Stall Best Quotes

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than a moving plane, ship or train. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is in front of our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at times requiring large views, new thoughts new places. Introspective reflections which are liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape. The mind may be reluctant to think properly when thinking is all it is supposed to do. At the end of hours of train-dreaming, we may feel we have been returned to ourselves - that is, brought back into contact with emotions and ideas of importance to us. It is not necessarily at home that we best encounter our true selves. The furniture insists that we cannot change because it does not; the domestice setting keeps us tethered to the person we are in ordinary life, but who may not be who we essentially are. If we find poetry in the service station and motel, if we are drawn to the airport or train carriage, it is perhaps because, in spite of their architectural compromises and discomforts, in spite of their garish colours and harsh lighting, we implicitly feel that these isolated places offer us a material setting for an alternative to the selfish ease, the habits and confinement of the ordinary, rooted world.

I heard the car door shut and then Fabian's voice. "You won't believe what I found around the edge of your property," the ghost announced. "A cave with prehistoric painting inside it!" I rolled my eyes. That was the best tactic Fabian could come up with? This was a vampire he was trying to stall, not a paleontologist.

Unfortunately, the Best Lord had condemned both vehicles as unsafe and instead I now leased a Pack Jeep I called Hector. Equipped with dual engines, Hector worked during magic or tech. He didn't go very fast, especially during magic, but so far he hadn't stalled on me either. As long as our high-speed chases stayed under forty-five miles an hour, we would be all set.

When he spoke, his lips brushed hers. “I want you. Bad. Right now. Against the wall. On my bed. The floor and maybe in the bathroom later. I have a shower stall and a Jacuzzi we could put to really good use. I know you’d like it.

Neil, you can use the girls' shower while we're busy." Neil stared at her. "What?" Dan frowned at him, so Matt explained. "There aren't stalls here." Neil had noticed, but he hadn't thought his teammates would. That they had, and that they were doing something about it, knocked the wind out of him. He tried to answer, but he didn't know what to say. The best he managed was, "Is that really okay?" "Kid, you're killing me," Nicky said. "Why do you always get that deer-in-headlights look when someone does something nice for you?

Life will take its course with or without you grabbing the wheel and trying to force it to be one way or the other—all that does is make your arms hurt. Let go and trust that whatever happens, it’s for the best.

I’m sorry. That was rude. You weren’t asking me to go to bed with you.” “No, I wasn’t.” I smile at her flustered state. “Not yet, anyway. I thought we could begin with dinner and go from there.” “As long as ‘going from there’ doesn’t involve a bedroom, I’d consider having dinner with you.” I’m far more relieved than I should be to know I’ll get to see her again. “I promise there’ll be no mention of bedrooms.” “Or sofas or backseats or any other horizontal surfaces.” “You forgot walls, stairwells and shower stalls. I do some of my best work vertically.

Actually, it’s pretty simple. You have one real choice: To do your best, with what you have, from where you are. Everything else is just stalling.

Starting means you’re going to finish. If it doesn’t ship, you’ve failed. You haven’t poked the box if the box doesn’t realize it’s been poked. To merely start without finishing is just boasting, or stalling, or a waste of time. I have no patience at all for people who believe they are doing their best work but are hiding it from the market. If you don’t ship, you actually haven’t started anything at all. At some point, your work has to intersect with the market. At some point, you need feedback as to whether or not it worked. Otherwise, it’s merely a hobby.

He remembered buying them for her. The two of them together at the farmers’ market, wandering from stall to stall, buying bread rounds still warm from baking and bags of vegetables still thick with dirt and leaves. The way she managed to look at every display, ferreted out everything interesting, made people smile as she talked to them.

Arcady, like Death its denizen with us, is all around us, if we – stalled beasts who want to be set forth – but see it. Forth, then, with Dan Geoffrey upon the heye wey: Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beste, out of thy stal! Know thy contree, look up, thank God of all; Hold the heye wey, and lat thy gost thee lede; And trouthe thee shal delivere, it is no drede.

Harrison’s visit to Dylan’s Woodstock sessions and his invitation to Eric Clapton to solo on “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” convinced him that an outsider could revive stalled sessions. Dylan and the Band treated Harrison as an equal, while in his own band, Lennon and McCartney persistently patronized his material, even as it began to peak. (Lennon, in fact, sat out most of Harrison’s Beatle recordings from here on out.) Taking in an ally could only ease Harrison’s reentry into the contentious Beatle orbit. Along with lobbying for Ringo Starr to replace Pete Best, bringing Preston into the Get Back project stands as a defining move for Harrison: he single-handedly rescued Let It Be, and pushed his material throughout 1969, until Abbey Road featured his best work yet.

The tyranny of merit arises from more than the rhetoric of rising. It consists in a cluster of attitudes and circumstances that, taken together, have made meritocracy toxic. First, under conditions of rampant inequality and stalled mobility, reiterating the message that we are responsible for our fate and deserve what we get erodes solidarity and demoralizes those left behind by globalization. Second, insisting that a college degree is the primary route to a respectable job and a decent life creates a credentialist prejudice that undermines the dignity of work and demeans those who have not been to college; and third, insisting that social and political problems are best solved by highly educated, value-neutral experts is a technocratic conceit that corrupts democracy and disempowers ordinary

You did your best to be a good student. You chopped and cooked and measured and served according to her wishes. But sometimes you wondered if the stall could stand to be upgraded with modern comfort food. With pandan ensaymada instead of the increasingly popular but also growingly common ube, the fresh bread from the oven and the cheese still melting, sweetly fragrant from the infusion of those steeped leaves and as simple as a summer morning. Or chopped watermelons in bulalo soup to replace tomatoes, for that extra tang. Or even pork adobo, but with chili and sweet pineapples. You had so many ideas.

107 Old Ladies’ Home Sharded in black, like beetles, Frail as antique earthenware One breath might shiver to bits, The old women creep out here To sun on the rocks or prop Themselves up against the wall Whose stones keep a little heat. Needles knit in a bird-beaked Counterpoint to their voices: Sons, daughters, daughters and sons, Distant and cold as photos, Grandchildren nobody knows. Age wears the best black fabric Rust-red or green as lichens. At owl-call the old ghosts flock To hustle them off the lawn. From beds boxed-in like coffins The bonneted ladies grin. And Death, that bald-head buzzard, Stalls in halls where the lamp wick Shortens with each breath drawn.

It’s our bad luck to have teachers in this world, but since we’re stuck with them, the best we can do is hope to get a brand-new one instead of a mean old fart. New teachers don’t know the rules, so you can get away with things the old-timers would squash you for. That was my theory. So I was feeling pretty excited to start fifth grade, since I was getting a rookie teacher—a guy named Mr. Terupt. Right away, I put him to the test. If the bathroom pass is free, all you have to do is take it and go. This year, the bathrooms were right across the hall. It’s always been an easy way to get out of doing work. I can be really sneaky like that. I take the pass all the time and the teachers never notice. And like I said, Mr. Terupt was a rookie, so I knew he wasn’t going to catch me. Once you’re in the bathroom, it’s mess-around time. All the other teachers on our floor were women, so you didn’t have to worry about them barging in on you. Grab the bars to the stalls and swing. Try to touch your feet to the ceiling. Swing hard. If someone’s in the stall, it’s really funny to swing and kick his door in, especially if he’s a younger kid. If you scare him bad enough, he might pee on himself a little. That’s funny. Or if your buddy’s using the urinal, you can push him from behind and flush it at the same time. Then he might get a little wet. That’s pretty funny, too. Some kids like to plug the toilets with big wads of toilet paper, but I don’t suggest you try doing that. You can get in big trouble. My older brother told me his friend got caught and he had to scrub the toilets with a toothbrush. He said the principal made him brush his teeth with that toothbrush afterward, too. Mrs. Williams is pretty tough, but I don’t think she’d give out that kind of punishment. I don’t want to find out, either. When I came back into the classroom after my fourth or fifth trip, Mr. Terupt looked at me and said, “Boy, Peter, I’m gonna have to call you Mr. Peebody, or better yet, Peter the Pee-er. You do more peein’ than a dog walking by a mile of fire hydrants.

