Principal's Office Quotes

Sometimes you have to steer away from the crowd in order to be a better person. It's not always easy, that's for sure. But it's right. And sometimes doing the right thing feels good, even if it does end up in a trip to the principal's office.

Everyone is recharged for the second half, no bell, no forced learning, no principal’s office for tardiness or absenteeism; instead, a voluntary return to our collective pane of learning. Final conversations simmer down and the attention is refocused.

So let me get this straight.”... “He threw the note at Tommy and then told him to fuck off? Or do I have it backwards?” “I’m detecting some sarcasm.” “And then got himself sent the principal’s office because he was ready to defend your honor?” “Quinn.” “Her friend waved a hand. “No, I think you might be on to something. This is clearly an elaborate plot to screw with you. He asks you out, he defends you from that meathead—what next?” Quinn’s eyes flashed wide in mock surprise. “Crap, Bex, do you think he will do something truly horrible like buy you flowers?

The state — or, to make matters more concrete, the government — consists of a gang of men exactly like you and me. They have, taking one with another, no special talent for the business of government; they have only a talent for getting and holding office. Their principal device to that end is to search out groups who pant and pine for something they can’t get, and to promise to give it to them. Nine times out of ten that promise is worth nothing. The tenth time it is made good by looting ‘A’ to satisfy ‘B’. In other words, government is a broker in pillage, and every election is a sort of advanced auction on stolen goods.

A chiropractor is a doctor who performs adjustments on the spine," Rickey told the class before bending Gary backward and "adjusting" him, ripping off the false arm and spraying red hair dye all over the classroom. Gary howled in "pain" and collapsed dramatically on the threadbare school carpet, his legs flailing a bit before hitting the floor with a terrible, final-sounding thunk. That was the first time they were sent to the principal's office together. They had to apologize to their teacher and explain to their classmates that doctor visits were unlikely to result in surprise dismemberments.

Charlie says kissing is like baseball without the bat," Sam said. "I think it's more like fotball without the pads," Tess laughed. "You ever kiss a girl?" "Nah" Sam said. "Tried once, but Stacie Bing popped me in the nose and knocked me out. I woke up in the principal's office." "Really?" "Swear.

I have not had so good of a week. Well, monday was a pretty good day, if you don't count Hamburger Surprise at lunch and Margaret's mother coming to get her. Or the stuff that happened in the principal's office when I got sent there to explain that Margaret's hair was not my fault and besides she looks okay without it, but I couldn't because Principal Rice was gone, trying to calm down Margaret's mother. Someone should tell you not to answer the phone in the principal's office, if that's a rule. Okay, fine, Monday was not so good of a day.

The problem with a beautiful woman is that she makes everyone around her feel hopelessly masculine, which if you’re already male to begin with poses no particular problem. But if you’re anyone else, your whole sexual identity gets dragged into the principal’s office: “So what’s this I hear about you prancing around, masquerading as a woman?” You are answerless. You are sitting on your hands. You are praying for your breasts to grow, your hair to perk up.

Noah was no longer at my side when I turned. He had Kent from algebra pinned against the car. "I should injure you considerably," he said in a low voice "Dude, chill." Kent was completely calm. "Noah," I heard myself say. "Its not worth it." Noah's eyes narrowed, but apon hearing my voice, he released Kent who straightened his shirt and brushed the front of his khakis. "Get fucked, Kent," Noah said as he turned away. The idiot laughed, "Oh, I will." Noah whirled around and I heard the unmistakable impact of knuckles meeting face. Kent was on the concrete, his hands clutching his nose. When he started to get up, Noah said, "I wouldn't. I'm barely above kicking the shit out of you on the ground. Barely." "You broke my nose!" Blood streamed down Kents shirt and a crowd formed a small circle around the three of us. A teacher parted the throng and called out, "Principals office NOW, Shaw." Noah ignored him and walked over to me, inordinately calm. He placed his good hand on the small of my back and my legs threatened to dissolve. The bell rang and I looked at Noah as he leaned in and brushed his lips against my ear. He whispered into my hair, "It was worth it." - The Unbecoming Of Mara Dyer

While Calvin is in the classroom TEACHER: Yes, Calvin? CALVIN: Miss Wormwood, I'm a fierce advocate of the separation of church and state. CALVIN: Nevertheless, I feel the need for spiritual guidance and comfort as I face the day's struggles. CALVIN: So I was wondering if I could strip down, smear myself withg paste, and set fire to this little effigy of you in a non-denominational sort of way. CALVIN (After being sent to the Principal's office): Boy, what a touchy subject!

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE AMBER LAMONT’S parents tried to kill her, she was sitting between them in the principal’s office, her hands in her lap, stifling all the things she wanted to say.

Baudelaires had visited the office of Vice Principal Nero and learned about all of the academy’s strict and unfair rules. When they worked

...the notion of the classroom as an intellectual community gets lost when conference rooms by the principal's office are turned into data rooms - rooms in which walls, floor to ceiling, are covered with test scores of every child in the school - and "Days Until the TEST" banners greet students and parents as they enter the school. That, at the very least, suggests the school is more interested in making sure students pass a test than in creating an intellectual community.

You tell me your fantasies, and I will make everything we do so good for you, you won’t be able to get enough

It is not comfortable or easy to sit in a principal's office, waiting for a verdict.

There are at least two sets of Rules for Life, as far as I can tell. There are the ones that get you picked up by the cops or taken to the assistant principal's office if you break them: Don't leave school grounds, don't spray paint stop signs, don't drink, ,don't drop firecrackers in the toliets. But there's a different set that you really can't break if you don't want your life to suck relentlessly. At the head of the list, Rule Number One: Don't get noticed. As long as you stay exactly the person everyone thinks you're supposed to be, you're fine.

Mrs. Chatham looked like . . . well, like a kid who had been sent to the principal’s office. She squirmed a little in her chair and tried to smile. She said, “Well, we do still have a little problem, but it’s under control. Mrs. Granger may have overreacted a bit. I don’t think the children have really been trying to be disrespectful.

EHMs provide favors. These take the form of loans to develop infrastructure—electric generating plants, highways, ports, airports, or industrial parks. A condition of such loans is that engineering and construction companies from our own country must build all these projects. In essence, most of the money never leaves the United States; it is simply transferred from banking offices in Washington to engineering offices in New York, Houston, or San Francisco. Despite the fact that the money is returned almost immediately to corporations that are members of the corporatocracy (the creditor), the recipient country is required to pay it all back, principal plus interest.

And I am proud, but mostly, I’m angry. I’m angry, because when I look around, I’m still alone. I’m still the only black woman in the room. And when I look at what I’ve fought so hard to accomplish next to those who will never know that struggle I wonder, “How many were left behind?” I think about my first-grade class and wonder how many black and brown kids weren’t identified as “talented” because their parents were too busy trying to pay bills to pester the school the way my mom did. Surely there were more than two, me and the brown boy who sat next to me in the hall each day. I think about my brother and wonder how many black boys were similarly labeled as “trouble” and were unable to claw out of the dark abyss that my brother had spent so many years in. I think about the boys and girls playing at recess who were dragged to the principal’s office because their dark skin made their play look like fight. I think about my friend who became disillusioned with a budding teaching career, when she worked at the alternative school and found that it was almost entirely populated with black and brown kids who had been sent away from the general school population for minor infractions. From there would only be expulsions or juvenile detention. I think about every black and brown person, every queer person, every disabled person, who could be in the room with me, but isn’t, and I’m not proud. I’m heartbroken. We should not have a society where the value of marginalized people is determined by how well they can scale often impossible obstacles that others will never know. I have been exceptional, and I shouldn’t have to be exceptional to be just barely getting by. But we live in a society where if you are a person of color, a disabled person, a single mother, or an LGBT person you have to be exceptional. And if you are exceptional by the standards put forth by white supremacist patriarchy, and you are lucky, you will most likely just barely get by. There’s nothing inspirational about that.

Got some more customers for ya," said Camden, taking off his baseball cap to bend the brim, and then putting it back on again. "Wait, she deals drugs too?" asked Brad. I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. Apparently, neither could the student teacher passing by us in the hallway; she whipped her head around to stare suspiciously for a moment before either deciding that we were harmless or deciding to stroll on over to Principal Davis's office in an exceedingly casual manner.

The principal wasn’t using his normal office because I’d blown it up by firing a mortar round into it. (It was an accident.)

We’d all met in the office and told the vice principal—who, like all vice principals, is genetically Nazi—what we’d seen. He

I've never been in trouble before. Never even been sent to the principal’s office. But now I'm in jail, being threatened with some half-baked vagrancy charge.

principal’s office. A piece of paper was taped to it. It said PIRNCIPAL.

Remarkable ploy of the Barrayarans," Mehta expounded thoughtfully. "Concealing an espionage ring under the cover of a love affair. I might even have bought it, if the principals had been more likely." "Yes," Cordelia agreed cordially, writhing within. "One doesn't expect a thirty-four-year-old to fall in love like an adolescent. Quite an unexpected - gift, at my age. Even more unexpected at forty-four, I gather." "Exactly," said Mehta, pleased by Cordelia's ready understanding. "A middle-aged career officer is hardly the stuff of romance.

My sixth-grade classroom was the old principal’s office, but as the school gets bigger, rooms are running out. I’ve never had to be here before. I’m not the kind of kid who breaks the rules.

Whatever is the cause of taxes to a Nation, becomes also the means of revenue to Government. Every war terminates with an addition of taxes, and consequently with an addition of revenue, and in any event of war, in the manner they are now commenced and concluded, the power and interest of Governments are increased. War, therefore, from its productiveness, as it easily furnishes the pretense of necessity for taxes and appointments to places and offices, becomes a principal part of the system of old governments; and to establish any mode to abolish war, however advantageous it might be to Nations, would be to take from such Government the most lucrative of its branches. The frivolous matters upon which war is made, show the disposition and avidity of Governments to uphold the system of war, and betray the motives upon which they act.

There were moments of racial unity. Lawrence Goodwyn found in east Texas an unusual coalition of black and white public officials: it had begun during Reconstruction and continued into the Populist period. The state government was in the control of white Democrats, but in Grimes County, blacks won local offices and sent legislators to the state capital. The district clerk was a black man; there were black deputy sheriffs and a black school principal. A night-riding White Man’s Union used intimidation and murder to split the coalition, but Goodwyn points to “the long years of interracial cooperation in Grimes County” and wonders about missed opportunities.

Recourse to thick narrative detail reveals that the principal hurdle in the way of a united Pakistan was not disagreement on constitutional matters but the transfer of power from military to civilian hands. More concerned with perpetuating himself in office, Yahya Khan was strikingly nonchalant about the six points. He left that to the West Pakistani politicians, in particular Bhutto, who, contrary to the impression in some quarters, was more of a fall guy for the military junta than a partner in crime.

There's a joke about the balloon boy who has a balloon mum and a balloon dad and he goes to a balloon school with balloon friends ad a balloon principal. And one day, the balloon boy decides to take a pin to his balloon school, which is, of course, a disaster. And he's called into the balloon principal's office, and the balloon principal tells him, 'You've let me down, you've let your school down, you've let your parents down, you've let your friends down. But most importantly you've let yourself down'.

So, early in the war, he created an entirely separate department outside the normal chain of command, called the Statistical Office, with the principal function of feeding him—continuously updated and completely unfiltered—the most brutal facts of reality.

He knocked politely and entered the principal’s office with his dad face in full effect. He put his hand on my shoulder in a way that came off as both stern and proud. He was dad-ing it up for the principal, which I was actually a little grateful for, but it also made me mad.

And it is not to be supposed that many who were not sailors would accompany the expedition, except the kings and principal officers; for the troops had to cross the sea, bringing with them the materials of war, in vessels without decks, built after the old piratical fashion. (Book 1 Chapter 10.4) [...]The cause of the inferiority was not so much the want of men as the want of money;the invading army was limited, by the difficulty of obtaining supplies, to such a number as might be expected to live on the country in which they were to fight. (Book 1 Chapter 11.1)

Jenna walked in between desks and plonked herself down behind hers, noticing AGAIN that the teacher hadn’t graced the class with his zitty presence. She thought Mr. Kennan needed to get fired, which said a lot, because she rarely paid attention to ugly teachers. She’d discussed this with the principal two weeks back when she’d been sent to his office after getting caught sleeping. She’d told him that if he employed more hot teachers like Mr. Daniels then maybe she wouldn’t pass out from boredom. The principal gave her a week’s detention because of that comment, saying that she needed to take things more seriously. But she WAS being serious. Jenna Hamilton from Graffiti Heaven (Chapter 28).

. . .under democracy” he writes “. . .Two branches reveal themselves. There is the art of the demagogue, and there is the art of what may be called…the demaslave. . .The demagogue is one who preaches doctrines he knows to be untrue to men he knows to be idiots. The demaslave is one who listens to what these idiots have to say and then pretends that he believes it himself. Every man who seeks elective office under democracy has to be either the one thing or the other, and most men have to be both . . .No educated man, stating plainly the elementary notions that every educated man holds about the matters that principally concern government, could be elected to office in a democratic state, save perhaps by a miracle.

9. Your Photo Album Many people have a photo album. In it they keep memories of the happiest of times. There may be a photo of them playing by the beach when they were very young. There may be the picture with their proud parents at their graduation ceremony. There will be many shots of their wedding that captures their love at one of its highest points. And there will be holiday snapshots too. But you will never find in your album any photographs of miserable moments of your life. Absent is the photo of you outside the principal’s office at school. Missing is any photo of you studying hard late into the night for your exams. No one that I know has a picture of their divorce in their album, nor one of them in a hospital bed terribly sick, nor stuck in busy traffic on the way to work on a Monday morning! Such depressing shots never find their way into anyone’s photo album. Yet there is another photo album that we keep in our heads called our memory. In that album, we include so many negative photographs. There you find so many snapshots of insulting arguments, many pictures of the times when you were so badly let down, and several montages of the occasions where you were treated cruelly. There are surprisingly few photos in that album of happy moments. This is crazy! So let’s do a purge of the photo album in our head. Delete the uninspiring memories. Trash them. They do not belong in this album. In their place, put the same sort of memories that you have in a real photo album. Paste in the happiness of when you made up with your partner, when there was that unexpected moment of real kindness, or whenever the clouds parted and the sun shone with extraordinary beauty. Keep those photos in your memory. Then when you have a few spare moments, you will find yourself turning its pages with a smile, or even with laughter.

This public envy, seemeth to beat chiefly upon principal officers or ministers, rather than upon kings, and estates themselves. But this is a sure rule, that if the envy upon the minister be great, when the cause of it in him is small; or if the envy be general, in a manner upon all the ministers of an estate; then the envy (though hidden) is truly upon the state itself.

Colonel Robert Sink, commanding officer of the 506th PIR, ordered me to prepare a written summary of the battle since no senior officer witnessed the engagement. I purposely avoided the use of the first personal pronoun ‘I’ because I wanted each soldier to receive credit for what he had done. Later Sink issued a citation to the 1st Platoon that shouldered the principal burden of the fight.

