Showtime Quotes

Corporations are getting better and better at seducing us into thinking the way they think—of profits as the telos and responsibility as something to be enshrined in symbol and evaded in reality. Cleverness as opposed to wisdom. Wanting and having instead of thinking and making. We cannot stop it. I suspect what’ll happen is that there will be some sort of disaster—depression, hyperinflation—and then it’ll be showtime: We’ll either wake up and retake our freedom or we’ll fall apart utterly. Like Rome—conqueror of its own people.

Happy birthday, Bright Side. I hope you’re in charge of showtime tonight. I’m expecting nothing short of fucking incredible on behalf of your big day, just so you know. No pressure, but you’d better step up and do epic.

I know we don’t like to vote – marking your ballot nowadays is like choosing between the 3am showing of Beastmaster on Showtime and the 3am showing of Beastmaster 2 on Cinemax.

We should strive to make our society more like Summer Showtime: Mostly a meritocracy, despite some vicious backstabbing. Everyone gets a spot in the chorus. Bring white shorts from home.

I can write anywhere… Or not, as the case may be, which is not the case.

I never know the answer. They bear legitimate witness to my incompetence, my inebriation until the curtains part for showtime. And at last, I’m able to retreat. Shake off the pretense that I’m actually doing something. Melt into the backstage dark, a ghost spying on the living. Tonight? Tonight’s different. Look at me, I’m here. Right here behind the curtain. In the eye of the storm. I’m standing on my legs. Standing straight. Standing tall. I’m a shining tower of calm behind the curtain. My body emanating two works: All’s Well. And al is well. Not dying at all for once. Not a ghost for once. Not even pale.

I think God wants you to love others so much that you’re more concerned with what they need than with what you fear.

Really? Is this wrong? Because I can't tell anymore.

Suddenly an adolescent voice boomed through the train car. “Showtime! Showtime, ladies and gentlemen!

Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime.

If you do say yes to an idea, now it’s showtime.

The world is black and then, showtime!

models ate pizza before a fashion show, then threw it up quietly before showtime. That would take a lot of practice, since you’d have to be neat and clean about it.

showtime! 6-0-0 the clock said—in my face, first thing

You’re welcome,” he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. “Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime.

Society often blurs the lines between drag queens and trans women. This is highly problematic, because many people believe that, like drag queens, trans women go home, take off their wigs and chest plates, and walk around as men. Trans womanhood is not a performance or costume. As Wendi likes to joke, “A drag queen is part-time for showtime, and a trans woman is all the time!

Twin Peaks was my religion. Well, Twin Peaks and Christianity. But at present, Twin Peaks was winning. I loved God, but at the moment I was more obsessed with Bob and Dale Cooper and Audrey Horne.

My eyes flipped open at exactly six A.M. This was no avian fluttering of the lashes, no gentle blink toward consciousness. The awakening was mechanical. A spooky ventriloquist-dummy click of the lids: The world is black and then, showtime! 6-0-0 the clock said -in my face, first thing I saw. 6-0-0. It felt different. I rarely woke at such a rounded time. I was a man of jagged risings: 8:43, 11:51, 9:26. My life was alarmless.

Have you ever seen, in the fall, trees shedding their leaves like rain, in the fall breeze? Have you seen the madness of falling leaves?? Have you seen them dancing and swirling in ecstasy?? They are like the swirling dervish, so deep in trance, he might never awaken?? They throw themselves upon the ground, at your feet, in passionate frenzy!! It appears in the fraction of a second and disappears, just as quickly, wild with the sorrow of loss, yet, excited in the certainty, that spring will come again. What I would give to be one of them, be in that dance, feel the electrifying energy!!Indescribable beauty is all around us. Showtimes will not be announced. Be on the lookout.

