San Antonio Quotes

What are you two up to today?" "Oh, I just figured I'd show Ty some more of Texas. Head down to San Antonio and visit the Bureau office there," Zane said. He shot a sideways look at Ty. "Maybe spend the night in Beaumont." Ty smacked his forehead and turned his head away. "Not much in Beaumont to see," Harrison said with a frown. Zane grinned. "Even so, we're going to try to get it in." Ty had his hand over his mouth, his head down. He was either going to throw up or he was laughing. Harrison felt he'd missed a joke, but he thought maybe he didn't want to know.

I like Texas and Texans. In Texas, everything is bigger. When Texans win, they win big. And when they lose, it's spectacular. If you really want to learn the attitude of how to handle risk, losing and failure, go to San Antonio and visit the Alamo. The Alamo is a great story of brave people who chose to fight, knowing there was no hope of success against overwhelming odds. They chose to die instead of surrendering. It's an inspiring story worthy of study; nonetheless, it's still a tragic military defeat. They got their butts kicked. A failure if you will. They lost. So how do Texans handle failure? They still shout, "Remember the Alamo!" That's why I like Texans so much. They took a great failure and turned it into a tourist destination that makes them millions. Texans don't bury their failures. They get inspired by them. They take their failures and turn them into rallying cries. Failure inspires Texans to become winners. But that formula is not just the formula for Texans. It is formula for all winners.

When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas, to California, and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. And it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live my life; it gave me the hope that one day I could live my life openly as who I am and that maybe even I could fall in love and one day get married. Most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he'd want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told they are less than by their churches, or by the government, or by their families, that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value. And that no matter what everyone tells you, God does love you, and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights federally across this great nation of ours.

I remember the first time I saw you,” Allie said. “I thought you smelled me first.” “Right,” said Allie. “The chocolate. But then I saw you as I sat up in the dead forest, thinking I knew you. At the time, I thought I must have seen you through the windshield when our cars crashed…. But that wasn’t it. I think, way back then, I was seeing you as you are now. Isn’t that funny?” “Not as funny as the way I always complained, and the way you always bossed me around!” They embraced and held each other for a long time. “Don’t forget me,” Nick said. “No matter where your life goes, no matter how old you get. And if you ever get the feeling that someone is looking over your shoulder, but there’s nobody there, maybe it’ll be me.” “I’ll write to you,” said Allie, and Nick laughed. “No really. I’ll write the letter then burn it, and if I care just enough it will cross into Everlost.” “And,” added Nick, “it will show up as a dead letter at that the post office Milos made cross into San Antonio!” Allie could have stood there saying good-bye forever, because it was more than Nick she was saying good-bye to. She was leaving behind four years of half-life in a world that was both stunningly beautiful, and hauntingly dark. And she was saying good-bye to Mikey. I’ll be waiting for you, he had said…. Well, if he was, maybe she wasn’t saying good-bye at all. Nick hefted the backpack on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be heading off to Memphis?” he said. “You’d better hit the road…. Jack.” Then he chuckled by his own joke, and walked off.

There was a fake river in San Antonio. It was like the Pirates of the Caribbean ride except instead of pirates and pirate ships you got fat drunks and chain restaurants.

But the moon was so large and clear through the uncurtained window that it made me think instead of a story my mother had told me, about driving to horse shows with her mother and father in the back seat of their old Buick when she was little. “It was a lot of travelling—ten hours sometimes through hard country. Ferris wheels, rodeo rings with sawdust, everything smelled like popcorn and horse manure. One night we were in San Antonio, and I was having a bit of a melt-down—wanting my own room, you know, my dog, my own bed—and Daddy lifted me up on the fairgrounds and told me to look at the moon. ‘When you feel homesick,’ he said, ‘just look up. Because the moon is the same wherever you go.’ So after he died, and I had to go to Aunt Bess—I mean, even now, in the city, when I see a full moon, it’s like he’s telling me not to look back or feel sad about things, that home is wherever I am.” She kissed me on the nose. “Or where you are, puppy. The center of my earth is you.

In San Antonio the crowd was small because it was the same day as the huge local Fiesta celebration. A man stepped out of the crowd to tell me that he had read the book and the blog and felt very sorry for my husband. I told him that Victor was sitting right around the corner if he'd prefer to have him sign the book. He did, and as he left I think I saw him give my husband the victory sign, as if Victor was some sort of POW. In a way, I saw his point.

Mastery requires patience. The San Antonio Spurs, one of the most successful teams in NBA history, have a quote from social reformer Jacob Riis hanging in their locker room: “When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that last blow that did it—but all that had gone before.

Certaines gens, plantés devant leur miroir, croient qu'ils réfléchissent, alors que c'est le contraire.

there is no substitute for walking in the landscape itself, or turning over dusty old pages in the archives of San Antonio.

- Votre mari n'est pas là madame Eiffel - Non il est allé faire une tour.

There’s something sexy about a naked woman gritting her teeth in pain, even when it shouldn’t be sexy.

He found her utterly fascinating, a nameless, homeless, naked vampire, sleeping away the day in his bed, wanted by state and federal police.

San Antonio is the patron saint of things that have gone missing.

In zijn eentje doodt Smithfield (Amerika's grootste producent van varkensvlees) jaarlijks meer varkens dan het gezamelijke inwonertal van New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Houston, Phoenix, Philadelphia, San Antonio, San Diego, Dallas, San Jose, Detroit, Jacksonville, Indianapolis, San Francisco, Columbus, Austin, Forth Worth en Memphis - ongeveer 31 miljoen dieren.

His day is done. Is done. The news came on the wings of a wind, reluctant to carry its burden. Nelson Mandela’s day is done. The news, expected and still unwelcome, reached us in the United States, and suddenly our world became somber. Our skies were leadened. His day is done. We see you, South African people standing speechless at the slamming of that final door through which no traveller returns. Our spirits reach out to you Bantu, Zulu, Xhosa, Boer. We think of you and your son of Africa, your father, your one more wonder of the world. We send our souls to you as you reflect upon your David armed with a mere stone, facing down the mighty Goliath. Your man of strength, Gideon, emerging triumphant. Although born into the brutal embrace of Apartheid, scarred by the savage atmosphere of racism, unjustly imprisoned in the bloody maws of South African dungeons. Would the man survive? Could the man survive? His answer strengthened men and women around the world. In the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas, on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, in Chicago’s Loop, in New Orleans Mardi Gras, in New York City’s Times Square, we watched as the hope of Africa sprang through the prison’s doors. His stupendous heart intact, his gargantuan will hale and hearty. He had not been crippled by brutes, nor was his passion for the rights of human beings diminished by twenty-seven years of imprisonment. Even here in America, we felt the cool, refreshing breeze of freedom. When Nelson Mandela took the seat of Presidency in his country where formerly he was not even allowed to vote we were enlarged by tears of pride, as we saw Nelson Mandela’s former prison guards invited, courteously, by him to watch from the front rows his inauguration. We saw him accept the world’s award in Norway with the grace and gratitude of the Solon in Ancient Roman Courts, and the confidence of African Chiefs from ancient royal stools. No sun outlasts its sunset, but it will rise again and bring the dawn. Yes, Mandela’s day is done, yet we, his inheritors, will open the gates wider for reconciliation, and we will respond generously to the cries of Blacks and Whites, Asians, Hispanics, the poor who live piteously on the floor of our planet. He has offered us understanding. We will not withhold forgiveness even from those who do not ask. Nelson Mandela’s day is done, we confess it in tearful voices, yet we lift our own to say thank you. Thank you our Gideon, thank you our David, our great courageous man. We will not forget you, we will not dishonor you, we will remember and be glad that you lived among us, that you taught us, and that you loved us all.

The building looked even more spectacular to Ngozi than it had in Femi’s phone pic.  A pale cream rather than true white, it was two stories high with cappuccino trim and dark,  reflecting windows. A central balcony overlooked the driveway. “Wow,” Ngozi murmured. “The White House.

http://www.newdayplasticsurgery.com/b.... Lose those stubborn inches! You’ve worked hard to eat right and exercise, yet you still can’t lose those love handles or other fat deposits you consider unsightly. Smart Lipo can be a relatively simple solution to remove stubborn fat. Most patients enjoy faster results with less bruising or swelling!

What I saw of military life left me humbled. As long as I’d been alive, I’d never encountered the kind of fortitude and loyalty that I found in those rooms. One day in San Antonio, Texas, I noticed a minor commotion in the hallway of the military hospital I was visiting. Nurses shuffled urgently in and out of the room I was about to enter. “He won’t stay in bed,” I heard someone whisper. Inside, I found a broad-shouldered young man from rural Texas who had multiple injuries and whose body had been severely burned. He was in clear agony, tearing off the bedsheets and trying to slide his feet to the floor. It took us all a minute to understand what he was doing. Despite his pain, he was trying to stand up and salute the wife of his commander in chief.

