see a high signal—about 9 V—after clicking the stop button and a low signal—about 0 V—after pushing the start button. If not, check the connections of the SR latch circuit to find the error.

It took only a generation after the end of the Depression for Americans to become consummately modern individuals, until as a nation we had lost working knowledge of a coal brazier, a kerosene lamp, a latrine, an ice box, a well, a mangler, or anything else more complicated than a switch, a button, an outlet, a socket, a tap, or a flusher. And yet, it was the case that almost no one had any idea how the replacement technology (a coal-burning power plant for a brazier, or sewer treatment plant for an outhouse, or water purification plant for a well) worked. By the mid-1970s, who, driving down the highway, could tell the difference between an oil refinery and a coal-burning power plant? A sewage treatment plant and a water purification plant (or, for that matter, a fish hatchery)? Realistically, who needed to be able to distinguish among these classes of support? Nobody, except the professionals charged with maintaining them. As long as the switches, buttons, outlets, sockets, taps, and flushers worked, the benefit of all the rest having become distant undertakings running along long wires and through long pipes was they at they were no longer our immediate concern.

In the same way that genetic information is stored as DNA, epigenetic information is stored in a structure called chromatin. DNA in the cell isn’t flailing around disorganized, it is wrapped around tiny balls of protein called histones. These beads on a string self-assemble to form loops, as when you tidy your garden hose on your driveway by looping it into a pile. If you were to play tug-of-war using both ends of a chromosome, you’d end up with a six foot-long string of DNA punctuated by thousands of histone proteins. If you could somehow plug one end of the DNA into a power socket and make the histones flash on and off, a few cells could do you for holiday lights. In simple species, like ancient M. superstes and fungi today, epigenetic information storage and transfer is important for survival. For complex life, it is essential. By complex life, I mean anything made up of more than a couple of cells: slime molds, jellyfish, worms, fruit flies, and of course mammals like us. Epigenetic information is what orchestrates the assembly of a human newborn made up of 26 billion cells from a single fertilized egg and what allows the genetically identical cells in our bodies to assume thousands of different modalities.24 If the genome were a computer, the epigenome would be the software. It instructs the newly divided cells on what type of cells they should be and what they should remain, sometimes for decades, as in the case of individual brain neurons and certain immune cells.

He was readying his energistic powers to deal with her bodyguards, who had now caught her up, when she did her level best to ram his testicles into his eye sockets via his intestinal tract.

I tried to stop my imagination at that point, but by then the image was more powerful than I was. I kept looking, I couldn’t take my eyes off it, the way you’ll watch open-heart surgery or an eye operation on TV, even though you know you shouldn’t, the remote in your hand, your thumb on the button, ready to zap away, but you wait too long: the shot of the sawed-open rib cage, the surgeon’s hands in their green plastic gloves holding the throbbing heart, the white eyeball hanging out of its socket, attached to the head by only a few bloody threads, will remain tattooed on your retinas for the rest of your life.

Linus: Okay sorry, what is this called ? Scotty: "Huaqiangbei" *laughs* Linus: fantastic, alright so i'm here at Scotty: "Huaqiangbei" Linus: yeah perfect thank you, with Scotty From 'Strange Parts', so I'm "getting me some strange parts" In China Which is actually exactly what we're doing So, in this, like, gigantic tech mall-thing They have everything from components like switches To.. Computer parts, to drones, to cryptocurrency-crap Mobile phones.. Pretty much you name it, they got it here. So I don't really have any objective, other than go shopping and see exactly what it is That I can buy with my little stack of 'Canadian Rubles' here. So, uhh.. Wish me luck. And hopefully that's not for me. Scotty: No, I think we're good. [chuckles] [Intro music: Laszlo - Supernova] Linus: This video is brought to you by Corsair's Obsidian 500D It's a mid-tower gaming case, featuring: Premium tempered glass an aluminium construction Removable top fan trays and more! Check it out at the link below. Scotty: I think this is going to be an uphill battle, To get them to even recognize what those are, let alone know the value of them. Linus: They are gonna be like "what is this $H!T?!" Yeah, no, it's okay; there's an ATM. This is the world's most helpful error message: "Transaction is cancelled for some reason" "Operation Timeout" "Thank you!" Okay.. So like this is the kind of stuff that I wish we had a shop like this. We were trying to do a piece a little while ago Where we wanted lit.. Uhh.. Buttons! Or like.. Like.. Big fun buttons we could press And if we could have just walked into a mall and bought them That would have made my Christmas. Scotty: The cool thing about here, particularly for buttons, is you can actually come in and touch them, right. So, like, the button-feel is super important Linus: Oh my god, I already found something I need. Entire bags of like, motherboard standoffs. I was trying to buy just a bag of computer screws Only place I could find for it was eBay Pricing was just totally unreasonable. Scotty: Yeah and it will be very reasonable here. Linus: Smartwatches, totally 100% real Beats. Scotty: These are probably, like, semi-real Linus: Semi-real? Scotty: Yeah, like refurb-ed type. Linus: Right, okay. Wow. This place is enormous. Scotty: It's crazy, right? This is probably one of twenty buildings Linus: Honestly, it's overwhelming. Scotty: Yeah. Linus: Okay, so here's stuff I mostly recognize. Scotty: "Right!" Linus: There's like A bunch of mining gear.. Like Antminers and.. What else do they got? Mining Power supplies ROG.. Something something Looks like Very similar SKU's Linus: I'm just looking. Linus: just looking Linus: Uhh.. Linus: No, I don't.. Necessarily wanna get lead in here. Linus: Hi! Nah, I'm just looking around, it's okay. Linus: Thank you. [Sad Music] I mean this is the kind of thing you would never find in a retail store back home This is like, dual socket, like server boards and stuff like that. Can you ask how much this 1800W Xfurbish