Later that month, the principal called me into his office, offered some pleasantries and a Co’-Cola, then asked: “Son, are you a subversive?” I assured him I was not. I told him I’d voted for Ike. He seemed satisfied, but suggested I might stick more to the “generally accepted reading list” in the future. Hairstyles change, and skirt lengths, and slang, but high school administrations? Never.

principal was on the stage singing and leading us in the old song “On the Road to Mandalay.” He would emphasize by winking after each line of the song like some vaudeville singer. Being so tall I stood out and he could look right at me. So every time he would wink I would imitate him and wink back at him. When we got done with the assembly he told me to wait in his office for him. I went and sat there in the chair in front of his desk. He was a pretty big man, my height, only he outweighed me. He walked into the office, came up behind me, and cuffed me hard on the back of the head just the way my father used to whenever I lost one of his beer bets for him. “You fat fuck,” I said and jumped up and decked him. I broke his jaw, and they expelled me permanently on the spot. Naturally,

The regular distribution of power into distinct departments; the introduction of legislative balances and checks; the institution of courts composed of judges holding their offices during good behavior; the representation of the people in the legislature by deputies of their own election: these are wholly new discoveries, or have made their principal progress towards perfection in modern times.

Who’s influenced you the most in your life?” “My principal, Ms. Lopez.” “How has she influenced you?” “When we get in trouble, she doesn’t suspend us. She calls us to her office and explains to us how society was built down around us. And she tells us that each time somebody fails out of school, a new jail cell gets built. And one time she made every student stand up, one at a time, and she told each one of us that we matter.

At two o’clock, Paul and I commandeered the principal’s office and together we interviewed the highest-priority witnesses: the victim’s close friends, a few kids who were known to walk to school through Cold Spring Park, and those who specifically requested to speak with the investigators. Two dozen interviews were scheduled for the two of us. Other CPAC detectives would conduct interviews at the same time. Most we expected to be brief and yield nothing. We were trawling, dragging our net along the sea bottom, hoping.

What is it?” “It’s a souvenir.” I frown, sitting back in my chair. “For what?” “I didn’t even wash it.” She laughs. “Tinsley, that better not be what I think it is.” I growl. She lifts her mother’s eyes and smiles at me. “You can’t take a knife to school.” She knows this. We just went over this last week. With me, her mother, the principal, and the police officer that were present for our mandatory meeting. “I’m going to mail it to him.” I run a hand down my face, holding in a sigh. I thought Carnage was going to be the death of me. But nope. It’s my teenage daughter.

It’s funny the things you miss. Like phone cords. Reading this today, you might not even know what a phone cord is. Or it’s a relic that you see in an office, or on that antique phone in the corner of the classroom, used to call the principal’s secretary. But once upon a time—that would be our time—a telephone cord seemed like nothing less than a lifeline. It was your attachment to the outside world and, even more than that, your attachment to the people you loved, or wanted to love, or tried to love. Everything about it was fitting—the way it curled in on itself, they way it got so easily tangled, the way you could pull it only so far before it kept you in place. Twisted and knotted and essential.

It was December 15, 2012, the day after twenty-year-old Adam Lanza fatally shot twenty children between six and seven years old, as well as six adult staff members, at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut. I remember thinking, Maybe if all the mothers in the world crawled on their hands and knees toward those parents in Newtown, we could take some of the pain away. We could spread their pain across all of our hearts. I would do it. Can’t we find a way to hold some of it for them? I’ll take my share. Even if it adds sadness to all my days. My friends and I didn’t rush to start a fund that day. We didn’t storm the principal’s office at our kids’ school asking for increased security measures. We didn’t call politicians or post on Facebook. We would do all that in the days to come. But the day right after the shooting, we just sat together with nothing but the sound of occasional weeping cutting through the silence. Leaning in to our shared pain and fear comforted us. Being alone in the midst of a widely reported trauma, watching endless hours of twenty-four-hour news or reading countless articles on the Internet, is the quickest way for anxiety and fear to tiptoe into your heart and plant their roots of secondary trauma. That day after the mass killing, I chose to cry with my friends, then I headed to church to cry with strangers. I couldn’t have known then that in 2017 I would speak at a fund-raiser for the Resiliency Center of Newtown and spend time sitting with a group of parents whose children were killed at Sandy Hook. What I’ve learned through my work and what I heard that night in Newtown makes one thing clear: Not enough of us know how to sit in pain with others. Worse, our discomfort shows up in ways that can hurt people and reinforce their own isolation. I have started to believe that crying with strangers in person could save the world. Today there’s a sign that welcomes you to Newtown: WE ARE SANDY HOOK. WE CHOOSE LOVE. That day when I sat in a room with other mothers from my neighborhood and cried, I wasn’t sure what we were doing or why. Today I’m pretty sure we were choosing love in our own small way.

For too long we have been the playthings of massive corporations, whose sole aim is to convert our world into a gargantuan shopping 'mall'. Pleasantry and civility are being discarded as the worthless ephemera of a bygone age; an age where men doffed their hats at ladies, and children could be counted on to mind your Jack Russell while you took a mild and bitter in the pub. The twinkly-eyed tobacconist, the ruddy-cheeked landlord and the bewhiskered teashop lady are being trampled under the mighty blandness of 'drive-thru' hamburger chains. Customers are herded in and out of such places with an alarming similarity to the way the cattle used to produce the burgers are herded to the slaughterhouse. The principal victim of this blandification is Youth, whose natural propensity to shun work, peacock around the town and aggravate the constabulary has been drummed out of them. Youth is left with a sad deficiency of joie de vivre, imagination and elegance. Instead, their lives are ruled by territorial one-upmanship based on brands of plimsoll, and Youth has become little more than a walking, barely talking advertising hoarding for global conglomerates. ... But now, a spectre is beginning to haunt the reigning vulgarioisie: the spectre of Chappism. A new breed of insurgent has begun to appear on the streets, in the taverns and in the offices of Britain: The Anarcho-Dandyist. Recognisable by his immaculate clothes, the rakish angle of his hat and his subtle rallying cry of "Good day to you sir/ madam!

One study showed that omega-3s were equivalent in effect to Prozac in treating depression, and the combination was more effective than either one alone.64 In a related study, administration of omega-3s to patients with recurrent self-harm (e.g., cutting, picking, scratching, burning—the ultimate expression of anxiety) showed a reduction in suicidality, depression, and daily stress.65 A recent trial gave omega-3s along with minerals to eleven-year-old kids with conduct disorder or oppositional defiant disorder (the ones who routinely find themselves in the principal’s office), and within three months their aggression was reduced, and way better than talk therapy.66 Lastly, omega-3 consumption can help ward off depression in children67 and adults,68 and can serve as an adjunct to SSRIs in its treatment.69

Whenever you lose control, someone else always finds it.” These were the words of my high school English teacher Mr. Sologar on our first day of class. They didn’t have anything to do with literature or grammar, but I guess he wanted to kick off the class with a life lesson. It was a good one. If we acted up at home, he explained, control of our lives would swiftly transfer to our parents in the form of lost privileges or being grounded. The same was true at school. If we abused our freedom in the classroom or in the hallways—and we did!—we’d find ourselves in the principal’s office or confined to detention. If we got really crazy and decided to break the law, the legal system would step in to curtail our freedom. “No, control is never truly lost,” he repeated in his thick Indian accent. “If you fail to control yourself, others will control you.

According to the man, who identified himself as Morton Thornton, the night got real long and by midnight, he was darn well wed to one of the lovelier inhabitants of the dish, a comely middle-aged amoeba of unknown parentage named Rita. When he was rescued on the morning of the following day, Morton plumb forgot about his single-celled nuptials and went back to his daytime job tasting the contents of open pop bottles for backwash and cigarette butts. Only sixteen years later, when a brilliant Sacajawea Junior High roving reporter—who shall remain nameless—discovered the product of this union lurking among us right here at Sac Junior High, was Morton’s long-held secret discovered. “This intrepid reporter was present three weeks into Dale Thornton’s third try at seventh grade, when the young Einstein bet this reporter and several other members of the class that he could keep a wad of chewing tobacco in his mouth from the beginning of fifth period Social Studies until the bell. The dumb jerk only lasted twenty minutes, after which he sprinted from the room, not to be seen for the rest of the day. When he returned on the following morning, he told Mr. Getz he had suddenly become ill and had to go home, but without a written excuse (he probably didn’t have a rock big enough for his dad to chisel it on) he was sent to the office. The principal, whose intellectual capacities lie only fractions of an IQ point above Dale’s, believed his lame story, and Dale was readmitted to class. Our dauntless reporter, however, smelled a larger story, recognizing that for a person to attempt this in the first place, even his genes would have to be dumber than dirt. With a zeal rivaled only by Alex Haley’s relentless search for Kunta Kinte, he dived into Dale’s seamy background, where he discovered the above story to be absolutely true and correct. Further developments will appear in this newspaper as they unfold.

On 28 June 1914 the heir to the throne, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, was assassinated in Sarajevo, capital of Bosnia, a heartland of the South Slavs. Philosophers refer to ‘the inevitable accident’, and this was a very accidental one. Some young Serb terrorists had planned to murder him as he paid a state visit. They had bungled the job, throwing a bomb that missed, and one of them had repaired to a café in a side street to sort himself out. The Archduke drove to the headquarters of the governor-general, Potiorek (where he was met by little girls performing folklore), and berated him (the two men were old enemies, as the Archduke had prevented the neurasthenic Potiorek from succeeding an elderly admirer as Chief of the General Staff). The Archduke went off in a rage, to visit in hospital an officer wounded by the earlier bomb. His automobile moved off again, a Count Harrach standing on the running board. Its driver turned left after crossing a bridge over Sarajevo’s river. It was the wrong street, and the driver was told to stop and reverse. In reverse gear such automobiles sometimes stalled, and this one did so - Count Harrach on the wrong side, away from the café where one of the assassination team was calming his nerves. Now, slowly, his target drove up and stopped. The murderer, Gavrilo Princip, fired. He was seventeen, a romantic schooled in nationalism and terrorism, and part of a team that stretches from the Russian Nihilists of the middle of the nineteenth century, exemplified especially in Dostoyevsky’s prophetic The Possessed and Joseph Conrad’s Under Western Eyes. Austria did not execute adolescents and Princip was young enough to survive. He was imprisoned and died in April 1918. Before he died, a prison psychiatrist asked him if he had any regrets that his deed had caused a world war and the death of millions. He answered: if I had not done it, the Germans would have found another excuse.

Tom Demarco, a principal of the Atlantic Systems Guild team of consultants ... and his colleague Timothy Lister devised a study called the Coding War Games. The purpose of the games was to identify the characteristics of the best and worst computer programmers; more than six hundred developers from ninety-two different companies participated. Each designed, coded, and tested a program, working in his normal office space during business hours. Each participant was also assigned a partner from the same company. The partners worked separately, however, without any communication, a feature of the games that turned out to be critical. When the results came in, they revealed an enormous performance gap. The best outperformed the worst by a 10:1 ratio. The top programmers were also about 2.5 times better than the median. When DeMarco and Lister tried to figure out what accounted for this astonishing range, the factors that you'd think would matter — such as years of experience, salary, even the time spent completing the work — had little correlation to outcome. Programmers with 10 years' experience did no better than those with two years. The half who performed above the median earned less than 10 percent more than the half below — even though they were almost twice as good. The programmers who turned in "zero-defect" work took slightly less, not more, time to complete the exercise than those who made mistakes. It was a mystery with one intriguing clue: programmers from the same companies performed at more or less the same level, even though they hadn't worked together. That's because top performers overwhelmingly worked for companies that gave their workers the most privacy, personal space, control over their physical environments, and freedom from interruption. Sixty-two percent of the best performers said that their workspace was acceptably private, compared to only 19 percent of the worst performers; 76 percent of the worst performers but only 38 percent of the top performers said that people often interrupted them needlessly.

School, huh? Are you sure you that's where you're going?" Her hand is still outstretched, waiting for a key that she isn't getting. After a few empty seconds, she crosses her arms. "Where else would I be going with my backpack and books?" "Oh, I don't know. Maybe Galen Forza's house?" Yep, didn't see that one coming. If I did, I might have stopped the blush sprouting on my cheeks. "Um. How do you know Galen?" "Mrs. Strickland told me about him. Said you were arguing with him in the hall and that you were upset when you took off running from him. Said he carried you to the office himself when you ran into the door." I knew he had something to do with my accident. And Mom talked to the principal about it. My lips turn so dry I expect to taste dust when I lick them. The blush spreads all over my body, even to my ears. "He carried me?" "She said Galen wouldn't leave your side until Dr. Morton got there. Dr. Morton said he wouldn't go back to class until he assured him you would be okay." She taps her foot faster, then stops. "Well?" I blink at her. "Well, what?" Did my mother just growl?

While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I was going to puke again. Only, I didn’t. I sat down for a second, and then I felt better. But while I was sitting down, I saw something that drove me crazy. Somebody’d written “Fuck you” on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they’d wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them—all cockeyed, naturally—what it meant, and how they’d all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever’d written it. I figured it was some perverty bum that’d sneaked in the school late at night to take a leak or something and then wrote it on the wall. I kept picturing myself catching him at it, and how I’d smash his head on the stone steps till he was good and goddam dead and bloody. But I knew, too, I wouldn’t have the guts to do it. I knew that. That made me even more depressed. I hardly even had the guts to rub it off the wall with my hand, if you want to know the truth. I was afraid some teacher would catch me rubbing it off and would think I’d written it. But I rubbed it out anyway, finally. Then I went on up to the principal’s office.

Melinda Pratt rides city bus number twelve to her cello lesson, wearing her mother's jean jacket and only one sock. Hallo, world, says Minna. Minna often addresses the world, sometimes silently, sometimes out loud. Bus number twelve is her favorite place for watching, inside and out. The bus passes cars and bicycles and people walking dogs. It passes store windows, and every so often Minna sees her face reflection, two dark eyes in a face as pale as a winter dawn. There are fourteen people on the bus today. Minna stands up to count them. She likes to count people, telephone poles, hats, umbrellas, and, lately, earrings. One girl, sitting directly in front of Minna, has seven earrings, five in one ear. She has wisps of dyed green hair that lie like forsythia buds against her neck. There are, Minna knows, a king, a past president of the United States, and a beauty queen on the bus. Minna can tell by looking. The king yawns and scratches his ear with his little finger. Scratches, not picks. The beauty queen sleeps, her mouth open, her hair the color of tomatoes not yet ripe. The past preside of the United States reads Teen Love and Body Builder's Annual. Next to Minna, leaning against the seat, is her cello in its zippered canvas case. Next to her cello is her younger brother, McGrew, who is humming. McGrew always hums. Sometimes he hums sentences, though most often it comes out like singing. McGrew's teachers do not enjoy McGrew answering questions in hums or song. Neither does the school principal, Mr. Ripley. McGrew spends lots of time sitting on the bench outside Mr. Ripley's office, humming. Today McGrew is humming the newspaper. First the headlines, then the sports section, then the comics. McGrew only laughs at the headlines. Minna smiles at her brother. He is small and stocky and compact like a suitcase. Minna loves him. McGrew always tells the truth, even when he shouldn't. He is kind. And he lends Minna money from the coffee jar he keeps beneath his mattress. Minna looks out the bus window and thinks about her life. Her one life. She likes artichokes and blue fingernail polish and Mozart played too fast. She loves baseball, and the month of March because no one else much likes March, and every shade of brown she has ever seen. But this is only one life. Someday, she knows, she will have another life. A better one. McGrew knows this, too. McGrew is ten years old. He knows nearly everything. He knows, for instance, that his older sister, Minna Pratt, age eleven, is sitting patiently next to her cello waiting to be a woman.