Asked me what?” Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there’s some of that, too. Only it has too much competition to ever win out. I watch as Peeta crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his blond hair. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the sick, starving boy I knew in the arena, and you can barely even notice his limp now. He sets a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table and holds out his hand to Haymitch. “Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia,” says Haymitch, passing over his knife. He pulls off his filthy shirt, revealing an equally soiled undershirt, and rubs himself down with the dry part. Peeta smiles and douses Haymitch’s knife in white liquor from a bottle on the floor. He wipes the blade clean on his shirttail and slices the bread. Peeta keeps all of us in fresh baked goods. I hunt. He bakes. Haymitch drinks. We have our own ways to stay busy, to keep thoughts of our time as contestants in the Hunger Games at bay. It’s not until he’s handed Haymitch the heel that he even looks at me for the first time. “Would you like a piece?” “No, I ate at the Hob,” I say. “But thank you.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own, it’s so formal. Just as it’s been every time I’ve spoken to Peeta since the cameras finished filming our happy homecoming and we returned to our real lives. “You’re welcome,” he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. “Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime.” He’s right, of course. The audience will be expecting the pair of lovebirds who won the Hunger Games. Not two people who can barely look each other in the eye. But all I

Man has always been drawn to the sea. But it's an unnatural setting for us, a place of great danger. Tides, currents, waves, wind, each presenting their own hazards, none of which can be ignored. The slightest lapse of judgment can be a mistake you might never recover from. But a good sailor doesn't fight against these elements. A good sailor works with them, using them to his advantage. While others less fortunate might be forever cast adrift, often in several pieces. He always comes home safely.

Showtime,’ Jamie said, heavy on the sh. ‘You gonna tell her your real name or make something up? I always liked Ferd McGurgle. It’s not one of those names you forget, where you have to stop and think, Now, who did I say I was again, Tom Smith or Bill Jones . . .?’ ‘Actually,’ A.J. said, trying his best to ignore Jamie’s help, ‘you do know my name.’ He cleared his throat as she looked puzzled, that little ever-present almost-smile ready to expand across her face. He exhaled and just said it. ‘It’s Gallagher.’ ‘Nicely done.’ Jamie applauded. ‘Good segue, good choice—honesty. Much better than Ferd. I’m proud of you, kid.’ But Allison was still puzzled, still about to smile, until she realized what he’d said. Her mouth dropped open, but she closed it fast. ‘Gallagher?’ she repeated and the smile was definitely gone. ‘As in Gallagher?’ ‘As in Austin James Gallagher,’ A.J. told her with a nod. ‘I’m A.J. for short. I was named after my great-grandfather.’ He lifted her file. ‘Jamie. He dropped the Austin after he came west. Too many people thought he was from Texas, which kind of pissed him off.’ He tried to make a joke. ‘He’d met a few Texans he didn’t particularly like, so . . .’ Silence. Yeah.

In a nutshell, serotonin gives your neurons a thick skin, so they can withstand the pace of the bristling, bustling, neural metropolis. And then along comes a tiny army of LSD molecules, marching out of their Trojan Horse—a small purple tablet—and they look just like serotonin molecules. If you were a receptor site, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Through this insidious trickery, LSD molecules fool the receptors that normally suck up serotonin. They elbow serotonin out of the way and lodge themselves in these receptors instead. They do this in perceptual regions of the cortex, such as the occipital and temporal lobes, in charge of seeing and hearing, and in more cognitive zones, such as the prefrontal cortex, where conscious judgments take place. They do it in brain-stem nuclei that send their messages throughout the brain and body, felt as arousal and alertness. And once they’ve taken up their positions, Troy begins to fall. Not through force, as with the devastating blows of alcohol and dextromethorphan, but through passivity. Once encamped in their serotonin receptors, LSD molecules simply remain passive. They don’t inhibit, they don’t soothe, they don’t regulate, or filter, or modulate. They sit back with evil little grins and say, “It’s showtime! You just go ahead and fire as much as you like. You’re going to pick up a lot of channels you never got before. So have fun. And call me in about eight hours when my shift is over.