Power levels were dropped so low that even voice communications were difficult. Removing carbon dioxide from the air was another serious problem. Lithium hydroxide normally did the job but there wasn’t enough of it. The only additional supply they had was in the Command Module, and its canisters were cube-shaped whereas the Lunar Module’s sockets were cylindrical. It looked like the men would suffocate before they made it back. In one of the most inspired brainstorming sessions of all time, engineers on the ground got out all the kit that the crew would have available. They then improvised a ‘mailbox’ that would join the two incompatible connections and draw the air through. The air was becoming more poisonous with every breath as the astronauts followed the meticulous radio instructions to build the Heath Robinson repair. Amazingly, it worked. They would have enough clean air. But they weren’t out of the woods yet. They needed to re-enter the atmosphere in the Command Module, but it had been totally shut down to preserve its power. Would it start up again? Its systems hadn’t been designed to do this. Again, engineers and crew on the ground had to think on their feet if their friends were to live. They invented an entirely new protocol that would power the ship back up with the limited power supply and time available without blowing the system. They also feared that condensation in the unpowered and freezing cold Command Module might damage electrical systems when it was reactivated. It booted up first time. Back to Earth with a splash With Apollo 13 nearing Earth, the crew jettisoned the Service Module and photographed the damage for later analysis. Then they jettisoned the redundant Lunar Module, leaving them sitting tight in the Command Module Odyssey as they plunged into the atmosphere.

I gather my grub and sit behind my desk. He moves a chair, situated too far for his liking, and presses it very close to the front of my desk. He extricates a long envelope, squished in his side pocket, and proudly slaps it in front of me on my desk. “My grades,” he announces, “from camp.” His voice has moved to a preadolescent octave of excitement, and I scurry to join him at the parade. “De veeeras,” as I relieve the transcript from its container. Looney straightens his back and hops a little in the chair. “Straight A’s,” he says. “Seeeerrriioo?” I say. “Me la rallo,” he says. “Straight A’s.” Like a kid fumbling with wrapping on a present, I get the transcript out and extend it open. And, sure enough, right there before my eyes: 2 Cs; 2 Bs; 1 A. And I think, Close enough. Not the straightest A’s I’ve ever seen. I decide not to tell Looney he’s an “unreliable reporter” here. “Wow, mijo,” I tell him, “Bien hecho. Nice goin’.” I carefully refold the transcript and put it back in the envelope. “On everything I love, mijo,” I say to him, “if you were my son, I’d be the proudest man alive.” In a flash, Looney situates his thumb and first finger in his eye sockets, trembling, and wanting to stem the flow of tears, which seem to be inevitable at this point. Like the kid with the fingers in the dike, he’s shaking now and desperate not to cry. I look at this little guy and know that he has been returned to a situation largely unchanged. Parents are either absent at any given time or plagued by mental illness. Chaos and dysfunction is what will now surround him as before. His grandmother, a good woman, whose task it is now to raise this kid, is not quite up to the task. I know that one month before this moment I buried Looney’s best friend, killed in our streets for no reason at all. So I lead with my gut. “I bet you’re afraid to be out, aren’t you?” This seems to push the Play button on Looney’s tear ducts, and quickly he folds his arms on the front of my desk and rests his sobbing head on his folded arms. I let him cry it out. Finally, I reach across the desk and place my hand on his shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay.” Looney sits up with what is almost defiance and tends to the wiping of his tears. “I . . . just . . . want . . . to have a life.” I am taken aback by the determination with which he says this. “Well, mijo,” I say to him, “who told you that you wouldn’t have one?