Everyone has the seventh-grade story where, you know, they make the field trip and then all the white kids start treating them differently,” says Ruben Cordova, a San Antonio art historian. “Davy Crockett’s [death], it’s sort of like a Chicano version of the Jewish Christ killers. If you’re looking at the Alamo as a kind of state religion, this is the original sin. We killed Davy Crockett.

Every team needs either a confrontational star player or coach. In San Antonio, Gregg Popovich was that guy and Tim Duncan was not. In Golden State, Draymond Green is the confrontational one; Steve Kerr is not. For us, Phil was not that type of person, so I provided that force. You always have to have that balance and counterbalance, and Phil and I were perfectly suited for each other in that way.

I have slipped chile under your skin secretly wrapped in each enchilada hot and soothing carefully cut into bitefuls for you as a toddler increasing in power and intensity as you grew until it could burn forever

Antonio José Bolivar ôta son dentier, le rangea dans son mouchoir et sans cesser de maudire le gringo, responsable de la tragédie, le maire, les chercheurs d'or, tous ceux qui souillaient la virginité de son Amazonie, il coupa une grosse branche d'un coup de machette, s'y appuya, et prit la direction d'El Idilio, de sa cabane et ses romans qui parlaient d'amour avec des mots si beaux que, parfois, ils lui faisaient oublier la barbarie des hommes.

Even the many deaths of Indian children did not faze Serra’s dark joy. In a report dated July 24, 1775, to Friar Francisco Pangua, his Franciscan superior at the Colegio de San Fernando in Mexico City, Serra wrote: In the midst of all our little troubles, the spiritual side of the missions is developing most happily. In [Mission] San Antonio21 there are simultaneously two harvests, at one time, one for wheat, and of a plague among the children, who are dying.

But as a Christian, let me say Merry Christmas on a national holiday called Christmas and you’d think Satan incarnate himself just showed up. I’m sorry that is a bad example because if Satan did show up, he would get more respect than Christians, Jews, Tea Partiers, patriots and conservatives. Thus all the forenamed groups, and any like them, must stand and fight for their equal rights that are disappearing faster than San Antonio fans after game seven of the NBA championship in Miami.

She seemed nice, but she was most likely one of those American women whose knowledge of Africa was based largely on movies and National Geographic and thirdhand information from someone who knew someone who had been to somewhere on the continent, usually Kenya or South Africa. Whenever Jende met such women (at Liomi’s school; at Marcus Garvey Park; in the livery cab he used to drive), they often said something like, oh my God, I saw this really crazy show about such-and-such in Africa. Or, my cousin/friend/neighbor used to date an African man, and he was a really nice guy. Or, even worse, if they asked him where in Africa he was from and he said Cameroon, they proceeded to tell him that a friend’s daughter once went to Tanzania or Uganda. This comment used to irk him until Winston gave him the perfect response: Tell them your friend’s uncle lives in Toronto. Which was what he now did every time someone mentioned some other African country in response to him saying he was from Cameroon. Oh yeah, he would say in response to something said about Senegal, I watched a show the other day about San Antonio. Or, one day I hope to visit Montreal. Or, I hear Miami is a nice city. And every time he did this, he cracked up inside as the Americans’ faces scrunched up in confusion because they couldn’t understand what Toronto/San Antonio/Montreal/Miami had to do with New York.

Pen, you really shouldn’t use the same password for all your accounts. I’ve headed off three hackers in the last week who would’ve gotten into your PayPal, bank, and electric company accounts.” “What?” Penelope was obviously confused at the change in subject, but Cade merely relaxed back in his seat and kept his eyes on Beth as she fidgeted uncomfortably. “Using PenisGod isn’t a good username for things like Amazon and eBay. And you really need to delete your craigslist account because calling yourself a penis god is only attracting weirdos. You probably don’t even remember you had that old ad up when you were trying to sell your bicycle. Well, it’s one of the most clicked-on ads on the site for San Antonio. I’m not exaggerating either. You had four hundred and sixty-nine messages—and I’m not even going to comment on the sixty-nine thing. But three hundred and fourteen of those contained pictures of men’s dicks. Fifty-seven contained marriage proposals, most from overseas; twenty-seven were from women who were interested in a threesome with you, fifty-five were spam, people trying to get you to click on links or buy some crap product, and the remaining sixteen emails were religious in nature, telling you to repent for your soul.” “I should probably be pissed you got into my account, but I trust you, so I’m not. But it’s not penis god!” Penelope exclaimed huffily. “It’s Pen IS God.” Cade burst out laughing. “Seriously, sis? Penis god? Just wait until the guys hear this!

Dr. Louis Jolyon “Jolly” West was born in New York City on October 6, 1924. He died of cancer on January 2, 1999. Dr. West served in the U.S. Army during World War II and received his M.D. from the University of Minnesota in 1948, prior to Air Force LSD and MKULTRA contracts carried out there. He did his psychiatry residency from 1949 to 1952 at Cornell (an MKULTRA Institution and site of the MKULTRA cutout The Human Ecology Foundation). From 1948 to 1956 he was Chief, Psychiatry Service, 3700th USAF Hospital, Lackland Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas Psychiatrist-in-Chief, University of Oklahoma Consultant in Psychiatry, Oklahoma City Veterans Administration Hospital Consultant in Psychiatry. [...] Dr. West was co-editor of a book entitled Hallucinations, Behavior, Experience, and Theory[285]. One of the contributors to this book, Theodore Sarbin, Ph.D., is a member of the Scientific and Professional Advisory Board of the False Memory Syndrome Foundation (FMSF). Other members of the FMSF Board include Dr. Martin Orne, Dr. Margaret Singer, Dr. Richard Ofshe, Dr. Paul McHugh, Dr. David Dinges, Dr. Harold Lief, Emily Carota Orne, and Dr. Michael Persinger. The connections of these individuals to the mind control network are analyzed in this and the next two chapters. Dr. Sarbin[272] (see Ross, 1997) believes that multiple personality disorder is almost always a therapist-created artifact and does not exist as a naturally-occurring disorder, a view adhered to by Dr. McHugh[188], [189], Dr. Ofshe[213] and other members of the FMSF Board[191], [243]. Dr. Ofshe is a colleague and co-author of Dr. Singer[214], who is in turn a colleague and co author of Dr. West[329]. Denial of the reality of multiple personality by these doctors in the mind control network, who are also on the FMSF Scientific and Professional Advisory Board, could be disinformation. The disinformation could be amplified by attacks on specialists in multiple personality as CIA conspiracy lunatics[3], [79], [191], [213]. The FMSF is the only organization in the world that has attacked the reality of multiple personality in an organized, systematic fashion. FMSF Professional and Advisory Board Members publish most of the articles and letters to editors of psychiatry journals hostile to multiple personality disorder.

Trip Advisor: Travel America with Haiku [Texas] Grackles roosting, sentinels on miles of phone line. Don't Mess with Texas. Austin rush hour, "Go down Mopac. You don't wanna mess with I-35." Athens, Texas, Blackeyed Pea Capital of the World. Yup, just another shithole. Killeen, Texas, Kill City, Boyz from Fort Hood. Spending every paycheck. Texas A&M;, Aggies football, the wired 12th man. Too lazy to plant in the Spring. Fredericksburg, Texas. Polka Capital of Texas but I could swear I saw Hitler there. Ft. Worth, Texas, Where the West Begins and a great place to leave. San Antonio, Texas, Fiesta! Alamo City! Northstar Mall! I've been to better tourist traps. Dallas, Texas, D-Town, City of Hate. Don't miss the Galleria. Lubbock, Texas, Oil wells, Hub of the Plains. Stinks like an armpit. Waco, Texas, The Buckle of the Bible Belt. Lossen it up a notch. Neck dragon tattoo, piercings, purple haired kindergarten teacher. Keep Austin weird.

