Rave Party Quotes

I don't know if you've noticed, but our two-party system is a bowl of shit looking at itself in the mirror.

She was born to be in the spotlight—rave reviews and curtain calls and cast parties, and men of all ages throwing themselves off bridges for her.

In the summer of 2002, Biden was pushing his RAVE Act, an absurdly broad law that would have made venue and club owners liable for running a drug operation if they merely sold the “paraphernalia” common to parties where people took Ecstasy—accessories like bottled water and glow sticks. After attempting to sneak the bill through Congress with various parliamentary maneuvers, Biden was finally able to get a slightly modified version folded into the bill that created the Amber Alert for missing children.

Bastet, whose cult was based in the Nile city of Bubastis, had especially raucous festivals, where revelers from across the country floated into town on party barges. At their peak, these celebrations—more or less cat raves, in which worshippers danced and tore off their clothes—were attended by an estimated 700,000 people, a huge chunk of Egypt’s population

He got into the tub and ran a little cold water. Then he lowered his thin, hairy body into the just-right warmth and stared at the interstices between the tiles. Sadness--he had experienced that emotion ten thousand times. As exhalation is to inhalation, he thought of it as the return from each thrust of happiness. Lazily soaping himself, he gave examples. When he was five and Irwin eight, their father had breezed into town with a snowstorm and come to see them where they lived with their grandparents in the small Connecticut city. Their father had been a vagabond salesman and was considered a bum by people who should know. But he had come into the closed, heated house with all the gimcrack and untouchable junk behind glass and he had smelled of cold air and had had snow in his curly black hair. He had raved about the world he lived in, while the old people, his father and mother, had clucked sadly in the shadows. And then he had wakened the boys in the night and forced them out into the yard to worship the swirling wet flakes, to dance around with their hands joined, shrieking at the snow-laden branches. Later, they had gone in to sleep with hearts slowly returning to bearable beatings. Great flowering things had opened and closed in Norman's head, and the resonance of the wild man's voice had squeezed a sweet, tart juice through his heart. But then he had wakened to a gray day with his father gone and the world walking gingerly over the somber crust of dead-looking snow. It had taken him some time to get back to his usual equanimity. He slid down in the warm, foamy water until just his face and his knobby white knees were exposed. Once he had read Wuthering Heights over a weekend and gone to school susceptible to any heroine, only to have the girl who sat in front of him, whom he had admired for some months, emit a loud fart which had murdered him in a small way and kept him from speaking a word to anyone the whole week following. He had laughed at a very funny joke about a Negro when Irwin told it at a party, and then the following day had seen some white men lightly kicking a Negro man in the pants, and temporarily he had questioned laughter altogether. He had gone to several universities with the vague exaltation of Old Man Axelrod and had found only curves and credits. He had become drunk on the idea of God and found only theology. He had risen several times on the subtle and powerful wings of lust, expectant of magnificence, achieving only discharge. A few times he had extended friendship with palpitating hope, only to find that no one quite knew what he had in mind. His solitude now was the result of his metabolism, that constant breathing in of joy and exhalation of sadness. He had come to take shallower breaths, and the two had become mercifully mixed into melancholy contentment. He wondered how pain would breach that low-level strength. "I'm a small man of definite limitations," he declared to himself, and relaxed in the admission.

...one of the key psychological characteristics of the Tea Party is its oxymoronic love of authority figures coupled with a narcissistic celebration of its own “revolutionary” defiance. It’s this psychic weakness that allows this segment of the population to be manipulated by the likes of Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck. The advantage is that their willingness to take orders has allowed them to organize effectively (try getting one hundred progressives at a meeting focused on anything). The downside is, they see absolutely nothing weird in launching a revolution based upon the ravings of a guy who’s basically a half-baked PR stooge shoveling propaganda coal for bloodsucking transnational behemoths like JPMorgan Chase and Goldman Sachs.

While the party of Obama has little in common with that of JFK, for a better comparison, try exploring the Communist Party USA’s website (CPUSA.org), and you’ll be stunned at the resemblance between it and today’s Democratic Party. You might also take a moment to thoughtfully reflect on the Democrats’ candidates who in recent decades were either elected, or nearly elected, as president: Bill Clinton, a serial sexual predator; Al Gore, by many accounts a raving lunatic; John Kerry, who betrayed his fellow Vietnam vets and his country;10 Barack Obama, a deceitful, America-hating, Far-Left radical; and Hillary Clinton, accurately described by Pulitzer-winning New York Times columnist and Presidential Medal of Freedom recipient William Safire as “a congenital liar.”11 Whatever

The goal of festivity is to make us forget that we are alone, miserable, and destined for death. Said otherwise, to transform us into animals. That's why the primitive has a very developed sense of festivity. A good flambée of hallucinogenic plants, three tambourines, and that's all they need: a trifle amuses him. On the other hand, the average Westerner only attains an insufficient ecstasy that comes from interminable raves from which he emerges deafened and drugged: he doesn't have any sense of festivity at all. Deeply self conscious, radically foreign to others, terrorized by the idea of death, he is quite incapable of reaching any synthesis. Nevertheless, he persists. The loss of his animal condition saddens him, he considers it shame and spite, he would like to be a party animal, or at least seem like one. He's in a nasty situation.