I suspect, Austin, that the Americans you’ve met in the banking world aren’t the high-school drop-outs from Nebraska whose best friend got shot by a smiley Iraqi teenager holding bug of apples. A teenager whose dad shredded by a gunner on a passing Humvee last week while he fixed the TV aerial. A gunner whose best friend took a dum dum bullet through the neck from a sniper on the roof only yesterday. A sniper whose sister was in a car that stalled at an intersection as a military attaché’ convoy drove up, prompting the bodyguards to pepper the vehicle with automatic fire, knowing they’d save the convoy from a suicide bomber if they were right , but that the Iraqi law wouldn’t apply to them if they were wrong. Ultimately , wars escalate by eating their own shit...

There's always a rotation of submissives in their stables. Most of them are returners—you know, their partner stables them there for a week or a month, or they present themselves for a term. A small percentage are there just to do a brief stint, and some are open to play with members, not just the trainers. After law school I spent a couple months at Reservation as a trainer, but now I'm just a member." Mark smiled. "A wet, yielding woman in leather straps, hobbled and half-blinded and doing her best to high-step for you while you do your damnedest to make her buttocks quiver under the whip and her tits dance as she flies across the pen? And then taking her down in the soft dirt and riding her hard, then putting her away wet so she's eager and hungry every damn time you walk into her stall and show her the ropes again. Few things are better in life.

You will wait until Ernest returns, and he will accompany you to market." "That won't be until midmorning," she said indignantly. "I can't wait that long- all the best goods will be gone by then. In fact, the stalls are being picked over right now." "That is a pity," Ross said without a shred of remorse. "Because you're not going alone. That is my final word on the subject." Sophia leaned over his desk. For the first time in two days, she met his gaze directly. Ross was conscious of a deep delight curling through him as he saw the sparks of challenge in her blue eyes. "Sir Ross, when we first met, I wondered if you had any flaws. Now I have discovered that you do." "Oh?" He arched one brow. "What are my flaws?" "You are overbearing, and you are unreasonably stubborn." Morgan interrupted with a snicker. "It has taken you a full month of working here to reach that conclusion, Miss Sydney?

You told me that one of the reasons you couldn't be with me was that you were afraid of my relationship with death, of the responsibility of keeping me alive. I found that incredibly insulting. No one asked you to keep me alive. No one asked you to be a ventilator, a pair of hands desperate against my sternum, a series of gasping breaths into a slack mouth. You're not qualified. No one is qualified. I am not a person who thinks that anyone is coming to save me except myself. I have been dying my whole life, don't you understand, flirting with death, bargaining, stalling, shifting strategies to stay alive. I am the person who is best at keeping myself alive, there is no singular love responsible for me, there is no one who knows me deeper, you would make a useless life jacket. You will never be better at it than I am. All I wanted was someone for the loneliness, someone to hold my hand and sit in the dark with me.

Voice of the Voiceless by Ella Wheeler Wilcox So many gods, so many creeds, So many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind Is all the sad world needs. I am the voice of the voiceless: Through me, the dumb shall speak; Till the deaf world’s ear be made to hear The cry of the wordless weak. From street, from cage and from kennel, From jungle, and stall, the wail Of my tortured kin proclaims the sin Of the mighty against the frail For love is the true religion, And love is the law sublime; And all is wrought, where love is not Will die at the touch of time. Oh shame on the mothers of mortals Who have not stopped to teach Of the sorrow that lies in dear, dumb eyes, The sorrow that has no speech. The same Power formed the sparrow That fashioned man-the King; The God of the whole gave a living soul To furred and to feathered thing. And I am my brother’s keeper, And I will fight his fight; And speak the word for beast and bird Till the world shall set things right.

As they are shutting up Smoker in this unorthodox fashion I catch the image of Ginger that has so stunned and infuriated him. A flash — the spare boyish figure. Dark nipples on pink skin over protruding ribs, red tuft of pubic hair. Arms, legs, and almost nothing between them. She’s looking at me, or rather at Smoker, a faraway, completely impassive look. One arm is twisted, and there’s a reddish sore below her elbow. She licks it. Then lowers her arm, not even attempting to cover herself, and walks inside the shower stall. That walk is imprinted on Smoker’s retinas in a sequence of narrow snapshots, one sliding over the next. (...) She doesn’t care how many people witness her fights with Noble, doesn’t care who Blind is with if he’s not with her. It’s all the same to her whether she’s clothed or naked, a girl or a boy, she’s a social animal, the kind that is best adapted to life in the House. Smoker is right at least in that — Ginger is a monster, like many of us. Like the best of us.

Neither Xerxes nor Artabanus, therefore, would have passed F. Scott Fitzgerald’s test, from 1936, for a first-rate intelligence: “the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time, and still retain the ability to function.” 21 Fitzgerald may have intended nothing more than a reproach to himself. His writing career had stalled by then, and four years later he would die, of alcoholism, heart disease, and an obscurity made all the more painful by his earlier fame. He was only forty-four. 22 But the cryptic capaciousness of his aphorism, like Berlin’s on foxes and hedgehogs, has made it immortal. The Delphic oracle would have been envious. 23 One possible meaning for Fitzgerald’s opposites could be taking the best from contradictory approaches while rejecting the worst: precisely the compromise that Xerxes and Artabanus failed to reach twenty-four centuries earlier. How, though, might you do that? It’s easy to see how two minds can reach opposite conclusions, but can opposites coexist peacefully within one? They certainly didn’t in Fitzgerald’s, whose life was as tortured as Tolstoy’s, and half the length.

We were working on the idea about dogs’ Internet searches, and first we debated whether the sketch should feature real dogs or Henrietta and Viv in dog costumes (because cast members were always, unfailingly, trying to get more air time, we quickly went with the latter). Then we discussed where it should take place (the computer cluster in a public library, but, even though all this mattered for was the establishing shot, we got stalled on whether that library should be New York’s famous Main Branch building on Fifth Avenue, with the lion statues in front, a generic suburban library in Kansas City, or a generic suburban library in Jacksonville, Florida, which was where Viv was from). Then we really got stalled on the breeds of dogs. Out of loyalty to my stepfather and Sugar, I wanted at least one to be a beagle. Viv said that it would work best if one was really big and one was really little, and Henrietta said she was fine with any big dog except a German Shepherd because she’d been bitten by her neighbor’s German Shepherd in third grade. After forty minutes we’d decided on a St. Bernard and a Chihuahua—I eventually conceded that Chihuahuas were funnier than beagles. We decided to go with the Florida location for the establishing shot because the lions in front of the New York Main Branch could preempt or diminish the appearance of the St. Bernard. Then we’d arrived at the fun part, which was the search terms. With her mouth full of beef kebab, Viv said, “Am I adopted?” With my mouth full of spanakopita, I said, “Am I a good girl?” With her mouth full of falafel, Henrietta said, “Am I five or thirty-five?” “Why is thunder scary?” I said. “Discreet crotch-sniffing techniques,” Henrietta said. “Cheap mani-pedis in my area,” Viv said. “Oh, and cheapest self-driving car.” “Best hamburgers near me,” I said. “What is halitosis,” Henrietta said. “Halitosis what to do,” I said. “Where do humans pee,” Viv said. “Taco Bell Chihuahua male or female,” I said. “Target bull terrier married,” Viv said. “Lassie plastic surgery,” Henrietta said. “Funny cat videos,” I said. “Corgis embarrassing themselves YouTube,” Viv said. “YouTube little dog scares away big dog,” I said. “Doghub two poodles and one corgi,” Henrietta said. “Waxing my tail,” I said. “Is my tail a normal size,” Viv said.