While we waited on a bench outside the motel office, I bought a copy of the Nashville Tennessean out of a metal box, just to see what was happening in the world. The principal story indicated that the state legislature, in one of those moments of enlightenment with which the southern states often strive to distinguish themselves, was in the process of passing a law forbidding schools from teaching evolution. Instead they were to be required to instruct that the earth was created by God, in seven days, sometime, oh, before the turn of the century. The article reminded us that this was not a new issue in Tennessee. The little town of Dayton—not far from where Katz and I now sat, as it happened—was the scene of the famous Scopes trial in 1925, when the state prosecuted a schoolteacher named John Thomas Scopes for rashly promulgating Darwinian hogwash. As nearly everyone knows, Clarence Darrow, for the defense, roundly humiliated William Jennings Bryan, for the prosecution, but what most people don’t realize is that Darrow lost the case. Scopes was convicted, and the law wasn’t overturned in Tennessee until 1967. And now the state was about to bring the law back, proving conclusively that the danger for Tennesseans isn’t so much that they may be descended from apes as overtaken by them.

After school, I’m walking out of class when my phone buzzes in my purse. It’s Peter. I’m out on parole. Meet me at my car! I race to the parking lot, where Peter is in his car waiting for me with the heat on. Grinning at me, he says, “Aren’t you going to kiss your man? I just got released from prison.” “Peter! This isn’t a joke. Are you suspended?” He smirks. “Nah. I sweet-talked my way out of it. Principal Lochlan loves me. Still, I could’ve been. If it had been anybody else…” Oh, Peter. “Please don’t brag to me right now.” “When I came out of Lochlan’s office, there were a bunch of sophomore girls waiting for me to give me a standing O. They were like, ‘Kavinsky, you’re so romantic.’” He hoots, and I give him a look. He pulls me to his side. “Hey, they know I’m taken. There’s only one girl I want to see in an Amish bikini.” I laugh; I can’t help it. Peter loves attention, and I hate to be another girl who gives it to him, but he makes it really hard sometimes. Besides, it was kind of romantic. He plants a kiss on my cheek, nuzzles against my face. “Didn’t I tell you I would take care of it, Covey?” “You did,” I admit, patting his hair. “So did I do a good job?” “You did.” That’s all it takes for him to be happy, me telling him that he did a good job. He’s smiley all the way home.

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

VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DESTRUCTION OF ACADEMY PROPERTY According to a report from Miss Foster, Mr. Sencen set off a device in my office, shattering the majority of the windows in the glass pyramid. 20 out of 10 None. Mr. Sencen remains absent, making punishment difficult to issue. And this does appear to confirm his involvement with the Neverseen. But I suspect there’s more to the story. —Magnate Leto Update: The glass pyramid has been rebuilt. Foxfire is also teaming up with Exillium for skill lessons. And Mr. Sencen has yet to return to campus. The Council is pressuring me to expel him, but I see no reason, (particularly since everyone should be focusing on the upcoming Peace Summit in Lumenaria). —Magnate Leto VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS Second Update: Foxfire’s midterm break was extended after the tragedy in Lumenaria, and… I’m grateful to have the time to adjust. There’s so much to do… and I’ll be so much more limited now.… But I’ll find a way to manage. In the meantime, it should be noted that when the academy resumes sessions, Mr. Sencen will be returning, and no disciplinary action will be taken against him. —Magnate Leto Third Update: Sessions still haven’t resumed. But Miss Foster brought Mr. Sencen to see Elwin for treatment after Mr. Sencen received several serious wounds during a sparring match with King Dimitar. Apparently, one result of the match is that Keefe will now have Princess Romhilda serving as his bodyguard, which will likely cause tension on campus. Preparations will need to be made. —Magnate Leto

The one thing that seemed to be on our side, however, was the reality on the streets of Egypt. Day after day, the protests spread and Mubarak’s regime seemed to crumble around him. On February 11, I woke to the news that Mubarak had fled to the resort town of Sharm el Sheikh and resigned. It was, it seemed, a happy ending. Jubilant crowds celebrated in the streets of Cairo. I drafted a statement for Obama that drew comparisons between what had just taken place and some of the iconic movements of the past several decades—Germans tearing down a wall, Indonesians upending a dictatorship, Indians marching nonviolently for independence. I went up to the Oval Office that morning to review the statement with Obama. “You should feel good about this,” he said. “I do,” I replied. “Though I’m not sure all of the principals do.” “You know,” he said, “one of the things that made it easier for me is that I didn’t really know Mubarak.” He mentioned that George H. W. Bush had called Mubarak at the height of the protests to express his support. “But it’s not just Bush. The Clintons, Gates, Biden—they’ve known Mubarak[…] “for decades.” I thought of Biden’s perennial line: All foreign policy is an “extension of personal relationships. “If it had been King Abdullah,” Obama said, referring to the young Jordanian monarch with whom he’d struck up a friendship, “I don’t know if I could have done the same thing.” As Obama delivered a statement to a smattering of press, it seemed that history might at last be breaking in a positive direction in the Middle East. His tribute to the protests was unabashed. Yet our own government was still wired to defer to the Egyptian military, and ill equipped to support a transition to democracy once the president had spoken.

By the time Jessica Buchanan was kidnapped in Somalia on October 25, 2011, the twenty-four boys back in America who had been so young during the 1993 attack on the downed American aid support choppers in Mogadishu had since grown to manhood. Now they were between the ages of twenty-three and thirty-five, and each one had become determined to qualify for the elite U.S. Navy unit called DEVGRU. After enlisting in the U.S. Navy and undergoing their essential basic training, every one of them endured the challenges of BUDS (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL) training, where the happy goal is to become “drownproofed” via what amounts to repeated semidrowning, while also learning dozens of ways to deliver explosive death and demolition. This was only the starting point. Once qualification was over and the candidates were sworn in, three-fourths of the qualified Navy SEALS who tried to also qualify for DEVGRU dropped out. Those super-warriors were overcome by the challenges, regardless of their peak physical condition and being in the prime of their lives. This happened because of the intensity of the training. Long study and practice went into developing a program specifically designed to seek out and expose any individual’s weakest points. If the same ordeals were imposed on captured terrorists who were known to be guilty of killing innocent civilians, the officers in charge would get thrown in the brig. Still, no matter how many Herculean physical challenges are presented to a DEVGRU candidate, the brutal training is primarily mental. It reveals each soldier’s principal foe to be himself. His mortal fears and deepest survival instinct emerge time after time as the essential demons he must overcome. Each DEVGRU member must reach beyond mere proficiency at dealing death. He must become two fighters combined: one who is trained to a state of robotic muscle memory in specific dark skills, and a second who is fluidly adaptive, using an array of standard SEAL tactics. Only when he can live and work from within this state of mind will he be trusted to pursue black operations in every form of hostile environment. Therefore the minority candidate who passes into DEVGRU becomes a member of the “Tier One” Special Mission Unit. He will be assigned to reconnaissance or assault, but his greatest specialty will always be to remain lethal in spite of rapidly changing conditions. From the day he is accepted into that elite tribe, he embodies what is delicately called “preemptive and proactive counterterrorist operations.” Or as it might be more bluntly described: Hunt them down and kill them wherever they are - and is possible, blow up something. Each one of that small percentage who makes it through six months of well-intended but malicious torture emerges as a true human predator. If removing you from this world becomes his mission, your only hope of escaping a DEVGRU SEAL is to find a hiding place that isn’t on land, on the sea, or in the air.

As each German and Italian and Frankish nobleman arrived in Constantinople with his own private army, ready to cross over the Bosphorus Strait and face the enemy, Alexius had demanded a sacred oath. Whatever “cities, countries or forces he might in future subdue . . . he would hand over to the officer appointed by the emperor.” They were, after all, there to fight for Christendom; and Alexius Comnenus was the ruler of Christendom in the east.1 Just as Alexius had feared, the chance to build private kingdoms in the Holy Land proved too tempting. The first knight to bite the apple was the Norman soldier Bohemund, who had arrived in Constantinople at the start of the First Crusade and immediately became one of the foremost commanders of the Crusader armies. Spearheading the capture of the great city Antioch in 1098, Bohemund at once named himself its prince and flatly refused to honor his oath. (“Bohemund,” remarked Alexius’s daughter and biographer, Anna, “was by nature a liar.”) By 1100, Antioch had been joined by two other Crusader kingdoms—the Kingdom of Jerusalem and the County of Edessa—and Bohemund himself was busy agitating the Christians of Asia Minor against Byzantium. By 1103, Bohemund was planning a direct attack against the walls of Constantinople itself.2 To mount this assault, Bohemund needed to recruit more soldiers. The most likely source for reinforcements was Italy; Bohemund’s late father, Robert Guiscard, had conquered himself a kingdom in the south of Italy (the grandly named “Dukedom of Apulia and Calabria”), and Bohemund, who had been absent from Italy since heading out on crusade, had theoretically inherited its crown. Alexius knew this as well as Bohemund did, so Byzantine ships hovered in the Mediterranean, waiting to intercept any Italy-bound ships from the principality of Antioch. So Bohemund was forced to be sneaky. Anna Comnena tells us that he spread rumors everywhere: “Bohemond,” it was said, “is dead.” . . . When he perceived that the story had gone far enough, a wooden coffin was made and a bireme prepared. The coffin was placed on board and he, a still breathing “corpse,” sailed away from Soudi, the port of Antioch, for Rome. . . . At each stop the barbarians tore out their hair and paraded their mourning. But inside Bohemond, stretched out at full length, was . . . alive, breathing air in and out through hidden holes. . . . [I]n order that the corpse might appear to be in a state of rare putrefaction, they strangled or cut the throat of a cock and put that in the coffin with him. By the fourth or fifth day at the most, the horrible stench was obvious to anyone who could smell. . . . Bohemond himself derived more pleasure than anyone from his imaginary misfortune.3 Bohemund was a rascal and an opportunist, but he almost always got what he wanted; when he arrived in Italy and staged a victorious resurrection, he was able to rouse great public enthusiasm for his fight against Byzantium. In fact, his conquest of Antioch in the east had given him hero stature back in Italy. People swarmed to see him, says one contemporary historian, “as if they were going to see Christ himself.”4

A school bus is many things. A school bus is a substitute for a limousine. More class. A school bus is a classroom with a substitute teacher. A school bus is the students' version of a teachers' lounge. A school bus is the principal's desk. A school bus is the nurse's cot. A school bus is an office with all the phones ringing. A school bus is a command center. A school bus is a pillow fort that rolls. A school bus is a tank reshaped- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a science lab- hot dogs and baloney are the same meat. A school bus is a safe zone. A school bus is a war zone. A school bus is a concert hall. A school bus is a food court. A school bus is a court of law, all judges, all jury. A school bus is a magic show full of disappearing acts. Saw someone in half. Pick a card, any card. Pass it on to the person next to you. He like you. She like you. K-i-s-s-i . . . s-s-i-p-p-i is only funny on a school bus. A school bus is a stage. A school bus is a stage play. A school bus is a spelling bee. A speaking bee. A get your hand out of my face bee. A your breath smell like sour turnips bee. A you don't even know what a turnip bee is. A maybe not, but I know what a turn up is and your breath smell all the way turnt up bee. A school bus is a bumblebee, buzzing around with a bunch of stingers on the inside of it. Windows for wings that flutter up and down like the windows inside Chinese restaurants and post offices in neighborhoods where school bus is a book of stamps. Passing mail through windows. Notes in the form of candy wrappers telling the street something sweet came by. Notes in the form of sneaky middle fingers. Notes in the form of fingers pointing at the world zooming by. A school bus is a paintbrush painting the world a blurry brushstroke. A school bus is also wet paint. Good for adding an extra coat, but it will dirty you if you lean against it, if you get too comfortable. A school bus is a reclining chair. In the kitchen. Nothing cool about it but makes perfect sense. A school bus is a dirty fridge. A school bus is cheese. A school bus is a ketchup packet with a tiny hole in it. Left on the seat. A plastic fork-knife-spoon. A paper tube around a straw. That straw will puncture the lid on things, make the world drink something with some fizz and fight. Something delightful and uncomfortable. Something that will stain. And cause gas. A school bus is a fast food joint with extra value and no food. Order taken. Take a number. Send a text to the person sitting next to you. There is so much trouble to get into. Have you ever thought about opening the back door? My mother not home till five thirty. I can't. I got dance practice at four. A school bus is a talent show. I got dance practice right now. On this bus. A school bus is a microphone. A beat machine. A recording booth. A school bus is a horn section. A rhythm section. An orchestra pit. A balcony to shot paper ball three-pointers from. A school bus is a basketball court. A football stadium. A soccer field. Sometimes a boxing ring. A school bus is a movie set. Actors, directors, producers, script. Scenes. Settings. Motivations. Action! Cut. Your fake tears look real. These are real tears. But I thought we were making a comedy. A school bus is a misunderstanding. A school bus is a masterpiece that everyone pretends to understand. A school bus is the mountain range behind Mona Lisa. The Sphinx's nose. An unknown wonder of the world. An unknown wonder to Canton Post, who heard bus riders talk about their journeys to and from school. But to Canton, a school bus is also a cannonball. A thing that almost destroyed him. Almost made him motherless.

2 Big Trouble “That’s the last straw, A.J.,” my teacher, Miss Daisy, told me. “I want you to go to the principal’s office!” “I didn’t do anything!” I protested. My name is A.J. and I hate school. Why do we have to learn so much stuff? If you ask me, by the time you get to second grade you already know enough stuff to last you a lifetime. School is way overrated. My mom says that all eight-year-old boys have to go to school, so I guess there’s nothing I can do about it. But when I grow up, I’m going to be a professional hockey player. You don’t have to know how to read or write or do math to shoot a puck into a net.

This latest transformation to financialised capitalism is profound. The majority of workers are in a new relationship with capital – as financialised objects through which capital extracts its surplus value, not just in the workplace but through the continued commodification and financialisation of all aspects of life. It is important to recognise that recent changes in the nature of work – through precaritisation, digitisation and flexibilisation – reflects the changing impulses (nature) of financialised capitalism. Surplus value is no longer principally extracted from the worker in the factory or office, but from the sphere of financialisation of everyday life and every ‘body’ in healthcare, housing, care work, education and so on.

Well, we don't know each other very well yet. Who makes you least confused?" "Calvin." There was no hesitation here. "When I'm with Calvin, I don't mind being me." "You mean he makes you *more* you, don't you?" "I guess you could put it that way.” "Who makes you feel least you?" "Mr. Jenkins." Proginoskes probed sharply, "Why are you suddenly upset and frightened?" "He's the principal of the grade school in the village this year. But he was in my school last year, and I was always getting sent to his office. He never understands anything, and everything I do is automatically wrong Charles Wallace would probably be better off if he weren't my brother. That's enough to finish him with Mr. Jenkins.

To understand this it must first be known that the power of making human laws and rights was first and principally in the people,” Ockham wrote in 1328, “and hence the people transferred the power of making the law to the emperor,” or whomever else they choose to exercise authority over them.21 All mortals who are born free have the power voluntarily to put a ruler over themselves, including the Church and the pope. But the final power remained with the people. So having put the pope in office, the people were now free to end “his raging tyranny over the faithful” and push him out.

classroom we passed Mr Krauthammer’s office. On his office door there was a big sign hanging. It read: Do not disturb for ANY reason between the hours of 1:00-3:00 unless there is an emergency. And it better be a real bad emergency. What was that about? “We have to find out what’s going on!” I said to Ethan. “Why can’t anyone go into his office during those hours?” “Yeah,” said Ethan. “We have to find out! I wonder what he’s up to?” “But how are we going to find out?” I asked. “You know his office will be locked.

