Tag That Person Quotes

Maybe happiness didn't have to be about the big, sweeping circumstances, about having everything in your life in place. Maybe it was about stringing together a bunch of small pleasures. Wearing slippers and watching the Miss Universe contest. Eating a brownie with vanilla ice cream. Getting to level seven in Dragon Master and knowing there were twenty more levels to go. Maybe happiness was just a matter of the little upticks- the traffic signal that said "Walk" the second you go there- and downticks- the itch tag at the back of your collar- that happened to every person in the course of the day. Maybe everybody had the same allotted measure of happiness within each day. maybe it didn't matter if you were a world-famous heartthrob or a painful geek. Maybe it didn't matter if your friend was possibly dying. Maybe you just got through it. Maybe that was all you could ask for.

Ever since it became theoretically evident that our precious personal identities were just brand-tags for trading crumbs of labour-power on the libidino-economic junk circuit, the vestiges of authorial theatricality have been wearing thinner.

Prayer is an insurance policy that you can never lapse on.

They all call me "Excuse me," even though my nametag clearly says "Jordan." It's like people don't actually exist while they're working. Workers are just tools who aren't supposed to have feelings or personalities. You don't become human until your shift is over. Until then, we're all just zombies. We're dead to the world: infected people who need to be avoided, unless, of course, someone needs to know where the paintbrushes are located.

Cyber bullying occurs online daily. Most don't consider their actions or words to be bullying. Here's a few clues that you're a cyber bully. (1) You post information about someone in order to ruin their character. (2) You post threats to someone. (3) You tag someone in vulgar degrading posts. (4) You post any information intended to harm or shame another individual seeking to gain attention. Then, you are a cyber bully and need to get some help.

The wrong man is not always wrong because of his wrong actions, often he is wrong because of no actions.

Sacrifice of the self is sheer stupidity if sacrifice is not for the self.

There has been no single influence which has done more to prevent man from finding God and rebuilding his character, has done more to lower the moral tone of society than the denial of personal guilt. This repudiation of man’s personal responsibility for his action is falsely justified in two ways: by assuming that man is only an animal and by giving a sense of guilt the tag “morbid.

I had always been an atheist until I met Lenny. He was too wonderously complex and good for there to be no benevolent and intelligent force behind our marvelous cosmos. Lenny gave me the actual proof my fiercely skeptical mind had always demanded. Not some logical, 37-step proof of God's existence. It was a personal proof. And it was irrefutable.

I Don't Write Because God Gives Me A Fresh Word Everyday, I write Because of The Words He Has Already Spoken Yesterday That Changed Today.

Nancy began again, and she knew she was going to off-load to Infante the anger she had caught from the kid. Life was just a long game of emotional tag, one bad mood passing from person to person.

The cognitive difference between believing that a proposition is true (which requires no work beyond understanding it) and believing that it is false (which requires adding and remembering a mental tag) has enormous implications for a writer. The most obvious is that a negative statement such as The king is not dead is harder on the reader than an affirmative one like The king is alive.20 Every negation requires mental homework, and when a sentence contains many of them the reader can be overwhelmed. Even worse, a sentence can have more negations than you think it does.

Maybe happiness didn’t have to be about the big, sweeping circumstances, about having everything in your life in place. Maybe it was about stringing together a bunch of small pleasures… Maybe happiness was just a matter of the little upticks—the traffic signal that said “Walk” the second you got there—and downticks—the itchy tag at the back of your collar—that happened to every person in the course of a day. Maybe everybody had the same allotted measure of happiness within each day.

sex has a price tag. What price will you write on the tag? Is it something cheap, that can be given away with no commitment and short-term fulfilment. Or is it a precious, intimate gift, to be shared with one person under the covenant of marriage?

The Stasi had used radiation to mark people and objects it wanted to track. It developed a range of radioactive tags including irradiated pins it could surreptitiously insert into a person’s clothing, radioactive magnets to place on cars, and radioactive pellets to shoot into tyres.

We invariably have an internalised personal code of honour, an inner voice that embodies us with a sincere, strong sense of decency that surpasses Rag, Tag & Bobtail’s acquiescence to law and ethics. Think Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, Terry McCann from Minder or the heroic English folklore outlaw, Robin Hood.