With the news that he would soon be a daddy again, Steve seemed inspired to work even harder. Our zoo continued to get busier, and we had trouble coping with the large numbers. The biggest draw was the crocodiles. Crowds poured in for the croc shows, filling up all the grandstands. The place was packed. Steve came up with a monumental plan. He was a big fan of the Colosseum-type arenas of the Roman gladiator days. He sketched out his idea for me on a piece of paper. “Have a go at this, it’s a coliseum,” he declared, his eyes wide with excitement. He drew an oval, then a series of smaller ovals in back of it. “Then we have crocodile ponds where the crocs could live. Every day a different croc could come out for the show and swim through a canal system”--he sketched rapidly--“then come out in the main area.” “Canals,” I said. “Could you get them to come in on cue?” “Piece of cake!” he said. “And get this! We call it…the Crocoseum!” His enthusiasm was contagious. Never mind that nothing like this had ever been done before. Steve was determined to take the excitement and hype of the ancient Roman gladiators and combine it with the need to show people just how awesome crocs really were. But it was a huge project. There was nothing to compare it to, because nothing even remotely similar had ever been attempted anywhere in the world. I priced it out: The budget to build the arena would have to be somewhere north of eight million dollars, a huge expense. Wes, John, Frank, and I all knew we’d have to rely on Steve’s knowledge of crocodiles to make this work. Steve’s enthusiasm never waned. He was determined. This would become the biggest structure at the zoo. The arena would seat five thousand and have space beneath it for museums, shops, and a food court. The center of the arena would have land areas large enough for people to work around crocodiles safely and water areas large enough for crocs to be able to access them easily. “How is this going to work, Steve?” I asked, after soberly assessing the cost. What if we laid out more than eight million dollars and the crocodiles decided not to cooperate? “How are you going to convince a crocodile to come out exactly at showtime, try to kill and eat the keeper, and then go back home again?” I bit my tongue when I realized what was coming out of my mouth: advice on crocodiles directed at the world’s expert on croc behavior. Steve was right with his philosophy: Build it, and they will come. These were heady times. As the Crocoseum rose into the sky, my tummy got bigger and bigger with our new baby. It felt like I was expanding as rapidly as the new project. The Crocoseum debuted during an Animal Planet live feed, its premiere beamed all over the world. The design was a smashing success. Once again, Steve had confounded the doubters.

Well,” Parker managed to croak. “Better light up your lantern, Miss Ashley. It’s showtime.” Ashley stared. Her eyes went saucer-wide, and she clutched her stomach. “I don’t think I can go out there, y’all. There’s too many people!” As the others stared back at her, Etienne made a strangling motion with his hands. “Shall I do the honors? Or does everybody want a turn?” He and Parker promptly escorted Ashley out the door. Roo fell into step beside Miranda, with Gage bringing up the rear. “Just watch her.” Roo’s tone held mild but sincere admiration. “She’s a pro.” Roo was right. As Ashley swept onto the steps, an audible sigh went through the crowd. Ashley dipped and swayed, both sweet and seductive, her voice flowing honey-warm. “Why, welcome, y’all. Welcome to our Walk of the Spirits.” And so it went. Step by entertaining step along the Brickway, Ashley enticed and enthralled and utterly charmed the tour group. The history and heritage of St. Yvette came magically alive.

Well,” Parker managed to croak. “Better light up your lantern, Miss Ashley. It’s showtime.” Ashley stared. Her eyes went saucer-wide, and she clutched her stomach. “I don’t think I can go out there, y’all. There’s too many people!” As the others stared back at her, Etienne made a strangling motion with his hands. “Shall I do the honors? Or does everybody want a turn?” He and Parker promptly escorted Ashley out the door.

Alice released a long exhale. "Showtime.

