Styled Shoot Quotes

If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.

Yeah, well, not many boys take their girls out on a duck shoot with them as target for a first date. You have to give me points for style.

I know this pansy beat your f*cking @ss, American style.

Using the comma well announces that you have an ear for sense and rhythm, confidence in your style and a proper respect for your reader,

And if whatever you’re shooting doesn’t die after you pump eight thirty-two-caliber slugs into it, it’s probably a dragon.

Things like this don't happen all that often in one lifetime. This is the magnificent world of a picaresque novel. Just brace yourself and enjoy the smell of evil. We're shooting the rapids. And when we go over the falls, let's do it together in grand style!

Writers jealous of their individual style are obliged to wring the utmost effect from a tiny range of marks – which explains why they get so desperate when their choices are challenged (or corrected) by copy-editors legislating according to a “house style”.

Tiffany’s pale faced turned to green and I involuntarily took a step back, half expecting an Exorcist-style stream of vomit to shoot out of her gaping mouth.

Real Canada is where people wear sweaters for survival, not style.

participants. This is an important lesson for someone with an anxious attachment style: If you just wait a little longer before reacting and jumping to conclusions, you will have an uncanny ability to decipher the world around you and use it to your advantage. But shoot from the hip, and you’re all over the place making misjudgments and hurting yourself. Once activated, they are often consumed

During the shoot in November 2003, I was vaguely aware of the stylist’s sulky demeanor and eye-rolling vibe, but I blocked her out. Some fashion people are snotty drama queens; this is not news. Whatever was going on with her, I was determined to be positive and not get infected by her energy. Later, Fiorella told me that the entire time I was in makeup, the stylist had been clomping up and down the hall, sputtering into her cell phone, “I can’t believe I have to style a FAT GIRL!” Believe it, bitch.

Well, if Andre knocks you up and the baby pops out of you Alien-style, I’m shooting it.

Punctuation has been defined many ways. Some grammarians use the analogy of stitching: punctuation as the basting that holds the fabric of language in shape. Another writer tells us that punctuation marks are the traffic signals of language: they tell us to slow down, notice this, take a detour, and stop. I have even seen a rather fanciful reference to the full stop and comma as “the invisible servants in fairy tales – the ones who bring glasses of water and pillows, not storms of weather or love”. But best of all, I think, is the simple advice given by the style book of a national newspaper: that punctuation is “a courtesy designed to help readers to understand a story without stumbling”.

Style is the ultimate morality of mind." ... [It has] a double aim of complete fidelity to fact and to one's complex sense of fact. ... We are shooting at a star when we aim at style in this sense; we are trying to do justice at once to an infinity without and a near infinity within.

she shoots up in the neck,” she told me. I told her to stick it into my ass and she tried and said, “oh oh,” and I said, “what the hell’s the matter?” she said, “nothing, this is New York style,” and she jammed it in again and said, “oh shit.” I took it and put it into my arm, I got part of it. “I don’t know why people fuck with the stuff, there’s not that much to it. I think they’re all losers and they want to lose real bad. there’s no other way, it’s like they can’t get where they’re going or want to go and there’s no other way. this has got to be it. she shoots up in the neck.

So you shoot people," she said quietly. "You're a killer." "Me? How?" "The papers and the police fixed it up nicely. But I don't believe everything I read." "Oh, you think I accounted for Geiger - or Brody-or both of them." She didn't say anything. "I didn't have to," I said. "I might have. I suppose, and got away with it. Neither of them would have hesitated to throw lead at." "That makes you a killer at heart, like all cops." "Oh, nuts.

That ended up being quite fun and opened up a whole new fashion arena for me. Because of that shoot, we got to show that fashion has no age limit. • • • What I have learned is that sometimes you could be uncomfortable with your style, but give it a try, and don’t let anything like age limit you.

he had to stand by while there proliferated in his own house such concepts as “the art of living thought” “the graph of spiritual growth” and “action on the wing”. he discovered that a biweekly ”hour of purification” was held regularly under his roof. he demanded an explanation. it turned out that what they meant by this was reading the poems of Stefan George together. Leo Fischel searched his old encyclopedia in vain for the poet’s name. but what irritated him most of all, old-style liberal that he was, was that these green pups referred to all the high government officials, bank presidents, and leading university figures in the Parallel Campaign as “puffed-up little men”. then there were the world-weary airs they gave themselves, complaining that the times had become devoid of great ideas, if there was anyone left who was ready for great ideas. that even “humanity” had become a mere buzzword, as far as they were concerned, and that only “the nation” or, as they called it, “folk and folkways” still really had any meaning. wiser than their years, they disdained “lust” and “the inflated lie about the crude enjoyment of animal existence” as they called it, but talked so much about supersensuality and mystical desire that the startled listener reacted willy-nilly by feeling a certain tenderness for sensuality and physical desires, and even Leo Fischel had to admit that the unbridled ardor of their language sometimes made the listener feel the roots of their ideas shooting down his legs, though he disapproved, because in his opinion great ideas were meant to be uplifting.

They had been married for seven years. They were both artists—Alicia was a painter, and Gabriel was a well-known fashion photographer. He had a distinctive style, shooting

Arguing as a now senior Sûreté officer that there was absolutely no reason a member of the public should have a handgun. And certainly not an assault-style weapon. They were only designed, and intended, to shoot humans.

He was recovering his style, or whatever it was that kept him upright and made him interesting to women. On the shooting level he was a bum, as useless as a cat in a dogfight. But he had his own feline dignity, even with his hands up.

They had been married for seven years. They were both artists—Alicia was a painter, and Gabriel was a well-known fashion photographer. He had a distinctive style, shooting semi-starved, semi-naked women in strange, unflattering angles. Since his death, the price of his photographs has increased astronomically. I find his stuff rather slick and shallow, to be honest. It has none of the visceral quality of Alicia’s best work. I don’t know enough about art to say whether Alicia Berenson will stand the test of time as a painter. Her talent will always be overshadowed by her notoriety, so it’s hard to be objective. And you might well accuse me of being biased. All I can offer is my opinion, for what it’s worth. And to me, Alicia was a kind of genius. Apart from her technical skill, her paintings have an uncanny ability to grab your attention—by the throat, almost—and hold it in a viselike grip

Then I began writing. It was about a German aviator in World War I. Baron Von Himmlen. He flew a red Fokker. And he was not popular with his fellow fliers. He didn't talk to them. He drank alone and he flew alone. He didn't bother with women, although they all loved him. He was above that. He was too busy. He was busy shooting Allied plans out of the sky. Already he had shot down 110 and he war wasn't over. His red Fokker, which he referred to as the "October Bird of Death," was known everywhere. Even the enemy ground troops knew him as he often flew low over them, taking their gunfire and laughing, dropping bottles of champagne to them suspended from little parachutes. Baron Von Himmlen was never attacked by less than five Allied planes at a time. He was an ugly man with scars on his face, but he was beautiful if you looked long enough -- it was in the eyes, his style, his courage, his fierce aloneness.

. . . why not ask your congressman or woman to support universal background checks? Ask him or her to renew the ban on military-style assault weapons and high-capacity magazines. Offer a pink slip to any legislator who refuses to explain his or her lack of support for these common-sense measures. With rights come responsibilities. While we enjoy a right to bear arms, we have a societal obligation to do so responsibly and safely. We are, after all, responsible for each other. Our governing is done by the people and for the people.  It is in the best interest of the people, all the people, to apply common sense to the gun issue . . .

If there were mass atrocities right down to the last days of communism, why did not the newly installed anticommunist regimes seize the opportunity to bring erstwhile communist rulers to justice? Why no Nuremberg-style public trials documenting widespread atrocities? Why were not hundreds of party leaders and security officials and thousands of camp guards rounded up and tried for the millions they supposedly exterminated? The best the West Germans could do was charge East German leader Erich Honecker, several other officials, and seven border guards with shooting people who tried to escape over the Berlin Wall, a serious charge but hardly indicative of a gulag.

There are different eras and generations, but basketball is still the same. Old school or new school, the fundamentals of the game- passing, dribbling,and shooting- never change. The styles and forms may change,but from 1946 to 2006, there's been a right way and a wrong way to practice and perform these skills and that remains the same.

This is an important lesson for someone with an anxious attachment style: If you just wait a little longer before reacting and jumping to conclusions, you will have an uncanny ability to decipher the world around you and use it to your advantage. But shoot from the hip, and you’re all over the place making misjudgments and hurting yourself.