Besides, my confidence that every person can be cured of his or her false beliefs through evidence has meanwhile significantly diminished. Oh, Mr. Brecht, I often think, people can really see an apple fall to the ground an simultaneously believe it when someone claims: It isn't falling. And there it is still the matter of more obvious natural laws!

What I have to face is that 'Barb,' the name on my ID tag, is not exactly the same person as Barbara. 'Barb' is what I was called as a child, and still am by my siblings, and I sense that at some level I'm regressing. Take away the career and the higher education, and maybe what you're left with is this original Barb, the one who might have ended up working at Wal-Mart for real if her father hadn't managed to climb out of the mines. So it's interesting, and more than a little disturbing, to see how Barb turned out — that she's meaner and slyer than I am, more cherishing of grudges, and not quite as smart as I'd hoped.

The price tag of social change has come in the form of stress and stress-related physical disorders, such as heart attacks, strokes, and hypertension. We must now confront the possibility that mental illness has become part of the psychological price.

Advising the average person to not concern herself with calories but instead to pay attention to hunger triggers and eating foods rick in nutrients--well, it's a wonderful concept. I also love the thought of unicorns jumping over cotton candy rainbows. I'm even considering taking up basketball to see if it makes me taller. Come on already! Suggesting that someone who struggles with his weight does not need to think about calories is as risky as suggesting you not look at price tags the next time you're in the market for a car.

It is often said of the gold rush that the people who got rich were the shovel dealers who profited from the greed of the forty-niners. With Beanie Babies, most of the lasting personal fortunes came from selling books and tag protectors, not from speculating in plush.

I can’t help but think, does money determine if I am good enough? If I was in your shoes, would life pity me or accept me because of what I have? Why can’t people look at others for who they are instead of putting a price tag on a person because of the type of car they drive or the kind of house they live in? I guess that’s life.

In India we're fighting to retain a wilderness that we have. Whereas in the west, it's gone. Every person that's walking down the street is a walking bar code. You can tell where their clothes are from, how much they cost, which designer made which shoe, which shop you bought each item from. Everything is civilized and tagged and valued and numbered and put in it's place. Whereas in India, the wilderness still exists-the unindoctrinated wilderness of the mind, full of untold secrets and wild imaginings.

Wrong Planet people will always be hated by certain Rag Tags who love to try and expose what is wrong with you because they simply can’t stand what is right with you. In addition, that jealousy eats up their beauty. That’s why they look the way they do. Rag Tags need to have more faith in themselves. Blowing out someone else’s candle will never make theirs shine any brighter. That’s why people dislike Fergie, because she’s a true Wrong Planet person. She’s fun and a bit too wild for the Royal Family, and she has a wicked side.

The purpose of a profession is to fulfil the personal wishes of a prospect.

Everyone trades in lives. Soldiers are just more obvious about it. Wages trade money for a part of a person’s lifetime. The price tag is just a measure of the portion.

Sie warten also, wenn auch unbewusst, auf den Augenblick, in dem Sie erkennen, dass Sie tatsächlich anders sind; dass dort draußen Menschen sind wie Madame, die ihnen weder Übles wollen noch Hass gegen Sie empfinden, und doch schon beim Gedanken an Ihre Existenz, an die Art und Weise, wie Sie zur Welt kamen, erschaudern und sich vor der Vorstellung fürchten, sie könnten von Ihnen berührt werden. Wenn Sie sich das erste Mal mit den Augen einer solchen Person sehen, wird Ihnen kalt ums Herz. Es ist, als sähen Sie einen Spiegel, an dem Sie jeden Tag Ihres Lebens vorbeigegangen sind, und auf einmal zeigt er Ihnen etwas anderes, etwas Fremdes, Verstörendes.