First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt was heard often on radio beginning soon after her husband’s inauguration in 1932. To stem inevitable criticism, all fees from her commercial broadcasts were donated to charity. Her shows were often behindscenes color pieces: on one 1937 Blue Network Pond’s Cream broadcast, her topic was “White Housekeeping,” a discussion of life in the White House, with recipes. Her early talks were given in a hesitant, nervous voice, leading to widespread mimicry and even cruel ridicule. “Eleanor” jokes became common at parties and in the workplace. Perhaps her best radio series came after her husband’s death, when she had attained a kind of senior stateswoman status. She was in Paris for the opening programs of Eleanor and Anna Roosevelt, and her voice was heard by transcription while her daughter, Anna Boettiger, handled the rest of the show live from California. It made instant news: Mrs. Roosevelt blasted the “Dixiecrat” wing of the Democratic Party and called upon party bosses to throw the boll weevils out. While Washington buzzed, Variety raved about her courage and cited her as one of the “standout commentators of the air.

I hear the door open and close, and I peek to see the one and only. “What do you want?” I ask, staring back up at the stars, taking a large sip of my beer. He doesn’t answer, but takes a seat next to me. I turn to see he’s also drinking a beer. He’s back in his work attire, sporting a pair of kakis and a button up polo. “What happened to your Guns-N-Roses shirt? Don’t want anyone to know your alter ego? They might find out you’re really some sort of party animal who raves to heavy metal and goes on drinking binges instead of science fairs?” I laugh taking another swig. We connect eyes and something in them tells me that I might be on to something. “No way. Tell me I’m not wrong. The science teacher secretly has a bad side.” He stands quickly sticking out his hand. “Come with me.” Huh? “No way. Why? You gonna try and retaliate? Avenge all teachers I’ve tried to take out this week?” His laugh is like a tickle to my lady parts. I fight to admit that I seriously love that sound. “No, but it would be fitting though, Peter Parker, saving the world from the reckless bad girl.” I give him my evil eye while he smiles wider. “Come with me. I promise, I’ll bring you back in one piece.” His hand taunting, I decide, what the hell. I stick my hand out, sliding it into his, the feel of his warm skin wrapped around mine. He walks me around to the front of the house and a few cars down, until he stops beside a Jeep. Unlocking the door, he says, “Jump in,” and walks around the other side. Knowing I have a pretty loud voice if he does try and kill me, I jump in. The inside smells just like him. Of spice and aftershave.

What if it was a war? • What if it was a movement? • What if there was an exclusive club? • What if it was a rare collectible? • What if it was a party? • What if it was a dance rave? • What if it was a celebration? • What if there was a charitable cause? • What if it was a patriotic event? • What if it was an unveiling? • What if there was a space rocket launch? • What if it was a visit by state dignitaries? • What if it was a pep rally? • What if it was a car show? • What if it was a football game? • What if it was a chess match?

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Dropbox, the cloud storage company mentioned previously that Sean Ellis was from, cleverly implemented a double-sided incentivized referral program. When you referred a friend, not only did you get more free storage, but your friend got free storage as well (this is called an “in-kind” referral program). Dropbox prominently displayed their novel referral program on their site and made it easy for people to share Dropbox with their friends by integrating with all the popular social media platforms. The program immediately increased the sign-up rate by an incredible 60 percent and, given how cheap storage servers are, cost the company a fraction of what they were paying to acquire clients through channels such as Google ads. One key takeaway is, when practicable, offer in-kind referrals that benefit both parties. Although Sean Ellis coined the term “growth hacking,” the Dropbox growth hack noted above was actually conceived by Drew Houston, Dropbox’s founder and CEO, who was inspired by PayPal’s referral program that he recalled from when he was in high school. PayPal gave you ten dollars for every friend you referred, and your friend received ten dollars for signing up as well. It was literally free money. PayPal’s viral marketing campaign was conceived by none other than Elon Musk (now billionaire, founder of SpaceX, and cofounder of Tesla Motors). PayPal’s growth hack enabled the company to double their user base every ten days and to become a success story that the media raved about. One key takeaway is that a creative and compelling referral program can not only fuel growth but also generate press.