Yet even these missionaries of mechanical progress cannot entirely ignore the older passion for nature that still survives as an essential part of our New World heritage; for they have invented a prefabricated substitute for the wilderness, or at least an ingenious equivalent for the hunter's campfire. That ancient paleolithic hearth has become a backyard picnic grill, where, surrounded by plastic vegetation, factory-processed frankfurters are broiled on an open fire made with pressed charcoal eggs, brought to a combustion point by an electric torch connected by wire to a distant socket, while the assembled company views, either on television or on a domestic motion-picture screen, a travelogue through an African game preserve, or scenes with the grizzly bears in Yellowstone. Ah! Wilderness. For many of my own countrymen this is, I fear, the terminus of the pioneers' New World dream.

energy.” Reluctantly, I shifted my seat bone back a hair and Folly rewarded me with a large buck and a leap to the right that nearly tore my arms from their sockets, before surging into a canter. Even though it was terrifying and pretty much out of control, for a moment, I could feel why everyone thought Folly was a great horse. She propelled us forward across the area like a Pegasus, all power and wind and terrifying speed. If she hadn’t also been trying to kill me, it would have been amazing. Cole shouted some things I couldn’t hear, and I just concentrated on staying upright and keeping Folly turning in smaller figure eight circles in the hopes that she’d eventually tire herself out and stop. Every time we switched directions, she surged forward with her ears pinned into what was either a buck or a lead change, I couldn’t quite tell. All I knew was that when she eventually slowed to a jarring trot of her own accord, we were both covered in sweat and exhausted. Folly’s ears sagged to the sides and there were big strands of sweaty foam lathering her neck.

Via HP Support resolve the Error code ‘0xC19A0003’ Among all the amazing printers out there in the market, HP printers are the most dependable one. However, it is also not free from some technical errors and issues. There are some issues that irritate the users whenever they try to access their HP printers. Sometimes, HP printer users encounter the error code 0xC19A0003, this is also known as ‘Ink System Failure’ issue. If you also facing this error and want to fix this error in HP printer, then you need to get in touch with the experts of HP Support. This error might occur due to the unnecessary ink leakage at the bottom of the printer. When the ink cartridges area is fulfilled by the ink then you see this error code on your computer screen. There could be some more causes behind this Print head error code 0xC19A0003, such as: • When the ink of cartridge doesn’t flow in the right manner. • Sometimes due to the damaged ink cartridge create this problem in your printer. • Outdated drivers often create this error to stumble upon you. The ink system failure error may get determined after you power off your HP printer and then power it on again. But, sometimes this process doesn’t work. If you are not a tech-savvy person, then you don’t need to worry, just go through the below mentioned points and try to fix the issue on your own. In order to reset the HP printer, do the following: Press the power of your HP printer to turn it on. When your HP printer is turned on completely, then disconnect the attached power cord at the back of the printer. Now, remove the power cord from its power outlet as well. Wait for around 10 to 20 seconds and then plug the power cord into the wall socket. Next, plug in the power cord into the wall socket and then reconnect the power cord to the HP printer. After a while the HP printer will turn on by itself and if it doesn’t then you need to press the power button. Even after trying if the issues still persists, then you should remove the clean the print head and reinstall it properly. Such severe errors can be effortlessly fixed and prevented by simply updating the printer driver. You can do this in both ways, manually or automatically by using a reliable driver update tool to upgrade your HP Drivers. If you want to know about this in detail or having some issues related to HP printer, then you can make a call at our HP Support Number. This number is accessible throughout the day and night to help out the needy one like you.

Zen Buddhism teaches that the main cause of human suffering and unhappiness is “attachment.” People become attached to ideas, opinions, and material things, and then they are reluctant to let go of them. Sometimes people become so preoccupied with these external factors that it affects their mental and physical health—even keeping them awake at night. When you practice detachment, separating yourself emotionally from things or outcomes, the negative emotions involved stop as well, like unplugging a light from the socket.