I’m not sure how the ponies happened, though I have an inkling: “Can I get you anything?” I’ll say, getting up from a dinner table, “Coffee, tea, a pony?” People rarely laugh at this, especially if they’ve heard it before. “This party’s ‘sposed to be fun,” a friend will say. “Really? Will there be pony rides?” It’s a nervous tic and a cheap joke, cheapened further by the frequency with which I use it. For that same reason, it’s hard to weed it out of my speech – most of the time I don’t even realize I’m saying it. There are little elements in a person’s life, minor fibers that become unintentionally tangled with your personality. Sometimes it’s a patent phrase, sometimes it’s a perfume, sometimes it’s a wristwatch. For me, it is the constant referencing of ponies. I don’t even like ponies. If I made one of my throwaway equine requests and someone produced an actual pony, Juan-Valdez-style, I would run very fast in the other direction. During a few summers at camp, I rode a chronically dehydrated pony named Brandy who would jolt down without notice to lick the grass outside the corral and I would careen forward, my helmet tipping to cover my eyes. I do, however, like ponies on the abstract. Who doesn’t? It’s like those movies with the animated insects. Sure, the baby cockroach seems cute with CGI eyelashes, but how would you feel about fifty of her real-life counterparts living in your oven? And that’s precisely the manner in which the ponies clomped their way into my regular speech: abstractly. “I have something for you,” a guy will say on our first date. “Is it a pony?” No. It’s usually a movie ticket or his cell phone number. But on our second date, if I ask again, I’m pretty sure I’m getting a pony. And thus the Pony drawer came to be. It’s uncomfortable to admit, but almost every guy I have ever dated has unwittingly made a contribution to the stable. The retro pony from the ‘50s was from the most thoughtful guy I have ever known. The one with the glitter horseshoes was from a boy who would later turn out to be straight somehow, not gay. The one with the rainbow haunches was from a librarian, whom I broke up with because I felt the chemistry just wasn’t right, and the one with the price tag stuck on the back was given to me by a narcissist who was so impressed with his gift he forgot to remover the sticker. Each one of them marks the beginning of a new relationship. I don’t mean to hint. It’s not a hint, actually, it’s a flat out demand: I. Want. A. Pony. I think what happens is that young relationships are eager to build up a romantic repertoire of private jokes, especially in the city where there’s not always a great “how we met” story behind every great love affair. People meet at bars, through mutual friends, on dating sites, or because they work in the same industry. Just once a coworker of mine, asked me out between two stops on the N train. We were holding the same pole and he said, “I know this sounds completely insane, bean sprout, but would you like to go to a very public place with me and have a drink or something...?” I looked into his seemingly non-psycho-killing, rent-paying, Sunday Times-subscribing eyes and said, “Sure, why the hell not?” He never bought me a pony. But he didn’t have to, if you know what I mean.

It's not like you ate Filipino food all the time. You loved Emperor's Way takeout, and the friendly Chinese girl there who you were too shy to ask but whose name tag said to call her Ming always gave you extra sauce for your orange chicken. The sweet potato pie from Butter was absolutely to die for, and it made you feel soft and warm the same way Lola's leche flan did. The youngest Manzano once handed you a delicious pastry without prompting or demanding payment before drifting away, seemingly lost in a world of her own. If this was a marketing strategy for their pastelería, it worked. But you could tell that there were differences in the way they cooked and baked, that they took old and treasured recipes and put in their own unique, modern spin to them. Why couldn't you do the same?

Politics is the science of domination, and persons in the process of enlargement and illumination are notoriously difficult to control. Therefore, to protect its vested interests, politics usurped religion a very long time ago. Kings bought off priests with land and adornments. Together, they drained the shady ponds and replaced them with fish tanks. The walls of the tanks were constructed of ignorance and superstition, held together with fear. They called the tanks “synagogues” or “churches” or “mosques.” After the tanks were in place, nobody talked much about soul anymore. Instead, they talked about spirit. Soul is hot and heavy. Spirit is cool, abstract, detached. Soul is connected to the earth and its waters. Spirit is connected to the sky and its gases. Out of the gases springs fire. Firepower. It has been observed that the logical extension of all politics is war. Once religion became political, the exercise of it, too, could be said to lead sooner or later to war. “War is hell.” Thus, religious belief propels us straight to hell. History unwaveringly supports this view. (Each modern religion has boasted that it and it alone is on speaking terms with the Deity, and its adherents have been quite willing to die—or kill—to support its presumptuous claims.) Not every silty bayou could be drained, of course. The soulfish that bubbled and snapped in the few remaining ponds were tagged “mystics.” They were regarded as mavericks, exotic and inferior. If they splashed too high, they were thought to be threatening and in need of extermination. The fearful flounders in the tanks, now psychologically dependent upon addictive spirit flakes, had forgotten that once upon a time they, too, had been mystical. Religion is nothing but institutionalized mysticism. The catch is, mysticism does not lend itself to institutionalization. The moment we attempt to organize mysticism, we destroy its essence. Religion, then, is mysticism in which the mystical has been killed. Or, at least diminished. Those who witness the dropping of the fourth veil might see clearly what Spike Cohen and Roland Abu Hadee dimly suspected: that not only is religion divisive and oppressive, it is also a denial of all that is divine in people; it is a suffocation of the soul.