One of the arguments that authoritarian governments use to ward off the call for greater political freedom is to argue that American-style democracy is no guarantee of good policy.... Over the years, I’ve grown used to these arguments, and my response has rarely wavered: Sure, we might make dumb choices sometimes, but we will defend, to the end, the right to make choices at all, because we believe that our collective conscience, freely expressed, will eventually lead us in the right direction. When it comes to guns, it is getting harder to muster that argument abroad. Every new shooting, every new failure of will and citizenship, slashes another hole in our credibility as a way of life.

Robert is, of course, at the theater, but it’s true that Jeff isn’t alone. Behind him, Lulu holds up two bottles of tequila, and behind her is Gene, Lulu’s . . . bed-friend, holding a bag of limes and sporting the world’s most enormous mustache. I take the bag of limes from him. “Are you guessing my weight tonight?” Jeff laughs in a loud bark before heading into the kitchen, but Gene does a bewildered double take. “What?” “Do I get to shoot a water gun to knock down the ducks?” I see the moment he gets it because his giant mustache twitches under his suppressed grin. “I’ll take my limes home if you’re going to be sassy, miss.” “You look like an old-timey auction barker,” I say. “Or Yosemite Sam. I have this sudden urge to buy a few head of cattle.” Behind me, Calvin snickers. “You wish you could grow a ’stache like this.” I burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, I can’t even hear what you’re saying through that thing.” “I told him it’s awful.” Lulu tugs at it and Gene leans away. He smoothes it down proudly. “I’m so lazy, and this is much more low maintenance than shaving.” I don’t need to look that closely to see he’s clearly waxed and styled it with a comb. It’s really not an afterthought mustache; it’s the kind that a person chooses from a book on various mustache styles—the perfect accessory for his very carefully crafted I don’t care enough to even glance in the mirror look (which Lulu tells me takes him a long time in front of the mirror).

March 9: With Schenck’s help, Marilyn obtains a contract with Columbia Pictures for $125 a week. The studio puts her up at the Hotel Bel-Air. Ed Cronenwerth shoots her in various exercise positions, toning and stretching her body. She is also shown seated on steps, her right elbow on her raised right thigh and her right hand on her chin next to the sign “Los Angeles City Limits.” He also photographs makeup sessions. Marilyn applies lipstick, looking into a hand-held mirror, and is shot sitting while Helen Hunt styles her hair.

The main point arises from the fact that I've always acted alone. Americans like that immensely. Americans like the cowboy who leads the wagon train by riding ahead alone on his horse, the cowboy who rides all alone into the town, the village, with his horse and nothing else. Maybe even without a pistol, since he doesn't shoot. He acts, that's all, by being in the right place at the right time. In short, a Western.… This amazing, romantic character suits me precisely because to be alone has always been part of my style or, if you like, my technique.

On Writing Well, by William Zinsser The Elements of Style, by William Strunk Jr. and E. B. White Eats, Shoots & Leaves, by Lynne Truss This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage, by Ann Patchett There are also several podcasts on writing that I like, including these: Grammar Girl Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing Write about Now, with Jonathan Small A Way with Words, with Martha Barnette and Grant Barrett Mad Dogs & Englishmen, with Kevin Williamson and Charles C. W. Cooke (this isn’t a podcast about language, but their command of English is incredible)

I'm so excited to meet you, Emma," she says. "Now I know why Galen won't shut up about you." Her smile seems to contradict the decades' worth of frown lines rippling from her mouth. In fact, it's so genuine and warm that I almost believe she is excited to meet me. But isn't that what all moms say when introduced to their son's girlfriend? You're not his girlfriend, stupid. Or does she think we're dating, too? "Thanks, I think," I smile generically. "I'm sure he's told you a million times how clumsy I am." Because how else am I supposed to take that? "A million and one, actually. Wish you'd do something different for a change," Rayna drawls without looking up. Rayna has outstayed her welcome on my nerves. "I could teach you how to color in the lines," I shoot back. The look she gives me could sour milk. Toraf puts his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head. "I think you're doing a great job, my princess." She wiggles out of his grasp and shoves the polish brush back into its bottle. "If you're so good at it, why don't you paint your toes? They probably stay injured all the time from you running into stuff. Am I right?" Yeah? And? I'm about to set her straight on a few things-like how wearing a skirt and sitting Indian-style ruins the effect of pretty toes anyway-when Galen's mom puts a gentle hand on my arm and clears her throat. "Emma, I'm so glad you're feeling better," she says. "I bet dinner would just about complete your recovery, don't you?

Then, suddenly, a shadowy flash came to me. Tiffany, taking an order, arguing with a girl. Shockingly, not me. Another flash, of Detective Toscano walking into Yummy’s minutes ago. Tiffany nervously kneading a coaster between her fingers. The coaster I held in my hands right now. Tiffany was scared. Why was she scared of the cop? “Hey! Space shot! You want your Coke or not?” I tried to ignore Tiffany’s screeching and hold on to the vision, but it blurred and disappeared. I grabbed my new glass from her outstretched hand. “I heard you got into an argument last night,” I said. Tiffany paled, which I never thought possible since her skin was so fake-and-bake tan. She nervously twirled a lock of her bleach blond hair around her finger. “Where did you hear that?” “Doesn’t matter where I heard it.” I took a chance and added, “But it was pretty juicy gossip, considering who she was.” Tiffany’s pale face turned to green and I involuntarily took a step back ,half expecting an Exorcist-style stream of vomit to shoot out of her gaping mouth. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and leaned closer. “Get away from me,” she growled. And then it became clear. My flash of her argument. Her fear of the detective. She’d argued with the girl who was murdered last night. And she did not want Detective Toscano to find out about it. I stepped away from the bar, giddy with my new knowledge. I had the upper hand on Tiffany Desposito. I could torture her with this. Drag it out. Hold it over her head for days, even weeks. “It’s too bad you’re not with Justin anymore,” she said to my back. “He’s a cutie. And such a good kisser.” And that was my limit. I spun around and dumped my brand-new Coke over her head. She shrieked and flailed her hands as the liquid streamed over her face and down between her giant boobs. She peeled her sticky hair off her eyes and snarled, “I’ll get you for this.” I merely smiled, then sauntered over to the two Toscanos, who had apparently been watching this whole display with entertained grins on their faces. “You’re the new detective?” I asked the elder Toscano. He nodded. Either his mouth was too full with French fries or he was too scared of me to speak at the moment. “Tiffany Desposito, the wet and sticky waitress over there? She had a fight with the girl who was murdered. Last night, at this restaurant. You should question her right away. I wouldn’t even give her a chance to go home and shower first. I think she’s a flight risk.” I strolled back to my booth, sat down, and tore into my pancakes, happy as a kid on Christmas. Nate and Perry stared at me in silence for a few moments. Then Perry said, “Maybe you should have let me go over.” Nate shook his head. “Nah. She did just fine.

What on earth did we do wrong? What harm did we inflict? What did we do to you? Who are you to judge us? Who gave you the right? Are you the representatives of mankind, or what? Who appointed you? Was it God? Yourselves? You don't care if someone loves to go bowling or shooting! You don't care if someone wants to be a doctor or a flight attendant! So why can't we love someone of the same gender? What makes you say that the way we love is wrong? Because we're not "normal"? Because we don't abide by the provisions of God? The laws of nature? Well, fuck you. What a load of bullshit. You want to create a land for God? Good. Then let's bring back the regulations on sex positions first! Don't use condoms, and only fuck in the missionary position, damn it! Since sex should only be for childbirth, and any other pleasure is against the will of God, am I right? Come to think of it, you guys are fucking disgusting. I mean, I know you all fuck doggy-style and blow each other! So I guess you're all going to hell as well! The same goes for singles who don't copulate at all! If the union of man and woman is what is "normal", singles are the most abnormal of all! You're all going to hell, too! On, and let's just kill all the ugly people, fat people, and poor people while we're at it. Then it'll be heaven on earth, with no abnormal beings! Where the normal are free to kill the abnormal! If you ask me, you uneducated, narrow-minded scumbags are the ones that degrade human nobility! You're fucking revolting! Ignorant morons! Do you feel good? Or pissed off? Mad? Then come at me! Instead of being fucking cowards, bashing someone that's all tied up. Won't it be more fun to beat up a person of color? Kill me before I infect your brains and turn all of you into homosexuals! Kill me first! Stupid scumbags!

