Rockwell Quotes

It wasn't easy telling my family that I'm gay. I made my carefully worded announcement at Thanksgiving. It was very Norman Rockwell. I said, 'Mom, would you please pass the gravy to a homosexual?' She passed it to my father. A terrible scene followed.

The secret to so many artists living so long is that every painting is a new adventure. So, you see, they're always looking ahead to something new and exciting. The secret is not to look back.

Revolution is a spectators sport. The majority will sit in the stands and watch the factions fight. At the end they will choose side with the team that is winning.

Scratch an egalitarian, and you will inevitably find a statist.

He says he’d rather be dead than leave me. According to him, we’re family. I guess that makes me the psycho uncle no one wants to talk to. And he’s the kid with only imaginary friends for company. ‘Normal’ Rockwell, here we come. (Jared)

Commonplaces never become tiresome. It is we who become tired when we cease to be curious and appreciative. We find that it is not a new scene which is needed, but a new viewpoint.

I just wanted to do something important.

It isn't a coincidence that governments everywhere want to educate children. Government education, in turn, is supposed to be evidence of the state's goodness and its concern for our well-being. The real explanation is less flattering. If the government's propaganda can take root as children grow up, those kids will be no threat to the state apparatus. They'll fasten the chains to their own ankles.

Once you understand the economics of the Austrian School and the philosophy of liberty in the tradition of Rothbard, you never look at anything – not the state, the media, the central bank, the political class, nothing – the same way again.

The View of life I communicate in my pictures excludes the sordid and the ugly. I paint life as I would like it to be.

Ladies and gentlemen, once you notice the truth you never can forget it.

Too many people glorified small-town America, making it seems like a Normal Rockwell painting, but the reality was something else entirely. With the exception of doctors and lawyers or people who owned their own business, there were no high-paying jobs in Oriental, or any other small town for that matter. And while is was in many way an ideal place to raise young children, there was little for young adults to aspire to.There weren't, nor would there ever be, middle management positions in small towns, nor was there much to do on the weekends, or even new people to meet

The state, rather, is a parasitic institution that lives off the wealth of its subjects, concealing its anti-social, predatory nature beneath a public-interest veneer.

All things look good from far away and it is man's eternally persistent childlike faith in the reality of that illusion that has made him the triumphant restless being he is.

Norman Rockwell saved my life.

Where Norman Rockwell is the Artist for the man on the street, O'Henry is his author.

It was women who voted Hitler into power and it was Commander Rockwell who said, “A man who won’t fuck won’t fight.

If something is wrong for you or me, it is also wrong for the cop, the soldier, the mayor, the governor, the general, the Fed chairman, the president. Theft does not become acceptable when they call it taxation, counterfeiting when they call it monetary policy, kidnapping when they call it the draft, mass murder when they call it foreign policy. We understand that it is never acceptable to wield violence nor the threat of violence against the innocent, whether by the mugger or the politician.

I unconsciously decided that, even if it wasn't an ideal world, it should be so and painted only the ideal aspects of it - pictures in which there are no drunken slatterns or self-centered mothers . . . only foxy grandpas who played baseball with kids and boys who fished from logs and got up circuses in the back yard.

Now I'm standing in black stiletto heels in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting.

The danger to a free society is not the guns owned by the citizens but an unconstrained government, especially one that is better armed than the public. An armed society is a self-governing society, just as a disarmed people are vulnerable to arbitrary power of every kind.

I'll never have enough time to paint all the pictures I'd like to.

The color of your skin is your uniform in this ultimate battle for the survival of the West.

And I’m not sure why I wasted all that time and energy, because when I think about family—that thing I’d always longed for—it’s never been a Norman Rockwell painting that I picture. It’s me and Mom, on the couch, eating microwaved corn dogs while Dial M for Murder plays on TV. It’s running out from the library at night to her car, a greasy box of Little Caesars pizza in the passenger seat, her joking, I thought we’d do Italian. It’s being pulled away from watching the frost melt on the living room window to make stovetop hot cocoa from a packet, and that last tight hug at the end of the airport security line, and packing up cardboard boxes, knowing I’ll always have what I need, no matter how much I leave behind.