He followed me into my fucking bathroom.” Kai turned to his brother. “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to find a new best friend.” Big Tag had a private bathroom. He took that shit seriously. “Do you understand what it means to be the only man in the fucking house? My kids don’t care about privacy. My wife thinks intimacy means I shouldn’t be able to spend an hour alone in the bathroom. I like my personal time, motherfucker. The only time I get it is here. Have you ever had to take a piss with not one but two babies in your arms?

In ancient Iran, for example, every single person or object in the mundane world (getik) was held to have its counterpart in the archetypal world of sacred reality (menok). This is a perspective that is difficult for us to appreciate in the modern world, since we see autonomy and independence as supreme human values. Yet the famous tag post coitum omne animal tristis est still expresses a common experience: after an intense and eagerly anticipated moment, we often feel that we have missed something greater that remains just beyond our grasp.

The promise of the future is not free. There is a price to be paid for any future reward. The price the future exacts from us involves discipline, labor, consistency and a burning desire to make the future better than either the past or the present. Those are the price tags of progress, but the price gets easy when the promise becomes clear. When the end becomes attractive, we become keenly interested in the means. We must see and want the promise with an insatiable desire, or the price it requires will overcome our wishes, and we will fall back to where we once were.

Who knows what advantages you might find in a smaller home, even beyond what you were initially hoping for, after you move in? Maybe you'll be inspired to become a more creative person when you take up residence in a quaint older neighborhood and get out of that suburban tract where you can have a house of any color as long as it's beige. Maybe by putting your preadolescent kids in a bedroom together, they'll socialize better and develop closer bonds. Maybe you and your spouse will rediscover each other when you're actually spending time together instead of tag-teaming on chores.

I knocked softly and then opened the door. Abby was leaning against the desk across the room with one leg propped up on a chair, barefoot. She was wearing a charcoal T-shirt, sky-blue jeans, and a necklace that looked like dog tags. My first thought: There she is. That’s my person. She’d later tell me that her first thought had been: There she is. That’s my wife. She smiled. It was not a casual smile. It was a smile that said: There you are and here we are, finally. She stood up and walked toward me. I let the door shut behind me, my bags still out in the hallway. She wrapped her arms around me. We melted, my head into her chest, her heart beating through her T-shirt onto my skin. She was shaking and I was shaking, and we both, for a long while, stood there and breathed each other in and held each other and shook together. Then she pulled away and looked into my eyes. That was the moment we locked. Then The kiss. The wall. The bed. White dress on the floor. Naked, unafraid. The original plan. On Earth as it is in heaven. I never looked away from her. Not once. The longer we’ve been together, the more naked and unafraid I’ve become. I don’t act anymore. I just want.

Many of the silliest ambiguities in the Internet memes come from newspaper headlines and magazine tag lines precisely because they have been stripped of all punctuation. Two of my favorites are MAN EATING PIRANHA MISTAKENLY SOLD AS PET FISH and RACHAEL RAY FINDS INSPIRATION IN COOKING HER FAMILY AND HER DOG. The first is missing the hyphen that bolts together the pieces of the compound word that was supposed to remind readers of the problem with piranhas, man-eating. The second is missing the commas that delimit the phrases making up the list of inspirations: cooking, her family, and her dog.