...The gulag—with its millions of victims, if you listen to Solzehnitsyn and Sakharov—supposedly existed in the Soviet Union right down to the very last days of communism. If so—as I've asked before—where did it disappear to? That is, when the communist states were overthrown, where were the millions of stricken victims pouring out of the internment camps with their tales of torment? I'm not saying they don't exist; I'm just asking, where are they? One of the last remaining camps, Perm-35—visited in 1989 and again in '90 by Western observers—held only a few dozen prisoners, some of whom were outright spies, as reported in the Washington Post. Others were refuseniks who tried to flee the country. The inmates complained about poor-quality food, the bitter cold, occasional mistreatment by guards. I should point out that these labor camps were that: they were work camps. They weren't death camps that you had under Nazism where there was a systematic extermination of the people in the camps. So there was a relatively high survival rate. The visitors also noted that throughout the 1980s, hundreds of political prisoners had been released from the various camps, but hundreds are not millions. Even with the great fall that took place after Stalin, under Khrushchev, when most of the camps were closed down...there was no sign of millions pouring back into Soviet life—the numbers released were in the thousands. Why—where are the victims? Why no uncovering of mass graves? No Nuremburg-style public trials of communist leaders, documenting the widespread atrocities against these millions—or hundreds of millions, if we want to believe our friend at the Claremont Institute. Surely the new...anti-communist rulers in eastern Europe and Russia would have leaped at the opportunity to put these people on trial. And the best that the West Germans could do was to charge East German leader Erich Honecker and seven of his border guards with shooting persons who tried to escape over the Berlin Wall. It's a serious enough crime, that is, but it's hardly a gulag. In 1955[sic], the former secretary of the Prague communist party was sentenced to two and a half years in prison. 'Ah, a gulag criminal!' No, it was for ordering police to use tear gas and water cannons against demonstrators in 1988. Is this the best example of bloodthirsty communist repression that the capitalist restorationists could find in Czechoslovakia? An action that doesn't even qualify as a crime in most Western nations—water cannons and tear gas! Are they kidding? No one should deny that crimes were committed, but perhaps most of the gulag millions existed less in reality and more in the buckets of anti-communist propaganda that were poured over our heads for decades.

Moderns maintain a peculiar relationship with rhetoric. We no longer teach it to our young, nor demand it of our wise. What since ancient Athens was considered an essential skill for a free citizen has now largely been consigned to hucksters and to the tarmacs of used car dealerships. The tragedy is that we abandoned the art on purpose. About the same time the Russians flung Sputnik into space, in the name of progress American, Canadian, and British educators tossed the old grammar and style books onto the intergalactic rubbish heap of history. The past was trashed. In a scientific age, so the reasoning went, questions of philosophy, of beauty, of sex, of God, could be set aside in favor of technological solutions. The science was settled. Just the same, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Who would’ve foreseen that at the same hour the West turned its back on its humanistic traditions, it would be called to police the global order, shore up markets, and shoot down terrorists?

It was during this period of work that Varda began to conceive a more theoretical approach to her art. She says, “[My work] deals with this question, ‘What is cinema?’ through how I found specific cinematic ways of telling what I was telling. I could have told you the same things that are in the film by just talking to you for six hours. But instead I found shapes” (Warwick). To give a name to her very particular and personal search for a cinematic language, Varda coined the term cinécriture. As she explains to Jean Decock: “When you write a musical score, someone else can play it, it’s a sign. When an architect draws up a detailed floor plan, anyone can build his house. But for me, there’s no way I could write a scenario that someone else could shoot, since the scenario doesn’t represent the writing of the film.” Later she would clarify, “The cutting, the movement, the points-of-view, the rhythm of filming and editing have been felt and considered in the way a writer chooses the depth of meaning of sentences, the type of words, number of adverbs, paragraphs, asides, chapters which advance the story or break its flow, etc. In writing its called style. In the cinema, style is cinécriture.” (Varda par Agnès [1994], 14).

It was in postwar Paris that Mandelbrot began this quest in earnest. Uncle Szolem urged him to attend the École Normale Supérieure, France’s most rarefied institution of higher learning, where Mandelbrot had earned entry at the age of twenty (one of only twenty Frenchmen to do so). But the aridly abstract style of mathematics practiced there was uncongenial to him. At the time, the École Normale—dite normale, prétendue supérieure, says the wag—was dominated in mathematics by a semisecret cabal called Bourbaki. (The name Bourbaki was jocularly taken from a hapless nineteenth-century French general who once tried to shoot himself in the head but missed.) Its leader was André Weil, one of the supreme mathematicians of the twentieth century (and the brother of Simone Weil). The aim of Bourbaki was to purify mathematics, to rebuild it on perfectly logical foundations untainted by physical or geometric intuition. Mandelbrot found the Bourbaki cult, and Weil in particular, “positively repellent.” The Bourbakistes seemed to cut off mathematics from natural science, to make it into a sort of logical theology. They regarded geometry, so integral to Mandelbrot’s Keplerian dream, as a dead branch of mathematics, fit for children at best.

In Tokyo, ramen is a playground for the culinary imagination. As long as the dish contains thin wheat noodles, it's ramen. In fact, there's a literal ramen playground called Tokyo Ramen Street in the basement of Tokyo Station, with eight top-rated ramen shops sharing one corridor. We stopped by one evening after a day of riding around on the Shinkansen. After drooling over the photos at establishments such as Junk Garage, which serves oily, brothless noodles hidden under a towering slag heap of toppings, we settled on Ramen Honda based on its short line and the fact that its ramen seemed to be topped with a massive pile of scallions. However, anything in Tokyo that appears to be topped with scallions is actually topped with something much better. You'll meet this delectable dopplegänger soon, and in mass quantities. The Internet is littered with dozens if not hundreds of exclamation point-bedecked ramen blogs (Rameniac, GO RAMEN!, Ramen Adventures, Ramenate!) in English, Japanese, and probably Serbian, Hindi, and Xhosa. In Tokyo, you'll find hot and cold ramen; Thai green curry ramen; diet ramen and ramen with pork broth so thick you could sculpt with it; Italian-inspired tomato ramen; and Hokkaido-style miso ramen. You'll find ramen chains and fiercely individual holes-in-the-wall. Right now, somewhere in the world, someone is having a meet-cute with her first bowl of ramen. As she fills up on pork and noodles and seaweed and bamboo shoots, she thinks, we were meant to be together, and she is embarrassed at her atavistic reaction to a simple bowl of soup.

The population, who are, ultimately, indifferent to public affairs and even to their own interests, negotiate this indifference with an equally spectral partner and one that is similarly indifferent to its own will: the government [Ie pouvoir] . This game between zombies may stabilize in the long term. The Year 2000 will not take place in that an era of indifference to time itself - and therefore to the symbolic term of the millennium - will be ushered in by negotiation. Nowadays, you have to go straight from money to money, telegraphically so to speak, by direct transfer (that is the viral side of the matter). A viral revolution, then, more akin to the Glass Bead Game than to the steam engine, and admirably personified in Bernard Tapie's playboy face. For the look of money is reflected in faces. Gone are the hideous old capitalists, the old-style industrial barons wearing the masks of the suffering they have inflicted. Now there are only dashing playboys, sporty and sexual, true knights of industry, wearing the mask of the happiness they spread all around themselves. The world put on a show of despair after 1968. It's been putting on a big show of hope since 1980. No more tears, alright? Reaganite optimism, the pump ing up of the dollar. Fabius's glossy new look. Patriotic conviviality. Reluctance prohibited. The old pessimism was produced by the idea that things were getting worse and worse. The new pessimism is produced by the fact that everything is getting better and better. Supercooled euphoria. Controlled anaesthesia. I should like to see the equivalent of Bernard Tapie in the world of business emerge in the world of concepts. Buying up failing concepts, swallowing them up, dusting them off (firing all the deadbeats who are in the way), putting them back into circulation with a dynamic virginity, sending them shooting up on the Stock Exchange and then abandoning them afterwards like dogs. Some people do this very well. It is perhaps better to save tired concepts by maintaining them in a super cooled state like unemployed labour, or locking them away in interactive data banks kept alive on a respirator.