I never could get close enough to you. In the months we were together, all I wanted was to love you more, to become part of you.

Live every minute as if it’s your last, so when you’re my age, you have no regrets.

There are white moms who threw stones at the little girls in Little Rock and there are white moms who wish Andres and Omar and Elias and Greta's mom will be deported too.

I didn't grow up in a Norman Rockwell house... my house was more akin to Norman Lear.

My great hero was that archetype of cheerful American normalcy, Norman Rockwell.

The startling truth is this: as this narrative unfolded, amidst all the voices breaking free, telling their stories for the first time, the loudest voice of all was that of Norman Rockwell.

While endowed with the morose temper of genius, he [Lakes, Arts Professor] lacked originality and was aware of that lack; his own paintings always seemed beautifully clever imitations, although one could never quite tell whose manner he mimicked. His profound knowledge of innumerable techniques, his indifference to 'schools' and 'trends', his detestation of quacks, his conviction that there was no difference whatever between a genteel aquarelle of yesterday and, say, conventional neoplasticism or banal non-objectivism of today, and that nothing but individual talent mattered--these views made of him an unusual teacher. St Bart's was not particularly pleased either with Lake's methods or with their results, but kept him on because it was fashionable to have at least one distinguished freak on the staff. Among the many exhilarating things Lake taught was that the order of the solar spectrum is not a closed circle but a spiral of tints from cadmium red and oranges through a strontian yellow and a pale paradisal green to cobalt blues and violets, at which point the sequence does not grade into red again but passes into another spiral, which starts with a kind of lavender grey and goes on to Cinderella shades transcending human perception. He taught that there is no such thing as the Ashcan School or the Cache Cache School or the Cancan School. That the work of art created with string, stamps, a Leftist newspaper, and the droppings of doves is based on a series of dreary platitudes. That there is nothing more banal and more bourgeois than paranoia. That Dali is really Norman Rockwell's twin brother kidnapped by gipsies in babyhood. That Van Gogh is second-rate and Picasso supreme, despite his commercial foibles; and that if Degas could immortalize a calèche, why could not Victor Wind do the same to a motor car?

America, what happened to your optimism, your new frontiers, your simple Rockwell dreams? I'm plunging into your night, America, pushing myself deep into your heart like a knife, but the blade of my weapon is hope.

there's a part in the essay that kind of does this academic "Let's unpack the idea of Lynchian and what Lynchian means is something about the unbelievably grotesque existing in a kind of union with the unbelievably banal," and then it gives a series of scenarios about what -- what is and what isn't Lynchian. Jeffrey Dahmer was borderline Lynchian...what was Lynchian was having the actual food products next to the disembodied bits of the corpse. I guess the big one is, you know, a regular domestic murder is not Lynchian. But if the man -- if the police come to the scene and see the man standing over the body and the woman -- let's see, the woman's '50s bouffant is undisturbed and the man and the cops have this conversation about the fact that the man killed the woman because she persistently refused to buy, say, for instance, Jif peanut butter rather than Skippy, and how very, very important that is, and if the cops found themselves somehow agreeing that there were major differences between the brands and that a wife who didn't recognize those differences was deficient in her wifely duties, that would be Lynchian -- this weird confluence of very dark, surreal, violent stuff and absolute, almost Norman Rockwell, banal, American stuff, which is terrain he's been working for quite a while -- I mean, at least since -- at least since "Blue Velvet.

People always describe small towns as quaint or cozy or familiar. “You know who your neighbors are,” they always seemed to say. But what you won’t find depicted in a Norman Rockwell painting is how cruel those same neighbors can be.

Well, I'm saying that your intelligence comes from the blood of my people. Whenever they trot out some smart nigger and say, "See? Look how brilliant niggers are," what they usually show you is a part-white man with some nigger blood in him. This doesn't prove that niggers are great. On the contrary; it proves that white blood can make a part-nigger more intelligent.