But the truth about quarantines was that you could never catch everyone in your net, not even if you tagged and tracked every person who’d come in contact with the Typhoid Mary. And in this case, there didn’t seem to be a Typhoid Mary. Instead, pockets of sickness had just bloomed up like hideous flowers in several places at once, and then spread so fast that tracing the vectors was something like impossible. And “the government”—well, Red had zero confidence that the government would be able to do anything. Not because it was full of bad people or there was a giant conspiracy or anything like that.

Bipasha: I thought you were a soldier, not a businessman. Lag: I’m in business to resolve disputes, and there are no good military options without profits. The non-military options without profits are even worse. No profits mean few good options for anyone. Harbin: As I’ve tried to tell you many times, we fight when it’s the low-cost solution for us, and we make others not fight by making it their high-cost solution. Bipasha: That’s a weird way of looking at it. Helton: Everyone trades in lives. Soldiers are just more obvious about it. Wages trade money for a part of a person’s lifetime. The price tag is just a measure of the portion.

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I remember the time I went to my first rare-book fair and saw how the first editions of Thoreau and Whitman and Crane had been carefully packaged in heat-shrunk plastic with the price tags on the inside. Somehow the simple addition of air-tight plastic bags had transformed the books from vehicles of liveliness into commodities, like bread made with chemicals to keep it from perishing. In commodity exchange it’s as if the buyer and the seller where both in plastic bags; there’s none of the contact of a gift exchange. There is neither motion nor emotion because the whole point is to keep the balance, to make sure the exchange itself doesn’t consume anything or involve one person with another. Consumer goods are consumed by their owners, not by their exchange. The desire to consume is a kind of lust. We long to have the world flow through us like air or food. We are thirsty and hungry for something that can only be carried inside bodies. But consumer goods merely bait this lust, they do not satisfy it. The consumer of commodities is invited to a meal without passion, a consumption that leads to neither satiation nor fire. He is a stranger seduced into feeding on the drippings of someone else’s capital without benefit of its inner nourishment, and he is hungry at the end of the meal, depressed and weary as we all feel when lust has dragged us from the house and led us to nothing.

I was raised on the struggle of elders - iron collars, severed feet, the rifle of dirty Harriet, and down through the years, the Muslims and regal Malcolm. But mostly what I saw around me was rank dishonor: cable and Atari plugged into every room, juvenile parenting, niggers sporting kicks with price tags that looked like mortgage bills. The Conscious among us knew the whole race was going down, that we'd freed ourselves from slavery and Jim Crow but not the great shackling of minds. The hoppers had no picture of the larger world. We thought all our battles were homegrown and personal, but, like an evil breeze at our back, we felt invisible hands at work, like someone else was still tugging at levers and pulling strings.

But the ability to hold the means of exchange (in defiance of Say’s law) also awakens a passion, a “lust for gold.” “The hoarding drive,” he says, “is boundless in its nature.” Witness Christopher Columbus: “Gold is a wonderful thing! Its owner is master of all he desires. Gold can even enable souls to enter Paradise” (229–30). Here Marx, quoting Columbus, returns to the idea that once you can hang a price tag on something, you can hang it on anything—even a person’s soul, as his allusion to the Catholic Church’s infamous medieval practice of selling indulgences (i.e., papal pardons that promised entry into heaven) suggests: Circulation becomes the great social retort into which everything is thrown, to come out again as the money crystal. Nothing is immune from this alchemy, the bones of the saints cannot withstand it. (229)

free.” On the edge of town, Fitzgerald saw a sight “that has never left my memory. It was a picture story of the death of one 82nd Airborne trooper. He had occupied a German foxhole and made it his personal Alamo. In a half circle around the hole lay the bodies of nine German soldiers. The body closest to the hole was only three feet away, a potato masher [grenade] in its fist.II The other distorted forms lay where they had fallen, testimony to the ferocity of the fight. His ammunition bandoliers were still on his shoulders, empty of M-1 clips. Cartridge cases littered the ground. His rifle stock was broken in two. He had fought alone and, like many others that night, he had died alone. “I looked at his dog tags. The name read Martin V. Hersh. I wrote the name down in a small prayer book I carried, hoping someday I would meet someone who knew him. I never did.”34