It says something about the mood of the time that a New Labour government with an overwhelming parliamentary majority and nearly 11 million voters at the 2001 elections should nonetheless have been moved to respond in this way to the propaganda of a neo-Fascist clique which attracted the support of just 48,000 electors in the country at large: one-fifth of 1 percent of the vote and only 40,000 more votes than the Monster Raving Loony Party. France

the tables were taken by law students talking about rave parties or 'junior associates', in other words, those things which interest law students

So he’s the Patron Saint of Raves and just happens to risk his life for you because, what the hell, he loves a party?

this one is a matter of personal testimony; I could put together a whole volume of tales I’ve been told along the lines of “I used to be an atheist, and I was [strung out on drugs] [cruel to my family] [divorcing my wife] [etc.], but then I found Jesus and became a new man of high character and deep happiness, therefore Jesus was real.” The entire churchgoing people of America must once have been raving angry atheist hedonists in broken relationships—which suggests that at an earlier time in our civic life, the parties were much more fun and the libertines far more common. Unfortunately, I’ve never been able to identify this magical period in recent history, even though I’ve lived through a few generations now. Yet all the Christians today seem to be citing this mythical past of ubiquitous godlessness. I really regret that I missed it all. Having

His latest obsession is this show about a fruit salad dance party. Like a bunch of fruit and veggies have eyes and mouths but they don’t talk, they just dance to rave music. I swear to God whoever created that was dropping acid at the time.

Take this house.” Vane waved toward the summer house about which the party spread across the shadowed lawns. “I don’t deny its splendor, and certainly not the expense, but the gilding! It’s laid on like plaster so the eye has nowhere to rest. A single detail, given prominence, would be far more expressive.” “And an aristocracy,” Martha asked in a dangerous tone, “has natural taste?” “Good taste or bad?” The voice came from behind Martha, and she turned to see a short, round-faced man. First he smiled at her, then he looked toward Vane for an introduction. Vane was grudging, but obliged. “Mrs. Martha Crowl, allow me to name Lord Robert Massedene.” “Your charmed servant, ma’am. I assumed Kit had an eye for beauty, but I never before realized how laudable was his admiration for the nobility.” Martha smiled. “Do you have natural taste, my lord?” “I have none at all. The aristocracy, ma’am, founded their dynasties by being better thieves than anyone else. Whatever glittered, they took, and the true aristocracy has never lost that healthy vulgarity.” “Gilded thieves?” Martha asked with amusement. “Who would now steal this land from you. I do hope you will resist us.” Martha was clearly charmed by his lordship. “You don’t want to win, my lord?” “Win what?” Massedene feigned alarm. “America, my dear Mrs. Crowl, is a wilderness with an unendurable climate. It is too hot in summer, too cold in winter, and fit only for insects, snakes, and raving Baptists. God only knows why we fight for it.

And European intellectuals continued to rave about this for months on end. Two years after September 11, 2001, Geoffrey Wheatcroft made the effort to take a second look at and comment on what had been written (above all) in the British press. He was struck by three things: the way the crime had been trivialized and relativized, the condemnation of the United States as the real guilty party, and the immense number of important British intellectuals, writers, poets, journalists, and composers who weighed in on this subject.

Famous sales coach and dear friend Jack Daly suggests, “Why don’t you throw people a party when they start, instead of when they leave?” Sydney-based software firm Atlassian sends each new employee, whatever his or her position, to a resort spa the weekend before the start date as a way to celebrate the new job. The spouse or a guest gets to go along — making both new employees and their spouses raving Atlassian fans.

What are we waiting for mate Let's wake the place Cause it's all a bit late And were all in a bit of a state

in this raging, poisoned sea at night, it is just me and death

i can feel blood in my nose in my eyes taste it finally on my tongue and i chase it, coat my teeth in molly eat through the ceiling stir the clouds in my throat

In comparison to the multitude of plans that had been hatched throughout the history of their world, it was not a great one. In comparison to the ones created just in that year, it still fell pretty far short. In comparison to the drunken ravings of men soaked through with mead about how they would slay a dragon and become the new king, however, it was downright coherent.

The political parties represented in my constituency are the Monster Raving Loony Party, the Conservative Monster Raving Loony Party, the Labour Monster Raving Loony Party, the Liberal Democrat Monster Raving Loony Party, the Green Monster Raving Loony Party, and the UKIP Monster Raving Especially Loony Party.

Give me a good game-day party on Sunday afternoon and I’ll show up, but knowing the intricate details about what was happening on the field had no interest for me. And I told that to my pal, Johnny. He was raving about a game, and I said that it seemed to me that ‘every play was a few seconds of incomprehensible frenetic activity, followed by a minute and a half of standing around.’ And he said, “Man, every single play is an entire chess game played out in six seconds.” I didn’t play chess, but I got the idea. The thought of a battle for territory being played both physically and strategically fascinated me. That was war, right? And if the game was war, then each play was a battle.