Riley had Ron Carter—the former Laker now back in camp with the team—playing point against Johnson during drills. In the midst of a particularly physical exchange, Johnson slapped Carter across the face. Carter, a graduate of the Virginia Military Academy, screamed, “What the hell are you doing?” and pushed back. Johnson threw a punch, and Carter pinned him to the ground—“It took me five seconds,” Carter said. The players were separated, and as he rose, Johnson waved toward Carter, smiled and said, “Bye-bye.

Musk’s lawyers spent that night trying to change Musk’s mind about his refusal of the settlement, even asking celebrity investor Mark Cuban to prod him into a deal. Cuban, the billionaire owner of the Dallas Mavericks basketball team, had had his own public battle with the SEC that dragged on for five years, after he was charged with insider trading. It was like a scene out of Showtimes’ Billions, as Cuban counseled the beleaguered CEO, warning

He’s too reasonable,” Janice said. “I agree. But the president’s campaign advisors understand controlled violence. They realize that war unites us, brings us together. Yellow ribbons, Support Our Troops, all that. Little wars help win elections, provided they’re short.

HOW TO MAKE A HAND-TIED BOUQUET This bouquet has a lush, loose, casual feel. You make it by holding a stem in one hand and adding other stems around it in a spiral fashion. Because it’s not tightly wrapped in ribbon, it can easily be stored in a glass of water until showtime. (Do make sure it’s dry before it gets anywhere near your dress!) MATERIALS: • 15 to 20 stems of fairly long-stemmed flowers (no more than 3 or 4 varieties for a mixed bouquet; if using a variety of colors make sure they are evenly distributed) • Florist’s knife • 5 to 10 stems of greenery • 26-gauge florist’s wire or ordinary twine • Floral shears • Ribbon for finishing 1. Cut each of the stems on the diagonal and place in water while you work. Remove any thorns by gently scraping them off with a florist’s knife (take care not to gouge too deeply) and any foliage from the bottom half of the stem. 2. Take the largest flower in the bunch—this will form the center of the bouquet. Hold its stem in your left hand, between your thumb and first finger, about 6 to 8 inches from the base of the flower head. 3. With your right hand, add 4 to 6 clusters of greenery evenly around the center flower, tucking them in just below the head, allowing the stems to cross at the bottom and turning the bouquet clockwise as you work. 4. Tuck the end of a long piece of wire or twine in between two of the stems, and then wind it around the whole bunch of stems a couple of times to begin to hold everything together. Do not cut the wire. 5. Holding the bouquet in your left hand as in step 2, place 5 or 6 more flowers around the greenery, turning the bouquet clockwise as you work. Secure this next layer of stems with a couple of twists of wire in the same place as before. Continue adding greenery, flowers, or whatever you like to add mass to the bouquet until it reaches the desired size and shape. (Look at it from all angles to make sure you like the silhouette.) 6. Finish with a ring of greenery to give it a nice decorative cuff (optional). 7. Secure all the stems together one last time by winding the wire gently but firmly around several times, and then cut it off and tuck it in. 8. Using floral shears, cut the stems to the desired length, all at the same level. (Don’t chop them too short or your bouquet will look top heavy.) 9. Wrap ribbon around the stems to cover the wire, and tie in a droopy bow. If your ribbon is narrow, wrap it around several times before tying a bow to ensure that you’ve covered all your work. Leave the ends of the bow long and trim them at an angle.

alt.sex.stories The newsgroup quickly became one of the most popular text-based newsgroups (i.e. not intended for posting binary files) on Usenet. Amateur writers of all sorts began posting fictional “erotic stories” and finding a worldwide audience for their work. However, because of the very nature of unmoderated newsgroups, alt.sex.stories soon found itself a repository for a great number of poorly-written, sometimes barely coherent “stroke” stories consisting of a few sentences or paragraphs. The average quality of the stories posted to the newsgroup seemed somewhat lower and more crude than the stories seen in pornographic magazines and books, and this state of affairs continues to the current day.[citation needed] Yes, the “stroke” stories certainly undermined the credibility of the newsgroup that had produced stories such as “Balling Lil’ Sis,” “Showtime - Part 6 Featuring Jennifer Love Hewitt and a Vanna White Lookalike,” and “Alex and Brian,” which features the immortal sentence “‘Shhhhhhh, if you do as i say you wont get this!’ he said as he pulled out a 12 inch dildo with the name ‘MegaMan’ on it.