In theory, toppings can include almost anything, but 95 percent of the ramen you consume in Japan will be topped with chashu, Chinese-style roasted pork. In a perfect world, that means luscious slices of marinated belly or shoulder, carefully basted over a low temperature until the fat has rendered and the meat collapses with a hard stare. Beyond the pork, the only other sure bet in a bowl of ramen is negi, thinly sliced green onion, little islands of allium sting in a sea of richness. Pickled bamboo shoots (menma), sheets of nori, bean sprouts, fish cake, raw garlic, and soy-soaked eggs are common constituents, but of course there is a whole world of outlier ingredients that make it into more esoteric bowls, which we'll get into later. While shape and size will vary depending on region and style, ramen noodles all share one thing in common: alkaline salts. Called kansui in Japanese, alkaline salts are what give the noodles a yellow tint and allow them to stand up to the blistering heat of the soup without degrading into a gummy mass. In fact, in the sprawling ecosystem of noodle soups, it may be the alkaline noodle alone that unites the ramen universe: "If it doesn't have kansui, it's not ramen," Kamimura says. Noodles and toppings are paramount in the ramen formula, but the broth is undoubtedly the soul of the bowl, there to unite the disparate tastes and textures at work in the dish. This is where a ramen chef makes his name. Broth can be made from an encyclopedia of flora and fauna: chicken, pork, fish, mushrooms, root vegetables, herbs, spices. Ramen broth isn't about nuance; it's about impact, which is why making most soup involves high heat, long cooking times, and giant heaps of chicken bones, pork bones, or both. Tare is the flavor base that anchors each bowl, that special potion- usually just an ounce or two of concentrated liquid- that bends ramen into one camp or another. In Sapporo, tare is made with miso. In Tokyo, soy sauce takes the lead. At enterprising ramen joints, you'll find tare made with up to two dozen ingredients, an apothecary's stash of dried fish and fungus and esoteric add-ons. The objective of tare is essentially the core objective of Japanese food itself: to pack as much umami as possible into every bite.

a country with a well-educated middle class and a statuesque, catwalk-ready Facebook generation that embraces African and American fashions to create an elegant and athletic style of bling and beauty.

What is the total sum of autumn? What is its content, form purpose? Its style, certainly, has unity. But what does it amount to? Eh, but what did the summer amount to, with all its greenery and flowers and sun? Fountains of red and brown will shoot out soon. That's what the summer amounted to. And you ask me about movies. I don't know what any movie amounts to. I am looking more for some light behind it, behind the images; I am trying to see the man. It was Barbara Wise who said to me the other day—and she was right: The film critic should not explain what the movie is all about, surely an impossible task; he should help to create the right attitude for looking at movies. That's what my rambling is all about, nothing more. Where was I? Yes, rambling. I will tell you the real truth: All that I have learned in my life (and I have seen many movies) amounts to this: Leaves are falling every autumn. I will be there with my camera when they fall.

You’re a smart woman, and I’m a romantic man who believes in an arrow-shooting Cupid, Santeria love spells, and pixie dust of protection and enchantment.

The “Hands up, don’t shoot” tale has been dismantled to a point where even the left-leaning Washington Post added it to its annual list of shame, “The biggest Pinocchios of 2015”: “This phrase became a rallying cry for protests after the fatal shooting of a black 18-year-old by a white police officer, Darren Wilson. Witness accounts spread after the shooting that Michael Brown had his hands raised in surrender, mouthing the words “Don’t shoot” as his last words before being shot execution-style. Democratic lawmakers raised their hands in solidarity on the House floor. But various investigations concluded this did not happen — and that Wilson acted out of self-defense and was justified in killing Brown

Good photographers know a mind jedi trick or two, but it’s unlikely that they can read your mind. Talking to the photographer will help him decide the style to be used, the time of the day to shoot and so on.

I need a shower and I want you in it with me,” I declare. She beams. “On one condition.” I raise my eyebrows, surprised. “You have demands now?” “Only one,” she says, lifting her index finger. “Shoot. And make it worth my while,” I warn. “I’m willing to jump in the shower with you as long as you carry me up the stairs caveman-style.” She crosses her arms over her breasts for show. I tilt my head back, cradle my stomach and roar with laughter. She’s absolutely precious. “I thought you protested when I threw you over my shoulder and carried you upstairs yesterday.” “What a difference a day makes, right?” She grins proudly.

May 15–16: Marilyn arrives punctually and works through the customary starts and stops of production without complaint. She watches the rushes and realizes that she is “sensational”—to employ the word the film’s editor, David Bretherton, uses when she asks him about her performance and appearance. But she angers Cukor, who learns of her criticisms of his shooting style. Marilyn’s lawyers are notified they will receive a letter from Fox stating that she will be in breach of her contract if she attends the birthday gala for President Kennedy.

My eyes are sort of greenish,” I say through a nervous laugh. “Am I that scary?” He looks at me and we both slow to a stop. A Vespa shoots past, swirling our hair in the wind. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t blink, so I don’t either. I get the impression he’s trying to subliminally relay his answer to me. That I’m supposed to know what he’s thinking. I don’t. Suddenly he brushes my hair off my shoulder before continuing up the street. “I mostly grew up in New Mexico,” he says. “Arizona and Nevada too, with brief stints in Italy, Ireland, and a few countries in South America. Now we’re in Texas.” “Oh.” That sounds very, very, very far away from home. “My parents both work at Texas A&M. So that’s where Tate and Nina go, and where I’ll start in the fall.” “And you’re studying the same thing, following in their footsteps,” I say. “Do you want to be a professor too?” He shrugs. “Maybe one day. I’d like to travel more first though, work on dig sites in places like Greece or Central America. Ancient civilizations are buried everywhere. It’s, like, no matter where you walk, you never know what could be under your feet. I want a job that lets me see all the things I want to see before I get stuck behind a desk.” “I know what you mean. I can’t wait to see the world and document it, photojournalist style.” An image of the two of us traveling together pops into my mind: him digging up the world and me taking pictures of it. I squash those butterflies too.

NBA 2K18 Wishlist - Good Badges To Deal Problems In 2K17 The NBA 2K18 release date has basketball fans hyped. The new game in the series will be the definitive way for fans to take control of their favorite franchises and players on the Xbox One and PS4. As of the features player wish to be added into NBA 2K18, we can compare it with NBA 2K17. Today, we'll list the best badges players would like to see in the latest NBA franchise. Flashy Dunker 2K Sports has spent a large amount of time recording flashy dunk animations that look great when they trigger. Unfortunately players do not equip any of these because they get blocked at a higher rate than the basic one and two hand dunk packages. NBA 2K17 has posterizer to help with contact dunks but Flashy Dunker would be for non-contact animations. The badge would allow you to use these flashy dunk packages in traffic while getting blocked at a lower rate in NBA 2K18. Bullet Passer Badge Even with a high passer rating and Hall of Fame dimer you can still find yourself throwing slow lob passes inexplicably. These passes are easy to intercept and give the defense too much time to recover. Bullet Passer would be an increase in the speed of passes that you throw, allowing you to create open looks for teammates in 2K18 that were not possible in NBA 2K17. A strong passing game is more important than ISO ball and this badge would help with that style of play. 3 And D Badge The 3 and D badge would be an archetype in NBA 2K18 ideally but a badge version would be an acceptable substitute. This badge would once again reward players for playing good defense. The badge would trigger after a block, steal, or good shot defense and would lead to an increase in shooting percentage on the next possession from behind the 3 point arc. Dominant Post Presence Badge It's a travesty that post scorer is one of the more under-utilized archetypes in NBA 2K17. Many players that have created a post scorer can immediately tell you why they do not play it as much as their other MyPlayers, it is incredibly easy to lose the ball in the post. Whether it is a double team or your matchup, getting the ball poked loose is a constant problem. Dominant Post Presence would trigger when you attempt to post up and would be an increase in your ability to maintain possession of the ball as long as NBA 2K18 add this badge. In addition the badge would be an increase in the shooting percentage of your teammate when you pass out of the post to an open man. The Glove NBA 2K17 has too many contested shots. The shot contest rating on most archetypes is not enough to outweigh the contested midrange or 3 point rating and consistently force misses. It's obviously that height helps you contest shots in a major way but it also slows you down. However, the Glove would solve this problem in NBA 2K18. This badge would increase your ability to contest shots effectively, forcing more misses and allowing you to play better defense. Of course, there should be more other tips and tricks for NBA 2K18. If you have better advices, tell us on the official media. The NBA 2K18 Early Tip-Off Weekend starts September 15th. That's a total of four days for dedicated fans to get in the game and try its new features before other buyers. The game is completely unlocked for Early Tip-Off Weekend. Be sure to make enough preparation for the upcoming event.

Griselda rotated her finger in a circle whoop-de-do-style, signaling her impatience. ‘Yeah, yeah. We all have daddy issues. Get to the part where you justify Javier not shooting you.

Barth was outraged by Graham’s preaching style: That was not the Good News, that was pistol-shooting. An urgent appeal was made to the people: You must, you should!…It was a proclamation of the Law…He wanted to scare people. To threaten always makes an impression. People would always much rather be frightened than be made joyful.

If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do for them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy.