Ten minutes later, I was in the principal’s office. Or at least what was left of it. It probably wasn’t the best idea to be in a fifth-story room that had just suffered severe structural damage, but the principal, who didn’t think clearly on normal occasions, was so enraged that he’d apparently ceased thinking at all.

I don’t know. Something that didn’t involve nearly killing me while I was on the toilet!” The principal caught his mistake, then desperately tried to backpedal. “I mean, something that could have killed me while I was on the toilet, had I been there . . . which I wasn’t. I was here, in my office, doing important things, and then cleverly took cover in the bathroom when I heard the incoming mortar round.

There was no time to think!” “That’s never stopped me,” the principal snapped. “I rarely take any time to think at all, and yet you don’t see me blowing up people’s offices.” With most people, I would have chalked a statement like that up to them being too angry to get their thoughts straight, but the principal’s thoughts were usually more jumbled than a plate of linguini.

With that, the principal turned his back on me, signaling that our conversation was over. Normally, he would have turned his attention to something on his desk, but now he realized he had no desk—or much of anything else left in his office—so he simply stood there, unsure what else to do, while waiting for me to leave.

Hello, Benjamin,” Alexander said meekly. “How’s your first day of school so far?” “Not so good,” I told him. “I just got expelled.” Alexander’s eyes widened in surprise. “For what?” “I sort of blew up the principal’s office.” “Oh. So that’s what that loud boom was.

What is it?” “It’s a souvenir.” I frown, sitting back in my chair. “For what?” “I didn’t even wash it.” She laughs. “Tinsley, that better not be what I think it is.” I growl. She lifts her mother’s eyes and smiles at me. “You can’t take a knife to school.” She knows this. We just went over this last week. With me, her mother, the principal, and the police officer that were present for our mandatory meeting. “I’m going to mail it to him.” I run a hand down my face, holding in a sigh. I thought Carnage was going to be the death of me. But nope. It’s my teenage daughter.

the Spanish Inquisition was principally a matter of Crown policy and an office of the state.

Though he would not be able to escape, as he hasn’t for some time now, a growing certainty that all the efforts of all the men, like him, in offices are merely an elaborate bit of theater, in which the principal actors have so long and so thoroughly played their parts (like the actors in a long-running television series) that they are known to each other—and perhaps even to themselves—only as this character or that.

Okay, Eric Ovens,” she said. Eric Ovens shivered. His eyes filled with tears. Why me? he asked himself over and over again as he walked down the stairs. It’s my parents’ fault! Why did they have to name me Eric? Why couldn’t they name me Osgood? He tapped on the door to the principal’s office. “Come in!” bellowed Mr. Kidswatter. Eric Ovens gulped, then walked inside. He sat in the little chair in front of Mr. Kidswatter’s enormous desk. Eric Fry was nowhere to be seen. “Wh-what ha-happened to Eric Fry?” he asked. “I’ll ask the questions!” barked Mr. Kidswatter.

The principal keeps all the top secret codes for campus written down in a folder in his office so he won’t forget them,” Erica explained. “It’s labeled ‘Top Secret Codes.’ 

For all her boldness, Jade was good at citing risks, naming all the things that could sabotage a life. In the weeks after a homicide in the neighborhood, elementary school kids did worse on tests. Teenagers without fathers were more likely to wind up parents before graduation. Black boys got sent to the principal's office more.

LEVEL FOUR VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DITCHING THE UNIVERSE According to a report from Lady Belva, Keefe was discovered missing halfway through her lecture. 1 out of 10 One detention assigned. I still can’t figure out where Keefe goes when he ditches (and this time I had the gnomes do a full search of the campus.) But I’m sticking with my plan of minimally reacting to these infractions in the hope that this will finally be the year that Keefe doesn’t pull off any dramatic pranks! —Dame Alina VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DISRESPECT FOR ACADEMY PROPERTY. ALSO BREAKING AND ENTERING. For the official report: Somehow Keefe got past the new locks on my office door and put reekrod in my desk. 7 out of 10 Till the end of midterms. I knew this had to be Keefe! I just didn’t have proof, until he bragged to Fitz Vacker within earshot of Lady Galvin. And I know I’ve been trying not to encourage him—but I had to change my locks (again!) and add other security measures. Plus, I have too much to deal with now that Sophie Foster is a prodigy. (The amount of questions I’m getting about her is ridiculous.) —Dame Alina VIOLATION SERIOUSNESS SENTENCE PRINCIPAL’S COMMENTS DITCHING THE UNIVERSE According to a report from Lady Belva, Keefe was discovered missing during the middle of her lecture. And when she went searching, she found him in the Mentors’ private cafeteria, eating an entire platter of butterblasts. 1 out of 10 One detention assigned. I’m starting to think I should ask the Council to let me replace Keefe’s Universe session next year, since it’s far too easy for him to sneak away from a session taught in the dark. I doubt they’d approve my request. But it’s nice to imagine. —Dame Alina

In November 2003, for example, police raided Stratford High School in Goose Creek, South Carolina. The raid was recorded by the school’s surveillance cameras as well as a police camera. The tapes show students as young as fourteen forced to the ground in handcuffs as officers in SWAT team uniforms and bulletproof vests aim guns at their heads and lead a drug-sniffing dog to tear through their book bags. The raid was initiated by the school’s principal, who was suspicious that a single student might be dealing marijuana. No drugs or weapons were found during the raid and no charges were filed. Nearly all of the students searched and seized were students of color.

The principal was an ineffectual blowhard who didn’t like me much because (1) I’d had more successful missions than him, and (2) a few months earlier, I had accidentally blown up his office. (He was still working out of a storage closet while waiting for renovations.)

This same complex but well-oiled machinery went into high gear during 1948 when Perón’s Nazi rescue group began working in Europe, principally out of Berne and Genoa. In a period of under two months that year, Immigration files similar to Stojadinovic’s were opened for four notorious SS officers: Adolf Eichmann, Josef Mengele, Josef Schwammberger and Erich Priebke. They arrived on separate ocean liners many months apart, but the paperwork for their journeys began together – in the case of Mengele and Priebke, simultaneously, as we have seen.

Did you really have sex with them in the principal’s office, or were you just lying to get me out of being suspended along with Jace?” “Oh, it happened.” I grinned. “And made sure we ruined all his important documents.” Scrunching her nose, Allie fake gagged. “Ew, gross.” “Bitch, I saw those pictures. You do worse shit with your stepbrother. Don’t judge.

Barkin. And let me begin by saying that Pajama Day is canceled.” A discontented murmur ran through the auditorium. Holly looked around at the faces of her fellow students. She stood up. “But, Principal Barkin,” she said. “The last Principal Barkin—” Barkin slammed his fist onto the podium. “SILENCE! I WILL NOT BE INTERRUPTED.” He pointed a long finger at Holly Rash. “YOU. YOU WILL REPORT TO MY OFFICE IMMEDIATELY AFTER THIS ASSEMBLY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” “Yes, but—” “SIT

The general of the enemy received the youthful messenger, surrounded by his principal officers, and by a swarthy band of the native chiefs, who had followed him to the field, with the warriors of their several tribes.

I didn’t think I believed in fate, but then you walked into that principal’s office and my heart stopped.

The government consists of a gang of men exactly like you and me. They have, taking one with another, no special talent for the business of government; they have only a talent for getting and holding office. Their principal device to that end is to search out groups who pant and pine for something they can’t get and to promise to give it to them. Nine times out of ten that promise is worth nothing. The tenth time is made good by looting A to satisfy B. In other words, government is a broker in pillage, and every election is sort of an advance auction sale of stolen goods.

Officer Hilliard shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Nope. Miss Day, here, left a note.” “A what?” Colton’s eyes widened as Officer Hilliard flashed us the note I’d left in the principal’s mailbox last night. “‘Dear Principal Wexler,’” Kyle read aloud. “‘Thank you so much for allowing us to TP your house. I’ve always wanted to be a part of a prank, and I had a wonderful time. If you need help cleaning up, please let me know.’” Colton groaned as Kyle laughed and kept reading. “‘I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t at least offer. You are the best. Sincerely, Sadie Day.’” When he finished, Kyle turned to me with a grin and said, “Nice penmanship.” I rolled my eyes. Yes, I’d included a smiley-face at the end, but only the one. That was progress, right? “You left a note?” Colton asked in disbelief, turning to me. “Yeah,” I said as he closed his eyes. “What? I wanted Principal Wexler to know how much fun we had. Was that wrong?” Officer Hilliard still had that amused look on his face.

Stuyvesant High School. In an English class, his teacher had been discussing The Merchant of Venice, and had held up the character of Shylock as “typical” of Jewish cruelty and greed. David Sarnoff had protested this interpretation, and had been hauled into the principal’s office for disrupting the classroom. The

I let Hael Harbin go down on me in the principal's office,

With 30+ years in education, Dr. Jane Larson has served as an instructor, administrator, and consultant across PreK-12 and higher education. Starting as a high school teacher in 1992, she advanced to roles such as Assistant Principal and Elementary Principal. With a Doctorate in Educational Leadership, she secured funding for staff development and, as Chief Academic Officer and Assistant Superintendent, led school improvement efforts focused on academic excellence and career readiness.

that sounds – ninjas and cookies are two of the most awesome things on the planet. Of course they’d go great together! Wyatt sat by my side with a mouthful of cookie. He chewed it sloppily like a dog. “I’m thankful that you’ve chosen to become a member of my clan.” “Are there other clans?” I asked. “No,” Wyatt said. “Are you ready for the task we’ve specifically chosen for you?” I set my Oreos down on the little table. My first job as a ninja, and in a real ninja uniform – of course I was ready! “Yes, tell me what I must do.” Wyatt paused. “Are you sure? You wear the uniform now so you can’t reject any kind of duty you’re given.” For a second, I imagined he said “doodie,” and I laughed. “No, I won’t reject anything. Whatever you want from me, consider it done.” Wyatt nodded, and made a “tch tch” sound with his cheek. Immediately, one of the other members of the clan tossed a backpack to the ground in front of me. It was bright red with speckled straps. I studied it for a moment. I had seen a backpack like this before, but where? And then it hit me – I saw the same bag sitting by Zoe’s desk earlier in the week. This was Zoe’s backpack. “Why do you have that?” I asked. Wyatt shook his head. “Members of my clan don’t ask questions when they’re given a task, and yours is simple. All you have to do is take this bag to the front office.” “Sneak it in there? You want me to walk through the school wearing this ninja uniform?” “No,” Wyatt said. “That’s why it’ll be easy. After gym, you’ll change into your normal street clothes and simply take this bag to the front desk. You’ll deliver it to the principal, and tell them that you found it under a bush outside.” I looked at Zoe’s backpack. Could it have been a coincidence? Could this just be the same bag that she has? As I scanned the side of it, I saw

Paige Goepfert is a managing director of the Andersen Private Client Services team and works with ultra-high-net-worth families, family offices, business owners, and executives on tax planning and income tax compliance. Paige says that, “before considering the tax implications of a family office, family office principals are well served to think about the catalysts for and objectives of their family office. The structure, including how the management services are going to be provided and the type of entity formed for the management company, will determine the tax impact. “A common mistake I see is when families initially contemplate forming a family office solely because of the tax benefits they hope to obtain. While there may be tax benefits from a family office structure, anticipated tax benefits should not be the catalyst for setting up a family office . . . We [also] sometimes see families stuck in a certain mindset even when their goals and tax laws are constantly changing. For example, an older family member may feel like they have already given too much to the next generation or their grandchildren and, on principle, will not consider what they are leaving

We proceeded under the thinking that passing highly appreciating assets was a smart estate planning move. Indeed it was—from just that one lens. However, the assets in question appreciated dramatically beyond our expectations, which resulted in a higher proportion of wealth at the younger generation than might be ideal as compared to the older generation. This imbalance has created some regret within the older generation (“giver’s remorse,” if you will). From a lesson’s learned perspective, what I’d say to other family office principals is to give thought to the range of outcomes when passing assets to the next generation. How would you feel if the asset went to zero? If it appreciated twentyfold? While a potential gift or sale may be tax efficient, does it align with your goals and desires for you, your children, and the larger family office? I

Who will Tempo choose? The principal that eats her like a sundae, the police officer who pines after her, or Dare, the creature of the night that makes her perform like a bad girl?

The organizational consequence of this highly quantitative image of defense decision-making is an independent and high-level office of systems analysis (or program analysis) reporting directly to the secretary. This office, separated from the parochialism of the individual services, commands, and functional offices of the Defense Department, is charged with de novo analysis of the services' program proposals (and, indeed, with the generation of alternative programs) to assess the relative merits of different potential uses of the same dollars. Its activities culminate in the secretary's decision on a single coherent set of numerically defined programs. This model imposes a requirement for close interaction between the secretary of defense and the principal program analyst. A suitable person for the job is difficult to obtain without granting him or her direct access to the secretary. This model, therefore, requires that the chief program analyst report directly to the secretary and it inevitably limits the program and budget role of the other chief officials of the OSD, especially the principal policy adviser. The model leaves unresolved how the guidance for the analysis process is to be developed and even how choices are to be made. Analysis is not always made rigorous and objective simply by making it quantitative, and not everything relevant can be quantified. At its extreme, it can degenerate into a system in which objectives become important because they can be quantified, rather than quantification being important because it can illuminate objectives.

Reflecting on the mind-set in 1960s Washington that gave rise to Vietnam, the literary critic Alfred Kazin once wrote, “Power beyond reason created a lasting irrationality.”21 Kazin’s observation applies in spades to the period following the Cold War. With the collapse of communism, Washington convinced itself that the United States possessed power such as the world had never seen. Democrats and Republicans alike professed their eagerness to exploit that power to the fullest. A sustained bout of strategic irrationality ensued, magnified and reinforced by the events of 9/11. Sadly, the principal achievement of President Obama, who came to office promising something better, has been to perpetuate that irrationality.

Whatever it was, it caused me to be late getting the roll taken, and I had just turned to that task when the door opened and Molly Bendixon walked in abruptly. ‘Where’s your absence report?’ she demanded. ‘They’re waiting for it in the office. It’s holding everybody up. Haven’t you been told that you’re supposed to take the roll first thing and get it down there?’ Her tone was sarcastic and patronizing. ‘I’m just taking it now,’ I said. ‘I’ll have it down there right away.’ I was furious but determined not to show it in front of the students. Molly turned and marched out, and I followed her, closing the door behind us. I hadn’t had my morning coffee yet, and my anger was getting the upper hand. ‘Miss Bendixon,’ I said, ‘let me explain something.’ She sighed and turned, evidently expecting an excuse. ‘My classroom is off limits to you. You are never again to enter it unless I invite you. And if you ever humiliate me in front of my students again, I will knock you on your ass. You can tell that to the principal if you want to, and if you don’t believe me, try me.’ I went back to my classroom and slammed the door, hard. Several of the students had slipped up to the door and had been straining to hear what I was saying to Molly, but they scuttled back to their seats when I came in, and everybody was very quiet.