The State provides a legal, orderly, systematic channel for the predation of private property; it renders certain, secure, and relatively “peaceful” the lifeline of the parasitic caste in society. Since production must always precede predation, the free market is anterior to the State. The State has never been created by a “social contract”; it has always been born in conquest and exploitation.

Though the ending is schmaltzy, there was bite enough in the film to distinguish it from a Norman Rockwell vision of the nation. The Best Years of Our Lives captured rather well the stresses encountered by many veterans and their families in the immediate aftermath of war.

LOVE, the natural, healthy kind, is indeed what makes the world go round, and is the most beautiful, holy miracle we ever see here on this earth. BUT WITHOUT A DEADLY HATE OF THAT WHICH THREATENS WHAT WE LOVE, LOVE IS AN EMPTY WORD, A CATCHWORD FOR HIPPIES, QUEERS, AND COWARDS.

[They were possessed] of the conviction that optimistic publicity and euphemism had rendered their experience so falsely that it would never be readily communicable... what had happened to them had been systematically sanitized and Norman Rockwellized, not to mention Disneyfied.

LewRockwell.com, is overbrimming with pro-Confederacy, anti-American material (mostly in the context of polemics against the U.S. war efforts in Iraq), as well as writings by people who (in other venues) are unacceptably racist or so traditionally Christian they call for stoning of sinners according to Old Testament rules.

The keystone of the Fascist doctrine is its conception of the State, of its essence, its functions, and its aims. For Fascism the State is absolute, individuals and groups relative.” I submit to you that this is the prevailing ideology in the United States today. This nation conceived in liberty has been kidnapped by the fascist State.

And at the end of the day, the family dinner is alive and well. Several studies and polls agree that the number of dinners families have together changed little from 1960 through 2014, despite the iPhones, PlayStations, and Facebook accounts.23 Indeed, over the course of the 20th century, typical American parents spent more time, not less, with their children.24 In 1924, only 45 percent of mothers spent two or more hours a day with their children (7 percent spent no time with them), and only 60 percent of fathers spent at least an hour a day with them. By 1999, the proportions had risen to 71 and 83 percent.25 In fact, single and working mothers today spend more time with their children than stay-at-home married mothers did in 1965.26 (An increase in hours spent caring for children is the main reason for the dip in leisure time visible in figure 17-6.)27 But time-use studies are no match for Norman Rockwell and Leave It to Beaver, and many people misremember the mid-20th century as a golden age of family togetherness.

Throughout his life, he was the opposite of all show business clichés. His marriage endured: by all accounts, he dearly loved his wife. Words most often used by those who knew him were “decent,” “genial,” “gentle,” and “generous.” He was a constant target of panhandlers and always had a roll of money in his pockets for handouts. He was not, apparently, a chummy man. His few real intimates, old friends like Doc Rockwell and Uncle Jim Harkins, had been with him in vaudeville and appeared occasionally on his show. He and Portland avoided crowds, lived simply in a New York apartment, and never owned a car. “I don’t want to own anything,” he once told a reporter, “that won’t fit in my coffin.

Why does socialist central planning not work? The means of production are not held privately, so there cannot be any exchange markets for them and therefore no exchange ratios established. That means there is no way to calculate profit and loss. Without profit and loss, there is no way to assess the tradeoffs associated with alternative uses of resources.

Just because something’s hard and just because it makes both of us nervous doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it, Reese. Worth absolutely everything.

Make no mistake about it, Ava. I plan to win you back. I will earn your forgiveness and trust. Even if it takes years or even a lifetime.

I can’t think when Brad looks at me like that. Like I’m everything. Like he can’t get enough. Then he goes and kisses me like he can’t stand not touching me for a single second.

It is not the death rattle in the throat of Western civilisation which is surprising; it is the fact that millions of Americans believe that the death rattle is a beautiful song!

Dear God, grant me the violence to crush mine enemies. Dear God, give me mechanical lungs, for when I'm drowning.