Pastor Max Lucado of San Antonio, Texas, said in an editorial for the Washington Post in February 2016 that he was “chagrined” by Trump’s antics. He ridiculed a war hero. He made a mockery of a reporter’s menstrual cycle. He made fun of a disabled reporter. He referred to a former first lady, Barbara Bush, as “mommy” and belittled Jeb Bush for bringing her on the campaign trail. He routinely calls people “stupid” and “dummy.” One writer catalogued 64 occasions that he called someone “loser.” These were not off-line, backstage, overheard, not-to-be-repeated comments. They were publicly and intentionally tweeted, recorded and presented.18 Lucado went on to question how Christians could support a man doing these things as a candidate for president, much less as someone who repeatedly attempted to capture evangelical audiences by portraying himself as similarly committed to Christian values. He continued, “If a public personality calls on Christ one day and calls someone a ‘bimbo’ the next, is something not awry? And to do so, not once, but repeatedly, unrepentantly and unapologetically? We stand against bullying in schools. Shouldn’t we do the same in presidential politics?” Rolling Stone reported on several evangelical leaders pushing against a Trump nomination, including North Carolina radio host and evangelical Dr. Michael Brown, who wrote an open letter to Jerry Falwell Jr., blasting his endorsement of Donald Trump. Brown wrote, “As an evangelical follower of Jesus, the contrast is between putting nationalism first or the kingdom of God first. From my vantage point, you and other evangelicals seem to have put nationalism first, and that is what deeply concerns me.”19 John Stemberger, president and general counsel for Florida Family Action, lamented to CNN, “The really puzzling thing is that Donald Trump defies every stereotype of a candidate you would typically expect Christians to vote for.” He wondered, “Should evangelical Christians choose to elect a man I believe would be the most immoral and ungodly person ever to be president of the United States?”20 A

One of our best dates was actually a weekend when we went to the wedding of a friend from the Teams. The couple married in Wimberley, Texas, a small town maybe forty miles south of Austin and a few hours’ drive from where we lived. We were having such a pleasant day, we didn’t want it to end. “It doesn’t have to end,” suggested Chris as we headed for the car. “The kids are at my parents’ for the weekend. Where do you want to go?” We googled for hotels and found a place in San Antonio, a little farther south. Located around the corner from the Alamo, the hotel seemed tailor-made for Chris. There was history in every floorboard. He loved the authentic Texan and Old West touches, from the lobby to the rooms. He read every framed article on the walls and admired each artifact. We walked through halls where famous lawmen-and maybe an outlaw or two-had trod a hundred years before. In the evening, we relaxed with coffee out on the balcony of our room-something we’d never managed to do when we actually owned one. It was one of those perfect days you dream of, completely unplanned. I have a great picture of Chris sitting out there in his cowboy boots, feet propped up, a big smile on his face. It’s still one of my favorites. People ask about Chris’s love of the Old West. It was something he was born with, really. It had to be in his genes. He grew up watching old westerns with his family, and for a time became a bronco-bustin’ cowboy and ranch hand. More than that, I think the clear sense of right and wrong, of frontier justice and strong values, appealed to him.

Filming was done outside San Antonio, Texas. The scale of the production was vast and complex. Whole battlefields were scrupulously re-created on the plains of Texas. Wellman deployed as many as five thousand extras and sixty airplanes in some scenes—an enormous logistical exercise. The army sent its best aviators from Selfridge Field in Michigan—the very men with whom Lindbergh had just flown to Ottawa—and stunt fliers were used for the more dangerous scenes. Wellman asked a lot of his airmen. One pilot was killed, another broke his neck, and several more sustained other serious injuries. Wellman did some of the more dangerous stunt flying himself. All this gave the movie’s aerial scenes a realism and immediacy that many found almost literally breathtaking. Wellman captured features of flight that had never been caught on film before—the shadows of planes moving across the earth, the sensation of flying through drifting smoke, the stately fall of bombs, and the destructive puffs of impact that follow. Even the land-bound scenes were filmed with a thoughtfulness and originality that set Wings apart. To bring the viewer into a Parisian nightclub, Wellman used a boom shot in which the camera traveled through the room just above table height, skimming over drinks and between revelers, before arriving at the table of Arlen and Rogers. It is an entrancing shot even now, but it was rivetingly novel in 1927. “Wings,” wrote Penelope Gilliatt simply in The New Yorker in 1971, “is truly beautiful.” Wings was selected as best picture at the very first Academy Awards ceremony in 1929. Wellman, however, wasn’t even invited to the ceremony.

Celui qui voyage peut garder un silence qui sera mystérieux pour les inconnus qui le remarquent, ou céder sans danger à la tentation de parler et de devenir un menteur, d'enjoliver un épisode de sa vie en la racontant à quelqu'un qu'il ne verra plus jamais. Je crois qu'il n'est pas vrai, comme on le dit, qu'en voyageant on pourrait devenir un autre : ce qui se passe, c'est qu'on se trouve allégé de soi-même, de ses obligations et de son passé, tout comme on réduit tout ce qu'on possède aux quelques choses nécessaires à son bagage. La partie la plus pesante de notre identité s'appuie sur ce que les autres savent ou pensent de nous. Ils nous regardent et nous savons qu'ils savent, et en silence ils nous obligent à être ce qu'ils attendent que nous soyons, à agir conformément à certaines habitudes que nos actions antérieures ont établies, ou aux soupçons que nous n'avons pas conscience d'avoir éveillés. Ils nous regardent et nous ne savons pas qui ils peuvent bien voir en nous, ni ce qu'ils inventent ou décident que nous sommes.

When a middle school teacher in San Antonio, Texas, named Rick Riordan began thinking about the troublesome kids in his class, he was struck by a topsy-turvy idea. Maybe the wild ones weren’t hyperactive; maybe they were misplaced heroes. After all, in another era the same behavior that is now throttled with Ritalin and disciplinary rap sheets would have been the mark of greatness, the early blooming of a true champion. Riordan played with the idea, imagining the what-ifs. What if strong, assertive children were redirected rather than discouraged? What if there were a place for them, an outdoor training camp that felt like a playground, where they could cut loose with all those natural instincts to run, wrestle, climb, swim, and explore? You’d call it Camp Half-Blood, Riordan decided, because that’s what we really are—half animal and half higher-being, halfway between each and unsure how to keep them in balance. Riordan began writing, creating a troubled kid from a broken home named Percy Jackson who arrives at a camp in the woods and is transformed when the Olympian he has inside is revealed, honed, and guided. Riordan’s fantasy of a hero school actually does exist—in bits and pieces, scattered across the globe. The skills have been fragmented, but with a little hunting, you can find them all. In a public park in Brooklyn, a former ballerina darts into the bushes and returns with a shopping bag full of the same superfoods the ancient Greeks once relied on. In Brazil, a onetime beach huckster is reviving the lost art of natural movement. And in a lonely Arizona dust bowl called Oracle, a quiet genius disappeared into the desert after teaching a few great athletes—and, oddly, Johnny Cash and the Red Hot Chili Peppers—the ancient secret of using body fat as fuel. But the best learning lab of all was a cave on a mountain behind enemy lines—where, during World War II, a band of Greek shepherds and young British amateurs plotted to take on 100,000 German soldiers. They weren’t naturally strong, or professionally trained, or known for their courage. They were wanted men, marked for immediate execution. But on a starvation diet, they thrived. Hunted and hounded, they got stronger. They became such natural born heroes, they decided to follow the lead of the greatest hero of all, Odysseus, and

MY PROCESS I got bullied quite a bit as a kid, so I learned how to take a punch and how to put up a good fight. God used that. I am not afraid of spiritual “violence” or of facing spiritual fights. My Dad was drafted during Vietnam and I grew up an Army brat, moving around frequently. God used that. I am very spiritually mobile, adaptable, and flexible. My parents used to hand me a Bible and make me go look up what I did wrong. God used that, as well. I knew the Word before I knew the Lord, so studying Scripture is not intimidating to me. I was admitted into a learning enrichment program in junior high. They taught me critical thinking skills, logic, and Greek Mythology. God used that, too. In seventh grade I was in school band and choir. God used that. At 14, before I even got saved, a youth pastor at my parents’ church taught me to play guitar. God used that. My best buddies in school were a druggie, a Jewish kid, and an Irish soccer player. God used that. I broke my back my senior year and had to take theatre instead of wrestling. God used that. I used to sleep on the couch outside of the Dean’s office between classes. God used that. My parents sent me to a Christian college for a semester in hopes of getting me saved. God used that. I majored in art, advertising, astronomy, pre-med, and finally English. God used all of that. I made a woman I loved get an abortion. God used (and redeemed) that. I got my teaching certification. I got plugged into a group of sincere Christian young adults. I took courses for ministry credentials. I worked as an autism therapist. I taught emotionally disabled kids. And God used each of those things. I married a pastor’s daughter. God really used that. Are you getting the picture? San Antonio led me to Houston, Houston led me to El Paso, El Paso led me to Fort Leonard Wood, Fort Leonard Wood led me back to San Antonio, which led me to Austin, then to Kentucky, then to Belton, then to Maryland, to Pennsylvania, to Dallas, to Alabama, which led me to Fort Worth. With thousands of smaller journeys in between. The reason that I am able to do the things that I do today is because of the process that God walked me through yesterday. Our lives are cumulative. No day stands alone. Each builds upon the foundation of the last—just like a stairway, each layer bringing us closer to Him. God uses each experience, each lesson, each relationship, even our traumas and tragedies as steps in the process of becoming the people He made us to be. They are steps in the process of achieving the destinies that He has encoded into the weave of each of our lives. We are journeymen, finding the way home. What is the value of the journey? If the journey makes us who we are, then the journey is priceless.