Claire nodded, closed her eyes. “She’ll be okay,” Myron said, stepping toward her. “Please.” Claire held up a hand to stop him. “Don’t waste time handing me platitudes, okay?” He nodded, slipped into her SUV. He wondered about his next destination. Maybe he’d head back to school. Talk to the principal. Maybe the principal could call Randy or Harry Davis into his office. But then what? The cell phone sounded. Again the caller ID gave him no information. Caller ID technology was fairly useless. The people you wanted to avoid just blocked the service anyway. “Hello?” “Hey, handsome, I just got your message.” It

Promotions and appointments are controlled by a rite of passage in the civil service called empanelment, which decides whether civil servants, predominantly officers of the IAS, can serve in Government of India as joint secretaries, additional secretaries and secretaries. Though officially the selection is done by a committee chaired by the cabinet secretary and comprising the home secretary, secretary personnel, and principal secretary to prime minister, and then approved by the Appointments Committee of the Cabinet, no one really knows how it is actually done. The rules are changed whenever required to assist a political favourite as files apparently fly between South Block and 10 Janpath. Pencil entries are made deleting and adding candidates as per the dictates of the powerful, and the minutes of the original selection committee are signed only after agreements between the political masters, business houses and captive or powerful bureaucrats are reached. These proceedings are then smoothly approved by the Appointments Committee of the Cabinet comprising the home minister and prime minister. The same controlling clique proceeds to appoint the convenient bureaucrat to high profile, lucrative ministries such as defence, home, finance, civil aviation, telecommunication, petroleum, urban development, steel etc. while officers without clout are consigned to residual ministries, normally the social sector ones. Potential for commissions and kickbacks determine which ministries must have captive bureaucrats, and these are the ministries that the DMK has traditionally claimed. The UPA added another dimension that cemented the politician-bureaucrat nexus by decreeing informally and formally that ministers have the right of choice of their secretaries. This meant that the empanelled secretary had to do the rounds of ministries where vacancies were imminent, and solicit his case for selection, unless some higher politician or business house had already spoken for him. And it would be naive to think that such an appointment would be pro bono publico. An honest bureaucrat has nowhere to turn for redressal as the relevant fora were also clearly controlled by the same mafia. With a sense of resignation all they could do is attempt a joke, ‘the Nair you are, the higher you are’!

Dad called the principal before we went to school and he told me the principal was okay with what had happened. However upon entering his office, I felt terribly guilty. The poor man was in a neck collar and it was all my fault. The room smelt of sanitizer. He greeted me with a smile, “Good morning Richard.” I was so glad my dad had come with me! Straight away I burst into a full-blown apology, the words tumbling out of my mouth. He waved his hands to stop my verbal outpouring of regret and sympathy. “It’s okay, Richard, I should have replaced my chair years ago, it has always been a bit wonky. I’m fine, don’t worry. Your Dad told me the whole story and I am proud to have such a caring student at this school.” Now this scenario definitely did not play through my head last night! Then he stood and walked around his desk and put his hand on my shoulder. “Can I give you a piece of advice, Richard?” he asked. I nodded. “Sort out your girl problems, two girls and one guy…it never works out.” Breathing a sigh of relief, I shook my head in agreement, “Thank you Sir, I’ll do that.” At the same time I was thinking…how am I going to do that? He walked us out to the hallway and I hugged Dad goodbye. Walking along this hallway yesterday, I felt full of doom and gloom, but today was different. Until I saw the vice principal standing at the end. I stopped, lowered my eyes and tried to apologize. In a quiet and very firm voice, she said, “I’m watching you.” Then she turned and walked back into her office. Two down, one to go and this person was the most important one…Maddi. I walked into class slightly late and heard a few quiet giggles and whispers. Obviously the kids had been gossiping. Looking around I couldn’t see her, she was away! I let out a huge sigh. All morning I had been looking forward to working it out with her. I waved hi to Gretel, she pulled a face and looked away and that was not a good sign. That look told me that Maddi had believed Linda and that she was really mad and upset. Linda was even later than me. She walked into the classroom with a huge smile on her face and apologized for being late, then she headed towards the vacant seat next to me. I jumped up, grabbed the chair and moved it next to Ted. There was NO WAY she was going to sit next to me! Everyone laughed and she looked embarrassed, but I didn’t care. I had had enough!

Armed with this bold vision, Churchill never failed, however, to confront the most brutal facts. He feared that his towering, charismatic personality might deter bad news from reaching him in its starkest form. So, early in the war, he created an entirely separate department outside the normal chain of command, called the Statistical Office, with the principal function of feeding him—continuously updated and completely unfiltered—the most brutal facts of reality.32 He relied heavily on this special unit throughout the war, repeatedly asking for facts, just the facts. As the Nazi panzers swept across Europe, Churchill went to bed and slept soundly: “I... had no need for cheering dreams,” he wrote. “Facts are better than dreams.

This use of ordinary people as the principal characters was fairly rare in science fiction when the book came out, and even now the genre slips easily into elitism—superbrilliant minds, extraordinary talents, officers not crew, the corridors of power not the working-class kitchen.

Actually, I liked the principal’s office. It was interesting to see the teachers come and go, talking about what they would have for lunch or what they had done the night before just as if they were normal people. I

People underestimate the power of models. Observational evidence is not very useful, adding,…our approach is not entirely empirical. —John Mitchell, principal research scientist at the UK Met Office, 2011171

The church’s principal officers are not monks, artisans, and a retinue of priests whose calling is to serve images they’ve made, but heralds, announcing God’s mighty acts in history. Zwingli’s

Traditionally, in the system that Augustus inherited from the Republic, the Roman command structure was class-based. As mentioned earlier, the officer class came from the narrow aristocracy of senators and equestrians. The great armies of the Republic were commanded by senators who had attained the rank of consul, the pinnacle of their society. Their training in military science came mainly from experience: until the later second century B.C., aspiring senators were required to serve in ten campaigns before they could hold political office 49 Intellectual education was brought to Rome by the Greeks and began to take hold in the Roman aristocracy sometime in the second century B.C.; thus it is the Greek Polybius who advocates a formal training for generals in tactics, astronomy, geometry, and history.50 And in fact some basic education in astronomy and geometry-which Polybius suggests would be useful for calculating, for example, the lengths of days and nights or the height of a city wall-was normal for a Roman aristocrat of the late Republic or the Principate. Aratus' verse composition on astronomy, several times translated into Latin, was especially popular.51 But by the late Republic the law requiring military service for office was long defunct; and Roman education as described by Seneca the Elder or Quintilian was designed mainly to produce orators. The emphasis was overwhelmingly on literature and rhetoric;52 one did not take courses, for example, on "modern Parthia" or military theory. Details of grammar and rhetorical style were considered appropriate subjects for the attention of the empire's most responsible individuals; this is attested in the letters of Pliny the Younger, the musings ofAulus Gellius, and the correspondence of Fronto with Lucius Verus and Marcus Aurelius.53

For himself, Sanjay wasn’t too certain what the election was all about. In a press conference on 25 January 1977 he seemed in characteristic verbal form: Q.: Mr Gandhi, earlier you were against having elections. Are you personally in favour of them now? A.: All in all, seeing things as they are now, it’s okay. If you’d asked me six months ago I would have said no. Q.: What has improved? A.: Nothing. Six months ago I would have thought to wait longer would have been better—which now I do not think. Q.: Would you expect the fact of the Emergency to be the principal issue in the campaign? A.: What do you mean by that? Q.: Well, recently the Janata party has been talking about the Emergency itself as a campaign issue. A.: I don’t think that would be much of a poll issue. Because most of it has happened. It would be a poll issue if it was going to happen. Q.: What about family planning? Do you think that will be a major issue? A.: I don’t think so. Q.: What would you expect would be the major issue? A.: I am not quite sure. BY THE TIME SANJAY arrived in Amethi, he seemed to have shed his earlier fuzziness. He had by then perceived the issues. In speeches he would stress the ‘package’ of progress made during the previous nineteen months, the transformation awaiting Amethi on his election (275 km of hard roads, 1200 km of kutcha roads, a multi-crore textile mill), the disparate nature of the opposition (which usually included an attack on Charan Singh). And then he would come to the programme closest to his heart: family planning via nasbandi. ‘As soon as Sanjay mentioned the words "parivar niyojan" and "nasbandi" the audience would get incensed. We could see the anger seething in their faces. Many of those listening had suffered personally and many more had heard the experiences of friends and neighbours. Congress workers would hang their heads down when Sanjay spoke about those things. They did not dare look the people in the face. By his speeches, Sanjay, instead of making people happy, was making them more and more angry,’ a Block Development Officer from Jagdishpur told me.

All of which is to say: You do not need a permission slip from the principal’s office to live a creative life. Or if you do worry that you need a permission slip—THERE, I just gave it to you. I

Let’s talk turkey,” said Arthur over the PA system at school. “The best part in the Thanksgiving play is still open. If you’re interested, please come to the office at once.” No one came to the office. In fact, the principal left the office, laughing. Arthur put posters in the cafeteria. He placed ads in the school paper. Nothing worked. Arthur had other problems, too. Muffy complained about everything. “I should be narrator; my parents are paying for the cast party!” she whined. Francine would not take off her movie-star glasses. “They’re good luck,” she explained, but she was having a hard time seeing what she was doing. Buster couldn’t remember his lines. “In 1620,” he recited, “we sailed to America on the cauliflower.

was the only other person from his team that wasn’t retired or sitting in the principal’s office. Isaac was right. He couldn’t run forever. “Fine,” said Nolan. “We’ll do it your way.” Isaac laughed again. “Ain’t my way at all. If it were my way, ya wouldn’t have lost your team or gotten caught during a mission in the first place!” “It wasn’t his fault,” said Naomi softly. “Oh yeah?” Isaac asked. “Whose fault was it then?” Naomi folded her arms and stared at the ground. Normally when she took a stance like that, she looked angry, but this time she only looked sad and remained silent. Isaac’s face peeled a smile. “You think you were set up? You think that someone was in on it, don’t you?” Naomi paused before shaking her head. “You’re hidin’ something sweetheart, ain’t ya?” Isaac asked.

Miss Mandible wants to make love to me but she hesitates because I am officially a child; I am, according to the records, according to the gradebook on her desk, according to the card index in the principal’s office, eleven years old. There is a misconception here, one that I haven’t quite managed to get cleared up yet. I am in fact thirty-five, I’ve been in the Army, I am six feet one, I have hair in the appropriate places, my voice is a barritone, I know very well what to do with Miss Mandible if she ever makes up her mind.

The federal air marshal, the passengers, the flight crew, and the pilots are truly the last line of defense. American public spaces and schools need the same approach. Let’s cut the feel-good politics and recognize that by the time someone with dangerous plans reaches your doorstep, it’s too late to ponder root causes of antisocial behavior—it’s time to act! All of the thinking should have been done beforehand. And the level of commitment to stop grotesque violence in its tracks—stone cold dead—has to exceed theirs if protecting the principal is going to succeed.

oan Hilliard could feel the smile on her face as she stepped from her car. Not the best wheels, but they were hers, a token of four years spent working in a brokerage firm. Joan had always wanted to be a teacher, but she had finished college at the wrong time. To her great disappointment, she couldn’t land a teaching position. She had still wanted her own classroom but decided that any job was better than nothing. The brokerage firm paid well, and she felt better for the experience. She had learned about herself, how to work with other adults, and what life at work was all about. Above all, she felt more confident. She had learned to cope in a demanding and stressful adult environment. That experience ought to help in a classroom of kids. She was delighted to get a teaching assignment at Pico School. It looked like a friendly place from the outside. The surrounding neighborhood was in decline, but Pico boasted green lawns, welltrimmed shrubbery, and large, lattice-paned windows. Built in the 1950s, it had the architectural charm that Joan remembered from the schools of her childhood. As she walked through the arched entryway, she noticed the vaguely familiar smells of new wax and summer mustiness. As she turned down the corridor leading to the principal’s office, she ran into a tall, broad-shouldered man with hands on hips, scrutinizing the newly polished sheen on the floor. This had to be the custodian, admiring his work before hundreds of students’feet turned it into a mosaic of scuff marks. As she moved closer, he looked up and smiled as if he had

County, two-county (meso-regional), and broader regional elites and identities: …the greater gentry were in a better position to form an identity that was regional in nature than the lesser gentry because of the broader nature of their landed, marital, and personal interests; in addition, they were also the individuals who would be recruited by magnates for the influence that they could wield over their clients. It appears possible to speak of ‘county elites’: the shires seem to have been the primary foci for identification … The ‘regional elite’–comprising those involved in all counties–was small in number, being composed mostly of peers and greater gentry. While there was a significant supra-shire dimension to elites’ landholding, office-holding, and marriages, this seems to have been focused on meso-scale regions–the coupled-county units of Somerset/Dorset, and Devon/Cornwall. (p. 147) …With the principal foci appearing to be at shire and meso-regional levels, the concept of a broader south-west regional identity seems somewhat problematic. However, that said, the trans-county and trans-regional nature of the Hungerford affinity–with many of the same clients utilised in transactions concerning different shires–shows how a magnate and his circle could provide a focus for patronage that was extra-county, perhaps even regional, in scope (p.148). The principal themes of this study have been the interplay of the contemporaneous politics of the south-western elites, and long-term shire and regional identities (p. 347). …The ‘regional elite’, as seen, appears to have consisted mostly of only a small number of peers and the greatest gentry who cannot be regarded as a purely ‘regional’ elite because of their possession of wide-ranging estates on a trans-regional or national scale. The surveys of landowning and office-holding showed that, amongst the political elites, there tended to be some emphasis on the county unit; yet, while there were distinct shire elites, there were also extra-county elements to their identities. A significant emphasis seems to have been on the meso-regional communities of Somerset/Dorset and Devon/Cornwall, corroborating the earlier exploration of the region’s broader geography, economy, and culture (pp. 347–8) ... Both sets of political elites seem to have become more entwined over the period, and there was a growing region-wide dimension… (p. 348).

Edward IV’s policy of ‘Regional Governance’ (1461–71): During Edward IV’s first reign, Somerset politics was still influenced by the Stourton and Hungerford affinities which may have sought the patronage of Edward’s courtier, Humphrey Stafford. He was the only son of the Beaufort-Stourton client William Stafford by Katherine Chideock, and it was because of his Chideock inheritance (principally focussed in Somerset, Dorset, and Wiltshire) that he was destined to be a leading member of the Somerset gentry. In the later 1450s, Stafford may have been associated with the earl of Wiltshire whose first wife was his cousin (pp. 192–3). The Bonville-FitzWaryn alliance had dominated Devon politics throughout the 1440s and 1450s (see Chapter 5) but on Bonville’s death in 1461, his sole heir was his infant great-granddaughter, Cecily. Naturally, a child could not provide adequate leadership to the Bonville-FitzWaryn connection. Moreover, Bonville’s allies, Lord FitzWaryn and Sir Philip Courtenay, were also both entering their sixties (both were deceased before 1470), and similarly could not provide the dynamic direction that was required. Into this leadership void, stepped Lord Stafford (p. 207). …[Humphrey, Lord] Stafford [of Southwick] became a crucial national–regional power-broker–one of the pillars upon which rested the pediment of Yorkist government (p. 210). It seems clear that Lord Stafford’s land-holding, office-holding, and clientele suggest that he acted as a political core for the south-west region. Stafford’s inheritances already made him a significant figure in Somerset and Dorset but, favoured by Edward IV, he was granted extensive lands forfeited by Lancastrians throughout the south-west, such as the estates of the earldom of Devon. In addition to his own properties, Stafford was showered with many offices in Somerset and Dorset, as well as other positions of immense significance in the region–in particular, his endowment with the most important duchy of Cornwall offices ensured that he dominated Cornwall (p. 221). It seems quite understandable to find that, as a figure of local, regional, and national importance, Lord Stafford’s associations were regional in nature: he was connected to major figures from each county… (pp. 221–2).