Clark Air base in Angeles City is a hub of commerce. The streets teem with industrious Filipinos hustling to make a living. Rusty cars and trucks clog narrow streets and honk their horns with abandon. Jeepneys ferry passengers around town for only a few pesos and serve as public transportation. The jeepney is the official vehicle of the Philippines. Jeepneys are long, open-sided jeeps and have bench seats for passengers. The best jeepneys are very ornate, their hoods festooned with a multitude of fancy chrome horses and ornaments, multihued streamers, and hand-operated rubber-bulb horns. Safety standards are third-world-relaxed in the PI, and jeepney drivers casually smoke cigarettes while they sit with plastic containers of gasoline nestled between their feet. The clear plastic jugs have a tube that connects to the engine and serves as the jeepney’s improvised gas tank, making it easier for the driver to monitor and conserve fuel. Jeepneys are not the only transportation available. Small, sidecar-equipped motorcycles called tricycles, also serve as cheap taxis, crowding the streets near popular establishments. The alleys are lined with side-by-side food stalls, and street vendors occupy every corner.

Christina walks out, bumping me with her shoulder as she leaves. Tris lifts her eyes to mine. “We should talk,” I say. “Fine,” she says, and I follow her into the hallway. We stand next to the door until everyone else leaves. Her shoulders are drawn in like she’s trying to make herself even smaller, trying to evaporate on the spot, and we stand too far apart, the entire width of the hallway between us. I try to remember the last time I kissed her and I can’t. Finally we’re alone, and the hallway is quiet. My hands start to tingle and go numb, the way they always do when I panic. “Do you think you’ll ever forgive me?” I say. She shakes her head, but says, “I don’t know. I think that’s what I need to figure out.” “You know…you know I never wanted Uriah to get hurt, right?” I look at the stitches crossing her forehead and I add, “Or you. I never wanted you to get hurt either.” She’s tapping her foot, her body shifting with the movement. She nods. “I know that.” “I had to do something,” I say. “I had to.” “A lot of people got hurt,” she says. “All because you dismissed what I said, because--and this is the worst part, Tobias--because you thought I was being petty and jealous. Just some silly sixteen-year-old girl, right?” She shakes her head. “I would never call you silly or petty,” I say sternly. “I thought your judgment was clouded, yes. But that’s all.” “That’s enough.” Her fingers slide through her hair and wrap around it. “It’s just the same thing all over again, isn’t it? You don’t respect me as much as you say you do. When it comes down to it, you still believe I can’t think rationally--” “That is not what’s happening!” I say hotly. “I respect you more than anyone. But right now I’m wondering what bothers you more, that I made a stupid decision or that I didn’t make your decision.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means,” I say, “that you may have said you just wanted us to be honest with each other, but I think you really wanted me to always agree with you.” “I can’t believe you would say that! You were wrong--” “Yeah, I was wrong!” I’m shouting now, and I don’t know where the anger came from, except that I can feel it swirling around inside me, violent and vicious and the strongest I have felt in days. “I was wrong, I made a huge mistake! My best friend’s brother is as good as dead! And now you’re acting like a parent, punishing me for it because I didn’t do as I was told. Well, you are not my parent, Tris, and you don’t get to tell me what to do, what to choose--!” “Stop yelling at me,” she says quietly, and she finally looks at me. I used to see all kinds of things in her eyes, love and longing and curiosity, but now all I see is anger. “Just stop.” Her quiet voice stalls the anger inside me, and I relax into the wall behind me, shoving my hands into my pockets. I didn’t mean to yell at her. I didn’t mean to get angry at all. I stare, shocked, as tears touch her cheeks. I haven’t seen her cry in a long time. She sniffs, and gulps, and tries to sound normal, but she doesn’t. “I just need some time,” she says, choking on each word. “Okay?” “Okay,” I say. She wipes her cheeks with her palms and walks down the hallway. I watch her blond head until it disappears around the bend, and I feel bare, like there’s nothing left to protect me against pain. Her absence stings worst of all.

We've been here three days already, and I've yet to cook a single meal. The night we arrived, my dad ordered Chinese takeout from the old Cantonese restaurant around the corner, where they still serve the best egg foo yung, light and fluffy and swimming in rich, brown gravy. Then there had been Mineo's pizza and corned beef sandwiches from the kosher deli on Murray, all my childhood favorites. But last night I'd fallen asleep reading Arthur Schwartz's Naples at Table and had dreamed of pizza rustica, so when I awoke early on Saturday morning with a powerful craving for Italian peasant food, I decided to go shopping. Besides, I don't ever really feel at home anywhere until I've cooked a meal. The Strip is down by the Allegheny River, a five- or six-block stretch filled with produce markets, old-fashioned butcher shops, fishmongers, cheese shops, flower stalls, and a shop that sells coffee that's been roasted on the premises. It used to be, and perhaps still is, where chefs pick up their produce and order cheeses, meats, and fish. The side streets and alleys are littered with moldering vegetables, fruits, and discarded lettuce leaves, and the smell in places is vaguely unpleasant. There are lots of beautiful, old warehouse buildings, brick with lovely arched windows, some of which are now, to my surprise, being converted into trendy loft apartments. If you're a restaurateur you get here early, four or five in the morning. Around seven or eight o'clock, home cooks, tourists, and various passers-through begin to clog the Strip, aggressively vying for the precious few available parking spaces, not to mention tables at Pamela's, a retro diner that serves the best hotcakes in Pittsburgh. On weekends, street vendors crowd the sidewalks, selling beaded necklaces, used CDs, bandanas in exotic colors, cheap, plastic running shoes, and Steelers paraphernalia by the ton. It's a loud, jostling, carnivalesque experience and one of the best things about Pittsburgh. There's even a bakery called Bruno's that sells only biscotti- at least fifteen different varieties daily. Bruno used to be an accountant until he retired from Mellon Bank at the age of sixty-five to bake biscotti full-time. There's a little hand-scrawled sign in the front of window that says, GET IN HERE! You can't pass it without smiling. It's a little after eight when Chloe and I finish up at the Pennsylvania Macaroni Company where, in addition to the prosciutto, soppressata, both hot and sweet sausages, fresh ricotta, mozzarella, and imported Parmigiano Reggiano, all essential ingredients for pizza rustica, I've also picked up a couple of cans of San Marzano tomatoes, which I happily note are thirty-nine cents cheaper here than in New York.