December 9: The Mexican literary mafia has nothing on the Mexican bookseller mafia. Bookstores visited: the Librería del Sótano, in a basement on Avenida Juárez where the clerks (numerous and neatly uniformed) kept me under strict surveillance and from which I managed to leave with volumes by Roque Dalton, Lezama Lima, and Enrique Lihn. The Librería Mexicana, staffed by three samurais, on Calle Aranda, near the Plaza de San Juan, where I stole a book by Othón, a book by Amado Nervo (wonderful!), and a chapbook by Efraín Huerta. The Librería Pacífico, at Bolívar and 16 de Septiembre, where I stole an anthology of American poets translated by Alberto Girri and a book by Ernesto Cardenal. And in the evening, after reading, writing, and a little fucking: the Viejo Horacio, on Correo Mayor, staffed by twins, from which I left with Gamboa's Santa, a novel to give to Rosario; an anthology of poems by Kenneth Fearing, translated and with a prologue by someone called Doctor Julio Antonio Vila, in which Doctor Vila talks in a vague, question mark-filled way about a trip that Fearing took to Mexico in the 1950s, "an ominous and fruitful trip," writes Doctor Vila; and a book on Buddhism written by the Televisa adventurer Alberto Montes. Instead of the book by Montes I would have preferred the autobiography of the ex-featherweight world champion Adalberto Redondo, but one of the inconveniences of stealing books - especially for a novice like myself - is that sometimes you have to take what you can get.

At our dealership, we have devoted ourselves to helping and serving our customers to the best of our ability. We believe the VW Tiguan San Antonio SUVs we offer are the highest quality and ideal for your life needs.

It was no wonder, then, that Dumas lost his temper when he read the official report of the battle, compiled by Napoleon’s aide-de-camp General Berthier, and saw that his role had been diminished to one of “in observation at San Antonio.” Berthier did include a phrase about Dumas’s fighting the enemy “well,” but this did nothing to make Alex Dumas reconsider what he was about to write into the official military record of the Army of Italy. Dumas picked up his quill and wrote to Napoleon a letter of such fantastical insolence it would be cited in every historical account of him as an example of his legendary temper: January 18, 1797 GENERAL, I have learned that the jack ass whose business it is to report to you upon the battle of the 27th [the 27 Nivôse, i.e., January 16] stated that I stayed in observation throughout that battle. I don’t wish any such observation on him, since he would have shit in his pants. Salute and Brotherhood! ALEX. DUMAS

Anna sat down and studied her brothers. Both were nearly six feet tall. The older, Addison, was muscular with a darker shade of brown hair compared to the younger, blue-eyed Purl, who was leaner and lighter complexioned. Anna noticed that Purl’s wrists showed below his shirt and coat jacket, hand-me-downs from the uncles. All eight children had trouble adjusting after their parents’ death, but Purl’s situation was the most regrettable—three foster homes since he was fifteen. The moves had been hard on him emotionally. Anna suffered too. She’d felt helpless that she was too young to take him herself, and had watched him slowly lose his youthful vigor.

Taking quick looks behind him on the trail, Lew Basnight was apt to see things that weren’t necessarily there. Mounted figure in a black duster and hat, always still, turned sidewise in the hard, sunlit distance, horse bent to the barren ground. No real beam of attention, if anything a withdrawal into its own lopsided star-shaped silhouette, as if that were all it had ever aspired to. It did not take long to convince himself that the presence behind him now, always just out of eyeball range, belonged to one and the same subject, the notorious dynamiter of the San Juans known as the Kieselguhr Kid. The Kid happened to be of prime interest to White City Investigations. Just around the time Lew was stepping off the train at the Union Station in Denver, and the troubles up in the Coeur d’Alene were starting to bleed over everywhere in the mining country, where already hardly a day passed without an unscheduled dynamite blast in it someplace, the philosophy among larger, city-based detective agencies like Pinkerton’s and Thiel’s began to change, being as they now found themselves with far too much work on their hands. On the theory that they could look at their unsolved cases the way a banker might at instruments of debt, they began selling off to less-established and accordingly hungrier outfits like White City their higher-risk tickets, including that of the long-sought Kieselguhr Kid. It was the only name anybody seemed to know him by, “Kieselguhr” being a kind of fine clay, used to soak up nitroglycerine and stabilize it into dynamite. The Kid’s family had supposedly come over as refugees from Germany shortly after the reaction of 1849, settling at first near San Antonio, which the Kid-to-be, having developed a restlessness for higher ground, soon left, and then after a spell in the Sangre de Cristos, so it went, heading west again, the San Juans his dream, though not for the silver-mine money, nor the trouble he could get into, both of those, he was old enough by then to appreciate, easy enough to come by. No, it was for something else. Different tellers of the tale had different thoughts on what. “Don’t carry pistols, don’t own a shotgun nor a rifle—no, his trade-mark, what you’ll find him packing in those tooled holsters, is always these twin sticks of dynamite, with a dozen more—” “Couple dozen, in big bandoliers across his chest.” “Easy fellow to recognize, then.” “You’d think so, but no two eyewitnesses have ever agreed. It’s like all that blasting rattles it loose from everybody’s memory.” “But say, couldn’t even a slow hand just gun him before he could get a fuse lit?” “Wouldn’t bet on it. Got this clever wind-proof kind of striker rig on to each holster, like a safety match, so all’s he has to do’s draw, and the ‘sucker’s all lit and ready to throw.” “Fast fuses, too. Some boys down the Uncompahgre found out about that just last August, nothin left to bury but spurs and belt buckles. Even old Butch Cassidy and them’ll begin to coo like a barn full of pigeons whenever the Kid’s in the county.” Of course, nobody ever’d been sure about who was in Butch Cassidy’s gang either. No shortage of legendary deeds up here, but eyewitnesses could never swear beyond a doubt who in each case, exactly, had done which, and, more than fear of retaliation—it was as if physical appearance actually shifted, causing not only aliases to be inconsistently assigned but identity itself to change. Did something, something essential, happen to human personality above a certain removal from sea level? Many quoted Dr. Lombroso’s observation about how lowland folks tended to be placid and law-abiding while mountain country bred revolutionaries and outlaws. That was over in Italy, of course. Theorizers about the recently discovered subconscious mind, reluctant to leave out any variable that might seem helpful, couldn’t avoid the altitude, and the barometric pressure that went with it. This was spirit, after all.

first floor of a small hotel on the outskirts of San Antonio. Cooper made himself a bet as he walked in. Neon signs for Shiner Bock, smoke-stained drop ceiling, jukebox in the corner, pool table with worn felt, chalkboard with specials. Female bartender, a blonde showing dark roots. The specials turned out to be on a dry-erase board, and the bartendress was a redhead. Cooper smiled. About half the tables were occupied, mostly men but a few women too. The tabletops held plastic pitchers and cigarette packs and cell phones. The music was too loud, some country-rock act

They struck at settlements far south of the Red River, far down in the Hill Country. They rode four hundred miles straight south to the ancient Spanish town of San Antonio, a town now grown up with theaters, paved streets, bakeries and candy stores and suburbs. Fifteen miles from San Antonio they captured two boys who within a year forgot every rule of behavior they knew and became skilled Comanche warriors. Jiles, Paulette. The Color of Lightning: A Novel (p. 289). HarperCollins e-books. Kindle Edition.

One week into my new Silicon Valley life, and the lesson was this: if you want to be a startup entrepreneur, get used to negotiating from positions of weakness. I’d soon have trickier situations to negotiate than convincing a cop to let me take a cab. And so will you if you play the startup game. The next morning, I wasn’t merely hungover, but was in fact still mildly drunk. The company all-hands meeting, wherein the entire company gathered to hear about new deals and employees, and generally to get pep-rallied by Murthy Nukala, the CEO, was scheduled for noon that day. I had to be there or risk having my coworkers file a missing persons report, as well as look like a pussy. My frazzled brain was slow to realize my car was still somewhere in San Mateo. One hundred and thirty dollars and too much sunlight later, I was standing beside my four-wheeled Bavarian steed at the scene of last night’s triumph over the rule of law, and fifteen minutes later I was an acceptable five minutes late for the all-hands. As I walked into the company-wide meeting, a murmur was heard from a corner of the assembled crowd, expressing either surprise or amusement at my being both alive and unincarcerated. The company rumor mill had been busy that morning. I probably looked as pickled and embalmed as I felt. Murthy launched into his weekly harangue. The wheels of capitalism ground ever on.