Big wheels work for us.

A pipe burst in the kitchen. The plumbers are still there. What a mess. And it’s gonna cost an arm and six legs.” “Too bad you’re not a centipede.

This emphasis on the need for a conservative, traditionalist cultural context for libertarianism in his later years—and the way he turned venomously on every part of the libertarian movement not under the paleo tent in the pages of the newsletter he and Rockwell launched in 1990, the Rothbard/Rockwell Report—lost Rothbard many of his old fans and friends in the movement.

Frank Marshall Davis, the former Communist who was Obama’s mentor in Hawaii, was so radical that he opposed President Truman’s Marshall Plan as a “device” for maintaining “white imperialism.” Truman and Marshall, he wrote, were using “billions of U.S. dollars to bolster the tottering empires of England, France, Belgium, Holland and the other western exploiters of teeming millions.” Indeed the objective of America after World War II was “to re-enslave the yellow and brown and black peoples of the world.” While Davis spurned America he praised “Red Russia” as “my friend.”3 Young Obama—sitting in Davis’s hut in Hawaii week after week for several years—took it all in. This portrait of devoted young Obama imbibing the ravings of a pot-smoking former Communist is the progressive version of a Norman Rockwell painting.

firing weapon had a devastating effect on the Southerners.18 The 5th Michigan’s Pvt. William H. Rockwell wrote to his wife a few weeks after the battle about the weapon’s effect. “We are put in all of the worst places on account of [the] seven shooters,” he boasted. “The rebs call us the seven devils for they say we can load in the morning and fight all day. If they find the 5th [Michigan] is after them they skedaddle.

I’m not going to push for more than you’re ready for. Right now, just take the time to figure things out. Hopefully you can start to see me not just as your friend but as the guy who is hopelessly in love with you.

As Rockwell Kent said in his Alaskan journal, 'The wonder of wilderness was its tranquility.' I wish I had said that first. It grasps the salient point: not just tranquility, but wonder at tranquility. Wilderness is a surprise. We were raised on nature films that converted nature into thrilling entertainment; we still expect to find predators lurking everywhere in the wildness, and danger and excitement. But instead we find tranquility. And wonder at it. Interesting word, "wonder." From Old English wundrain: 'to be affected with astonishment.' Its antonyms name the most pervasive symptoms of modern life: indifference, boredom, ennui. The dictionary strains to explain wonder, mentioning awe, astonishment, marvel, miracle, wizardry, bewilderment (note the 'wild' in 'bewilderment'). Finally it offers this: 'Far superior to anything formerly recognized or foreseen.' Indeed.

What Hitler gave the world, as National Socialism is, in a sense, only a modern form of the ancient, natural "tribal law", the prescription for happy and healthy group living given by the Great Spirit to all living creatures, including man.

It was the US that turned this country into a killing field. Why won’t we face this? Why won’t we take responsibility? The reason has to do with this mysterious thing called nationalism, which makes an ideological religion of the nation’s wars. We are god-like liberators. They are devil-like terrorists. No amount of data or contrary information seems to make a dent in this irreligious faith. So it is in every country and in all times. Here is the intellectual blindness that war generates.

This is Radio Free Hayden podcasting from somewhere dark and dingy that smells of ancient grease and more recent body odor. If anyone actually hears this podcast, I must first apologize that there’s no visual of me. My bandwidth is the digital equivalent of a mule train. So instead, I’ve posted this wonderful Norman Rockwell image instead of a video. You’ll note how the poor innocent ginger kid standing on the chair with his butt hanging out is about to be tranq’d in the ass by the ‘kindly country doctor.’ I felt the image was somehow appropriate.

Christianity, for instance, is a far higher thing than its rituals, the words of its prayers or any of its creeds. It is a SPIRITUAL STRIVING toward the believer's ideals of Spiritual Perfection. National Socialism is the same sort of striving toward ever higher and higher levels here on this earth

I have met survivors from different parts of the country who have reported being ritually abused, some on college campuses by administrators, some by priests, some in the context of druidic rituals, some in the context of Lillith rituals. The ideology has not always been satanic, but the ritual sadistic sexual behaviors are similar.