In Hiding - coming summer of 2020 WAYNE ANTHONY SEEKS REDEMPTION FROM A BAD DAY - Although warned about getting the stitches wet, he believed a hot shower was the only road to his redemption. Experienced taught him the best way to relieve the tightness in his lower back was by standing beneath the near-scalding water. Dropping the rest of his clothing, he turned the shower on full blast. The hot water rushed from the showerhead filling the tiny room with steam, instantly the small mirror on the medicine cabinet fogged up. The man quietly pulled the shower curtain back and entered the shower stall without a sound. Years of acting as another’s shadow had trained him to live soundlessly. The hot water cascaded over his body as the echo from the pounding water deadened slightly. Grabbing the sample sized soap, he pulled the paper off and tossed the wrapper over the curtain rail. Wayne rubbed the clean smelling block until his large hands disappeared beneath the lather. He ignored the folded washcloth, opting to use his hands across his body. Gently he cleaned the injury allowing the slime of bacterial soap to remove the residual of the rust-colored betadine. All that remained when he finished was the pale orange smear from the antiseptic. This scar was not the only mar to his body. The water cascaded down hard muscles making rivulets throughout the thatches of dark hair. He raised his arms gingerly as he washed beneath them; the tight muscles of his abdomen glistened beneath the torrent of water. Opening a bottle of shampoo-slash-conditioner, he applied a dab then ran his hands across his scalp. Finally, the tension in his square jaw had eased, making his handsome face more inviting. The cords of his neck stood out as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. It coursed down his chest leading down to his groin where the scented wash caught in his pelvic hair. Wayne's body was one of perfection for any woman; if that was, she could ignore the mutilations. Knife injuries left their mark with jagged white lines. Most of these, he had doctored himself; his lack of skill resulted in crude scars. The deepest one, undulated along the left side of his abdomen, that one had required the art of a surgeon. Dropping his arms, he surrenders himself to the pelting deluge from the shower. The steamy water cascaded down his body, pulling the soap toward the drain. Across his back, it slid down several small indiscernible pockmarks left by gunshot wounds, the true extent of their damage far beneath his skin. Slowly the suds left his body, snaking down his muscular legs. It slithered down the scars on his left knee, the result of replacement surgery after a thug took a bat to it. Wayne stood until the hot water cooled, and ran translucent over his body. Finally, he washes the impact of the long day from his mind and spirit.

It wasn’t the best idea Aaron Foster had ever come up with, but he was desperate. It had been three months since “the break-up,” and although he was still sure his heart would never recover, if he didn’t find a roommate soon, his heart wouldn’t be the only thing out on the street.

The easiest way to write a book is to use the Table of Contents as an outline. People get stuck when they think in terms of writing a book. Do not let this delay you. There are a lot of book outline writing software’s available today, but I personally believe they have the potential to cause more distraction then assistance. The best possible outlines have come from pure "flow". I advise my clients to do a simple process of setting the timer for 2 minutes and just writing. I ask that they write everything that pops into their heads without thought or judgment on the subject. The questions I ask are: What is most important to you? What do you know a lot about? Tell me 12 things that fall under that subject that are valuable to know. Under each of the 12 things, give me 3 things that are a "must" in that category. Using index cards to write your answers on is a useful way to arrange chapters and sections of your book. Believe it or not, my students have come up with a Table of Contents/outline in less than 10 minutes using this method. Our greatest block is that we tend to over think things too much. We over analyze and what happens is that we get into analysis paralysis. Our creativity and ‘flow’ freezes up and all spontaneity and creativity just exits out of the thought process. When we stall the creative flow by trying to be correct, proper and appropriate, we end up talking ourselves out of what we intuitively know that we know and into a space of doubt, or what we think we do not know.

Most people are strongly wired to be intolerant of uncertainty. We experience it as pain, fear, anxiety, and doubt. When faced with the need to coexist or, horror of horrors, act in the face of great uncertainty, we recoil. The primal fear center in the brain, the amygdala, lights up, sending chemicals coursing through our bodies that make us physically uneasy, emotionally uncomfortable, and, in short order, spent. We know the quest to create something from nothing requires us to go to that place. But we’re so poorly equipped to handle it, we begin to make decisions based not on what’s best for the endeavor, but on what will get us out of that painful place of uncertainty the fastest. For some, that means backing down, becoming stalled or paralyzed. For others, it means rushing to just get it over with. Either way, the end result is either nothing or something far below your true potential.

know he was here for her, that she could share her grief, and he would help her through it the best he could. Her cheek and hand rested on his chest, and he could feel her soft sobs. He wanted with everything in him to say something that would make it better, but what could he say? What could anyone say? It had all been said in one, thoughtless, reckless act by someone he would never know. “Thank you,” she said softly. He tilted his head to be able to see her. “For what?” “For

I don’t know how you put up with me.” “You keep smiling at me like that, and hugging me like you did in the stall, and I’ll drag you to the house and show you how I put up with you.” “Jack! Caleb is standing right there.” “Caleb didn’t hear anything.” “Yes. Caleb didn’t hear anything,” Caleb mimicked back, snickering at Jenna. “Besides, he’s sleeping with my sister. And he’s gone and knocked her up— again.” “I do my best.” -Jenna, Jack, & Caleb

You told your brother and some guy I don’t even know the things I told you in confidence.” “Yes.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m not sure this helps, but Charlie knows Logan.” “You talked to Charlie?” “Yes, he helped us with the details I didn’t know.” “So you went behind my back, talked to my friends, and told your brothers and some guy everything.” She pressed her lips together. “Yes.” “And you told them things about the blackmail that’s not public knowledge.” Maddie swallowed hard as her throat constricted. “I did.” “I trusted you with information about my family that nobody knows.” “Mitch, I’d never jeopardize you or your family. I’d never tell them if I didn’t trust them implicitly. You know that.” She had to make him understand. He leaned forward, putting elbows on his knees. “I want you to leave.” “What? No. Let me explain.” The blood rushed in her ears as a wave of hot dizziness engulfed her. Fear and desperation warred inside her. “I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t listen.” “You didn’t ask.” Flat. She wrung her hands. “You would have said no.” “I see,” he said, so coldly that it was like being doused with a bucket of ice water. “So that makes it right? You didn’t think I’d agree, so you went behind my back, talked to my friends, your family, and some black-ops guy, revealing the things I’ve told you in private, because you know best?” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Yes, the same way you went behind my back and stalled the repairs on my car so I wouldn’t leave.” His head snapped back. “That’s not the same thing, Maddie.” “You lied, just like me. You went behind my back. Just like me.” She hoped he could see reason, but his expression said otherwise. “I told you those things,” he said through gritted teeth, “because I thought I could trust you.” “You can.” Her stomach clenched. “The evidence says otherwise, now doesn’t it?” Cold, cold words. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please understand, I did it for you.” “No, you didn’t. You did it for you,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Tell me something. Why are you so interested in meddling in my life when you have your own to worry about?” She reared back, stepping toward the door, unable to figure out how to handle this dead, cold Mitch who treated her like a stranger. “I wanted to help you.” “You know how you could have helped me?” There was a cruel twist to his lips. “By being the one fucking person who didn’t betray me.” “I didn’t. That’s not what . . .” She trailed off, feeling helpless. She hung her head and said softly, “I’d never betray you.” “Bullshit. If you thought what you were doing was right, you would have talked to me. ” This ice. She’d prepared for fire, for burning anger, not this. She had no defense. No plan. She walked over to him and fell to her knees, taking his hands in hers. He didn’t even flinch. It was like he was made of stone, and she met his eyes. Hard chips of gold. “Mitch, I’m sorry, I wanted to help.” He studied her as though she was a stranger. “You need to leave now.” The words were a crushing blow, threatening to break her. She did the only thing she could think of and confessed the truth. “I love you.” His mouth firmed. Eyes flashing, he pulled away and stood, moving around her and going over to the window that overlooked the nearly deserted parking lot. “I need you to leave.” Her heart shattered into a million pieces and desolation swept over her. She hadn’t felt anything like this since her father had died and she’d woken in a hospital bed. That same heavy weight crushed her chest, numbing her limbs. Tears spilled onto her cheeks and she wiped them away. Her voice trembled as she spoke, already knowing the answer but unable to keep from asking the question. “Is there anything I can do?” “Yes.” His tone was distant and unreachable. “Leave.” There