On the night of November 24, 1956, the Granma slipped her moorings with Castro’s guerrillas aboard, known as “los expedicionarios del yate Granma,” and left from Tuxpan, Veracruz, setting a course across the Yucatán Channel for southeastern Cuba. The 1,200-mile distance between Mexico and their landing point in southeastern Cuba was difficult and included 135 miles of open water and cross currents between Cape Catoche in Mexico and Cape San Antonio in Cuba. They had to stay far enough off the southern coast of Cuba to remain undetected. The overcrowded small vessel leaked, forcing everyone to take turns bailing water out of her, and at one point they lost a man overboard, which further delayed them. In all, the entire five-day trip ultimately lasted seven days. Their destination was a playa, beach, near Niquero in the Oriente Province, close to where José Martí landed 61 years prior, during the War of Independence. However, on December 2, 1956, when the Granma finally arrived at its destination, it smashed into a mangrove swamp crawling with fiddler crabs, near Los Colorados beach. They were well south of where they were supposed to meet up with 50 supporters. Having lost their element of surprise, they were left exposed and vulnerable. After the revolution the Granma was moved to Havana and is now on display in a protected glass enclosure at the Granma Memorial, near the Museum of the Revolution. The official newspaper in Cuba is also called the Granma. Note: Ships and boats as well as newspapers and other publications are italicized whereas memorials are not!

Boy, was she putting on a show, trying to herd them all exactly where she wanted them. But Bailey wouldn’t be led by the nose. Time to stampede. He picked up an empty chair from the nearest table with one hand and slung it between his legs, dropping into it backwards. “There’s nowhere in the world that I’d rather be than here, becoming better acquainted with Mr. Fenton.” Molly’s eyes widened. “Oh?” “Yes, I’ve long been fascinated with the banking business. I’m sure it’s a breathtaking and dangerous venture. And your house, Mr. Fenton?” He batted his eyes and raised the pitch of his voice an octave. “Oh, I so admire everyone who lives on San Antonio Street.” Molly’s attempts to incinerate him with her eyes failed. He was fireproof. “Bailey,

The men worked hard and faithfully. As a rule, in spite of the number of rough characters among them, they behaved very well. One night a few of them went on a spree, and proceeded "to paint San Antonio red." One was captured by the city authorities, and we had to leave him behind us in jail. The others we dealt with ourselves, in a way that prevented a repetition of the occurrence.

The Lord, however, calls us to be people of deep moral sensibility. He is less concerned about our getting every jot and tittle of theology correct than He is about how we relate to moral issues. He tells us that what He expects of us is “to act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God” (Micah 6:8, NIV). Jesus echoed this passage as He condemned the teachers of the law and the Pharisees. “You have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness,” He said (Matthew 23:23, NIV).

beware of the misuse of Ellen White’s writings. Her counsels, which I believe were God-inspired, were addressed to specific situations in the life of the Church and so, as she herself directed us, time and place should always be taken into account in seeking to apply them in different situations. For too many Adventists, then and now, however, the Ellen White writings function like a compendium of statements that can be pulled up online, wrenched out of context, and applied in ways she never intended. Thus,

For many years, as editor of the Adventist Review and Adventist World, I endeavored to share the truth with the people, even when the truth hurt. We Adventists aren’t good at this. We like to hear “a good report.” We’d rather hear about the large number of people baptized during an evangelistic campaign than learn how many of them were no longer attending church a year later. We are big on appearances, ultra careful to look right and sound right, seemingly more concerned about how others regard us than does the Lord, who reads hearts.

Unfortunately, most Adventists probably are unaware of these developments. The official church press has not made them known; one has to turn to independent Adventist sources. And that itself, I believe, is something that is untrue to our heritage.

In my judgment the various official conversations into which we entered—with the Reformed, the Salvation Army, the Mennonites, the Presbyterians, and others—accomplished much good. They helped to correct misunderstandings, to break down stereotypes, to remove prejudice. They benefited me personally: by leaving my Adventist comfort zone, my thinking was broadened and enriched. I met men and women who were not only fine scholars but also devout Christians. And seeing my Adventist beliefs against the canvas of other faith traditions brought new clarity and appreciation. I learned that we need not be hesitant or defensive.

Thus, even after 1888 and Ellen White’s strong counsel regarding the once-for-all, all-sufficiency of Christ’s death for our sins, one finds from time to time attempts to add to the simple gospel. These efforts sometimes run along the lines of Uriah Smith’s argument quoted above—that Christ’s death justified us, but after that our works are necessary to live the sanctified life. Another position, one that goes back as far as the late M. L. Andreassen, emphasizes the righteousness that must be had by those redeemed from the earth when Jesus returns. This “last generation” theology focuses on perfection of character rather than righteousness by faith. In doing so it falls into the error that Paul addressed in his letter to the Galatians, namely, adding something to the gospel, which declares that Christ has done it all for us.

It’s dangerous to predict what God will do, to go beyond what He has revealed of His will in Scripture.

Jesus was about wholeness, ours and others’, and so must we be. His sayings about maiming and blinding cannot be understood literally; they must be seen in the “kingdom” sense—meaning that any practice or habit that injures another has no place in the life of the citizen of the kingdom of heaven.

For about 100 years Adventist relations with other churches have been officially defined and guided by a policy in the General Conference Working Policy, O 110, “Relationship With Other Christian Churches and Religious Organizations.” In part it states: “We recognize those agencies that lift up Christ before men as a part of the divine plan for evangelization of the world, and we hold in high esteem Christian men and women in other communions who are engaged in winning souls to Christ.” Unfortunately, as in some other areas, our official stand is not matched by our practice. Many Adventists, both lay and leaders, are wary of contact with others who aren’t one of “us.

We Seventh-day Adventists are great at dreaming up new plans and programs. Too often we’re driven by finding a plan that will, as we like to say, “finish the work.” Jesus hasn’t come back as we think He should have. In one way or another we’re to blame, so we need to hit on the answer—we need one more program, the one program that will wrap it up, and then we’ll see Jesus coming in the clouds.

the main thing for us is the same as it was for the believers in Corinth 2,000 years ago.

Playing the imminence game can be exciting—for a while. But it can also lead to burn-out—eschatological burn-out. There

Adventists aren’t the only children of God. The Lord is a big God, too big to be put in a box and tied with a ribbon. God has many children just as He always has had, as

all its occupants had left without her. This troubled Frances not in the least. She already seemed to have made a lot of new friends, she was rich, twice-married, without roots. San Antonio suited her down to the ground. It was filled with painters, expatriates, writers and beatniks, and Frances, who had once lived for several months with an unsuccessful artist in Greenwich Village, felt entirely at home. Before long she had found this house, and when the initial occupations of settling-in were over, cast about for some way of filling in her time. She decided upon an art gallery. In a place where you had both resident painters and visiting tourists, an art gallery was surely a blue-chip investment. She bought

On this trip there was no minute of time while travelling between San Patricio and the settlements on the San Antonio River, from San Antonio to Austin, and again from the Colorado River back to San Patricio, when deer or antelope could not be seen in great numbers. Each officer carried a shot-gun, and every evening, after going into camp, some would go out and soon return with venison and wild turkeys enough for the entire camp.

few days earlier, Trump’s team of data scientists, squirreled away in an office down in San Antonio, had delivered a report titled “Predictions: Five Days Out,” which contained stunning news that contradicted the widespread assumption that Clinton would win easily. It was suddenly clear that Comey’s FBI investigation was roiling the electorate. “The last few days have proven to be pivotal in the minds of voters with the recent revelations in reopening the investigation of Secretary Clinton,” the report read. “Early polling numbers show declining support for Clinton, shifting in favor of Mr. Trump.” It added: “This may have a fundamental impact on the results.” The report’s authors further detected

That line of reasoning, however, is patently bogus. Discussion of women’s ordination among Adventists predated the “women’s lib” movement by 70 or more years: we already noted that the 1881 General Conference Session considered a resolution favoring ordaining qualified women pastors. Furthermore, the current push among us comes not from women but from men, especially ordained ministers in several different countries who have surrendered their credentials in solidarity with their female counterparts.