As the great nineteenth-century abolitionist and libertarian Lysander Spooner pointed out, the primary motive of Lincoln and the war party was to preserve and consolidate Northern control of the Southern economy. The Southern states could not be allowed to evade the tariff, a key element of the mercantilist American system that Lincoln favored.

Having grown up in this little town, I had attended countless street fairs, but I still felt comforted by the Norman Rockwell-esque nature of the scene as I felt like I was strolling in an oil painting of another era rather than an actual town. From my experience as a reporter in Philadelphia, our city streets and suburban neighborhoods were tougher and grittier than ever before and so there was something comforting about small-town America. The feeling of community was much stronger, the streets much softer and warmer. Three times each summer, people drove long distances to Shelbyville to attend street fairs, but the truth was that the booths weren't any different than the booths at the street fairs in their cities and neighborhoods. They came to be comforted.

The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

Sudenly Garge spring up and walk to the wall to admire some modarn art hanging on Frank and Estele Catandas wall. Hes impressed. Frank and Estele have always had a traditienel sensibility when it come to aesthetic matter's. For as long as he knew it, this space on the wall was ocupied by a Normen Rockwell print of a smileing child with a cast on his arm eating a handful of bird seed out of the hand of the postman. But now its replace with this minimelist art work, a large black rectangle. He make out hes bald reflectien in the imposibly smooth black surfece. It look like something that should be hang in the Moma (Museum Of Modarn Art). "This is beauteful," Garge remark. "It seem like a stark comentary on the end of art. Who designe this?" "Not art," Frank go. "Thats a televisien.

Maria winks at me, takes a mouthful of stuffing, and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

[W]hen the time is ripe and our people are finally disgusted with the endless compromisers, from Welch to Wallace. When they want to fight, when they are ready to sacrifice anything rather than bow to Negroes and Jews one more day, nothing can stop us. For we shall have behind us the mightiest force on this planet: millions and millions of fighting-mad White men, filled with that holy and revolutionary sense of family which has proven unconquerable down through the ages.

A table made in April 1918 by Robert Wilton for the G-2 Section (Military Intelligence of the U. S. Army), shows that at the time of the Russian Revolution: there were 384 commissars (running Russia), including 2 Negroes, 13 Russians, 15 Chinese, 22 Armenians and more than 300 Jews. Of the latter number 264 had come to Russia from the United States since the downfall of the Imperial Government." (War Records Division of the National Archives. Record Group 120: Records of the American Expeditionary Forces.) Not even Russian Jews, but New York Jews!

The modern institution of the presidency is the primary political evil Americans face, and the cause of nearly all our woes. It squanders the national wealth and starts unjust wars against foreign peoples that have never done us any harm. It wrecks our families, tramples on our rights, invades our communities, and spies on our bank accounts. It skews the culture toward decadence and trash. It tells lie after lie. Teachers used to tell school kids that anyone can be president. This is like saying anyone can go to Hell. It's not an inspiration; it's a threat.

But won’t crime go up if we abandon our prison system? Let Robert Ingersoll answer: The world has been filled with prisons and dungeons, with chains and whips, with crosses and gibbets, with thumb-screws and racks, with hangmen and headsmen — and yet these frightful means and instrumentalities and crimes have accomplished little for the preservation of property or life. It is safe to say that governments have committed far more crimes than they have prevented. As long as society bows and cringes before the great thieves, there will be little ones enough to fill the jails.

But the cat—the cat represents all vices of human nature. The cat is selfish, greedy, vain; the most a cat will do for its master is allow you to pet it. Not that a cat thinks of man as its master, no sir, it’s the other way around. Why a cat wouldn’t lift a paw in defense of its home and hearth but would likely as not sup on your flesh after the vagabonds killed you and violated your wife and daughter. Cats ain’t ever earned their keep but what they wanted to do on their own anyhow. I’ve seen too many mousers got to rot soon as they get even a hint of table scraps,” said Porter, with some venom. “Cats, bah!