He would spend a lot of time in Aaron’s office, though never for the typical reasons a restless boy might be compelled to see the principal: cheating, pot brownies, AOL unkindness.

in South Central unexpectedly when I was orphaned at age twelve. I’m originally from New Jersey—born in Newark, raised in a middle-class suburb called Summit. My mother passed suddenly when I was in third grade from a heart attack. My father did his best to raise me on his own for a couple of years, but when I was in seventh grade I got called into the principal’s office and they told me my dad had also died of a heart attack. The thing that tripped everyone out is that I didn’t cry when either of my parents died. I loved my mom and dad, of course, but even at that young age I was already in this super-isolated zone—I went into hard-core

In one of his dispatches to Hajjaj, Mahommad bin Qasim is quoted to have said : "The nephew of Raja Dahir, his warriors and principal officers have been dispatched, and the infidels converted to Islam or destroyed. Instead of idol-temples, mosques and other places of worship have been created, the Kutbah is read, the call to prayers is raised, so that devotions are performed at stated hours. The Takbir and praise to the Almighty God are offered every morning and evening.

I was scared. I had never been to the principal’s office before.

An administrator at a middle school in New Haven, Connecticut, began a professional development activity by writing the reasons teachers gave for sending a student to the office on the blackboard. He then went down the list with the group and asked whether they felt the infractions listed were legitimate reasons for referring a student to the principal’s office for punishment. In a public setting with their colleagues present, no one would defend sending a student to the office for chewing gum, wearing a hat, or forgetting to bring a pencil. Yet, these and other minor infractions were the reasons given on the bulk of the referrals. He pointed out that Black and Latino boys received over 80 percent of these referrals; and he engaged the staff in a discussion of the implications of these practices. Holding educators accountable for racial imbalances in discipline need not result in finger-pointing or recriminations about racist intentions that cannot be proved. However, if educators are going to reduce the disproportionate discipline meted out to poor children of color, they must accept responsibility for racial disparities in discipline patterns. Analyzing their approaches to maintaining order can help educators to identify alternative methods for producing positive learning environments. Alternatives are essential if schools are to stop using discipline as a strategy for weeding out those they deem undesirable or difficult to teach and instead to use discipline to reconnect students to learning.

Today was Rajit’s first day of school. I walked him to school so he could find his way. “I’m not used to hopping around to get different places,” Rajit said. “It is primitive, but very practical.” “How do you normally get to school?” “Well, I just teleport to one of the rooms at our estate.” “You have a school at your house? Doesn’t that mean that you’re homeschooled?” “Yes, I guess it does. Since it’s the only school in our biome, then I guess everyone else is homeschooled at my house too.” Wow. It must be really nice being rich. “Well, this is the principal’s office. He’ll probably assign you a buddy to show you around the school. I’ve got to get to class, so I’ll see you later.

Who’d you think they were trying to kill in your office?” Zoe asked. “You?” “I am the principal of the academy. It’s completely understandable that someone would want to kill me and not a student.” “I guess that’s true,” Mike said. “I can think of plenty of students who’ve wanted you dead.

Work matters. Quality work matters. It matters to God. Luther famously said that the angels smile when a father changes a dirty diaper. God wants clean rear ends! Of course he does. Why does God care about such small details? Because he loves, that's why. He wants children taught, and he uses principals, teachers, and parents to do it. Not to mention all the staff it takes to run a school. God wants people protected, and he uses firefighters, police officers, and a host of government officials to get the job done. God wants diseases controlled, and he uses doctors, nurses, and researchers to take on this monumental task. He cares deeply about the janitor's work, too, for the very same reason. God wants it all, and he wants it done well. He uses people to do it. He frees Christians from working for him so that they can work for their neighbors.

Every nation had its Mysteries and hierophants. Even the Jews had their Peter — Tanaïm or Rabbin, like Hillel, Akiba, and other famous kabalists, who alone could impart the awful knowledge contained in the Merkaba. In India, there was in ancient times one, and now there are several hierophants scattered about the country, attached to the principal pagodas, who are known as the Brahma-âtmas. In Thibet the chief hierophant is the Dalay, or Taley-Lama of Lha-ssa. Among Christian nations, the Catholics alone have preserved this "heathen" custom, in the person of their Pope, albeit they have sadly disfigured its majesty and the dignity of the sacred office.

So we all decided to stay quiet. I glanced at the back of the bus and saw Blaze looking really proud, and all his groupies were looking at him like he was so brave. To be honest, it was kinda cool how Blaze made the Wither get all crazy like that. I wouldn’t have had the guts to do that. Well, being a Zombie I actually don’t have guts to do anything, really. But man, that guy Blaze is really cool… Thursday Today I had to help out at the Principal’s Office as part of the school’s Student Volunteer program. I had to show some new 7th grade foreign exchange student around school. I thought that Rajit was the only foreign exchange student I had to deal with this semester. But it seems that there’s a whole bunch of them visiting this year. “Zombie, it seems that we’re short on volunteers today,” Principal Slime said.

Hold on,” I said to Zoe. “Did you say you infiltrated the principal’s office last night?” “That’s right,” Zoe replied. I looked back at Warren. “Then why are you still camouflaged?” “The paint won’t wash off,” Warren said morosely. He looked as though he might have turned red if he hadn’t been painted brown. “I couldn’t get the perfect oaken tone with standard face paint, so I had to use wood stain instead. Now I can’t remove it.” Zoe snickered despite herself. “It’s not funny!” Warren whined. “Today in self-defense class, Professor Simon mistook me for a table and set a book on my head.

This was a different door than the usual one for the principal’s office. A piece of paper was taped to it. It said PIRNCIPAL. Given the misspelling, I figured the principal had written it himself.

The principal wasn’t using his normal office because I’d blown it up by firing a mortar round into it. (It was an accident.) The damage had been extensive, and since the government was in charge of the repairs, they were taking a very long time. The official completion date was set for three years in the future, but even that was probably optimistic; my dormitory had been waiting to have its septic system replaced since before the Berlin Wall fell. In the meantime, the principal had been moved down the hall. Into a closet.

What?” The principal snapped to his feet, flabbergasted, obviously unaware of this news. “You’re activating this little twerp? For a real mission?” “It wouldn’t make much sense for us to activate him for a fake mission, now, would it?” Cyrus asked. “Well, he can’t go!” the principal declared childishly. “He blew up my office!

The previous fall, I had accidentally blown up the school principal’s office and had been punished with immediate expulsion from spy school. Now I’d blown up the most famous office in America. For all I knew, I’d get kicked out of the country for that.

When Heenehan Telecom Company took over Principal Processing Company, it fired all the staff except Jim Dennis and Beth Madison. They were tax accountants like fish out of water in the new company. The environment was hostile, the bosses were unbearable, and the cliques hated their guts. However, trouble started when a colleague, Amber Wolfe, started acting suspiciously and sabotaging their work. Jim and Beth found out the airhead exterior was only a facade, and Amber had dangerous ties to notorious cyber-terrorists. They were sitting ducks. Jim and Beth collaborate with external friends to save the company, their lives, and their careers. Would they succeed with the odds stacked against them, from bosses to colleagues? The Telecom Takeover by Beverly Winter tells the complete story. The Telecom Takeover by Beverly Winter is an intriguing novel that focuses on the corporate world. This story was riveting, from the office shenanigans to unfavorable policies to workplace bureaucracy to insensitive and selfish bosses. Winter also exposed the employee dynamics, power play, and scheming happening in the corporate world. This book has a solid plot, and the character development was beautiful. The story was also thought-provoking as I asked myself how much a person could take before throwing in the towel. At what point does perseverance become hopelessness? I could never work in such a dysfunctional environment and under such conditions. The overworked minions got the least pay while the bosses, who knew nothing, cornered fat bonuses. I loved how the tables turned on Judy. It was the best part of the novel. Keep writing beautiful stories, Beverly Winter." Jennifer Ibiam for Readers’ Favorite, ★★★★★

PRINCIPAL SPENCE?!

The principal limitation of the conventional trustee role, as it is practiced today, is the common assumption by trustees that internal officers and staffs, left largely on their own and structured as they usually are, will see to it that the institution performs as it should, that is, close to what is reasonable and possible with its resources. The arguments against this assumption are presented in the last chapter in the section “Organization: Some Flaws in the Concept of the Single Chief,” a concept that seems likely to continue in force as long as trustees remain in their conventional nominal roles.

There are three key aspects of Bourdieu’s theory that are relevant to white fragility: field, habitus, and capital. Field is the specific social context the person is in—a party, the workplace, or a school. If we take a school as an example, there is the macro field of school as a whole, and within the school are micro fields—the teacher’s lounge, the staff room, the classroom, the playground, the principal’s office, the nurses’ office, the janitor’s supply room, and so on. Capital is the social value people hold in a particular field; how they perceive themselves and are perceived by others in terms of their power or status. For example, compare the capital of a teacher and a student, a teacher and a principal, a middle-class student and a student on free or reduced lunch, an English language learner and a native English speaker, a popular girl and an unpopular one, a custodian and a receptionist, a kindergarten teacher and a sixth-grade teacher, and so on. Capital can shift with the field, for example, when the custodian comes “upstairs” to speak to the receptionist—the custodian in work clothes and the receptionist in business attire—the office worker has more capital than does the maintenance person. But when the receptionist goes “down” to the supply room, which the custodian controls, to request more whiteboard markers, those power lines shift; this is the domain of the custodian, who can fulfill the request quickly or can make the transaction difficult. Notice how race, class, and gender will also be at play in negotiations of power. The custodian is most likely to be male, and the receptionist female; the custodian more likely a person of color and the receptionist more likely white. These complex and intersecting layers of capital are being negotiated automatically.

Dad had gone ballistic when Ruby got suspended from school for smoking, but not Nora. Her mother had picked Ruby up from the principal’s office and driven her to the state park at the tip of the island. She’d dragged Ruby down to the secluded patch of beach that overlooked Haro Strait and the distant glitter of downtown Victoria. It had been exactly three in the afternoon, and the gray whales had been migrating past them in a spouting, splashing row. Nora had been wearing her good dress, the one she saved for parent–teacher conferences, but she had plopped down cross-legged on the sand. Ruby had stood there, waiting to be bawled out, her chin stuck out, her arms crossed. Instead, Nora had reached into her pocket and pulled out the joint that had been found in Ruby’s locker. Amazingly, she had put it in her mouth and lit up, taking a deep toke, then she had held it out to Ruby. Stunned, Ruby had sat down by her mother and taken the joint. They’d smoked the whole damn thing together, and all the while, neither of them had spoken. Gradually, night had fallen; across the water, the sparkling white city lights had come on. Her mother had chosen that minute to say what she’d come to say. “Do you notice anything different about Victoria?” Ruby had found it difficult to focus. “It looks farther away,” she had said, giggling. “It is farther away. That’s the thing about drugs. When you use them, everything you want in life is farther away.” Nora had turned to her. “How cool is it to do something that anyone with a match can do? Cool is becoming an astronaut…or a comedian…or a scientist who cures cancer. Lopez Island is exactly what you think it is—a tiny blip on a map. But the world is out there, Ruby, even if you haven’t seen it. Don’t throw your chances away. We don’t get as many of them as we need. Right now you can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything. You can become so damned famous that they’ll have a parade for you when you come home for your high-school reunion…or you can keep screwing up and failing your classes and you can snip away the ends of your choices until finally you end up with that crowd who hangs out at Zeke’s Diner, smoking cigarettes and talking about high-school football games that ended twenty years ago.” She had stood up and brushed off her dress, then looked down at Ruby. “It’s your choice. Your life. I’m your mother, not your warden.” Ruby remembered that she’d been shaking as she’d stood up. That’s how deeply her mother’s words had reached. Very softly, she’d said, “I love you, Mom.

Para que todo el proceso funcione, la figura del CDO, el chief data officer, es imprescindible, pues alguien debe asumir la responsabilidad que supone una estructura data-driven115 en la organización. Su principal misión será la de establecer los pilares de gobernanza del dato, que deberá compaginar con una labor inicial de evangelización de la cultura del dato en el seno de la organización. Esta

Don’t Invent Job Titles I used to make up job titles because, as a bootstrapper, I didn’t particularly care what someone’s title was. I didn’t want it to matter—but it really does. When we realized we needed an architect to scale our infrastructure at Drip, we asked our internal recruiter to hire for the job of “Senior Scaling Architect.” She eventually talked us into the title of “Senior Architect.” Why? Because when she ran the data, she couldn’t find enough salary information on the title we’d given her. Not only that, but if we’d used a made-up job title, qualified candidates wouldn’t have known what we were hiring for. There are standard SaaS job titles. Use them. Your ideal candidates have saved job searches for things like “Engineer,” “Customer Service Lead,” and, yes, “Senior Architect.” Ignoring that makes it harder to connect with people searching for the job you’re hiring for. It also does a disservice to whomever you end up hiring. They’ll have a much tougher time explaining their qualifications to their next employer when their job title was “Code Wizard” rather than “Senior Engineer.” Although a treatise on organizational structure is beyond the scope of this book, here’s a typical hierarchy of engineering titles (in descending order of authority) that can be easily translated into other departments: Chief Technical Officer VP of Engineering Director of Engineering Manager of Engineering Senior Software Engineer Software Engineer Junior Software Engineer Entry-Level Software Engineer Note: These titles assume the typical path is to move into management, which doesn’t have to be the case. Individual contributor titles above Senior exist, such as Principal Engineer and Distinguished Engineer. But for the sake of simplicity, I’m laying out the above hierarchy, which will work for companies well into the millions of ARR. Another note on titles: be careful with handing out elevated job titles to early employees. One company I know named their first customer service person “Head of Customer Success.” When they inevitably grew and added more customer service people, they didn’t want him managing them and ended up in a tough situation. Should they demote him and have him leave? Or come up with an even more elevated title for the real manager?

I taught for 16 years at William and Mary and six years at George Washington University, using as one of my principal text books David Roth's book Running the World. And if you look on — if memory doesn't fail me — about page 12 of the hardback copy of that book, you'll find his five circumstances that influence National Security decision making thus the NSC. Two of them that are prominent, one was absolutely prominent with my boss Colin Powell, are the people doing the decision-making: the characters as David calls them. The depth of their character, the shallow of their character, whatever. Another one though is domestic politics. As I taught my classes on both campuses over the years, my students grew more and more strident, in their assertion in their case studies using this framework for analysis David offers, at saying that the domestic outweighed everything else, and I started paying attention to them. And I started looking at it closely myself, and I think they had a point we are now to that point to your question where nothing that is rational about national security foreign policy, international relations, or the associated fields, is accomplished on the basis of national interest. It's accomplished on the basis of these people's views of their chances in the political arena, and that's where we are today almost without exception. [...] those are the other three things in David's framework for analysis. Ideology slash governing philosophy — and he differentiates those two things, sometimes they blend, of course almost always they blend, but he differentiates them. And then the next one is the structure or process in which the decisions made. Because he was a member of the NSC staff, and he saw often, as did I, the statutory system didn't being used. Dick Cheney just totally ignored the statutory system and made his own decisions in his own office, and communicated them to New York Times so they could be on the front page above the fold right side the next morning. And then we added one. We added one called "budget". And I showed him that Dwight Eisenhower was the very last president to require his (then it was called the office of the budget, OMB now) budget director to give him an assessment of every National Security decision he formerly made, if it incurred cost, and most often it did. We haven't had that since Eisenhower. Nobody cares anymore. The latest one to be asked that by the budget director, by the director of The Office of Management Budget in a formal meeting of the principles, Dick Cheney said: "Ronald Reagan proved deficits don't matter," and we went on from there. (Excerpt from interview "US Elections & Imperial Overstretch - Colonel Lawrence Wilkerson, Alexander Mercouris & Glenn Diesen")

Rowan still felt like a kid being marched to the principal’s office.