On many a Friday night, coming home from a week-long training mission in a T-38 just like the one I was in now, Roger and I would buzz our houses just before turning sharply left, dropping the gear and landing at Ellington Air Force Base. From as far as San Antonio, we would point the needle nose of our plane directly at the driveway separating our houses and roar over Barbuda Lane, shaking the shingles and rattling the dishes at 600 knots. The noisy message let our wives (and neighbors) know that we would be home soon. We would land, jump into our cars, and race down the two-lane Old Galveston Highway, through the single stoplight in the town of Webster at eighty miles per hour and screech up to our houses in less than ten minutes. It was all somewhat illegal, but what the hell, we were astronauts!

The city’s West Side was a gigantic slum, containing perhaps 60,000 residents, who were paid, Gunther says, “probably the lowest wages in the United States”—for pecan shellers (San Antonio was the “Pecan Capital of the World”) an average of $1.75 per week.

LACKLAND AIR FORCE BASE sits just southeast of the U.S. Route 90 and Interstate 410 interchange, in the dead center of San Antonio, a city better known for its River Walk and Mexican food. It is bisected by Route 13 and its Gateway Hills Golf Course occupies a significant portion of the property. It is home to one of the largest Air Force training facilities in the United States and hosts the Wilford Hall Ambulatory Surgical Center, one of the country’s four major referral centers for advanced medical care. In more recent years, Lackland had become part of Joint Base San Antonio, home to the 16th Air Force.

For the best water slide rentals San Antonio has to offer, trust the pros at Double D Party Rentals. San Antonio can become toasty during May and June, which is perhaps the best time to rent a couple of our water slides and maybe a bounce house to beat the heat. Whether you want to beat the heat or dunk your best friend at a church fundraiser, or maybe cool off with a few dozen friends, Double D Party Rentals, LLC has the water slides you need. Best water slide rentals in San Antonio.

Ali kakve veze ima Stendal sa psihičkim poremećajem? Stendal je najslavniji primer slične nedaće, i zato je izabran kao paradigma. Francuski pisac je zapravo u svom putopisu u Italiji, opisao slabost koja ga je obuzela upravo u Firenci, prilikom posete bazilici Santa Kroče. Godina je 1817; Stendal, pošto se dolazeći iz Bolonje spustio sa Apenina, ulazi u Firencu kroz kapiju San Galo i odmah odlazi u baziliku. U brdima, tokom noći, kočiju u kojoj je putovao napali su razbojnici koji verovatno nisu bili na nekom zavidnom estetskom nivou. Pred bazilikom njegovo srce mahnito lupa. Preplavljuje ga snažno osećanje izazvano atmosferom duboke religioznosti u crkvi, njenim pročeljem i grobnicama slavnih ljudi. Na kraju, u pratnji jednog opata odlazi u kapelu Nikolini, gde ostaje da posmatra Volteranove Sibile. U tom trenutku javlja se slabost. Stendal beleži: "Kao omađijan posmatrao sam veličanstvenu lepotu, gledao sam je izbliza, dodirivao sam je, da tako kažem. Dosegao sam onu tačku duševnog stanja na kojoj se susreću božanski čulni osećaji koje umetnost pruža i najstrastvenija osećanja. Kada sam izašao iz bazilike srce mi je udaralo snažnim damarima, to u Berlinu zovu "živcima": osećao sam kako iz mene ističe život, hodao sam u strahu da se ne srušim." Ali "turista" Stendal ume da se nosi sa slabošću koja ga je obuzela, njegova kultura mu daje protivotrov koji mu pomaže da se izleči: "Seo sam na jednu od klupa na trgu Santa Kroče; s uživanjem sam ponovo pročitao one Foskolove stihove koje nosim u lisnici ne obazirući se na njihovu mestimičnu nesavršenost: bio mi je potreban prijatelj s kojim ću podeliti svoje duševno stanje". Stendal nosi sa sobom stihove "Grobova" u kojima Foskolo opeva grobove italijanskih velikana: i upravo u trenutku kada ga obizima snažan osećaj bola on traži neki umirujući znak (prijatelja) u kojem će se ogledati da bi podelio to osećanje, obuzdao ga i jezički izrazio.

Sharon Fowler, from the University of Texas Health Sciences Center at San Antonio, in the 2008 San Antonio Heart Study8 prospectively studied 5158 adults over eight years. She found that instead of reducing the obesity, diet beverages substantially increased the risk of it by a mind-bending 47 percent. She writes, “These findings raise the question whether [artificial sweetener] use might be fueling—rather than fighting—our escalating obesity epidemic.

The San Antonio Spurs, one of the most successful teams in NBA history, have a quote from social reformer Jacob Riis hanging in their locker room: "When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow, it will split in two, and I know it was not that last blow that did it -- but all that had gone before.

The San Antonio Spurs, one of the most successful teams in NBA history, have a quote from social reformer Jacob Riis hanging in their locker room: “When nothing seems to help, I go and look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it.19 Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that last blow that did it—but all that had gone before.

C’est dans le premier [San-Antonio] que j’ai appris le français–ainsi que dans Le Canard–et dans Céline alors ! Quel français j’ai appris de Céline ! Et quelque chose d’autre est sûr. C’est dans San-A que j’ai appris à baiser une langue ! La manière de la plaquer à même l’herbe, de la précipiter sur le plancher. La façon de la maltraitiser tendrement et sous tous les angles en vue de l’obliger à avouer, masochiste inguérissable, à quel point elle est con(sen)tante. Mais moi, je dois progresser. Parce que ce sont des Français qui m’ont appris le roumain ! Finalement, ce qu’ils m’ont appris, c’est qu’une langue, ça se pétrit avant de se laisser couler dans d’autres moules. (p. 16-17)

Thieves stole a small horn shark from the San Antonio Aquarium using a baby stroller to smuggle the shark out.

UPON LEAVING MEXICO, THE OLMSTEDS RODE STRAIGHT TO SAN Antonio and "prepared for more rapid travel," shedding "useless weight" for their journey out of Texas. Having spent more than four months traversing the state, they exited it in three weeks, via Houston and Beaumont. By the time they neared Louisiana, "the hot, soggy breath of the approaching summer was extremely depressing." This was particularly so for John, who'd set off for Texas with "the hope of invigorating weakened lungs." Instead, the "abominable diet, and the fatigue" had "served to null the fresh benefits of pure air and stimulating travel." While slogging through a swampy plan near Beaumont, John fell from the saddle "in faint exhaustion," lying facedown on the ground for half an hour, "hardly breathing, and unable to speak.

Warren Buffett, whose net worth is approximately $65 billion, lives in the same house he bought in 1958 for $31,500. John Urschel, a lineman for the Baltimore Ravens, makes millions but manages to live on $25,000 a year. San Antonio Spurs star Kawhi Leonard gets around in the 1997 Chevy Tahoe he’s had since he was a teenager, even with a contract worth some $94 million. Why? It’s not because these men are cheap. It’s because the things that matter to them are cheap. Neither Buffett nor Urschel nor Leonard ended up this way by accident. Their lifestyle is the result of prioritizing. They cultivate interests that are decidedly below their financial means, and as a result, any income would allow them freedom to pursue the things they most care about. It just happens that they became wealthy beyond any expectation. This kind of clarity—about what they love most in the world—means they can enjoy their lives. It means they’d still be happy even if the markets were to turn or their careers were cut short by injury. The more things we desire and the more we have to do to earn or attain those achievements, the less we actually enjoy our lives—and the less free we a

At KGBtexas Communications, we specialize in helping enhance your businesses in the San Antonio market. Our comprehensive advertising services are designed to elevate your brand and drive results. Visit our website to know more about how we can transform your business in the market.

At KGBtexas Communications, we specialize to enhance your businesses in the San Antonio market. Our comprehensive advertising services are designed to elevate your brand and drive results. Visit our website to know more about how we can transform your business in the market.