Ah, New England. An amalgam of picket fences and crumbling bricks; Ivy League schools and dropped Rs; social tolerance and the Salem witch trials, Henry David Thoreau and Stephen King, P-town rainbows and mill-town rust; Norman Rockwell and Aerosmith; lobster and Moxie; plus the simmering aromas of a million melting pot cuisines originally brought here by immigrants from everywhere else searching for new ways to live. It’s a place where rapidly-growing progressive cities full of the ‘wicked smaaht’ coexist alongside blight-inflicted Industrial Revolution landscapes full of the ‘wicked poor’. A place of forested mountains, roaring rivers, crystalline lakes, urban sprawl, and a trillion dollar stores. A place of seasonal tourism beach towns where the wild, rank scent of squishy seaweed casts its cryptic spell along the vast and spindrift-misted seacoast, while the polished yachts of the elite glisten like rare jewels on the horizon, just out of reach. Where there are fiery autumn hues and leaves that need raking. Powder snow ski slopes and icy windshields that need scraping. Crisp daffodil mornings and mud season. Beach cottage bliss and endless miles of soul-sucking summer traffic . Perceived together, the dissonant nuances of New England stir the imagination in compelling and chromatic whorls.

The Clintons’ last act before leaving the White House was to take stuff that didn’t belong to them. The Clintons took china, furniture, electronics, and art worth around $360,000. Hillary literally went through the rooms of the White House with an aide, pointing to things that she wanted taken down from shelves or out of cabinets or off the wall. By Clinton theft standards $360,000 is not a big sum, but it certainly underlines the couple’s insatiable greed—these people are not bound by conventional limits of propriety or decency. When the House Government Reform and Oversight Committee blew the whistle on this misappropriation, the Clintons first claimed that the stuff was given to them as gifts. Unfortunately for Hillary, gifts given to a president belong to the White House—they are not supposed to be spirited away by the first lady. The Clintons finally agreed to return $28,000 worth of gifts and reimburse the government $95,000, representing a fraction of the value of what they took. One valuable piece of art the Clintons attempted to steal was a Norman Rockwell painting showing the flame from Lady Liberty’s torch. Hillary had the painting taken from the Oval Office to the Clinton home in Chappaqua, but the Secret Service got wind of it and sent a car to Chappaqua to get it back. Hillary was outraged. Even here, though, the Clintons got the last laugh: they persuaded the Obama administration to let the Clinton Library have the painting, and there it hangs today. In Living History, Hillary put on a straight face and dismissed media reports about the topic. “The culture of investigation,” she wrote, “followed us out the door of the White House when clerical errors in the recording of gifts mushroomed into a full-blown flap, generating hundreds of news stories over several months.”17

Anarchy is precisely the reverse of chaos.

It is clear that Lincoln’s decision to use force against the Southern states that had seceded did not meet the just war criteria. States under the Constitution had the legal right to secede.

Because American cryptographers had also broken the Japanese naval code, the leaders in Washington also knew that Japan’s “measures” would include an attack on Pearl Harbor. Yet they withheld this critical information from the commanders in Hawaii, who might have headed off the attack or prepared themselves to defend against it.

conjecture,” Inspector Rockwell pressed her gently. “This is all off the record, by the way,” he added. “I’m not looking for an official statement, just your thoughts and ideas.

Yeah, his being your friendly neighborhood drug lord, pimp, and enforcer really fit in with the Norman Rockwell routine. Totally.