With my own money, I bought a Bauer Super 8 camera, intent on putting my newly accumulated filmmaking knowledge to use. I would make a Peckinpah-style splatter pic with a few Old West nods to Leone and a killer title: Cards, Cads, Guns, Gore, and Death. The plot of this two-minute silent masterpiece-in-the-making was simple. Three cowboys are playing poker in a dusty saloon. One takes exception to the other’s winning hand and shoots the winner dead. Then the third guy shoots the shooter dead. A fourth guy, the sheriff, comes upon the scene and shoots the third guy from behind, killing him. Then he shakes his head in disgust, lamenting the waste of it all. The end. That was the easy part. The hard part was authentically portraying the carnage on a nonexistent budget. In my curiosity about filmmaking, I took to bending the ears of everyone with a specialized job on the sets I worked on. A special-effects guy gave me the intel on how they did gunshot wounds in Bonnie and Clyde and The Wild Bunch.

Socrates thought that the Spartans’ singular style of speech was a way of strategically getting others to underestimate them: “they conceal their wisdom, and pretend to be blockheads, so that they may seem to be superior only because of their prowess in battle…This is how you may know that I am speaking the truth and that the Spartans are the best educated in philosophy and speaking: if you talk to any ordinary Spartan, he seems to be stupid, but eventually, like an expert marksman, he shoots in some brief remark that proves you to be only a child.

At discount chains, customers paid with their time. Sales assistants were sometimes ignorant or absent. Cash registers were clumped at the exits, supermarket style, and in some cases customers were herded through a labyrinth of roped-off “squeeze shoots,” like so many cattle. Purchases were not wrapped and certainly not carried to the customer’s car. Still, many consumers—particularly younger ones—preferred this. They had confidence in their ability to make their own purchasing decisions, a confidence boosted by advertising. They knew—or thought they knew—what they wanted and enjoyed foraging on their own without having to cope with a hovering sales staff.

Miyajima oysters, simmered Kurama-style, miso-glazed baked butterburs with millet cake, bracken and bamboo shoot stew, chargrilled moroko, breast of Kyoto-reared chicken with a wasabi dressing, and vinegared Wakasa mackerel wrapped in pickled Shogoin turnip. In the bottom right you have a hamaguri clam broth thickened with kudzu starch. Tonight's customer asked me to create something that evoked both the lingering winter and the onset of spring, which led to the dishes you see here.

JANE FONDA: It never occurred to me to ask a director to be consulted on style or content. I remember halfway through my career, I’d been an actress for twelve years, and I made They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? It was the first time that a director other than my husband had asked me what I thought and discussed the script with me, the story, changes that needed to be made. I couldn’t believe it. It was Sydney Pollack.

Young sakura shrimp from the sea, and butterbur shoots from the mountains--- all cooked together with the rice." Nagare dished some of the rice from the pot into a small rice bowl. "Spring's the time of new life, after all. It's lightly seasoned, so you can enjoy it as it is--- or put a dollop of this butterbur miso on top and then pour tea over it if you'd prefer it chazuke-style.

In the top left you have simmered Nagaoka bamboo shoots and wakame seaweed from Izumo, served in a Karatsu-ware bowl. Next to that, on the long Oribe dish, is grilled masu salmon seasoned with pepper tree leaves. The square Kutani bowl is dashi-simmered egg scrambled with green peas. The next row down is a series of five small Imari plates. Starting on the left: white miso clam gratin; salad of finely chopped cockles and Kujo green onion; tilefish sashimi with a ponzu, miso, and pepper-tree-leaf dressing; slow-cooked Tamba chicken in a salt koji marinade. At the end, on the right, is pickled sweetfish sushi, served whole. The round dish at the bottom is a selection of wild vegetables: butterbur buds, devil's-walking-stick, ostrich fern, momiji-gasa, bracken shoots, and smilax. Normally those would be served as tempura, but I've gone for something a little different and deep-fried them Western-style instead. Sprinkle them with matcha salt if you like, or they go very nicely with this green peppercorn-infused Worcestershire sauce." Nagare produced a bottle of white wine. "Now, will something like this do?" "Hang on a moment," said Kana, reaching for her digital camera again. "My friend in Tamba makes this," continued Nagare. "Hundred percent Chardonnay grapes, fermented in small French casks, apparently. Has an elegant flavor--- perfect for spring, I'd say.

As regards the footing or standing and the attitudes of archers, it may be safely asserted that there are as many varieties as there are archers to call them into existence; that no two are exactly alike in all particulars; and that no one archer has yet been seen to combine all the excellences that might be centred in a perfect archer. That an archer's general position may be a good one it must possess three qualities—firmness, elasticity, and grace: firmness, to resist the strain and the recoil of the bow—for if there be any wavering or unsteadiness the shot will probably prove a failure; elasticity, to give free play to the muscles, and the needful command over them—which cannot be the case should the position be too rigid and stiff; and grace, to render the archer and his performance agreeable, and not ludicrous, to the spectator. It so far, fortunately, happens that the third requirement—that of grace—is almost a necessary consequence of the possession of the other two: as the best position for practical results is, in fact, the most graceful one. Experience proves that an awkward ungainly style of shooting is very seldom successful. All these three requisites must be kept constantly in mind in every endeavour to arrive at the best position for combining them.

The Jefferson political style, though, remained smooth rather than rough, polite rather than confrontational. He was a warrior for the causes in which he believed, but he conducted his battles at a remove, tending to use friends and allies to write and publish and promulgate the messages he thought crucial to the public debate. Part of the reason for his largely genial mien lay in the Virginia culture of grace and hospitality; another factor was a calculated decision, based on his experience of men and of politics, that direct conflict was unproductive and ineffective. Jefferson articulated this understanding of politics and the management of conflicting interests in a long, thoughtful letter to a grandson. “A determination never to do what is wrong, prudence, and good humor, will go far towards securing to you the estimation of the world,” he wrote to Patsy’s son Thomas Jefferson Randolph.67 Good humor, Jefferson added, “is the practice of sacrificing to those whom we meet in society all the little conveniences and preferences which will gratify them, and deprive us of nothing worth a moment’s consideration; it is the giving a pleasing and flattering turn to our expressions which will conciliate others and make them pleased with us as well as themselves. How cheap a price for the good will of another!” Jefferson went on: When this is in return for a rude thing said by another, it brings him to his senses, it mortifies and corrects him in the most salutary way, and places him at the feet of your good nature in the eyes of the company.68 But in stating prudential rules for our government in society I must not omit the important one of never entering into dispute or argument with another. I never yet saw an instance of one of two disputants convincing the other by argument. I have seen many, on their getting warm, becoming rude, and shooting one another. Conviction is the effect of our own dispassionate reasoning, either in solitude, or weighing within ourselves dispassionately what we hear from others standing uncommitted in argument ourselves. It was one of the rules which above all others made Doctr. Franklin the most amiable of men in society, “never to contradict anybody.

In the first part of this work, we examined the impact of using a dump or slice style entry on officer performance. We found that, compared to the slice conditions, officers took approximately twice as long to respond to a second gunman in the dump conditions. Once the officers in the dump conditions detected the second gunman in the room, they were almost 5 times more likely to violate the universal firearms safety rules and commit a priority of fire violation. The first officer also momentarily stalled in the doorway during 18% of the dump entries but never stalled during a slice entry. We did observe more instances of the officers in the slice entry shooting at the innocent suspect in the room, but this difference was not large enough to be confident that it was not the product of chance assignment error. Taken together, we argued that the data suggested that the slice was a better entry style than the dump to teach patrol officers.

Usually, Shakespeare gives me goose bumps. The guy knows everything. Like some ancient angel quill-ing out blueprints life. Hiding it in fiction. And usually I love the sound of the words, the way they dance on the page. Today, they fall flat. My attention bobbing in the cosmos. All free brain-space is marinating in gap month fizz. I chew my pen, candy-cane style. The million possibilities ahead make it hard to care about right now. I write my answers slowly, each letter carved in stone not ballpoint. I’m going to explore the world, find my passion, try everything! The fizz shoots up my spine and a smile sprouts.

In my peripheral vision I saw someone sit next to me at the table. I turned and saw a man with a stubble-covered shaved head. There were scars on the top of his skull. His skin was olive dark, and when he smiled I saw a gold tooth that matched the gold chain dangling from his neck, urban bling-bling style. Handsome probably, in a dangerous, bad-boy way. He wore a wifebeater white T under an unbuttoned gray short-sleeve shirt. His sweatpants were black. “Look under the table,” he said to me. “Are you going to show me your wee-wee?” “Look—or die.” His accent was not French—something smoother and more refined. Nearly British or maybe Spanish, almost aristocratic. I tilted my chair back and looked. He was holding a gun on me. I left my hands on the lip of the table and tried to keep my breath steady. My eyes lifted and met his. I checked the surroundings. There was a man with sunglasses standing on the corner for absolutely no reason, trying very hard to pretend that he wasn’t watching us. “Listen to me or I will shoot you dead.” “As opposed to alive?” “What?” “Shoot someone dead versus shoot someone alive,” I said. Then: “Never mind.” “Do you see the green vehicle on the corner?” I did—not far from the sunglassed man who was trying not to look at us. It looked like a minivan or something. Two men sat in the front. I memorized the license plate and began to plan my next move. “I see it.” “If you don’t want to be shot, follow my instructions exactly. We are going to get up slowly, and you are going to get in the back of the vehicle. You will not make a fuss—” And that was when I smashed the table into his face. The

Good gravy on biscuits, girlfriend, you are in the middle of more messes than a platter of scrambled eggs. What's going on? Are the planets aligned funny? Or is that unaligned? Shoot, I have no idea. But I need to know what's going on. You and I will be going out for coffee in about thirty seconds.

