Ribbon Cutting Ceremony Quotes

dedication Sometimes I wish I were an architect, so that I could dedicate a building to a person; a superstructure that broke the clouds and continued up into the abyss. And if Bird Box were made of bricks instead of letters, I’d host a ceremony, invite every shadowy memory I have, and cut the ribbon with an axe, letting everyone see for the first time that building’s name. It’d be called the Debbie. Mom, Bird Box is for you.

It’s amazing how some of these things can elude the writer while he or she is occupied with the daily work of composition. And listen—if you spot a few of these big holes, you are forbidden to feel depressed about them or to beat up on yourself. Screw-ups happen to the best of us. There’s a story that the architect of the Flatiron Building committed suicide when he realized, just before the ribbon-cutting ceremony, that he had neglected to put any men’s rooms in his prototypical skyscraper.

Sater was confident he could arrange everything. On November 3, 2015, he wrote to Cohen: I will get Putin on this program and we will get Donald elected. We both know that no one else knows how to pull this off without stupidity or greed getting in the way. I know how to play it and we will get this done. Buddy our boy can become President of the USA and we can engineer it. I will get all of Putins team to buy in on this, I will manage this process. We don’t have Cohen’s reply. But the emails lay out Sater’s plan for glory—a ribbon-cutting ceremony in Moscow and praise from Putin of Trump’s peerless business skills. To achieve this, Sater said he could show video clips to his Russian contacts of Trump speaking glowingly of Russia: “If he [Putin] says it, we own this election. America’s most difficult adversary agreeing that Donald was a good guy to negotiate.

Though reporters made much of the challenge of keeping up with Patton, he was never far away from the press. (...) Presiding at a ceremony to open the Roosevelt Railroad Bridge near Mainz, he was invited to cut the ribbon with a large pair of scissors. He gave them back demanding 'a goddamned bayonet' adding he wasn't 'a goddamned tailor' - as if anyone in their wildest imagination supposed he might be.

In the attack on the Jewish community center in Los Angeles that left 5 people wounded, the killer had “scouted three prominent Jewish institutions in Los Angeles as he looked for places to kill Jews, but found security too tight. He then stumbled on the lesser-known North Valley Jewish Community Center in suburban Granada Hills, they say.”17   [His killer] also has admitted stalking [Yitzhak] Rabin on two previous occasions.... [The killer] tried again in September at a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new highway interchange, but found security was too tight.18 Each of these brief stories represents a different case where very determined and motivated criminals altered their plans because of increased security.

My obsession with Stella might be spiraling out of control, but at least I wasn’t attending ribbon-cutting ceremonies for a charity she liked and planting trees for an Earth Day photo op.

It's the risk a society runs when it falls into the habit of responding to long term risks with short term solutions. What I've been describing here, the sort of underinvestment in infrastructure that leads to poor grades on an infrastructure report card is part of that fifth risk. What societies need instead, argues Lewis, is effective program management - all the actual boring work that needs to happen in the technologically complex world we live in. Building new facilities, with the exciting ribbon-cutting ceremonies that come with them, is a part of this work, but mostly it's having a checklist and a schedule and a cohort of trained staff who can carry out the routine inspections and maintenance of all the bridges in a region, with all of the funding and policy that entails in a program that is stable over a span of decades or longer.

But in the negotiations to fund the renovation of East River Park, which borders the East River in Manhattan from Chinatown up through the East Village, the construction of a new bathroom was somehow included. This called for a celebration, which meant a ribbon cutting to open the new facility. But why cut a ribbon when we could mark the occasion appropriately? Hence, the fated roll of toilet paper was ceremoniously cut, celebrated, and well publicized, which left enough of an impression on Steven Rubenstein, a PR guru in New York to moguls like George Steinbrenner and Rupert Murdoch, that when Chuck Schumer was looking for a new communications director, he recommended me. Chuck had just won a Senate seat two years earlier, upsetting longtime incumbent Al D’Amato. Chuck was (and is) a career politician and an extremely good one. After graduating from Harvard College and Harvard Law School, he disappointed his Jewish mother by running for a seat in the New York State Assembly rather than taking a job at a prestigious law firm. (I could relate.) His approach to the campaign was both genius and slightly crazy—he knocked on the doors of virtually every single voter in the district. And for a seat that couldn’t matter less to 99 percent of voters, voting for the earnest young man who took the time to come see them was a reasonable choice.

After the ribbon-cutting ceremony, at precisely eleven-thirty, the lights suddenly went on throughout the entire building, and Smith used an occasional silver key to open the doors. The magic act with the lights did not yet qualify as a tradition but at least had a precedent. In 1913, Frank W. Woolworth had inveigled President Woodrow Wilson into pressing a button from the White House that would turn on the Woolworth Building’s lights, and Smith had President Herbert Hoover do the same. On the stroke of the half hour, Hoover took a break from a cabinet meeting to flick the switch in Washington.

The release of steam created a sigh in the air, acting as the prayer before a meal, the ceremonial ribbon cutting before the devouring. Eating crab was a leisurely pursuit. The sweet treasure of crabmeat could only be unlocked by a deft grip or the aid of a steel seafood cracker. I offered the coveted heavy female crab to my guest. He smiled and brandished his cracker, shattering the shell in strategic spots. He attacked with purpose: disassembling, dissecting to get to the jeweled fat and eggs inside. While Older Shen ate, I proceeded with my own crab, prying the carapace open by pulling on its apron. The juices dripped down my fingers as I attacked the meat in the body first. My favorite parts were the legs because of how little effort they took compared to the claw and the minute chambers of the body. I sucked the meat from the hollow legs, careful to avoid the plasticky cartilage. The sweetness of the crab complemented the spicy, tangy dipping sauce I'd provided. Flecks of green onion and yellow disks of chili pepper seeds floated in the red wine vinegar.