fossil fuels currently in the ground. His comments came in an interview that will air Monday as part of the final episode of Showtime's "Years of Living Dangerously." "Over the course of the next several decades, we’re going to have to build a ramp from how we currently use energy to where we need to use energy," Obama said, according

Calm down, calm down. Deep breath,” Colleen whispered. “It's showtime. He's a nice guy, you're a nice woman.” “Hey, Paulie,” Bryce said as he loped over to Paulie's car. “Everything okay here? Our window just broke.” Paulie inhaled audibly, her breath hitching in her throat. “Oh! Wow. Hi. Your eyes are so...so...blue.” Colleen winced. “Stop that.” “Stop that,” echoed Paulie. Bryce stopped and tilted his head. “Paulie, relax. Just...just say hi to him.” Another shaking breath. “Hi, Bryce!” she said loudly. “What are you doing here?” Bryce laughed. “I live here. How about you?” A squeaky groan came over the wire. “I threw a pebble, I guess. I think I had a blowout,” Colleen whispered. “I threw a pebble, I guess,” Paulie parroted. “I think I had a blow job.” She clapped her hands over her mouth. “Out, out! I didn't mean blow job. I never had a blow job. I meant something else. Out. I had a blowout.” “Paulie, calm down,” Colleen whispered. “Jesus.” “Jesus, calm down,” Paulie said, then wiped her forehead with her arm. “Uh...I...I have a flat tire.” “Bummer,” Bryce said, not freaked out in the least by Paulie sounding as if she were possessed by a demon. “Can you help me change it, Bryce?” Colleen asked. “Can you help me change it? Bryce? Please? Please help me.” Dear Lord. This was going to be a long afternoon.

Showtime   Andy’s testosteronic aroma never failed to excite me, let alone his god-like essence and strapping physique. He was the epitome of every fantasy. I was the lucky one that had captured his heart and soul. Like actors in a Shakespearean play, we stood in the stillness of this chamber, waiting to be signalled to action.               Suddenly, a rush of anxiety filled my being. I stood frigid, wondering if I could go through with this erotic exercise that once had been so effortless. Now, my heart was thumping with trepidation. “What’s wrong with you? What’s the panic? You’ve put on a show before, and you’ve made love with your Valet gazillion times,” my mind questioned. Yet no rationale came to me. I was feeling my knees go weak, about to buckle, when Andy’s soothing voice whispered, “Are you alright?” He wrapped his muscular arms around my limping physique. Just then, the overhead spots came on and his emphatic assertion drew me back to the present. “There is nothing to fear, except fear itself. Come here. Let me cherish you.” He gave a beguiling grin before planting a lingering kiss on my lips. Andy was correct. My stage freight vanished with every amorous touch he laid upon me with his gentle fingers. I was held captive within the cocoon of his embrace. I came alive as his tender lips explored my slender physique. Aflame by his masculinity, I surrendered to his teasing nibbles. His swirling tongue glided effortlessly down my boyishness, stirring every fibre of my being to quivering response.

I'd better go," Alesha said, kissing Kirsty and Rachel goodbye – tiny, tickly fairy kisses on their faces

Oooo, that’s my song!” She moaned when the DJ started playing “Nasty” by Joshua “Showtime” Williams.

When you show up for work, it’s not the time to shop online, to gossip or to check messages. It’s showtime. For the superproducer.

In the ’70s, showtime was when I woke up. I might have been three hours late, but there was no such thing as curfews for shows. If you went to see a show, you would be there for the whole night. Nobody said it would start on time. If I was late, sorry, but it was just the right time for the show. Nobody left.

Showtime.