You are American,” he says, as if I’m a mythical creature. I nod. “Yes. And, uh, we have different dances where I come from.” “Can you show us one?” The second boy, a dark-haired kid, steps forward, looking intrigued. I stifle a laugh. “Oh, uh, no. I’m a horrible dancer.” “Please?” the redheaded boy asks. “I have never seen an American dance.” I just laughed at them thirty seconds ago. Wouldn’t that make me mean if I just blow them off now? “I doubt you’d want to see these dances,” I say, stalling. I feel kind of bad. But I really can’t dance. I’ll make a fool of myself. “Oh, but I do. Most certainly.” “Oh.” Well, then. I could try, right? Just some tiny little thing? But what do I share? MC Hammer? The Running Man? The Electric Slide? A little Macarena? “Uh,” I say, stepping forward. “How about, um, the Robot?” “The Robot?” the two boys ask in unison. Did the word robot even exist in 1815? “Yeah. You, uh, hold your arms out like this,” I say, demonstrating the proper way to stand like a scarecrow. I can’t believe I’m doing this. “And then relax your elbows and let your hands swing. Like this.” I’m really not doing it well, but by the way their eyes widen, you’d think I just did a full-on pop-and-lock routine with Justin Timberlake. They mimic my maneuver, making it look effortless. The drummer guy stands up and gets in on the action, swinging his arms freely. The guy’s better than me after a two-second demo. Figures. “Okay, then, uh, you sort of walk and you try to make everything look stiff and, uh, unnatural. Like this.” I show him my best robotic walk, my arms mechanical in their movements. The two boys and the drummer immediately copy me, and by the time they’ve taken four or five steps, they seriously look like robots. In no time they’re improvising, and their laughter trickles up toward the rafters of the barn. Yeah. That’s my cue to leave before inspiration strikes and I try to show them how to break-dance but only succeed in breaking my neck. I slip out of the barn unnoticed, grinning to myself as I walk the gravel path back toward the house, my skirts brushing the dirt. At least somewhere, I’m not Callie the Klutz. Even if it’s just some smelly old barn. There’s hope for me after all.

Chapter One Outside Buchanan School. 7:50 AM. Stupid ideas don’t seem so stupid when you’re about to go through with the stupid idea. Really stupid ideas shine brighter the second they enter your brain. Like, “Hey, man, you prob’ly shouldn’t do what you’re about to do!” I like to think of a field of kittens when that happens… makes it easier to ignore my common sense. Ahhhhh… field kittens. My name is Max… and I was about to do something really stupid. The air smelled of freshly cut grass as birds chirped from trees full of leaves. I took a deep breath as I stalled, hoping a meteor would crash into the planet so I wouldn’t have to go through with the thing. Kids just getting to school lined the sidewalk, curious about what was happening. I squeezed the handlebars of my bike, listening to the sound of tightening rubber under my fingers. “Max, you okay?” Beck, my best friend, said from somewhere. I didn’t know where exactly since fear was making everything blurry. I shook my head to clear the fog. “Never been better,” I said. “Are… are the thrusters working?” It took him a second to answer. “I’unno. I never tested ‘em.” I nodded bravely like a hero who was about to meet his maker. “Nice.” It became blazingly obvious that the world wasn’t going to end anytime over the next few seconds, which meant I was gonna have to perform the stunt that everyone was waiting to see. The stunt wasn’t anything crazy – just a kid jumping his bike over the bike rack filled with other bikes. In front of the bike rack was a cement lip that curved at the bottom, making a nice little ramp that everyone joked about jumping their bike off of. I was about to be the kid that did it. Easy enough, right? Well, my buddy, Beck, thought it’d be epic if I attached some thrusters to the back of my bike. No rocket fuel or flames – just a couple of cans of ultra-compressed air that would fire when I flipped the switch. It was a rig he built himself – that was kind of Beck’s specialty. Jumping the rack was a stunt that I’d been working on for weeks. I knew I wanted to do it because of all the kids who hadn’t done it before. And I was gonna nail it, and the whole school – no, the whole school district – no… the whole city was gonna talk about it when it was done.

Denna stirred in her sleep. “I know you didn’t mean it,” she said clearly. “Mean what?” I asked softly. Her voice was different, no longer dreamy and tired. I wondered if she was talking in her sleep. “Before. You said you’d knock me down and make me eat coals. You’d never hit me.” She turned her head a little. “You wouldn’t, would you? Not even if it was for my own good?” I felt a chill go through me. “What do you mean?” There was a long pause, and I was beginning to think she’d fallen asleep when she spoke up again. “I didn’t tell you everything. I know Ash didn’t die at the farm. When I was heading toward the fire he found me. He came back and said that everyone was dead. He said that people would be suspicious if I was the only one who survived. . . .” I felt a hard, dark anger rise up in me. I knew what came next, but I let her talk. I didn’t want to hear it, but I knew she needed to tell someone. “He didn’t just do it out of the blue,” she said. “He made sure it was what I really wanted. I knew it wouldn’t look convincing if I did it to myself. He made sure I really wanted him to. He made me ask him to hit me. Just to be sure. “And he was right.” She didn’t move at all as she spoke. “Even this way they thought I had something to do with it. If he hadn’t done it, I might be in jail right now. They would’ve hanged me.” My stomach churned acid. “Denna,” I said. “A man who could do that to you—he’s not worth your time. Not one moment of it. It’s not a matter of him being only half a loaf. He’s rotten through. You deserve better.” “Who knows what I deserve?” she said. “He’s not my best loaf. He’s it. Him or hungry.” “You have other options,” I said, then stalled, thinking of my conversation with Deoch. “You’ve . . . you’ve got . . .” “I’ve got you,” she said dreamily. I could hear the warm, sleepy smile in her voice, like a child tucked into bed. “Will you be my dark-eyed Prince Gallant and protect me from pigs? Sing to me? Whisk me away to tall trees. . . .” She trailed off to nothing. “I will,” I said, but I could tell by the heavy weight of her against my arm that she had finally fallen asleep.

Imagine you’re on a boat with your best friends and the people you most love. All of a sudden, someone who can’t swim falls overboard and starts to drown. You’re the only one there who can save them. What will you do? Will you do a few practice strokes in the pool? Will you go back to your cabin, do your hair, change into swim gear a few times and make sure you look perfect? Or will you jump in, as you are, watch and all, and save them? Think about this the next time you are stalling and chasing perfection like a heroin addict chasing the monkey. People need your help. Get in there and help them now.

After observing about a hundred Q-storm sessions around the world, Gregersen has noted some patterns. “At around twenty-five questions, the group may stall briefly and say, ‘That’s enough questions.’ But if you push on beyond that point, some of the best questions come as you get to fifty or even seventy-five.

Beneath Ba’s bravado, he was a conservative man. He did not lack courage. Neither was he a professional risk-taker like Vann. He had been an officer in a colonial army that had lost its war. He was fighting this second war for the Tory regime of his class. He was doing precisely what could be expected of a man who had grown up in a system where, when in doubt, the best thing to do was to do nothing. He was stalling.