Happy New Year, Cuban Style In Havana, Christmas of 1958 had not been celebrated with the usual festivity. The week between Christmas and New Year’s was filled with uncertainty and the usual joyous season was suspended by many. Visitations among family and friends were few; as people held their breath waiting to see what would happen. It was obvious that the rebel forces were moving ever closer to Havana and on December 31, 1958, when Santa Clara came under the control of “Che” Guevara and Camilo Cienfuegos, the people knew that Havana would be next. What they didn’t know was that their President was preparing to leave, taking with him a large part of the national treasury. Aside from the tourists celebrating at the casinos and some private parties held by the naïve elite, very few celebrated New Year’s Eve. A select few left Cuba with Batista, but the majority didn’t find out that they were without a President until the morning of the following day…. January 1, 1959, became a day of hasty departure for many of Batista’s supporters that had been left behind. Those with boats or airplanes left the island nation for Florida or the Dominican Republic, and the rest sought refuge in foreign embassies. The high=flying era of Batista and his chosen few came to a sudden end. Gone were the police that had made such an overwhelming presence while Batista was in power, and in their place were young people wearing black and red “26th of July” armbands. Not wanting a repeat of when Machado fled Cuba, they went around securing government buildings and the homes of the wealthy. Many of these same buildings had been looted and burned after the revolt of 1933. It was expected that Fidel Castro’s rise to power would be organized and orderly. Although the casinos were raided and gambling tables overturned and sometimes burned in the streets, there was no widespread looting with the exception of the hated parking meters that became symbolic of the corruption in Batista’s government. Castro called for a general “walk-out” and when the country ground to a halt, it gave them a movement time to establish a new government. The entire transition took about a week, while his tanks and army trucks rolled into Havana. The revolutionaries sought out Batista’s henchmen and government ministers and arrested them until their status could be established. A few of Batista’s loyalists attempted to shoot it out and were killed for their efforts. Others were tried and executed, but many were simply jailed, awaiting trial at a later time.

Skiing and shooting?” Joan laughed. “Are you kidding? In the same event?” Olivia often wondered what it was about most Americans that made them so laughably proud of their ignorance of any sport that wasn’t American-style football.

He has a rather fluid style,” says Hirsch, who was already cutting together scenes. “Not that he moves the camera all that much; he moves the camera at a certain moment through a scene and his staging of the action is fluid. Kersh doesn’t cover a scene in a simplistic way. He doesn’t shoot a master and then go in for close-ups. He will shoot mini masters that overlap at certain key points. It’s a subtle thing. He really knows what he’s doing.” “I stage differently from George; I use the camera differently,” says Kershner. “I use the actors in a different way. I certainly love his work but mine is just different. The photography is totally different, the lighting, the movement.

In a frenetic whirlwind we chop and dice and mince, turning anything we can think of into a possible pizza topping, and packing them all in small hotel pans in the rolling coolers we use for field shoots. When the dough has risen, I roll out fifty twelve-inch rounds, separating each with sheets of parchment, and stacking them in sheet pans, a rotini with a creamy sauce with ham and peas, and a simple rigatoni with vegetables in a light tomato sauce. Patrick discovers a big bowl of leftover risotto from Friday's testing, and heats up the deep fryer, yelling at me to set up a breeding station so he can do some arancini. While he is frying the little rice balls, I grab a huge prep bowl and fill it with romaine, shaved Parmesan, croutons and crispy capers, and I mix together a quick peppery pseudo-Caesar-style dressing.

If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they're happy.

In fact, to the best of my knowledge, the only things he ever read growing up were pornographic comic books (we used to call them “Tijuana bibles,” but I’m sure that’s no longer considered polite, what with all these immigrants driving around everywhere in their lowriders, listening to raps and shooting all the jobs).

Toxic people tend to shoot first and apologize later, and social media can be a dangerous space for that personal style.

The Other Side of the Wind is the story of Jake Hannaford, a hard-drinking, big-game-hunting, womanizing, adventure-seeking director who loves to shoot in remote locations around the world and revels in putting himself, his cast, and his crew in dangerous situations. Welles would joke that at least one crew member dies on the set of every Hannaford film. A product of the studio system, Hannaford fell out of favor and retreated to Europe for a few years of self-imposed exile and has finally returned to Los Angeles, seeking end money to complete his artsy, modernist attempt at a sex-infused and violence-laden comeback movie that reflects the style and values of New Hollywood circa 1970. As Welles mentioned in his introduction, the film examines the last day of Hannaford’s life as viewed through the medium of film in

But that is all in the future. These days, the local newspaper publishes an endless stream of stories about drug arrests, shootings, drunk-driving crashes, the stupidity of local politicians, and the lamentable surplus of “affordable housing.” Like similar places, the town is up to its eyeballs in wrathful bitterness against public workers. As in, Why do they deserve a decent life when the rest of us have no chance at all? It’s every man for himself here in a “competition for crumbs,” as a Fall River friend puts it. For all that, it is an exemplary place in one respect: as a vantage point from which to contemplate the diminishing opportunities of modern American life. This is the project of Fall River Herald News columnist Marc Munroe Dion, one of the last remaining practitioners of the working-class style that used to be such a staple of journalism in this country. Here in Fall River, the sarcastic, hard-boiled sensibility makes a last stand against the indifference of the affluent world. Dion pours his acid derision on the bike paths that Fall River has (of course) built for the yet-to-arrive creative class. He cheers for the bravery of Wal-Mart workers who, it appears, are finally starting to stand up to their bosses. He watches a 2012 Obama-Romney debate and thinks of all the people he knows who would be considered part of Romney’s lazy 47 percent—including his own mother, a factory worker during World War II who was now “draining our country dry through the twin Ponzi schemes of Social Security and Medicare.”16 “To us, it looks as though the city is dissolving,” Dion wrote in late 2015. As the working-class apocalypse takes hold, he invites readers to remember exactly what it was they once liked about their town. “Fall River used to be a good place to be poor,” he concludes. “You didn’t need much education to work, you didn’t need much money to live and you knew everybody.” As that life has disappeared, so have the politics that actually made some kind of sense; they were an early casualty of what has happened here. Those who still care about the war of Rs and Ds, Dion writes, are practicing “political rituals that haven’t made sense since the 1980s, feathered tribesmen dancing around a god carved out of a tree trunk.”17

Well, after all, in what language do we talk with ourselves and others? I like the language of conversational speech: it’s unencumbered, it lacks any external, imposed burdens. Everything rambles in discursive, exuberant style: syntax, intonation, accents – and feeling is reconstructed precisely. What I track is the feeling, not the event. The way our feelings have developed, not the events. Perhaps what I do is similar to the work of a historian, but I am a historian of the untraceable. What happens to great events? They migrate into history, while the little ones, the ones that are most important for the little person, disappear without a trace. Today one boy (so frail and sickly that he didn’t look much like a soldier) told me how strange and at the same time exhilarating it feels to kill together. And how terrifying it is to shoot someone. Is that really going to go down in history? I strive desperately (from book to book) to do one and the same thing – reduce history to the human being.

Bunny, and my parents aren’t here either, but you’d like to make it about them. Don’t shit a shitter. The higher-ups aren’t wild about me returning to work because, while Assistant Commissioner Fintan O’Rourke was as dodgy as a three euro note, he was still one of the chosen and having me knocking about is an unhappy reminder of a rather big embarrassment for the force. 'Tis classic Garda logic – we take a PR black eye when it comes out that the second most powerful peaked cap in the country has been in the pocket of the self-styled godfather of Irish crime, Gerry Fallon, for several decades, and the solution is to shoot the messenger.