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We copy editors sometimes get a reputation for wanting to redirect the flow, change the course of the missile, have our way with a piece of prose. The image of the copy editor is of someone who favors a rigid consistency, a mean person who enjoys pointing out other people's errors, a lowly person who is just starting out on her career in publishing and is eager to make an impression, or, at worst, a bitter, thwarted person who wanted to be a writer and instead got stuck dotting the i's and crossing the t's and otherwise advancing the careers of other writers. I suppose I have been all of these. But good writers have a reason for doing things the way they do them, and if you tinker with their work ,taking it upon yourself to neutralize a slightly eccentric usage or zap a comma or sharpen the emphasis of something that the writer was deliberately keeping obscure, you are not helping. In my experience, the really great writers enjoy the editorial process. They weigh queries, and they accept or reject the for good reasons. They are not defensive. The whole point of having things read before publication is to test their effect on a general reader. You want to make sure when you go out there that the tag on the back of your collar isn't poking up—unless, of course, you are deliberately wearing your clothes inside out.

Muriah approached him with a new pair of khakis and a couple of T-shirts. “I guessed at the size so you might want to go try these on first.” He took the clothes and slid his arm around her waist, maneuvering her toward the fitting room. “Hey, I didn’t sign on to be your dresser.” She grumbled, but didn’t struggle. He pulled the door closed and turned to meet her eyes. “It’s light in here and full of people. Apep will not be able to surprise us, and his serpents cannot spy. We need to talk.” *** He stripped off the wet shirt, exposing his chiseled torso. She did her best not to choke on her tongue. His tanned skin and taut muscles tempted her, luring her to touch him. Turning around to give him privacy seemed like the right thing to do, but there wasn’t a hint of modesty in this Mayan god, and if he could handle getting this personal, then she could, too. When he unzipped the wet pants, she held her breath. Would an ancient guy wear underwear? She was about to find out. He bent over to lower the wet slacks. When he straightened up, she realized he’d been talking, but she didn’t have a clue what he had said. Instead, all her attention was focused on a fine trail of dark hair leading from just below his navel and disappearing under the low-slung elastic band of his boxer briefs. “Muriah?” Her gaze snapped up to meet his. Thank the universe he couldn’t read her thoughts. “Yeah?” “Did you hear my question?” He stood two feet from her in only his underwear, and he thought she was listening? He was either completely unaware of his sex appeal, or he was way too accustomed to being obeyed. Probably both. She cleared her throat. “I must’ve missed it.” A spark lit his eyes that told her he might have more than a clue to his sex appeal. He picked up the T-shirt and pulled it on. “I asked if you knew of another hotel closer to the airport so we can get out of New York as soon as the sun sets tomorrow.” “I’m sure I can find one.” She pulled out her phone, grateful to have something to pretend to focus on besides him tucking his package into the new khakis she pulled off the rack for him. “I probably should’ve grabbed some dry underwear, too.” “They are nearly dry now. I will be fine.” He popped the tags off, and she glanced up from her hotel search. “They’re not going to like you taking the tags off before you pay.” The corner of his mouth curved up. “They will be honored to take my money.” She groaned and rolled her eyes. “Do you ever not get your way?” He stepped closer to her, his chest an inch from hers until her back pressed against the modular wall of the fitting room. “Rarely.” His dark gaze held hers, and the deep rumble of his voice sent heat through her body. “But some things are worth the extra effort.