Thomas’s heart drummed. Where was Eliza? And then he saw her. His breath stalled in his lungs as she moved toward him, floating over the ground like a pink angel from heaven. The dusty-rose gown she’d worn that infamous night hugged her luscious curves, giving him ample fuel for his imagination, but he pushed those thoughts away for the moment. They would be man and wife soon enough. Never had he seen such beauty, or known such grace. Lord, help me be the kind of man she deserves. He glanced to heaven. Robert, I shall do my best to make you proud and give your daughter the best of my days. A quiet voice brushed behind his ear, and Thomas stilled as Robert’s familiar tone made his heart swell. I know. In that moment Eliza’s dark eyes found his, and she smiled, lifting Thomas from the ground. Her cheeks darkened to the same rosy hue of her gown as she neared. Nathaniel chuckled deep and low. “You’re a lucky man, Thomas.” Nodding, Thomas couldn’t move his eyes away from his bride. “I know.” “Good

But art Thou come, dear Saviour? Hath Thy love Thus made Thee stoop, and leave Thy throne above The lofty Heavens, and thus Thyself to dress In dust to visit mortals? Could no less A condescension serve? And after all, The mean reception of a cratch and stall? Dear Lord, I'll fetch Thee thence; I have a room 'Tis poor, but 'tis my best, if Thou wilt come Within so small a cell, where I would fain Mine and the world's Redeemer entertain; I mean my heart; 'tis sluttish, I confess, And will not mend Thy lodging, Lord, unless Thou send before Thy harbinger, I mean Thy pure and purging grace, to make it clean, And sweep its nasty corners; then I'll try To wash it also with a weeping eye; And when 'tis swept and washed, I then will go, And, with Thy leave, I'll fetch some flowers that grow In Thine own garden, faith, and love to Thee; With those I'll dress it up; and these shall be My rosemary and bays; yet when my best Is done, the room's not fit for such a Guest. But here's the cure; Thy presence, Lord, alone Will make a stall a court, a cratch a throne.

Such a shame that I didn’t get to say good-bye to my fellow inmates,” he said sarcastically. “Actually, Puchalski was the only guy I liked. I still can’t figure out what got into him.” As Jordan used her chopsticks to pick up a piece of hamachi, she decided it was best to get her brother off that topic as fast as possible. “Sounds like he just snapped.” “But why would he have a fork in his shoe?” Kyle mused. “That makes me think he was planning the attack, which doesn’t make sense.” Let it go, Kyle. She shrugged. “Maybe he always keeps a fork in his shoe. Who understands why any of these felon types do what they do?” “Hey. I am one of those felon types.” Grey tipped his glass of wine. “And who would’ve thought you would do what you did?” “It was Twitter,” Kyle mumbled under his breath. Maybe we should change the subject,” Jordan suggested, sensing the conversation could only spiral downward from there. “Okay. Let’s talk about you instead,” Grey said. “I never asked—how did Xander’s party go?” Now there was a potential land mine of a topic. “It went fine. Pretty much the same party as usual.” Except for a little domestic espionage. She threw Kyle a look, needing help. Change the subject. Fast. He stared back cluelessly. Why? She glared. Just do it. He made a face. All right, all right. “Speaking of wine, Jordo, how was your trip to Napa?” Great. Leave it to her genius of a brother to pick the other topic she wanted to avoid. “I visited that new winery I told you about. We should have a deal this week so that my store will be the first to carry their wine in the Chicago area.” Grey’s tone was casual. “Did you bring Tall, Dark, and Smoldering with you on the trip?” Jordan set down her chopsticks and looked over at her father. He smiled cheekily as he took a sip of his wine. “You read Scene and Heard, too?” she asked. Grey scoffed at that. “Of course not. I have people read it for me. Half the time, it’s the only way I know what’s going on with you two. And don’t avoid the question. Tell us about this new guy you’re seeing. I find it very odd that you’ve never mentioned him.” He fixed his gaze on her like the Eye of Sauron. Jordan took a deep breath, suddenly very tired of the lies and the secret-agent games. Besides, she had to face the truth at some point. “Well, Dad, I don’t know if you have to worry about Tall, Dark, and Smoldering anymore. He’s not talking to me right now.” Kyle’s face darkened. “Tall, Dark, and Smoldering sounds like a moron to me.” Grey nodded, his expression disapproving. “I agree. You can do a lot better than a moron, kiddo.” “Thanks. But it’s not that simple. His job presents some . . . challenges.” That was definitely the wrong thing to say. “Why? What kind of work does he do?” her father asked immediately. Jordan stalled. Maybe she’d overshot a little with the no more lies promise. She threw Kyle another desperate look. Do something. Again. Kyle nodded. I’m on it. He eased back in his chair and stretched out his intertwined hands, limbering up his fingers. “Who cares what this jerk does? Send me his e-mail address, Jordo—I’ll take care of it. I can wreak all sorts of havoc on Tall, Dark, and Smoldering’s life in less than two minutes.” With an evil grin, he mimed typing at a keyboard. Their father looked ready to blow a gasket. “Oh no—you do not get to make the jokes,” he told Kyle. “Jordan and I make the jokes. You’ve been out of prison for four days and I seriously hope you learned your lesson, young man . . .

Eve doesn’t cry much.” Except sometimes, deep in the night, when they’d made a particularly tender kind of love, and then she clung and wanted to be held securely until she dropped off to sleep in Deene’s embrace. And he wanted to hold her. Kesmore glanced over sharply. “Your wife had best not be crying on your worthless account, Deene. My lady would take it amiss, and you do not want such a thing on your conscience, presuming you survived the thrashing I would be bound to mete out.” “Marriage has made you quite ferocious, Kesmore.” Kesmore paused outside a roomy foaling stall. “On behalf of a woman I care about, I will always be capable of ferocity. See that you recall this should you ever be inclined toward the wrong sort of weak moment.

And the Grammy for Best Album of the Year goes to…” Bella Jordin is stalling, clutching the envelope, a smug smile on her face. I’d like to believe I’m above punching a woman, but the ball of tension blocking my throat begs to differ. Does she think it’s cute? Does Bella Jordin think any of the fuckers who sit at the Oscars and Grammys and Emmys and have spent their entire year—fuck that, plural, years—working on their albums and movies and shows, really find it adorable, the way she drags it out like a juicy gum? I would like to do the same to her next time she gets checked for an STD.

They walked past offerings displayed on trestle boards and tables... puddings, sliced beef, boiled eggs, paper scoops filled with pickles, olives, salted nuts, or hot green peas glistening with bacon fat. There were roasted potatoes wrapped in waxed paper, crisp slivers of fried fish, smoked oysters crusted with salt, and cones of hardbake sweetmeats or brandy balls. Just a few minutes earlier, Keir had been willing to overlook his hunger in favor of more important concerns. Now that he was surrounded by this profusion of food, however, his empty stomach informed him that nothing else would happen until it was filled. Merritt stopped at a stall featuring sandwiches, bread and butter, and cake. "Evenin', milady," the stallkeeper said with a respectful tip of his hat. "Mr. Gamp," she said warmly. "I've brought this gentleman to try the best ham sandwich in London." "Smoked Hampshire ham, that's the secret," the stallkeeper said proudly as he set out a pasteboard box. "That, and the missus bakes the bread herself. Barm-leavened, to make it soft and sweet.

mankind.”21 Hitler also suffered from the symptoms of the autodidact: superficial knowledge without depth or audit, energized by a forceful character dulled by a lack of subtlety. While his armies were stalling in Russia, Hitler’s midday and evening table talk ranged from the quality of honey bees to the best depth of cement for autobahns, always punctuated by conspiratorial interjections of anti-Semitism, contempt for Slavic peoples, crackpot views on art, and obsessions with his own health. Oddly, on some scattered topics—the vulnerability of New York skyscrapers to aerial attacks, the nutritional value of uncooked vegetables, or the eventual popularity of what would become the Volkswagen Bug—Hitler was occasionally strangely prescient.22

The tyranny of merit arises from more than the rhetoric of rising. It consists in a cluster of attitudes and circumstances that, taken together, have made meritocracy toxic. First, under conditions of rampant inequality and stalled mobility, reiterating the message that we are responsible for our fate and deserve what we get erodes solidarity and demoralizes those left behind by globalization. Second, insisting that a college degree is the primary route to a respectable job and a decent life creates a credentialist prejudice that undermines the dignity of work and demeans those who have not been to college; and third, insisting that social and political problems are best solved by highly educated, value-neutral experts is a technocratic conceit that corrupts democracy and disempowers ordinary citizens.