I used to be so nervous at these things,” Wax said softly to Steris. “When I was a kid. That was when I still cared about their opinions, I guess. Before I learned how much power over a situation you gain when you decide that you don’t care what others think of you.” Steris eyed a couple of passing ladies in their completely laceless gowns. “I’m not certain I agree. How you are perceived is important. For example, I’m regretting my choice of gown. I was shooting for fashionable, but fashion is different down here. I’m not in style; I’m avant-garde.” “I like it,” Wax said. “It stands out.” “So does a pimple,” Steris said.

Getting comfortable again, I grab one of the magazines that I keep stuffed under my thin mattress. Flipping to the article the guard Paul told me about, I’m just getting to the part about how chandeliers are a necessity in creating an awesome she-shed, when two prison guards come running in. They take one look at my open cell door, the magic smoke still polluting the air, the unconscious male on the ground, and turn gaping looks at me. I give them a bright smile and point down at Scarface. “Hey, Paul. Could you clean that up for me? I think he wet himself.” Paul lowers his gun and pulls off his SWAT-style helmet. “Another one?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my uninvited cell guest. I shrug my shoulders and give him an apologetic smile. He shakes his head and nudges the unconscious jail-breaker with his boot. “Damn. We need to up our security. We aren’t used to so many supernaturals trying to break someone out of here,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he frowns in thought. “Yeah, it’s very disruptive,” I tell him. He grunts in agreement. “Good thing your ride is here,” Paul mentions casually as my unwelcome cell guest groans loudly from the floor. I squeal and start clapping excitedly, which startles both guards. “Yes, finally!” I shoot up from my cot and thrust both arms out, ready for the required shackles whenever a prisoner is being transported. Paul releases an amused chuckle, and Terrence—the other guard in my cell right now—gives me some judgement-laced side-eye as I giggle and wait like a kid on Christmas morning for the cuffs to click into place. I’m finally going to be sentenced and booked into Nightmare Penitentiary. I can’t fucking wait.

(Home) ‘This land is beautiful, but the people are horrible.’ The people took this beautiful land and raped it, and put up a bunch of ugly boxes, however, my home is in the Victorian-style and it is old and has a handcrafted personality. There is an ancient oak tree outside my window, sometimes I step out my window then onto the roof of the porch, and sit in the tree branch that hangs over, and watches all the stars as they appear to turn on and off. Yes, I have wished upon a shooting star, that things will change, and that the towers will be no more. Looking straight ahead, I can see all the lights that go on the horizon, some days the sunsets are blazing before the lights turn on. Then there are some days that the window is shut because it is cold windy while everything is chilled with the color of blue. (Frame of mind) My mood can change just like this and that it seems. Yes, just like all the summer turns into winter, and the winters turn into spring, and all of these thoughts running in my mind fall like the leaves through my brain, and they most likely do not mean a thing. I guess you could blame it on my ADD, ADHD, dyslexia, bipolar disorder, or OCD. I do not have any of these… I do not have anything wrong with me. But, if you are like one of the sisters or someone from my school, you would say my mood changes are because of my- STD’s, HIV, or being as they say GAY or BI, and LEZ-BO. They have also said, I am a pedophile and a child stocker, and I get moody if I do not get some from them. That is why I am so sober at times, or so they say. Whatever…! They also have said that I am a schizophrenic- psycho and that I could not even buy love. I would not try that anyways. I think that having money does not give you happiness; I am okay being a humble farm- girl, the guy that finds me… needs to be happy with that also. I am sure there are more things they say. However, those are just some of them that I can dredge up as of now, off the top of my head. They have murdered me and my life, in so many ways. So now, do you wonder as to why I am afraid of talking to people or even looking at them? You know you and they can try to destroy me, and my life. However, I do not have any of those listed either; none of these random arrangements of letters defines me as the person I truly am. (Sight) Looking out the windows, I can see the golden hayfields of ecstasy, I see the windmills that twist and tumble. I can see the abandoned railroad track that lies not far from my home. I can hear the cries of the swing as the wind gusts in spurts. But yet I am still in my room, but that is just okay with me. Because I know that there will someday soon be someone there for me. (Household) My room is a land of peace and tranquility without all the gloom, with a bed and a canopy overhead but still, I am not truly happy? There is nothing- like the sounds of the crickets speaking up often in the cool August night breeze. It is relaxing to me, however; it is a reminder to me of how the last glimmers of summer are ending. Besides the sounds slowly fade away, yes- I can hear this music from my bedroom window. It is just like in the spring the birds sing in the morning and leave in the cool gusts to come. It is just like the hummingbirds that flutter by, and then before I know it, all has changed; so, it seems by the time I walk out my bedroom door, to start my day. ‘Life goes in cycles of tunes it seems, and nature is its synchronization in its symphony you just have to listen.

Lerner held that Brigadoon was one of Minnelli’s least vivacious efforts, despite the potential offered by CinemaScope. Only the wedding scene and the chase that follows reveal Minnelli’s unique touch. Before shooting began, Freed rushed to inform Lerner that “Vincente is bubbling over with enthusiasm about Brigadoon.” But, evidently, his heart was not in this film. Early on, Minnelli made a mistake and confessed to Kelly that he really hadn’t liked the Broadway show. As a film, Brigadoon was curiously flat and rambling, lacking in warmth or charm, and the direction lacks Minnelli’s usual vitality and smooth flow. Admittedly, Lerner’s fairy-tale story was too much of a wistful fancy. Two American hunters go astray in the Scottish hills, landing in a remote village that seems to be lost in time. One of the fellows falls in love with a bonnie lass from the past, which naturally leads to some complications. Minnelli thought that it would be better to set the story in 1774, after the revolts against English rule had ended. For research about the look of the cottages, he consulted with the Scottish Tourist Board in Edinburgh. But the resulting set of the old highland village looks artificial, despite the décor, the Scottish costumes, the heather blossoms, and the scenic backdrops. Inexplicably, some of the good songs that made the stage show stand out, such as “Come to Me, Bend to Me,” “My Mother’s Wedding Day,” and “There But for You Go I,” were omitted from the film. Other songs, such as “The Heather on the Hill” and “Almost Like Being in Love,” had some charm, though not enough to sustain the musical as a whole. Moreover, the energy of the stage dances was lost in the transfer to the screen, which was odd, considering that Kelly and Charisse were the dancers. For some reason, their individual numbers were too mechanical. What should have been wistful and lyrical became an exercise in trickery and by-now-predictable style. With the exception of “The Chase,” wherein the wild Scots pursue a fugitive from their village, the ensemble dances were dull. Onstage, Agnes de Mille’s choreography gave the dance a special energetic touch, whereas Kelly’s choreography in the film was mediocre at best and uninspired at worst. It didn’t help that Kelly and Charisse made an odd, unappealing couple. While he looks thin and metallic, she seems too solemn and often just frozen. The rest of the cast was not much better. Van Johnson, as Kelly’s friend, pouts too much. As Scottish villagers, Barry Jones, Hugh Laing, and Jimmy Thompson act peculiarly, to say the least.

John Ruskin did not go to school. Nor did Queen Victoria, nor John Stuart Mill, George Eliot or Harriet Martineau. It would be absurd to suggest that Disraeli, Dickens, Newman or Darwin, to name four very different figures, who attended various schools for short spells in their boyhood, owed very much to their schooling. Had they been born in a later generation, school would have loomed much larger in their psychological stories, if only because they would have spent so much longer there, and found themselves preparing for public examinations. It is hard not to feel that a strong ‘syllabus’, or a school ethos, might have cramped the style of all four and that in their different ways – Disraeli, comparatively rich, anarchically foppish, indiscriminately bookish; Darwin, considered a dunce, but clearly – as he excitedly learned to shoot, to fish and to bird-watch – beginning his revolutionary relationship with the natural world; Newman, imagining himself an angel; Dickens, escaping the ignominy of his circumstances through theatrical and comedic internalized role-play – they were lucky to have been born before the Age of Control. For the well-meaning educational reforms of the 1860s were the ultimate extension of those Benthamite exercises in control which had begun in the 1820s and 1830s. Having exercised their sway over the poor, the criminals, the agricultural and industrial classes, the civil service and – this was next – the military, the controllers had turned to the last free spirits left, the last potential anarchists: the children.

If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second-greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first-greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.

When the child turns thirteen, you’ll swear for a time that he’s missed everything you thought you had taught—manners, kindness, grace, and style. But then maturity begins to take over, and the little green shoots from former plantings start to emerge. It is one of the richest experiences in life to watch that blossoming at the latter end of childhood.