Checketts picked up on just how deeply Riley believed in being on the same page within months of working with him. During the team’s first training camp in Charleston, in 1991, Checketts and Riley were having lunch when Checketts’s cell phone rang, interrupting the talk. It was his wife, Deborah, who was about to buy a Chevy Suburban sport-utility vehicle, and wanted her husband’s input on color. Deborah had all but decided on the color green, and asked her husband if he was okay with that option. He was, and told her that would be a perfectly fine choice. But then Riley, who was sitting next to Checketts and had listened in enough to know the couple was choosing a color for a new vehicle, butted in. “What are you talking about? She can’t buy a green car, Dave. Green is the Celtics,” Riley said, referring to the team that had served as the archrival of his Showtime Lakers during the 1980s. Checketts laughed, before realizing Riley’s facial expression hadn’t changed. “I’m dead serious,” Riley said. So Checketts, still on the phone with his wife, told her she couldn’t get a green Suburban. When Deborah asked what other colors were available, the car salesman suggested red. So she asked Checketts how he felt about red. Again, Checketts was fine with that option. Again, Riley wasn’t. “What? Red is the Bulls,” said Riley, almost annoyed Checketts would even ask his take on the color. Checketts relented. “Don’t come home with anything but a blue one,” he told his wife, before hanging up. This was how Riley was wired. You were either all the way in on supporting his vision—down to the color of your car—or you weren’t.

He twisted my ring finger into an unnatural position. As my bone cracked, my screams reverberated through the woods. It was showtime" (p. 4).

reddie still looked angry. But not at her. “Go on.” Tilted his chin at water. “Hunt.” Hunt. Yes. She knew that. Understood that. Not like so much on land. She sank underwater. Heard Freddie’s voice again. Loud. Commanding. Like alpha. “Showtime!” Perdita grinned. Felt excited. And felt normal for the first time in too long. Let herself sink. The tip of her tail brushed the sand. She halted. Turned her face above. Moments passed. She could pretend she was home again. Silence. Indigo waters. Diamond lights dancing above her. Felt the same rush that always came with hunts. Different this time. There would be prey. But no companions. Unnatural. Her heart lurched. Almost physical pain. Home. Her pack. Heart ached again. She wondered if alphas had sent a search party. Or if they had moved on. Putting their survival first. Perdita could not blame them if they had. Every day was a fight. Fight to stay alive. Fight for food. For territory. To breathe the cleanest water they could find. To flee from monsters that bled poison.

Our homes are the backstages and pauses in our lives. Once we step out the door, it's showtime.

Our grandmother was in the audience. I remember, years later, she wore the same befuddled face watching his first Showtime comedy special, where he did this bit about jerking off when you have a roommate, and how you have to keep checking to make sure the roommate isn’t awake, so it really amounts to jerking off to your roommate.

The new Gothic is exemplified by films such as Guillermo del Toro’s Crimson Peak and television series like Showtime’s Penny Dreadful and Netflix’s Alias Grace.

More recently, the Showtime television series Penny Dreadful offered a rather heartbreaking storyline involving the monster and his horrified creator.

this way whenever she has one of her “amazingly awesome” ideas. “We’ll stage it in the hallway. We can borrow that cordless microphone from the chorus room. Pierce can rig it up to an amplifier. That’s all you need, right?” “Well, sometimes there’s a spotlight.…” “The drama club adviser is a pal. She’ll let us borrow it. We’re good to go.” “Mrs. Kressin? Seriously?” “Totally. You have your material ready to rock, right?” “Pretty much,” I say. “I was ninety percent locked down the day before Uncle Frankie had his heart attack.” “Well, you have all day to polish your routine. Showtime isn’t until five minutes after the final bell.