The young men are even less inhibited and come right up to the women to choose the one they like best, as if they are choosing a piece of fruit. At this point the women move their handkerchiefs and fans, and the more they are examined the more feeling they put into their singing. When a conversation starts, the young man takes the woman’s hand and they walk off together. The marketplace with its stalls thronging with ten thousand heads during the daytime is now a vast singing stadium. I am suddenly surrounded by an expanse of passions and think that the human search for love must originally have been like this. So-called civilization in later ages separated sexual impulse from love and created the concepts of status, wealth, religion, ethics and cultural responsibility. Such is the stupidity of human beings.

Reliability and quick response time are the biggest concerns when it comes to Towing Austin. When dealing with car troubles such as a stalled car or a collision in Austin roads, there are many towing service companies out there. But nobody can guarantee the quickest response time 360 Towing Solutions Austin can. We and our network of independently owned and licensed affiliates are strategically located to reach you in no time wherever you happen to need a towing service. Call NOW (512) 910-7311 and get the best towing services in Austin, Texas and surrounding areas.

But Pelosi had every reason to be furious. The House had already passed a budget resolution authorizing $3.5 trillion in spending. And Pelosi was driving House committees to furiously finish the donkey work required to create a fully realized bill. But Schumer knew that all that work was futile, and he hadn’t bothered telling her. They were producing language for a bill that Joe Manchin was never going to support. Why hadn’t he bothered telling Pelosi about that? The best Schumer could muster was that his agreement with Manchin wasn’t binding. In truth, Schumer was engaged in the very same process as Pelosi. He just wanted to press forward. When Manchin arrived in his office with the “contract,” Schumer agreed to sign it because it was the path of least resistance. Schumer needed Manchin’s support for a procedural vote advancing Build Back Better—and this contract was the condition of his support. If Manchin voted against the procedural vote, the whole bill would be stalled, if not effectively dead. So rather than attempting to negotiate with Manchin, he did what it took to move forward, even if it left him with a future mess. He could deal with the mess when the moment arrived. In the meantime, he just signed the damn thing. But he also handwrote an addendum onto the document that supplied him with cover. It read, “Will try to dissuade Joe on many of these.

That’s impressive,” I say, popping another fry into my mouth, savouring the flavours. “He’s really good. I’ve been to overpriced seafood restaurants in New York that don’t hold a candle to this.” “He’ll be pleased to hear that. Course, he couldn’t do it without the finest ingredients.” “Going for the hard sell?” I look up at him.  He shrugs unashamedly. “Told you I was reintroducing you to Mystic, and seafood and fishing is a huge part of it.”    “I’m surprised you didn’t want to get pizza if you wanted to give me the real Mystic experience,” I chuckle, and Ben rolls his eyes. The Mystic Pizza tent is a few stalls down from Craig’s. There is a line snaking along that looks to have at least thirty people waiting.  “Even if I hadn’t caught this and knew it was some of the best fish in the area, I still wouldn’t want pizza.” He takes a huge bite of his battered

Reliability and quick response time are the biggest concerns when it comes to towing Austin. When dealing with car troubles such as a stalled car or a collision on Austin roads, there are many towing service companies out there. But nobody can guarantee the quickest response time; 360 Towing Solutions Austin can. We are strategically located to reach you in no time, wherever you happen to need a towing service. Call now: (512) 339-0442 for the best towing and roadside assistance services in Austin, TX and the nearest areas.

In fact I have found that the best way to revitalize many stalled service-excellence initiatives in hospitals is to make this shift in emphasis from the caregiver’s service to the patient’s experience.

Me: (Still trying to stall for time) Isn’t there someone else you can ask? Miss Fraser: Of course there is. There is always someone else I can ask. Quite honestly, a dozen girls would bring me flowers every day for the next two weeks if they thought they could have the part. But I’m thinking about the production and making it the best play possible. I have seen you do the part, and I know you can do it very well.

When I was in high school, I would drive into Seattle to see bands and sip coffee late into the night, and I always ended up taking the long way home. I'd be a little anxious about stalling my Datsun on one of the hills around the city, so when I saw Denny Way, I always turned onto it, even though it led away from my home to Seattle's Capitol Hill district. From there I navigated winding hills and eventually ended up at home. A quick look at a map would have revealed the freeway that heads straight to my house, but since my circuitous route was familiar, I stuck to it. I should have known better, but I was just a kid. What excuse does the richest nation on earth have for driving around in the dark like an adolescent? Just because our familiar arguments over how best to help families and the economy lead us along well-trod paths doesn't make them the best ones we could be taking.

I weave through LA's famous Farmers Market, which is really more of an outdoor food court, and now I'm a few minutes late. And the place is packed and there's still the uncertainty about where to meet when I look down and realize I'm wearing yellow pants. Yellow pants. Really? Sometimes I don't know what I'm thinking. They're rolled at the cuff and paired with a navy polo and it looks like maybe I just yacht my yacht, and I'm certain to come off as an asshole. I thin about canceling, or at least delaying so I can go home and change, but the effort that would require is unappealing, and this date is mostly for distraction. And when I round the last stall--someone selling enormous eggplants, more round than oblong, I see him, casually leaning against a wall, and something inside my body says there you are. 'There you are.' I don't understand them, these words, because they seem too deep and too soulful to attach to the Farmers Market, this Starbucks or that, a frozen yogurt place, or confusion over where to meet a stranger. They're straining to define a feeling of stunning comfort that drips over me, as if a water balloon burst over my head on the hottest of summer days. My knees don't buckle, my heart doesn't skip, but I'm awash in the warmth of a valium-like hug. Except I haven't taken a Valium. Not since the night of Lily's death. Yet here is this warm hug that makes me feel safe with this person, this Byron the maybe-poet, and I want it to stop. This--whatever this feeling is--can't be a real feeling, this can't be a tangible connection. This is just a man leaning against a stall that sells giant eggplants. But I no longer have time to worry about what this feeling is, whether I should or shouldn't be her, or should or should't be wearing yellow pants, because there are only maybe three perfect seconds where I see him and he has yet to spot me. Three perfect seconds to enjoy the calm that has so long eluded me. 'There you are.' And then he casually lifts his head and turns my way and uses one foot to push himself off the wall he is leaning agains. We lock eyes and he smiles with recognition and there's a disarming kindness to his face and suddenly I'm standing in front of him. 'There you are.' It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it and it's all I can do to steer the words in a more playfully casual direction so he isn't saddled with the importance I've placed on them. I think it comes off okay, but, as I know from my time at sea, sometimes big ships turn slowly. Byron chuckles and gives a little pump of his fist. 'YES! IT'S! ALL! HAPPENING! FOR! US!' I want to stop in my tracks, but I'm already leaning in for a hug, and he comes the rest of the way, and the warm embrace of seeing him standing there is now an actual embrace, and it is no less sincere. He must feel me gripping him tightly, because he asks, 'Is everything okay?' No. 'Yes, everything is great, it's just...' I play it back in my head what he said, the way in which he said it, and the enthusiasm which only a month had gone silent. 'You reminded me of someone is all.' 'Hopefully in a good way.' I smile but it takes just a minute to speak. 'In the best possible way.' I don't break the hug first, but maybe at the same time, this is a step. jenny will be proud. I look in his eyes, which I expect to be brown like Lily's but instead are deep blue like the waters lapping calmly against the outboard sides of 'Fishful Thinking.' 'Is frozen yogurt okay?' 'Frozen yogurt is perfect.