INTRODUCTION 0 to 3 MONTHS 1. Make the most of your hospital stay 2. Take care of your postpartum body 3. Take baby to the pediatrician . . . several times 4. Take newborn photos 5. Figure out breastfeeding 6. Get some sleep! 7. Manage Mom and Dad 8. Celebrate baby’s first milestones 9. Survive baby witching hour 10. Watch out for the blues 11. Get back in the sack 12. Get out of the house 13. Think about babywearing 3 to 6 MONTHS 14. Find your village 15. Prepare to go back to work, or not 16. Start some routines 17. Tame teething 18. Think about sleep training, or not 19. Teach baby sign language 20. Create a photo book 21. Reconnect with your partner 22. Don’t obsess over percentiles 23. Survive baby’s first illness 24. Make “me time” a priority 25. Interview sitters 26. Ready, Set, Eat: Start solid foods 6 to 9 MONTHS 27. Time to babyproof 28. Deal with separation anxiety 29. Work on those motor skills 30. Get back to your workouts 31. Plan a getaway 32. Start brushing teeth 33. Make mom friends 34. Start traditions 9 to 12 MONTHS 35. Get an adjustment 36. Ask for help 37. Think about discipline 38. Think about weaning, or not 39. Sign up for a mommy-and-me (or daddy-and-me) class 40. Take care of your diet 41. Capture your memories 42. Reignite your style 43. Embrace your new body 44. Trust your instincts 45. Book a couple’s getaway 46. Get your affairs in order 47. Do a cake smash photo shoot 48. Find a hobby 49. Learn to save money 50. Celebrate baby’s first birthday

If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favor you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”—DOROTHY PARKER

She was eighteen-going-on-a-hundred and meth-skinny. Her thrift store coat had a tear in the sleeve and a style that hankered after the days when disco was king.

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The bride's sleek dark hair was smoothed into an unusually restrained knot, but she'd stuck to her guns with the heavy black eyeliner. Her lacy black dress was a little funereal, but clearly a compromise between her own preference for Victoriana and the palace's idea of appropriate styling for a photo shoot that would make the history books. The groom was wearing a pink shirt, and his curls were fluffy. It was like a grown-up Emily the Strange marrying Bertie Wooster. The smiles were natural, the body language extremely affectionate, but their knuckles were white. Nerves or tension? Sylvie studied the cover shot for a few more seconds, then scrolled down to the article. The journalist would have had a lot of the copy sitting ready to go. This had been on the rumor mill since their first joint public appearance. The union between the king's eldest granddaughter and the youngest son of a baronet, who, according to this tabloid, had inherited neither land nor brain cells from his parents. The overgrown Goth princess and a stuttering social climber with all the poise and sophistication of a golden retriever. Charming.

The night is the frenetic fox darting across a roadway in a flash of orange. It is being tailed by the police for a whole fucking mile, with both hands firmly wrapped about the steering wheel. It is spying a shooting star blinking across the horizon, and everybody saying did- you-see-that. The bustling truck-stops. and the blotter- dark nights, when driving safely seems difficult. The fush-fush of cars speeding ahead in an overpass highway. The bloated raccoon knocking the garbage cans over and the waddling lamp-eyed possum strolling past, within a few feet even, as you sit on the front porch and smoke. It is drunken talk at 1 AM, conversation of substance, depth and style, when all errant ideas are concocted. It is fanning motor-heat lathering the chest and skinny legs in the cold car. Sudden, abrupt episodes of fatigue that make you retire to bed earlier than usual. This is the night given to snapshot, light-bath revelations that sends one running for notepad and pen, and repeating, out loud, the premise over and over as you stride. The night is a strange, curdling scream at 3 am, wondering if it is a cat, a coyote, a baby.

Catch Either/Or Thinking Anxious perfectionists will typically think “I need to perform flawlessly at all times,” with their underlying assumption being “or else it will result in disaster.” This is a common type of thinking trap termed either/or thinking. In this case, the either/or is this: Either there is flawless performance or complete and utter failure, and nothing in between. Not only can this style of thinking make you feel crushed when you don’t meet your own ideal standards, but it also often leads to perfectionism paralysis. Take, for example, an artist who sees his future career prospects as becoming either the next Picasso or a penniless flop; this person doesn’t see other possible outcomes in between. You can see how this would give the artist a creative block. For other folks, their hidden assumption may be slightly different: “Either I need to perform flawlessly at all times, or other people will reject me.” When I look back at my clinical psychology training, I realize I had this belief at that time. At a semiconscious level, I thought that the only way to prevent getting booted out of the program was to score at the top of the class for every test or assignment. Ultra-high standards often arise because a person is trying to hide imagined catastrophic flaws. In this scenario, people often think that if their flaws get revealed they’ll be shunned, and so the only way to conceal their defects is by always excelling. When people who have this belief do excel, their brain jumps to the conclusion that excelling was the only reason they managed to avoid catastrophe. This then perpetuates their belief that excelling is necessary for preventing future disasters. Researchers have used the term clinical perfectionism to describe the most problematic kind of perfectionism. When clinical perfectionists manage to meet their ultra-high standards, they often conclude that those standards must not have been high enough and revise them upward, meaning they can never feel any sense of peace. All this being said, I’m not suggesting you shoot for “acceptable” performance standards if you’re capable of excellence. Most of the anxious perfectionists I’ve worked with would hate that. It’s not in their nature to feel comfortable with mediocre performance.

Doodle Jump: The Addictive Classic That Never Gets Old Doodle Jump is one of those rare mobile games that has stood the test of time. First launched in 2009 by Lima Sky, it quickly became a household name and a must-have game on smartphones. With its simple yet incredibly addictive gameplay, Doodle Jump continues to capture the attention of both casual and hardcore gamers. In this post, we’ll explore what makes Doodle Jump so special and why it remains a top mobile game even after more than a decade. What is Doodle Jump? At its core, Doodle Jump is a vertical-scrolling platformer where you control a cute, four-legged creature called “The Doodler.” Your goal is simple: jump as high as possible by bouncing from one platform to another, avoiding enemies and obstacles along the way. The further you go, the higher your score. But don’t be fooled by the simplicity—Doodle Jump is packed with unique features and charming elements that make it endlessly entertaining. Standout Features of Doodle Jump 1.

Doodle Jump: The Addictive Classic That Never Gets Old Doodle Jump is one of those rare mobile games that has stood the test of time. First launched in 2009 by Lima Sky, it quickly became a household name and a must-have game on smartphones. With its simple yet incredibly addictive gameplay, Doodle Jump continues to capture the attention of both casual and hardcore gamers. In this post, we’ll explore what makes Doodle Jump so special and why it remains a top mobile game even after more than a decade. What is Doodle Jump? At its core, Doodle Jump is a vertical-scrolling platformer where you control a cute, four-legged creature called “The Doodler.” Your goal is simple: jump as high as possible by bouncing from one platform to another, avoiding enemies and obstacles along the way. The further you go, the higher your score. But don’t be fooled by the simplicity—Doodle Jump is packed with unique features and charming elements that make it endlessly entertaining. Standout Features of Doodle Jump 1. Simple Controls, Endless Fun One of the main reasons for Doodle Jump’s popularity is its intuitive control system. You tilt your phone to move left or right and tap the screen to shoot. No complex tutorials or learning curves—just jump in and play. 2. Charming Hand-Drawn Aesthetic The game’s distinctive “doodle” art style looks like it was sketched in a notebook—and that’s exactly the point. This playful, creative design gives the game its signature look and keeps it lighthearted and visually fun. 3. Challenging Yet Rewarding Gameplay As you climb higher, the platforms become trickier, enemies more aggressive, and obstacles more unpredictable. The game’s increasing difficulty makes it exciting and keeps players coming back to beat their high scores. 4. Power-Ups and Enemies Doodle Jump features a variety of power-ups like jetpacks, trampolines, and propeller hats that help you climb faster. But watch out for black holes, UFOs, and monsters that can end your run in an instant! 5. Multiple Themes and Worlds From space to underwater adventures, ninja levels, and jungle settings—Doodle Jump keeps things fresh with multiple themed environments. Each theme offers a unique twist, keeping gameplay exciting and unpredictable. Why People Still Love Doodle Jump Today Despite the rise of more complex and graphic-heavy mobile games, Doodle Jump continues to shine due to its accessibility and timeless appeal. It’s the perfect game to kill a few minutes while waiting in line, and the quick restarts make it dangerously easy to say, “Just one more try!” Plus, with global leaderboards and in-game achievements, there’s always a reason to keep jumping. Final Thoughts Whether you're new to mobile gaming or just feeling nostalgic, Doodle Jump is a perfect reminder that sometimes, the simplest games are the most fun. Its charming visuals, smooth gameplay, and addictive design make it a must-play—even in 2025.

You know...inseminate me like a cow. Turkey baster style. You can buy the kits on Amazon. Just pull the semen up into the syringe and shoot it up my bajingo.” She certainly has a way with words.