You call it as my bad time, I call it as my showtime

purse. As she opened it, she saw a small edge of plastic poking out of the inner pocket. Pulling it out, she saw it was a small bag of cocaine from a party a few weeks ago, the night she had signed the contract for Socialites in the City. Looking at it for a moment, she rushed into the kitchen and, after tapping out a small amount, pulled out her credit card and cut it up, quickly and expertly. Making a thin line, she opened a drawer in the kitchen and pulled out a packet of drinking straws. Cutting one in half and then half again, she bent over and snorted the line up her nose. She then turned on the tap, sniffing hard, and then ran her fingers under the water. Taking a few drops of water onto the back of her hand, she snorted the water into her nostril and massaged either side of her nose, stretching the skin and letting the drug absorb into her system. Violetta shook her head and felt the buzz begin. She checked her nose in the mirror and then smiled at herself. ‘Showtime,’ she said, plastering a smile on her face as she left for the party. *

Finally, it was Evan’s turn. Showtime. He approached the front of the room like the entrance to a party, strutting confidently to show the crowd what he, Reggie, and Bobby had been working on tirelessly for the past six weeks. Confident and comfortable, Evan enthusiastically explained to the other thirty students, two professors, and half a dozen venture capitalists that not every photograph is meant to last forever. He passionately argued that people would have fun messaging via pictures. The response? Less than enthusiastic. Why would anyone use this app? “This is the dumbest thing ever,” seemed to be the sentiment underlying everyone’s tones. One of the venture capitalists suggested that Evan make the photos permanent and work with Best Buy for photos of inventory. The course’s teaching assistant, horrified, pulled Evan aside and asked him if he’d built a sexting app. The scene was reminiscent of another Stanford student’s class presentation half a century earlier. In 1962, a student in Stanford’s Graduate School of Business named Phil Knight presented a final paper to his class titled “Can Japanese Sports Shoes Do to German Sports Shoes What Japanese Cameras Did to German Cameras?” Knight’s classmates were so bored by the thesis that they didn’t even ask him a single question. That paper was the driving idea behind a company Knight founded called Nike. The VCs sitting in Evan’s classroom that day likely passed up at least a billion-dollar investment return. But it’s very easy to look at brilliant ideas with the benefit of hindsight and see that they were destined to succeed. Think about it from their perspective—Picaboo’s pitch was basically, “Send self-destructing photos to your significant other.” Impermanence had a creepy vibe to it, belonging only to government spies and perverts. With the benefit of hindsight, we can see that Facebook developed the conditions that allowed Snapchat to flourish. But it wasn’t at all obvious watching Evan’s pitch in 2011 that this was a natural rebellion against Facebook or that it would grow beyond our small Stanford social circle.

No one was ever turned gay by being at Summer Showtime, because that’s not possible. If you could turn gay from being around gay people, wouldn’t Kathy Griffin be Rosie O’Donnell by now? The straight boys quickly learned to be accepting and easygoing, and the straight girls learned over the course of several years to stop falling in love with gay boys.

Richard had been the first of the Showtime boys to quietly come out after his stint at the Pennsylvania Governor’s School for the Arts, an exclusive state-run arts intensive that might as well have been called the Pennsylvania Governor’s Blow Job Academy. Imagine a bunch of seventeen-year-old theater boys away from home for the first time for six weeks. They were living in empty college dorms, for the love of Mike! Literally! Think of the joy and freedom they must have felt, like being on an all-gay space station. (I’m sure there were one or two straight boys there, too, and I imagine they did incredibly well with the one or two straight girls.)

Because sports and mythology often intertwine, the Game 6 narrative has often been one that evokes the best of a cheesy feel-good Hollywood production. Not only did Johnson take the jump ball, he won it, dribbled down the court, did a 360-degree midair flip and dunked over Julius Erving—blindfolded while eating a slice of cheesecake. Not quite.