She was okay,” I say. Ryot roars. “You’re such a goddamn liar.” I shrug. “I mean, yeah, she had a nice eyeball.” Ryot throws a towel at me from his locker, still laughing. “Fuck you. A nice eyeball. Just one of her eyeballs is nice?” “If I hit the ball tonight, it’s because of her right eyeball. Really got my juices flowing,” I deadpan. “You’re such a shithead.” “Nah, if I hit the ball tonight, it’s for one reason and one reason alone—because I worked my ass off in the cages today.” Ryot rolls his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. Why don’t you romanticize your story a bit? Think about the media coverage you could get.” Ryot steals my bat, holds it up to his mouth like a microphone, and then clears his throat. “Walker Rockwell, you went three for four today with a homerun and three RBIs. What can you attribute to your success today?” He turns his hat around and scratches his jaw. Is that supposed to be me? “Her name is Kate, and her right eyeball enticed me so much, I found myself inspired to find my bat again. Shout-out to Kate Chapman and her spherical sense receptor for vision.” He winks and then shoots a gun at the “camera.” “Now that’s a story.” I stare at him blankly. Blink. Shake my head. “You need fucking help.” I turn toward my locker, where I start mentally preparing for the game.

Rockwell once said, 'The commonplaces of America are to me the richest subjects in art.' His paintings depict the dignity of everyday people, like the books of Charles Dickens, who in many ways was like Rockwell, appreciated by the masses in his lifetime, but not until after death by critics, and they were both the most fabulous storytellers....

You can't make the good old days come back just by painting pictures of them. That kind of stuff is dead now and I think it's about time.

Extensive market research conducted in 1953 by psychologists Ernest Dichter and Burleigh Gardner concluded that a Depression-era Betty did not suit the new prosperous postwar America.... By 1954, six commissioned artists, including Norman Rockwell, painted... six portraits, plus McMein's version and portrait of Adelaide Hawley, [and] were presented to a cross-section of 1,600 homemakers, who were asked to consider: Would you want her as a friend? Does she look honest? Does she look like a housewife or a career woman? Does she look relaxed or tense?

And then, Rockwell recalled, "We pulled that famous naval maneuver, known through naval history as getting the hell out of there.

Welcoming pain or unwanted feelings without making judgments about them is how we begin to transform confusion into wisdom.

My heart shatters as I watch the girl I love bathe her mom one last time.

So now I am sitting in the Alcove of his room, reading my Kindle.

Thank you for not giving up on me.

This is the happiest I have seen her in a long time. My chest tightens, relishing the thought that I did that. I give in to temptation and I place another kiss on our scrunched-up nose.

Boyfriend. I'm still reeling from the fact that I get to call him that and that I'm his girlfriend.

When we were up at Lola's house for Thanksgiving, Dan asked me if I was okay with her moving in. I was so taken aback that it took me a few minutes to blurt out that I thought she already had.

It's-it's so beautiful.' 'It's a promise ring. A promise that I'll be yours for as long as you'll have me. A promise that I'm yours for infinity. Someday I will ask you to marry me, but for now I promise you that I will love and protect you for infinity and forever. Just like when we were kids.

I need to start relying on myself and trusting myself to take care of me. Without someone there to hold my hand. I'm capable of picking myself up. I'm stronger than I was before.

America was built on the myth of the melting pot, but despite efforts of the powers that be, the ingredients never fully blended. At best there is a patchwork quilt of various ethnic groups struggling to live peacefully with one another while something called, "mainstream culture" - it looks like a Norman Rockwell painting, sounds like a George Gershwin musical, and tastes like Chef Boyardee - is offered up as the national exmple.

Levi’s,

The person who doesn’t have something to do after the meeting, shouldn’t have attended the meeting.

this voyage, on his favorite ship, Harriet Rockwell, he died

I was asking people, "Have you ever seen a night launch before?" One guy answered, "Not from the outside, no." You have to be careful about trying to be cool at a Rockwell party.

Blindness is more of a nuisance and less of a disaster.

What do you say, Doctor?” asked Hawks. The doctor hesitated a moment and then smiled. “Well, Commissioner, Cadet Manning has several strained muscles in his back, but the best treatment for that is exercise.” Hawks nodded and signed a release slip which the doctor gave him. Astro helped Roger put on his space boots, and five minutes later they were speeding back to the exposition grounds

turned his whole attention to the tabulator, ripped off the answer with lightning