If fate was life, then Lene should just stay with the “wife-beater”, because every man she hooked up with would beat her. I couldn’t believe that was true, for her or for me. I had to believe my shitty life wasn’t some prearranged hell I could never escape. I wasn’t doing the best with decisions, or money, or finding someone to love me, but I hoped I was finally on the road to controlling my ‘crazy’. And just to prove I had control, I was going to turn this train-wreck of a night around. I stood, zipped up my jeans, and kicked open the stall door. “I’m goin’ to par-tay!” I sang out loud. Party, but not get laid, I reminded myself.

It's slow at the café so Um-Nadia sends Mirielle and Sirine out to the Wednesday afternoon farmer's market in Westwood. The two women comb the tables and stalls full of gleaming tomatoes, black-eyed sunflowers, pomegranates full of blood-red seeds. The air smells like burst fruit. Heat rolls in across the neighborhoods, emptying the streets, rippling above the cars. The two women fill bags with knobs and globes of squashes and another bag with garlic and another bag with cucumbers. "Best walnuts in town," a tanned young farmhand tells Sirine and Mirielle. "They're fresh, perfect, and they taste like butter." Sirine cocks an eyebrow. "At these prices? They better." He smiles, his teeth impossibly white. "Hey, you gotta pay for the good stuff.

groups in America tried to spark a sense of urgency within government circles but kept running into a wall of indifference or outright hostility. While the U.S. State Department dithered, stalled, and did its best to avoid doing anything

The men who projected and are pushing on this enterprise, with an executive ability that would maintain and manoeuvre an army in a campaign, are not, however, consciously philanthropists, moved by the charitable purpose of giving employment to men, or finding satisfaction in making two blades of grass grow where one grew before. They enjoy no doubt the sense of power in bringing things to pass, the feeling of leadership and the consequence derived from its recognition; but they embark in this enterprise in order that they may have the position and the luxury that increased wealth will bring, the object being, in most cases, simply material advantages—sumptuous houses, furnished with all the luxuries which are the signs of wealth, including, of course, libraries and pictures and statuary and curiosities, the most showy equipages and troops of servants; the object being that their wives shall dress magnificently, glitter in diamonds and velvets, and never need to put their feet to the ground; that they may command the best stalls in the church, the best pews in the theatre, the choicest rooms in the inn, and—a consideration that Plato does not mention, because his world was not our world—that they may impress and reduce to obsequious deference the hotel clerk. This life—for this enterprise and its objects are types of a considerable portion of life—is not without its ideal, its hero, its highest expression, its consummate flower. It is expressed in a word which I use without any sense of its personality, as the French use the word Barnum—for our crude young nation has

We wandered the entire length of the street market, stopping to buy the provisions I needed for the lunch dish I wanted to prepare to initiate l'Inglese into the real art of Sicilian cuisine. I took l'Inglese around the best stalls, teaching him how to choose produce, livestock, game, fish, and meat of the highest quality for his dishes. Together we circled among the vegetable sellers, who were praising their heaps of artichokes, zucchini still bearing their yellow flowers, spikes of asparagus, purple-tinged cauliflowers, oyster mushrooms, and vine tomatoes with their customary cries: "Carciofi fresci." "Funghi belli." "Tutto economico." I squeezed and pinched, sniffed, and weighed things in my hands, and having agreed on the goods I would then barter on the price. The stallholders were used to me, but they had never known me to be accompanied by a man. Wild strawberries, cherries, oranges and lemons, quinces and melons were all subject to my scrutiny. The olive sellers, standing behind their huge basins containing all varieties of olives in brine, oil, or vinegar, called out to me: "Hey, Rosa, who's your friend?" We made our way to the meat vendors, where rabbits fresh from the fields, huge sides of beef, whole pigs and sheep were hung up on hooks, and offal and tripe were spread out on marble slabs. I selected some chicken livers, which were wrapped in paper and handed to l'Inglese to carry. I had never had a man to carry my shopping before; it made me feel special. We passed the stalls where whole tuna fish, sardines and oysters, whitebait and octopus were spread out, reflecting the abundant sea surrounding our island. Fish was not on the menu today, but nevertheless I wanted to show l'Inglese where to find the finest tuna, the freshest shrimps, and the most succulent swordfish in the whole market.

The market-development problem in the case of both neural networking software and desktop video conferencing is this: With each of these exciting, functional technologies it has been possible to establish a working system and to get innovators to adopt it. But it has not as yet been possible to carry that success over to the early adopters. As we shall see in the next chapter, the key to winning over this segment is to show that the new technology enables some strategic leap forward, something never before possible, which has an intrinsic value and appeal to the nontechnologist. This benefit is typically symbolized by a single, compelling application, the one thing that best captures the power and value of the new product. If the marketing effort is unable to find that compelling application, then market development stalls with the innovators, and the future of the product falls through the crack.

This is an event horizon, colonel. This is where it all goes wrong. Possibly for nothing. Possibly for some little thing other guys have gotten away with. But you’re going to crash and burn. Best case, you’re going to stall. Best case, you’re going to get an asterisk against your name forever. As in, we can’t be sure about that guy.

She sighed. “Kittens.” “And hot barn stall sex.” “Not necessarily in that order.

It's something I'm seeing everywhere in Vietnam; what makes its food so good, its people so endearing and impressive: pride. It's everywhere. From top to bottom, everyone seems be doing the absolute best they can with what they have, improvising, repairing, innovating. It's a spirit revealed in every noodle stall, every leaky sampan, every swept and combed dirt porch and green rice paddy. You see it in the mud-packed dikes and levees of their centuries-old irrigation system, every monkey bridge, restored shoe, tire turned sandal, literless urban street, patched roof, and swaddled baby in brightly colored hand-knit cap. Think what you want about Vietnam and about communism and about whatever it was that really happened there all those years ago. Ignore, if you care to, the obvious - that the country is, and was always, primarily about family, village, province, and then country - that ideology is a luxury few can afford. You cannot help but be impressed and blown away by the hard work, the attention to detail, the care taken in every facet of daily life, no matter how mundane, no matter how difficult the circumstances. Spend some time in the Mekong Delta and you'll understand how a nation of farmers could beat the largest and most powerful military presence on the planet. Just watch the women in the rice paddies, bent at the waist for eight, ten hours a day, yanking bundles of rice from knee-deep water, then moving them, replanting them. Take a while to examine the interlocked system of stone-age irrigation, unchanged for hundreds and hundreds of years, the level of cooperation necessary among neighbors simply to scratch out a living, and you'll get the idea.

This is also a great tactic if negotiations ever stall—revisit the things both parties agree upon and remind the seller of more of those things that may not have been discussed for a while. For example, if things have come to a standstill in the negotiation, you might say: Investor: “I know we haven’t yet agreed on price, but I think we’re pretty close here. Remember, we’re happy to take the house as-is— you don’t have to clean out the basement or the garage. And our title company is happy to come here to your house to sign all the paperwork, just to make everything more convenient. My offer of $90,000 really is my top number, but I want you to be confident you are getting a great deal, so I’ll give up some of my profit and go to $91,500. Can we close on that?

There was a fair mixture of animals in the long building. The dairy cows took up most of the length, then there were a few young heifers, some bullocks and finally, in an empty stall deeply bedded with straw, the other farm dogs. The cats were there too, so it had to be warm. No animal is a better judge of comfort than a cat and they were just visible as furry balls in the straw. They had the best place, up against the wooden partition where the warmth came through from the big animals.