Science writers Po Bronson and Ashley Merryman have found that ethnic pride is an important element of self-esteem for other races but they draw the line at whites: “It’s horrifying to imagine kids being ‘proud to be white’. ” Many intellectuals believe whites are collectively guilty. As James Traub of The New Yorker wrote, when it comes to any discussion about race, whites must acknowledge that they are the offending party: “One’s hand is stayed by the knowledge of innumerable past hurts and misdeeds. The recognition of those wrongs, along with the acceptance of the sense of collective responsibility—guilt—that comes with recognition is a precondition to entering the discussion [about race].” Joe Klein, in New York Magazine, wrote that any conversation about race must begin with a confession: “It’s our fault; we’re racists.” “Black anger and white surrender have become a staple of contemporary racial discourse,” writes another commentator. Most blacks endorse this view. James Baldwin wrote that any real dialogue between the races requires a confession from whites that is nothing less than “a cry for help and healing.” Popular culture casually denigrates whites. Jay Blumenfield, an executive producer for the Showtime cable network, was working in 2004 on a reality program tentatively titled “Make Me Cool,” in which a group of blacks were to give “hipness makeovers” to a series of “desperately dweebie” whites. Why whites? Mr. Blumenfield explained that the purpose of the program was to correct “uncoolness,” and that “the easiest way to express that is they’ll be white.” Gary Bassell, head of an advertising agency that specializes in reaching Hispanics explained that “we’ve been shaped by an American pop culture today that increasingly proves that color is cool and white is washed out.” Miss Gallagher noted above that there are “few things more degrading than being proud to be white.” The United States Patent and Trademark Office (USPTO) agrees. In 2005, it refused to grant a trademark on the phrase “White Pride Country Wide.” It explained that “the ‘white pride’ element of the proposed mark is considered offensive and therefore scandalous.” The USPTO has nevertheless trademarked “Black Power” and “Black Supremacy,” and apparently finds nothing scandalous in “African Pride,” “Native Pride!” “Asian Pride,” “Black Pride,” “Orgullo Hispano” (Hispanic Pride), “Mexican Pride,” and “African Man Pride,” all of which have been trademarked.

why anyone would trade Rachel for the secretary, but he’d watched a few of those late night Showtime flicks and men could be incredibly stupid when their genitals were involved.

They will watch how you treat other employees; who gets the "good" schedule and who goes on break first. They will watch how you handle yourself in times of stress. They will evaluate your character when the rules are disobeyed. They will wait to see what you do when they feel they are deserving of recognition or when they have screwed up. They will see if you jump in and help when it's busy or if you hide in the office? So yeah, they are watching. This is why acting with integrity, building trust, doing the right thing, being honest, and accepting the role of role model is critical. When you know people are watching, you tend to be more aware of what you are doing. If you need just one more reason to do the right things, think about this. Picture yourself on the witness stand in a courtroom. A lawyer is asking you to defend some specific actions you took as a leader. Can you defend yourself? Can you justify what you did and convince a jury of your peers, beyond a reasonable doubt, that what you did was right and just? If the lawyer brought up other witnesses to corroborate your story, would they? Are you confident that your actions were observed and judged by others as right and just? It's one thing for you to say it, even to believe it. It's quite another for someone else to back you up. That's a pretty high standard to hold yourself to, but that's the job of a leader. You no longer get to wallow in anonymity. You are front and center, in the spotlight, and it's showtime.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Moving my mouth by her ear, I whisper, “Showtime, wifey.

This was definitely showtime, and afterwards when I was surrounded by journalists, I came out with that line, and I promise you, I never plan what I’m going to say. It just happens, and it happened a lot in those days before I got more cautious around the media. “First I went left,” I said, “and he did too. Then I went right, and he did too. Then I headed left, and he went out to buy a hot dog,” and that got repeated all over the place, it became a famous quote.

Internet media networks are proving that the money no longer has to come from cable subscribers. Netflix didn’t originate House of Cards. Independent studio Media Rights Capital took bids from a handful of networks, including HBO, Showtime, and AMC (where you can see Mad Men). Netflix outbid them all.

Before the advent of HBO and Showtime, it wasn't so easy to make a TV character swear like a sailor, cowboy, or mobster.