╬ Love Spells That Work Instantly In USa }} +27632724350 * Lost Love Spells Caster In Johannesburg , pretoria , Montana }} +27632724350* Love spells That work Immediately in Salt Lake city Utah }} +27632724350* Love spells That Work Instantly In Maine }} Dallas }} Houston }} El-paso}} Texas ✆+27632724350 Get back Your Lost Lover In 24 Hours In Chicago, Illinois , Denver , Colorado ✆+27632724350 * Powerful Love Spells That Work Fast in El Paso- Denver }} Colorado { San Antonio Texas +27632724350 * :Love Spells In Austin }} Dallas }} Alabama }} Arkansas }} Idaho }} Utah }} Minnessotta }} ✆+27632724350 * Get back Your ex Lover Same day in Connecticut }} Montana {{ Nebraska North Carolina }} ✆+27632724350 * Love Spells That Work Same day In Indianapolis }} Maine }} Miami Florida }} Washington }} ✆+27632724350 * Bring Back Lost Lover in |}| Nevada | Oklahoma | tennessee * Vermont }} ✆+27632724350 * Lost Love spells Caster in Wyoming | Missouri | Mississippi ✆+27632724350 * Black Magic Specialist and Best Love spells caster In Kansas }} Kentuck }} Liousiana ✆+27632724350 * Approved And Effective Ex Love Back Spells | Get | Return / regain Ex Lover Back In United States ✆+27632724350 * @Powerful Traditional Healer In South Africa ✆+27632724350 * @ Traditional healer in Johannesburg @✆+27632724350 #Powerful Native Spiritual and Traditional Healer In Pretoria

San Antonio del Este,

Although we were in the best of spirits over the successful conclusion of the drive; although we were glad to be free from herd duty and looked forward eagerly to the journey home, there was still a feeling of regret in our hearts which we could not dispel. In the days of my boyhood I have shed tears when a favorite horse was sold from our little ranch on the San Antonio, and have frequently witnessed Mexican children unable to hide their grief when need of bread had compelled the sale of some favorite horse to a passing drover. But at no time in my life, before or since, have I felt so keenly the parting between man and horse as I did that September evening in Montana. For on the trail an affection springs up between a man and his mount which is almost human. Every privation which he endures his horse endures with him,—carrying him through falling weather, swimming rivers by day and riding in the lead of stampedes by night, always faithful, always willing, and always patiently enduring every hardship, from exhausting hours under saddle to the sufferings of a dry drive. And on this drive, covering nearly three thousand miles, all the ties which can exist between man and beast had not only become cemented, but our remuda as a whole had won the affection of both men and employer for carrying without serious mishap a valuable herd all the way from the Rio Grande to the Blackfoot Agency.

I didn’t know what else I could do to redeem myself in his eyes but to lay my life in his hands. It was the ultimate sacrifice, and the one I made by allowing him to take me back to San Antonio. No more running. No more lies. Either Tamir would kill my uncle to keep me safe, and we’d have a chance at a life together, or my uncle would kill me and put an end to the ordeal. One way or another, it would be over.

Texas Residents I was minding my business and some nosy cop pulled me over in San Antonio the other day and asked me for my license. I said, "Sorry, officer, I done left it home." He then demanded proof I was a Texas resident. I said, "No problem, sir." I pulled out my pearl handled Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 and shot him 9 times to the chest and abdomen. Is that proof enough, bitch?

For publishing Threadgill-Dennis’s letter, G. W. Bouldin, the editor of the San Antonio Inquirer, was tried and convicted of violating the Espionage Act. Bouldin was sentenced to two years in the Leavenworth federal penitentiary for making “an unlawful attempt to cause insubordination.

devant l’unique guichet ouvert – et on se plaint du chômage, ma pauvre dame ! – Police ! clamé-je pour endiguer les rouspétances. Débordée, exténuée, le front emperlé de sueur, la préposée chope la carte de matuche que je lui tends, la pose sur sa balance et me demande d’un ton machinal : – Tarif normal ? – Ce sont des réponses prioritaires, que je souhaite ! La môme observe ma brème, rosit de confusion. – Oh, excusez-moi ! En fin de journée, je suis complètement vannée, surtout par ces chaleurs. Il s’agit d’une brunette un rien

It’s over,” said Carmona to the town’s men at the casa alcaldía (city hall). “Word is that the United States Flag is waving in Guánica, Coamo and at El Morro and San Cristóbal Castles in San Juan. Puerto Rico is now United States territory.” “Another transition!” Manuel sighed. “What will this bring?

We buy houses for cash and cut the hassle of paperwork. For all types of houses in San Antonio, we have mouthwatering deals.

David Buys Houses in San Antonio at the most competitive prices with no obligation. All you have to do is to make a phone call to David, and he will make an attractive cash offer on your house so you can have the cash in your hand quickly.

San Antonio, Texas Haiku Arizona nightmare - All the Mexicans are legal. Alamo my ass!

Madame Candelaria contó muchos años después que Santa Anna, antes de iniciarse el cerco, entró en San Antonio; iba montado en una mula y fue haciendo pequeños planos de la disposición de la ciudad.

San Antonio: Quien reza sin contar contigo es como quien pretende volar sin alas.

I do not remember the number, but it was near the Carrera de San Jeronimo.

If you're looking for a San Antonio property management company call us so we can talk about what DB Broker, LLC can do for you. You can, also, click "contact us" at the top of the page to email your questions or request a quote. We'd like to hear from you.

Santiago de Cuba has the Antonio Maceo Airport (MUCU/SCU), which was home to the Cuban Revolutionary Armed Forces. Shown in the photo is a Cuban Mig 21 inside the VT-45 hanger. Santiago de Cuba had 12 of these Russian built fighters situated at the San Antonio de los Baños Airfield in Cuba. Now the airport is essentially a turboprop hub, however it can also accommodate mid-sized jet aircraft. There are about twenty international flights each week, but most arrivals are by domestic airlines. The eastern location and the international status of MUCU/SCU has spurred the interest of foreign airlines as a promising future destination. All in all, Cuba now has ten international airports, capable of serving long-range commercial flights. Follow the daily blogs by Captain Hank Bracker posted exclusively on Facebook, Goodreads & Captain Hank Bracker’s Webpage. He also has frequent Tweets and weekend commentaries headed “From the Bridge.” His dual award winning book “The Exciting Story of Cuba” is available from Amazon.com and other leading book vendors. Soon to come are his books “Seawater One” & “Surpressed I Rise (Revised Edition).

Data on children, in particular, show the auspicious results of religion on their well-being. According to sociologist John Bartkowski, professor at the University of Texas at San Antonio, the children of parents who regularly attend religious services exhibit better self-control, social skills, and approaches to learning. He found that religious networks allow moms and dads to improve their parenting skills; the social support they find from other religious parents helps to bolster their efforts. The values that inhere in religious congregations, such as self-sacrifice, also help. And, of course, religious communities imbue parenting with sacred meaning and significance. When asked about these findings, another sociologist, W. Bradford Wilcox of the University of Virginia, put it succinctly when he said that at least for religious parents, “getting their kids into heaven is more important than getting their kids into Harvard.”58 Amen. More recently, Baylor sociologist Rodney Stark found that religious Americans, when compared to secularists, are more likely to marry and stay married; less likely to cheat on their spouse; less likely to abuse their spouse or children; and more likely to be successful in their career. Their average life expectancy is more than seven years longer, and their children are more likely to do well in school. Furthermore, 40 percent of those who attend church weekly report they are “very happy,” as compared to 25 percent of those who never attend church.

Even when behaviors are clearly stress-related, they can be difficult to interpret. Mel Richardson was once asked to examine a tree kangaroo at the San Antonio Zoo that the keepers said was acting bizarrely. With the ears of a teddy bear, the rounded chub of a koala, and the tail of a fuzzy monkey, tree kangaroos are very cute. But this female was acting vicious. She was attacking her babies, and the keepers had no idea why. Mel went to check on her. Sure enough, as soon as he approached, the kangaroo ran to her babies and started hitting and clawing at them with her paws. He stepped back, and she stopped. He walked forward, and she ran at the babies again. “I realized,” said Mel, “that she wasn’t viciously attacking her babies at all. She was trying to pick them up off the floor, but her little paws weren’t meant for that. In her native Australia and Papua New Guinea her babies never would have been on the ground. Her whole family would have been up in the trees.” The mother kangaroo wanted to move the babies away from the humans. What looked like abnormal attacks on her young were actually her way of trying to protect them. Her behavior wasn’t mental illness at all but a response to the stress of being a mother in an unnatural environment. After the keepers redesigned the kangaroos’ cage so that more of it was elevated and farther from the door, she relaxed and stopped hitting her babies. Mel explained, “As flippant as it might sound, the truth is that in order to know what’s abnormal, you must first know what’s normal. In this case in order to determine pathology, I had to understand the animal’s psychology. It’s pretty easy for people to get this wrong.