For me, the biggest conflict with the surgery date was that it fell on the same day as Cole’s junior/senior formal at school. The formal had been a big night for Reed two years earlier, with the highlight being a special ring ceremony. Juniors receive their senior rings and ask two special people in their lives to turn the ring on their finger. Reed has asked me to be one of those two people for him, which was a special honor for me. If Cole wants me there, I will reschedule Mia’s surgery. “Cole, who are you planning on having turn your ring?” I asked. “I didn’t get a ring, Mom. I really don’t want one,” Cole replied. Seriously? I thought. Boy, are you your father’s son or what? “All I really care about is getting some really good pictures.” I knew Cole was telling me the truth. He is not about fanfare or rituals. But he did want to remember the night. “Absolutely! I’ll make sure we have plenty of pictures of you,” I exclaimed. As it turned out, I think he was the most photographed student that night. Since I could not be there in person, people texted, e-mailed, and tagged me on Facebook with pictures of him. Again, my friends and Cole’s friends’ parents did what they could to help us through this difficult time. Something as simple as taking pictures was priceless to me. Yes, Cole was completely fine with my not being at the formal, but he was also sad that he could not be at the hospital for Mia. I assured him that there’s never a good time for surgery, and he shouldn’t feel guilty about attending his event--all of us wanted him to go and have a great time.

Do you know what I remember?” I ask suddenly. “What?” “The time Trevor’s shorts split open when you guys were playing basketball. And everybody was laughing so hard that Trevor started getting mad. But not you. You got on your bike and you rode all the way home and brought Trevor a pair of shorts. I was really impressed by that.” He has a faint half smile on his face. “Thanks.” Then we’re both quiet and still dancing. He’s an easy person to be quiet with. “John?” “Hmm?” I look up at him. “I have to tell you something.” “What?” “I’ve got you. I mean, I have your name. In the game.” “Seriously?” John looks genuinely disappointed, which makes me feel guilty. “Seriously. Sorry.” I press my hands against his shoulders. “Tag.” “Well, now you have Kavinsky. I was really looking forward to taking him out, too. I had a whole plan and everything.” All eagerness I ask, “What was your plan?” “Why should I tell the girl who just tagged me out?” he challenges, but it’s a weak challenge, just for show, and we both know he’s going to tell me. I play along. “Come on, Johnny, I’m not just the girl who tagged you out. I’m your pen pal.” John laughs a little. “All right, all right. I’ll help you.” The song ends and we step apart. “Thanks for the dance,” I say. After all this time, I finally know what it’s like to dance with John Ambrose McClaren. “So what would you have asked for if you won?” He doesn’t hesitate even one beat. “Your peanut butter chocolate cake with my name written in Reese’s Pieces.” I stare at him in surprise. That’s what he would have wished for? He could have anything and he wants my cake? I give him a curtsy. “I’m so honored.” “Well, it was a really good cake,” he says.

Starting a little over a decade ago, Target began building a vast data warehouse that assigned every shopper an identification code—known internally as the “Guest ID number”—that kept tabs on how each person shopped. When a customer used a Target-issued credit card, handed over a frequent-buyer tag at the register, redeemed a coupon that was mailed to their house, filled out a survey, mailed in a refund, phoned the customer help line, opened an email from Target, visited Target.com, or purchased anything online, the company’s computers took note. A record of each purchase was linked to that shopper’s Guest ID number along with information on everything else they’d ever bought. Also linked to that Guest ID number was demographic information that Target collected or purchased from other firms, including the shopper’s age, whether they were married and had kids, which part of town they lived in, how long it took them to drive to the store, an estimate of how much money they earned, if they’d moved recently, which websites they visited, the credit cards they carried in their wallet, and their home and mobile phone numbers. Target can purchase data that indicates a shopper’s ethnicity, their job history, what magazines they read, if they have ever declared bankruptcy, the year they bought (or lost) their house, where they went to college or graduate school, and whether they prefer certain brands of coffee, toilet paper, cereal, or applesauce. There are data peddlers such as InfiniGraph that “listen” to shoppers’ online conversations on message boards and Internet forums, and track which products people mention favorably. A firm named Rapleaf sells information on shoppers’ political leanings, reading habits, charitable giving, the number of cars they own, and whether they prefer religious news or deals on cigarettes. Other companies analyze photos that consumers post online, cataloging if they are obese or skinny, short or tall, hairy or bald, and what kinds of products they might want to buy as a result.