Josh is walking into the principal’s office when I get off the phone.

Zach stole my stuff!” “No, I didn’t!” “It was here before I went to the bathroom and now it’s gone!” Andy reached over and cuffed the boy. “That will be quite enough,” Mrs. Crabtree intervened. “Andy, go to the principal’s office. Now.

Mr Heilbroner, as you certainly know, is a minor. We can use the principal’s office for a few minutes so that you can brief me about whatever allegations have been made. But of course you can’t speak with Mr Heilbroner himself until his parents have been notified. Would you follow me, please?

If I’d felt insensitive earlier, it wasn’t long before I was feeling downright callous. Everyone kept telling me they’d heard what had happened and how horrible it must have been. But inside, I was still buzzing, my pulse racing, as giddy as the time Serena and I sneaked champagne at her cousin’s wedding. Rafe didn’t make it easy, either. During first period, he found an excuse to walk past my desk and drop off a note. It read, “Not dating classmates means you’ve missed out on an important part of fifth grade. Time to catch up.” Below that, he’d drawn a heart with our initials in it. I’d laughed, added “2 be + 2-gether = 4-ever” and passed it back. And so it went, all morning, the page getting filled up with doodles as it went back and forth. It was completely fifth grade and completely silly and I loved it, because he wasn’t afraid to be silly. It was like kissing him first--I could do whatever I wanted, and not have to worry what he’d think of me. Five minutes before lunch, he dropped off another note marked “Open at the bell,” then excused himself to use the washroom…and didn’t return. When the bell went, I unfolded it to find a rough sketch of the school, with a dotted line from our class to an X by the principal’s office. I stuffed the note in my pocket and took off. At the office, I found an X in marker on the floor beside the trash can. I moved it and found another note. Another dotted line, this one leading outside to another X. That one ended just inside the forest, where I found a third note under a pebble…It was blank. I looked up. Rafe’s laugh floated down from the trees. “Can’t fool you, huh?

Getting called into the coach’s office is like getting called into the principal’s office. And I never have good enough grades to hope it’s because the principal has nice news.

We went to classes. The teachers didn’t quite know what to do with us. It wasn’t exactly kosher what we were doing–but then punishing the “apes” by sending them down the hall to the Principal’s Office within full view of all the other classrooms would only compound the problem. So they shrugged and started the school day. Within minutes of “home room”, Chris and I were sitting in our respective classrooms, working multiplication problems like good little monkeys. I remember suffering a lot throughout the day, horribly burdened by a growing realization. “What kind of a world is this,” I thought, “if you can’t go to school dressed up like a gorilla?” The question haunts me to his very day.

First, the Office determined that Russia’s two principal interference operations in the 2016 U.S. presidential election—the social media campaign and the hacking-and-dumping operations—violated U.S. criminal law.

I was fascinated to learn that the real-life Stephen Lavender, on whom my fictional hero is based, was involved in the aftermath of the shocking murder. He, along with fellow Principal Officers John Vickery and Harry Adkins, gathered the evidence required to convict Bellingham. The connection Vickery made between the pistol ball used to kill Bellingham and the small machine used to make it which he found in Bellingham’s lodgings, is often cited as the first example in a UK courtroom of ballistic forensic analysis

As Barr saw it, he had written the letter to be intentionally brief and include only Mueller’s baseline conclusions, and as an act of good faith he quoted Mueller’s language about not being able to “exonerate” the president. What’s more, Barr told his team, they had given Mueller and his deputies an opportunity to review a draft of the letter and Zebley declined. How could Zebley now be upset about it? On March 27, Mueller signed a letter to Barr from the special counsel’s office objecting strongly to the attorney general’s handling of the principal conclusions: “The summary letter the Department sent to Congress and released to the public late in the afternoon of March 24 did not fully capture the context, nature, and substance of this Office’s work and its conclusions.

and that this is still Day 1 in such a big way. Jeff Bezos Amazon’s internal customs are deeply idiosyncratic. PowerPoint decks or slide presentations are never used in meetings. Instead, employees are required to write six-page narratives laying out their points in prose, because Bezos believes doing so fosters critical thinking. For each new product, they craft their documents in the style of a press release. The goal is to frame a proposed initiative in the way a customer might hear about it for the first time. Each meeting begins with everyone silently reading the document, and discussion commences afterward—just like the productive-thinking exercise in the principal’s office at River Oaks Elementary. For my initial meeting with Bezos to discuss this project, I decided to observe Amazon’s customs and prepare my own Amazon-style narrative, a fictional press release on behalf of the book. Bezos met me in an eighth-floor conference room and we sat down at a large table made of half a dozen door-desks, the same kind of blond wood that Bezos used twenty years ago when he was building Amazon from scratch in his garage. The door-desks are often held up as a symbol of the company’s enduring frugality. When I first interviewed Bezos, back in 2000, a few years of unrelenting international travel had taken their toll

08 The principal’s office.

When I get to Principal Belding’s office, Miss Bliss, his secretary,

In a pastoral letter in 1976, Archbishop Kabanga of Lubumbashi issued a devastating critique of the system that Mobutu ran. The thirst for money . . . transforms men into assassins. Many poor unemployed are condemned to misery along with their families because they are unable to pay off the person who hires. How many children and adults die without medical care because they are unable to bribe the medical personnel who are supposed to care for them? Why are there no medical supplies in the hospitals, while they are found in the marketplace? How did they get there? Why is it that in our courts justice can only be obtained by fat bribes to the judge? Why are prisoners forgotten in jail? They have no one to pay off the judge who sits on the dossier. Why do our government offices force people to come back day after day to obtain services to which they are entitled? If the clerks are not paid off, they will not be served. Why, at the opening of school, must parents go into debt to bribe the school principal? Children who are unable to pay will have no school . . . Whoever holds a morsel of authority, or means of pressure, profits from it to impose on people, especially in rural areas. All means are good to obtain money, or humiliate the human being.

In a more consistent and sustained way, I think, intellectuals who are close to policy formulation and can control patronage of the kind that gives or withholds jobs, stipends, promotions tend to watch out for individuals who do not toe the line professionally and in the eyes of their superiors gradually come to exude an air of controversy and noncooperation. Understandably of course, if you want a job done—let us say that you and your team have to provide the State Department or Foreign Office with a policy paper on Bosnia by next week—you need to surround yourself with people who are loyal, share the same assumptions, speak the same language. I have always felt that for an intellectual who represents the kinds of things I have been discussing in these lectures, being in that sort of professional position, where you are principally serving and winning rewards from power, is not at all conducive to the exercise of that critical and relatively independent spirit of analysis and judgment that, from my point of view, ought to be the intellectual’s contribution. In other words, the intellectual, properly speaking, is not a functionary or an employee completely given up to the policy goals of a government or a large corporation, or even a guild of likeminded professionals. In such situations the temptations to turn off one’s moral sense, or to think entirely from within the specialty, or to curtail skepticism in favor of conformity are far too great to be trusted. Many intellectuals succumb completely to these temptations, and to some degree all of us do. No one is totally self-supporting, not even the greatest of free spirits.

and then filling the Oval Office with laughter the next. It was the only way to get through the job—to intentionally inject some fun and joy into it. But in the White House that day, my friend Bob Trono found nothing joyful or humorous about his meeting with the president. “Who’re we waitin’ on?” Bush asked, after he entered the Roosevelt Room five minutes before the scheduled start time. Someone answered that Comey was downstairs in the Situation Room. “Jim can catch up when he gets here,” Bush said. “Let’s get going.” Bob could feel the perspiration trickle down his neck. The meeting marched through the departments, as various principals gave the president their

Ms. Highsmith is missing or something.” Debra Highsmith, the high school principal, was someone with whom Joanna had crossed swords several times, most notably when Joanna had been invited to speak at career day and was notified that, due to the school’s strict “zero tolerance of weapons” policy, she would need to leave both her Glock and her Taser at home. Joanna had gone to the school board and had succeeded in obtaining a waiver of that policy for trained police officers. “Ms. Highsmith is missing?” Joanna asked.

Meet the New Boss What?! Mr. Klutz was fired? It couldn’t be true! We were all shocked. I thought it was one of those times when something really horrible happens and then it turns out just to be a dream. I saw that in a movie once. But the next morning while we were putting our backpacks away, everybody was talking about what happened. “Dr. Carbles can’t fire Mr. Klutz!” said Michael. “Well, he did,” said Ryan. “But Mr. Klutz is the best principal in the world!” said Neil the nude kid. Neil was right. Everybody loved Mr. Klutz. I was sad. Some kids were crying. Teachers were hugging each other in the hallway and dabbing their eyes with tissues. It was like Mr. Klutz had died. After we pledged the allegiance, our teacher, Miss Daisy, said we should remember the good times we had with Mr. Klutz. “Remember when he got his foot caught at the top of the flagpole and was hanging upside down?” said Ryan. “Remember when he dressed like Santa in the holiday pageant, and he was hanging upside down from his sleigh?” said Michael. “Once I got called to his office, and he was hanging upside down from the ceiling,” I told everybody. “Mr. Klutz sure hangs upside down a lot,” said Emily, who is a big crybaby. It was hard to concentrate on reading and math that morning. We were all thinking about the good old days with Mr. Klutz. When it was time to go to the vomitorium for lunch, we were still talking about him. “They’ll have to get us a new principal,” said Andrea, who

As expected, the story about the missing school principal was right there at the top of the news broadcast. “Tonight, authorities in Bisbee are searching for Bisbee High School’s principal, Debra Highsmith, who went missing sometime last night,” the news anchor said. “When Ms. Highsmith failed to show up at work today, police officers were dispatched to her home to do a welfare check, but failed to find her. Our reporter Toni Avila is on the scene. What can you tell us, Toni?” “According to a spokesman for the Bisbee Police Department, when officers were dispatched to Ms. Highsmith’s residence in Bisbee’s San Jose neighborhood, they found no evidence of a struggle or of foul play. Her vehicle, a white 2006 VW Passat with Arizona plate number AZU-657, is also missing. At this point, officers assisted by K-9 teams are doing a thorough search of the nearby area. They’re also checking with area hospitals to see if Ms. Highsmith may have suffered some kind of medical emergency. Anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts is urged to contact the Bisbee Police Department.

Principal Management Corporation, the manager of the LargeCap Value Fund, actually provides no investment management services, focusing instead on “clerical, recordkeeping and bookkeeping services.” Responsibility for the day-in and day-out portfolio management rests with a subsidiary of Alliance Capital Management, Bernstein Investment Research and Management.17 The fee arrangement between Principal and Bernstein involves only a portion of Principal’s take from its investors. For the year ended December 31, 2003, Principal’s no-load Class B shares bore the burden of a 2.51 percent expense ratio, as detailed in Table 8.7. Investors paid a 12b-1 fee of 0.91 percent, other expenses of 0.85 percent and a management fee of 0.75 percent. Principal’s fees all but guarantee that investors will fail to generate satisfactory returns. The management fee arrangement between Principal and Bernstein provides clues to the economies of scale available in the money management industry. At asset levels below $10 million, of the 0.75 percent management fee, 0.60 percent goes to Bernstein and 0.15 percent goes to Principal. As assets under management increase, Bernstein’s fee share decreases and Principal’s fee share increases. At the final break point of $200 million in assets, of the scale-invariant 0.75 percent fee, Bernstein receives 0.20 percent and Principal receives 0.55 percent. The fee structure clearly illustrates scale economies in the investment management business. Bernstein, the party responsible for the heart of the portfolio management process, earns fees that diminish (with increases in assets under management) from 0.60 percent of assets to 0.20 percent of assets. Since Bernstein’s work changes not at all as asset levels increase, the reduction in marginal charges makes sense. It makes no sense that Principal’s mutual-fund clients accrue no benefits from economies of scale. Total expenses incurred by investors remain at 2.51 percent regardless of portfolio size. As Bernstein’s management fee declines, Principal’s management fee increases. For assets above $200 million Principal adds a management fee of 0.55 percent to other fees of 1.76 percent, bringing the egregious total to 2.31 percent for Principal and 0.20 percent for Bernstein. In this topsy-turvy world, Principal earns a marginal management fee of 0.55 percent for performing back-office functions, while Bernstein earns a marginal management fee of 0.20 percent for making security-selection decisions. As scale increases, Bernstein earns less while Principal takes more.

Mrs. Rita Graul, one of Mrs. Hicks’s principal lieutenants, had just introduced two figures in chicken masks—“the white chicken, Senator Kennedy,” and “the brown chicken, Senator Brooke.” All of a sudden, there was Kennedy himself—that distinctive mop of brown hair, his face tanned from the late-summer weekend on the Cape. There was a brief but heated discussion over whether to let the Senator speak. Ultimately, Kennedy advanced to the microphone, but when the crowd realized who he was they booed and jeered: “Impeach him. Get rid of the bum!” “You’re a disgrace to the Irish!” “Why don’t you put your one-legged son on a bus!” “Yeah, let your daughter get bused, so she can get raped!” “Why don’t you let them shoot you, like they shot your brother!” Kennedy’s face tightened and his fist grasped the microphone more closely, but each time he tried to speak the clamor grew. Some in the crowd chanted, “No, no, we won’t go.” Others sang “God Bless America.” Then, slowly at first, more quickly as the idea caught on, the crowd turned row by row to face the Federal Building named for his brother, the late President. Kennedy abruptly left the platform and started across the plaza toward his office, a few women pursuing him, shouting further insults. Then out of the crowd sailed a ripe tomato, smashing on the pavement, splattering his pin-striped suit. “Ahhh,” sighed the crowd. Another tomato and several eggs rained down on him. Kennedy quickened his pace, head down. With the object of their resentment in full flight now, the pursuers closed in.

Public high schools have been invaded by SWAT teams in search of drugs. In November 2003, for example, police raided Stratford High School in Goose Creek, South Carolina. The raid was recorded by the school’s surveillance cameras as well as a police camera. The tapes show students as young as fourteen forced to the ground in handcuffs as officers in SWAT team uniforms and bulletproof vests aim guns at their heads and lead a drug-sniffing dog to tear through their book bags. The raid was initiated by the school’s principal, who was suspicious that a single student might be dealing marijuana.

Although the federal government had been trying to persuade middle-class families to buy single-family homes for more than fourteen years, the campaign had achieved little by the time Franklin D. Roosevelt took office in 1933. Homeownership remained prohibitively expensive for working- and middle-class families: bank mortgages typically required 50 percent down, interest-only payments, and repayment in full after five to seven years, at which point the borrower would have to refinance or find another bank to issue a new mortgage with similar terms. Few urban working- and middle-class families had the financial capacity to do what was being asked. The Depression made the housing crisis even worse. Many property-owning families with mortgages couldn't make their payments and were subject to foreclosure. With most others unable to afford homes at all, the construction industry was stalled. The New Deal designed one program to support existing homeowners who couldn't make payments, and another to make first-time homeownership possible for the middle class. In 1933, to rescue households that were about to default, the administration created the Home Owners' Loan Corporation (HOLC). It purchased existing mortgages that were subject to imminent foreclosure and then issued new mortgages with repayment schedules of up to fifteen years (later extended to twenty-five years). In addition, HOLC mortgages were amortized, meaning that each month's payment included some principal as well as interest, so when the loan was paid off, the borrower would own the home. Thus, for the first time, working- and middle-class homeowners could gradually gain equity while their properties were still mortgaged. If a family with an amortized mortgage sold its home, the equity (including any appreciation) would be the family's to keep. HOLC mortgages had low interest rates, but the borrowers still were obligated to make regular payments. The HOLC, therefore, had to exercise prudence about. its borrowers' abilities to avoid default. to assess risk, the HOLC wanted to know something about the condition of the house and of surrounding houses in the neighborhood to see whether the property would likely maintain its value. The HOLC hired local real estate agents to make the appraisals on which refinancing decisions could be based. With these agents required by their national ethics code to maintain segregation, it's not surprising that in gauging risk HOLK considered the racial composition of neighborhoods. The HOLC created color-coded maps of every metropolitan area in the nation, with the safest neighborhoods colored green and the riskiest colored red. A neighborhood earned a red color if African Americans lived in it, even if it was a solid middle-class neighborhood of single-family homes. For example, in St. Louis, the white middle-class suburb of Ladue was colored green because, according to an HOLC appraiser in 1940, it had 'not a single foreigner or negro.' The similarly middle-class suburban area of Lincoln Terrace was colored red because it had 'little or no value today . . . due to the colored element now controlling the district.' Although HOLC did not always decline to rescue homeowners in neighborhoods colored red on its maps (i.e., redlined neighborhoods), the maps had a huge impact and put the federal government on record as judging that African Americans, simply because of their race, were poor risks.