A San Daniele dove il prosciutto unisce tre culture La chiesa La trecentesca chiesa di Sant’Antonio Abate, i cui affreschi, di due secoli successivi, costringono alla sosta pure il viaggiatore più goloso, è in cima al colle di San Daniele, che domina il bacino idrico del Tagliamento, uno dei pochi fiumi europei che ancora segua il proprio corso naturale, ricco di laghi e insenature da scoprire, e raccoglie il vento fresco di Carnia Federico Francesco Ferrero | 670 parole Non esiste un’altra regione d’Italia dove si possa percepire in maniera così chiara il concetto di «diversità». Il Friuli Venezia Giulia costituisce, da secoli, uno spazio di complesso contatto culturale, linguistico, gastronomico. Le basi dell’attuale variabilità sono da ricondurre a fatti storici di immigrazione e insediamento, che hanno collocato, uno a fianco all’altro, i romani, i germani e gli slavi, generando comunità che, ancora oggi, risultano solo apparentemente integrate. Italiano, «marilenghe» («lingua madre» o friulano), veneto, germanico e slavo, sono gli indicatori di una complessa realtà geografica, che si può riconoscere nel piatto prima ancora che nell’accento. Il clima Il baricentro e l’apice gastronomico di quest’area, si potrebbero indicare issando un vessillo sulla collinetta di San Daniele, proprio accanto alla trecentesca chiesa di Sant’Antonio abate, i cui affreschi, di due secoli successivi, costringono alla sosta pure il viaggiatore più goloso. La recente nevrosi meteorologica poi ci ha insegnato come solo alla provincia di Udine e a quella di Cuneo appartenga, per la loro collocazione in pianure strette tra monti e mare, una singolare specificità climatica. Copiose precipitazioni nevose e persistenza di venti freschi e asciutti, alternati a refoli umidi e salmastri, sono le condizioni ideali per la stagionatura di Sua Maestà il Prosciutto, la vetta più alta della gastronomia italiana, a torto umiliata dall’omologo spagnolo. Questo colle, che domina il bacino idrico del Tagliamento, uno dei pochi fiumi europei che ancora segua il proprio corso naturale, ricco di laghi e insenature da scoprire, raccoglie il vento fresco di Carnia. Bisogna avventurarsi tra quelle cime per scoprirne la bellezza austera, l’abbondanza di fiori e di tradizioni millenarie, tra cui una delle cucine più interessanti d’Italia, magistralmente ridotta a canone tradizionale e propulsore per l’innovazione, dal grande scomparso Gianni Cosetti. E lì, a Sauris, si trova un altro grande prosciutto, che la penuria di sale legata al dazio aveva costretto a conservare con una leggera affumicatura: ecco un primo esempio di diversità da scoprire. Nei boschi carnici il vento raccoglie i sentori resinosi che a San Daniele incontrano i profumi salmastri della laguna e della costa. Nel vicino Mare Adriatico si pescano molluschi e naselli impareggiabili e i bassi fondali garantiscono, già in primavera, lunghe, ristoratrici, passeggiate nell’acqua iodata. Luce dell’Est Per trovare un grande prodotto da gustare e da portare a casa sono necessarie però molte prove, finché si troverà, da un piccolo appassionato artigiano, una coscia di maiale che abbia riposato con il proprio piedino per almeno 24 mesi, da affettare al coltello e consumare a temperatura ambiente. Non è il pane ma l’asparago bianco di queste pianure, appena scottato in acqua dolce, il complemento più interessante. E una volta giunti fin qui non si può rinunciare a raggiungere la pianura di Cormons, per mettere alla prova un altro grande rivale: il prosciutto affumicato al camino in maniera artigianale. Il suo sapore avvolgente accompagnerà mirabilmente i grandi bianchi della regione circostante. Anche qui però i vicini di origine slava non sarebbero d’accordo. Alla coscia preferiscono la spalla, bollita a lungo sulla stufa, affettata spessa e condita con una generosa grattugiata di «cren», il rafano. E bisogna spingersi ancora più a Est, nelle collin

For cash home buyers one can get cash money quickly and easily, with no hassle whatsoever through David Buy help. He can get home buyers at any location of San Antonio.

he was so focused on watching where Presley went that she almost didn’t see the man he was with until they stopped beneath a security light, their backs to her. She first noticed the other man then, and was shocked at his size. Then her gaze moved to the thick bush of curly hair pulled into a pony tail at the back of his neck, and she wondered how he ever got something that unruly washed and dried. It wasn’t until he turned sideways that she got a momentary glimpse of his profile. As she did, a strange, anxious feeling skittered through her belly, then quickly disappeared. The stranger didn’t matter. He couldn’t matter. It was time to make her move. She had to stop Presley now, before he went any farther. She reached toward the glove box for her handgun and taser, slipped the taser in her pocket and was reaching for the door latch when the big man turned and faced her. For a full fifteen or twenty seconds, Cat had a clear and unfettered view of his face, and in those seconds, the world fell out from under her. She didn’t know that she started moaning, or that she’d broken out in a cold sweat. All she knew was that she was no longer in her car in a San Antonio parking lot but back in her childhood home, trying to run from the intruder who’d come out of their bathroom. She was screaming for her father when the intruder’s arm slid around her chest and lifted her off her feet. She saw the strange geometric designs on his arm, then on the side of his face, as the cold slash of steel from his knife suddenly slid against her throat. The coppery scent of her own blood was thick in her nose as he dropped her to the floor, leaving her to watch as he slammed the same knife into her father over and over again. She tried to scream, but the sounds wouldn’t come. The last things she saw before everything went black were the look of sorrow on her father’s face and the demon who’d killed them running out the front door.

When she’s in a courtroom, Wendy Patrick, a deputy district attorney for San Diego, uses some of the roughest words in the English language. She has to, given that she prosecutes sex crimes. Yet just repeating the words is a challenge for a woman who not only holds a law degree but also degrees in theology and is an ordained Baptist minister. “I have to say (a particularly vulgar expletive) in court when I’m quoting other people, usually the defendants,” she admitted. There’s an important reason Patrick has to repeat vile language in court. “My job is to prove a case, to prove that a crime occurred,” she explained. “There’s often an element of coercion, of threat, (and) of fear. Colorful language and context is very relevant to proving the kind of emotional persuasion, the menacing, a flavor of how scary these guys are. The jury has to be made aware of how bad the situation was. Those words are disgusting.” It’s so bad, Patrick said, that on occasion a judge will ask her to tone things down, fearing a jury’s emotions will be improperly swayed. And yet Patrick continues to be surprised when she heads over to San Diego State University for her part-time work of teaching business ethics. “My students have no qualms about dropping the ‘F-bomb’ in class,” she said. “The culture in college campuses is that unless they’re disruptive or violating the rules, that’s (just) the way kids talk.” Experts say people swear for impact, but the widespread use of strong language may in fact lessen that impact, as well as lessen society’s ability to set apart certain ideas and words as sacred. . . . [C]onsider the now-conversational use of the texting abbreviation “OMG,” for “Oh, My God,” and how the full phrase often shows up in settings as benign as home-design shows without any recognition of its meaning by the speakers. . . . Diane Gottsman, an etiquette expert in San Antonio, in a blog about workers cleaning up their language, cited a 2012 Career Builder survey in which 57 percent of employers say they wouldn’t hire a candidate who used profanity. . . . She added, “It all comes down to respect: if you wouldn’t say it to your grandmother, you shouldn’t say it to your client, your boss, your girlfriend or your wife.” And what about Hollywood, which is often blamed for coarsening the language? According to Barbara Nicolosi, a Hollywood script consultant and film professor at Azusa Pacific University, an evangelical Christian school, lazy script writing is part of the explanation for the blue tide on television and in the movies. . . . By contrast, she said, “Bad writers go for the emotional punch of crass language,” hence the fire-hose spray of obscenities [in] some modern films, almost regardless of whether or not the subject demands it. . . . Nicolosi, who noted that “nobody misses the bad language” when it’s omitted from a script, said any change in the industry has to come from among its ranks: “Writers need to have a conversation among themselves and in the industry where we popularize much more responsible methods in storytelling,” she said. . . . That change can’t come quickly enough for Melissa Henson, director of grass-roots education and advocacy for the Parents Television Council, a pro-decency group. While conceding there is a market for “adult-themed” films and language, Henson said it may be smaller than some in the industry want to admit. “The volume of R-rated stuff that we’re seeing probably far outpaces what the market would support,” she said. By contrast, she added, “the rate of G-rated stuff is hardly sufficient to meet market demands.” . . . Henson believes arguments about an “artistic need” for profanity are disingenuous. “You often hear people try to make the argument that art reflects life,” Henson said. “I don’t hold to that. More often than not, ‘art’ shapes the way we live our lives, and it skews our perceptions of the kind of life we're supposed to live." [DN, Apr. 13, 2014]

In August 1519, Magellan disembarked with a crew of 280 men among the five ships of his fleet: the Concepción, the San Antonio, the Santiago, the Victoria, and the flagship Trinidad. Four of the ships were three- or four-masted sailing ships called carracks; the Trinidad was a caravel. Each vessel held massive stores of supplies to last the men for weeks and months at sea, with plans to resupply in stops along the Canary Islands, Cape Verde, and South American port towns. No shipping clerk could have guessed how much they dangerously underestimated the needs of the voyage.