Diplomats, warriors and: In ancient times, military prowess was one of the principal qualifications of statesmen. Today, military and diplomatic officers are separated into distinct professions. But the capacity of a state at peace to resort successfully to war is what gives ultimate credibility to its diplomats; its capacity to end war through its enemies' endorsement of just concessions is what gives lasting meaning to the sacrifices of its warriors. War and diplomacy are different but intimately related aspects of national policy. Diplomats and warriors who recall this will therefore act as brothers in a potentially lethal common endeavor. They will understand that war is a means, costly in blood and treasure, to establish a peace on terms more favorable than those that prevailed before combat began; they will consider together when to fight and when to talk and when to press and when to stop. Diplomats, warriors without weapons: Diplomats are warriors without weapons, pointmen for the armed men behind them. Diplomats and military commanders serve the same masters and the same causes; both are practitioners of the controlled application of the power of their own nations to others. Between them, diplomats and warriors regulate and traverse the course from protest to menace, from dialogue to mediation, from ultimata to the controlled application of force to other societies, from war to negotiated settlement and reconciliation.

You do not need a permission slip from the principal’s office to live a creative life.

The public school teachers, they tried to break me,” he said. “From the moment I started school they tried to crush my spirit. They tried to shame me and pathologize me. An army of white women, sometimes men, who literally thought it was their job to destroy Black boys. They sent me to the principal’s office every day for no reason except I couldn’t sit on my own little square on the carpet. I was always trying to mess with other kids. Normal little boy hijinks, you know? Pulling this girl’s hair, giving that boy a wedgie. Nothing criminal. But when you’re a little Black boy, that’s what they do. They try to find a way to pathologize your ordinary fucking behavior. To get you in that pipeline. They really want to put you onto that track, you know, a life working at McDonald’s or hard crime. Your pick. And I think that’s what made me Hampton Motherfucking Ford. All that time spent in the principal’s office and detention. That’s where I discovered the fire that was inside me. The hunger to be, to persevere. I thought, I’m going to make sure these white people regret the day they ever tried to doubt me.

Frequent Breaches of Social Rules Children with ADHD may frequently break the rules at school or in other situations that require them to follow specific guidelines. They may get sent to the principal’s office for their behavior repeatedly or be sent home from school for not following the dress code daily. They may often feel misunderstood by the people around them and “forced” to do things they do not want.

the American slave-trade finally came to be carried on principally by United States capital, in United States ships, officered by United States citizens, and under the United States flag.

That phrase became a slogan that I held on to. Over the next few years, I reminded myself of this truth thousands of times. That is not an exaggeration. Every time Jen was angry with me, I returned to this slogan. Every time someone criticized me, I came back to the true foundation. Every time I felt like a little kid in the principal’s office about to get yelled at, I reminded myself of the unshakable truth that the issue of my value was settled on the cross. I paused in God’s presence to renew my mind. I allowed the Holy Spirit to minister the truth of the Father’s love into the depths of my soul. I would take a moment, wherever I was, to pause, to listen, to access God’s loving presence, to hold on to the truth. This precious pause, and intentional shifting of the foundation, became the key to transformation.

Candid: When used to describe a meeting, generally indicates that there were sharp differences between the participants. Capabilities and intentions: "Foreign policy must be planned on the basis of the other side's capabilities and not merely of its intentions." — Henry A. Kissinger, 1964 Capitals: Great capitals foster great delusions; they lapse easily into political autism or disdain for the realities of the world at their periphery and beyond it. Chancery: The office building in which an ambassador and his principal staff work. Also called the "chancellery." (Technically, the "embassy" is where the ambassador lives, not where he works. Thus the chancery is an "embassy office", as distinct from an "embassy residence.") Change: The balance between societies shifts as compelling new ideas, political economies, and technologies arise, and new objects of competition emerge to stimulate conflict. War ruins some peoples; it invigorates others. Some peoples profit in peace; others rot in it. Nations wax and wane; states coalesce and cleave asunder. Change, international: "Nations are changed by time: they flourish and decay; by turns command and obey." — Ovid Character: "The best means of judging ... [men's character] is to ascertain whether they choose for their companions men of known respectability, good habits, and generally well reputed. For there is no better indication of a man's character than the company which he keeps; and therefore very properly a man who keeps respectable company acquires a good name, for it is impossible that there should not be some similitude of character and habits between him and his associates." — Niccolò Machiavelli

went to the main office. That’s where the boss of the school lives. His name is Principal. Principal is a baldy. He talked to us. Then Lucille raised her hand. “My brother said that last year he had to come down here. And you yelled at him. And now he’s not allowed to beat up kids at recess anymore.” Principal kind of laughed. Then he held the door for us to leave. After that, we walked to the water fountain. And Mrs. let us get a drink. I didn’t get a long one, though. ’Cause kids kept tapping on me. “Hurry up, girl,” they said. “Yeah, only guess what? That’s not even my name,” I told them. “Her name is Junie Bumblebee,” said Lucille. Then she laughed. But I didn’t think it was a very funny joke.

Similarly, there is a limit to how far you can go in anti-violence work without rejecting the principal institutions of masculine domination. In reaction to spates of accusations from enlisted women of sexual assault and harassment perpetrated by their male peers and officers, the US military has engaged trainers, including Katz, to conduct gender violence prevention and bystander intervention. Like the prevention of child abuse through the promotion of authoritarian fatherhood, anti-violence training with men whose job is to kill people - the epitome of toxic masculinity - is any oxymoron. These military projects also carry a strong whiff of Othering: soldiers should be respectful of "our" women, and even refrain from raping "enemy" women and girls, but it's okay to kill their fathers, brothers, or husbands and, if necessary, to blow up their homes and cities. These efforts are not working. Biannual Pentagon surveys show a stead increase in sexual assaults and harassment in military academies. "This isn't a blip, a #MeToo bump, or some accident," averred California Democrat Jackie Spier at a February 2019 House subcommittee hearing. "It's a clear illustration of a destructive trend and systemic problem.

How high can you fly before you crash? How long can you stay intoxicated beyond all recognition? How long can you sustain a buzz, a bender, a peak experience, a magic carpet ride, a hot-burning flame of mania, a trip to Venus on a pink cloud? How many days can you cut Earth School before you get called to the principal’s office? These are all very good questions that addicts do not generally like to answer. When pushed, however, an addict’s short response to all these questions is usually something along the lines of: As long as I can. We will keep this ride going for as long as we can. And we will not put it down until there is nothing left to smoke, drink, fuck, eat, spend, hoard, shoot into our veins, disappear into, or lick off the carpet in crumbs.

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Best Digital Signage for Schools Keeping students, teachers, and parents informed sounds simple—until announcements change hourly, emergency alerts need instant delivery, and staff are already stretched thin. In many schools, outdated bulletin boards or manual slide updates create delays and inconsistencies that directly impact communication effectiveness. That’s where modern digital signage platforms step in as structured, reliable communication systems rather than just “screens on the wall.” Within the first phase of adoption, many districts explore solutions like digital signage for schools to centralize messaging across classrooms, hallways, cafeterias, and administrative offices without adding operational burden. What Schools Actually Need From Digital Signage Schools have different requirements than retail or corporate offices. Through real-world deployments, several consistent pain points appear: Decentralized communication: Announcements managed by multiple staff members often lead to errors or outdated content. Limited IT resources: Platforms must work without constant technical oversight. Safety and compliance: Emergency messaging, lockdown alerts, and ADA-compliant displays are non-negotiable. Scalability: Systems must support one campus or an entire district without reconfiguration. The most effective platforms balance simplicity for daily users with enough control for administrators. Crown TV: Built for Real-World School Environments Crown TV stands out in education settings because it was designed to reduce operational friction rather than add another system to manage. In K–12 and higher education deployments, its browser-based interface allows non-technical staff to publish announcements, schedules, and alerts in minutes. Key strengths schools consistently benefit from include: Fast deployment: Most campuses go live the same day, even with mixed hardware. Granular user permissions: Teachers, admins, and district leaders each get appropriate access levels. Emergency messaging overrides: Critical alerts can interrupt all screens instantly. Cloud-based management: Ideal for districts managing multiple schools remotely. In practice, this means a principal can push weather closures district-wide, while individual schools still control daily announcements—without IT intervention. ScreenCloud: Strong UI With Education-Friendly Flexibility ScreenCloud is often favored by schools prioritizing visual polish and template-driven content. Its design tools make it easy to create attractive announcements for events, lunch menus, or student achievements. Where ScreenCloud performs well: Clean, intuitive content editor Good compatibility with ChromeOS devices Useful for schools emphasizing branding consistency However, larger districts may encounter limitations around advanced user roles and emergency alert workflows compared to more education-focused platforms. NoviSign: Feature-Rich but Requires Setup Time NoviSign offers extensive functionality, including widgets for calendars, RSS feeds, and live data integrations. Schools with dedicated IT support often appreciate this flexibility. Consider NoviSign if: You need highly customized layouts Your team can manage initial configuration You’re integrating multiple data sources That said, onboarding can be slower, and non-technical staff may need training before feeling comfortable making updates independently. Rise Vision: Familiar to Google Workspace Schools Rise Vision has long been popular in education, especially among schools already embedded in Google Workspace. Its Google Slides integration makes it easy for teachers to contribute content.

In the course of history, kings have welcomed more and more people to their courts, which became more and more brilliant. Is it not obvious that these courtiers and the "officers" were stolen from the feudal lords, who just lost at one fell swoop, their retinues and their administrators? The modern state nourishes a vast bureaucracy. Is not the corresponding decline in the staff of the employer patent to all? Putting the mass of the people to productive work makes possible at any given moment of technical advance the existence of a given number of non-producers. These non-producers will either be dispersed in a number of packets or concentrated in one immense body, according as the profits of productive work accrue to the social or to the political authorities. The requirement of Power, its tendency and its raison d'etre, is to concentrate them in its own service. To this task, it brings us so much ardour, instinctive rather than designed that in course of time it does to a natural death the social order which gave it birth. This tendency is due not to the form taken by any particular state but to the inner essence of Power, which is the inevitable assailant of the social authorities and sucks the very lifeblood. And the more vigorous a particular power is a more virile it is to the role of vampire. When it falls to weak hand, which gives aristocratic resistance a chance to organize itself, the state's revolutionary nature becomes for the time being effaced. This happens either because the forces of aristocracy opposed to the now enfeebled statocratic onslaught a barrier capable of checking it, or, more frequently, because they put a guard on their assailant, by laying hands on the apparatus which endangers them; they guarantee their own survival by installing themselves in the seat of government. This is exactly what did happen to the two epochs when the ideas of Montesquieu and Marx took shape. The counter-offensive of the social authorities cannot be understood unless it is realized that the process of destroying aristocracy goes hand in hand with a tendency in the opposite sense. The mighty are put down - if they are independent of the state; but simultaneously, a statocrcy is exalted, and the new statocrats do more than lay a collective hand on the social forces - they laid them on the lay them each his own hand; in this way, they divert them from Power and restore them again to society, in which thereafter the statocrats join forces, by reason of the similarity of their situations and interests, with the ancient aristocracies in retreat. Moreover, the statocratic acids, in so far as they break down the aristocratic molecules, do not make away with all the forces which they liberate. Part of them stays unappropriated, and furnishes new captains of society with the personnel necessary to the construction of new principates. In this way, the fission of the feudal cell at the height of the Middle Ages released the labour on which the merchant-drapers rose to wealth and political importance. So also in England, with a greed of Henry VIII had fallen on the ecclesiastical authorities to get from their wealth, the wherewithal to carry out his policies, the greater part of the monastic spoils, stuck to the fingers of hands, which had been held out to receive them. These spoils founded the fortunes of the nascent English capitalism. In this way, new hives are forever being built, in which lie hidden a new sort of energies; these will in time inspire the state to fresh orgies of covetousness. That is why the statocratic aggression seemed never to reach its logical conclusion - the complete atomization of society, which should contain henceforward nothing but isolated individuals whom the state alone rules and exploits.

a protectorate was a collaborative administration invoked when the king was unable to undertake personal rule, e.g. during a child’s minority. In a protectorate the king’s person was placed in the care of a group of guardians and educators during his minority, while the governance of the realm lay in the hands of the King’s Council under Parliament. The role of the Protector was spelt out explicitly by Parliament as primarily concerned with the security of the kingdom; his full title was Protector and Defender of the Church and Realm in England and Principal Councillor of the King. As the nation’s foremost military commander Richard was the obvious person to fulfil these security responsibilities; and with his mastery of administration, justice and international affairs he was well qualified to be a senior adviser during the inexperienced young king’s minority. In Henry VI’s reign the precise responsibilities of the office had been set out by Parliament, including his duty to deal with rebels (Rot. Parl. iv, 326); it was also decreed that the Protector was entitled to the obedience of all the king’s subjects (Rot. Parl. v, 242).

Intelligence operations, he [Khristo] had discovered, consisted principally of driving a car for hundreds of kilometers, sifting through an infinity of reports and memoranda, endlessly locking and unlocking the metal security boxes assigned to each officer, and writing up volumes of agent-contact sheets. In the latter regard, thank heaven for Sascha. The drunker he got, the better he wrote. And he had such mastery of Soviet bureaucratic language — a poetry of understatement and euphemism — that Yaschyeritsa mostly left them alone. That was fine with Khristo. […] Drunken old crazy poet Sascha wandering about in a daze with his absurd heart dragging behind him on a chain, this posturing fool, this poseur, was digging up their buried secrets every chance he got. First he had done it in Moscow, long before he'd gone to Spain, in Dzerzhinsky Square itself. Little nighttime trips to the files. What's old what's-his-face doing lately? This? Hmm. That? My, my. The other thing? Dear me. We'll just write that down, in a private little code of our own, and make it into a word, and remember that word. And one could remember, once they were set into meter and rhyme, a thousand words. […] One by one, he'd worked his way through the camp NKVD, looking for the right one, the one in whom a spark of ambition still glowed. And, at last, found him. I am, he'd said, a writer of reports. The old trick had worked again, just as it had back in Moscow. He couldn't fly a damned crane to save his soul but when they needed drivel, and they needed drivel, he was their boy. Fair-haired.

Why does it feel like I’ve just been called to the principal’s office? Old Me would say, This is what you deserve. New Me says, I really don’t give a damn.