Editing is the most obvious way of manipulating vision. And yet, the camera sometimes sees what you don’t - a person in the background, for example, or an object moving in the wind. I like these accidents. My first full-length film, Esperanza, was about a woman I befriended on the Lower East Side when I was a film student at NYU. Esperanza had hoarded nearly all the portable objects she had touched every day for thirty years: the Chock Full O’Nuts paper coffee cups, copies of the Daily News, magazines, gum wrappers, price tags, receipts, rubber bands, plastic bags from the 99-cent store where she did most of her shopping, piles of clothes, torn towels, and bric-a-brac she had found in the street. Esperanza’s apartment consisted of floor-to-ceiling stacks of stuff. At first sight, the crowded apartment appeared to be pure chaos, but Esperanza explained to me that her piles were not random. Her paper cups had their own corner. These crenellated towers of yellowing, disintegrating waxed cardboard stood next to piles of newspapers … One evening, however, while I was watching the footage from a day’s filming, I found myself scrutinizing a pile of rags beside Esperanza’s mattress. I noticed that there were objects carefully tucked in among the fraying bits of coloured cloth: rows of pencils, stones, matchbooks, business cards. It was this sighting that led to the “explanation.” She was keenly aware that the world at large disapproved of her “lifestyle,” and that there was little room left for her in the apartment, but when I asked her about the objects among the rags, she said that she wanted to “keep them safe and sound.” The rags were beds for the things. “Both the beds and the ones that lay down on them,” she told me, “are nice and comfy.” It turned out that Esperanza felt for each and every thing she saved, as if the tags and town sweaters and dishes and postcards and newspapers and toys and rags were imbued with thoughts and feelings. After she saw the film, my mother said that Esperanza appeared to believe in a form of “panpsychism.” Mother said that this meant that mind is a fundamental feature of the universe and exists in everything, from stones to people. She said Spinoza subscribed to this view, and “it was a perfectly legitimate philosophical position.” Esperanza didn’t know anything about Spinoza … My mother believed and I believe in really looking hard at things because, after a while, what you see isn’t at all what you thought you were seeing just a short time before. looking at any person or object carefully means that it will become increasingly strange, and you will see more and more. I wanted my film about this lonely woman to break down visual and cultural cliches, to be an intimate portrait, not a piece of leering voyeurism about woman’s horrible accumulations.

When you have an honest heart, you do not get engaged nor get involved with any smear campaigns nor black propaganda! When you have an honest heart, you do not malign nor take advantage of generous people who helped and trusted you! When you have an honest heart, you do not shit on people whom you used and abused for three years! Do not fall into a political naïvety and become a victim or a doormat nor have your generosity and honest heart be used and abused by unscrupulous political movers, abusive, aggressive political harridans who scam gullible generous hearts by asking donations, funds, services, foods, urgent favours, and after using you and abusing your generosity, trust, and kindness; whereby these unscrupulous and deceptive political movers, abusive, aggressive political harridans intentionally and maliciously create forged screenshots of evidence convincing their audience or political groups that you are a mentally ill person, a brain-damaged person as they even brand you as "Sisang Baliw," or crazy Sisa, a threat, a risk, a danger, they maliciously and destructively red-tag your friends as communists, and they resort to calumny, libel and slander against you, to shame you, defame you, discredit you, blame you, hurt you, make you suffer for having known the truth of their deceptive global Operandi, and for something you didn’t do through their mob lynching, calumny, polemics mongering, forgery, and cyberbullying efforts. Their character assassination through libel and slander aims to ruin your integrity, persona, trustworthiness, and credibility with their destructive fabricated calumny, lies, identity theft, forged screenshots of polemics mongering, and framing up. Amidst all their forgery, fraud, libel and slander they committed: you have a right to defy and stop their habitual abuse without breaking the law and fight for your rights against any forms of aggression, public lynching, bullies, threats, blackmail, and their repetitive maltreatment or abuse, identity theft, forgery, deceptions fraud, scams, cyber libel, libel, and slander. When you defend human rights, you fight against corruption and injustice, help end impunity: be sure that you are not part of any misinformation, disinformation, smear campaigns and black propaganda. Do not serve, finance, or cater directly or indirectly for those dirty politicians. Those who are engaged in abusively dishonest ways do not serve to justify their end. Deceiving and scamming other people shall always be your lifetime self-inflicted karmic loss. Be a law-abiding citizen. Be respectful. Be honest. Be factual. Be truthful. You can be an effective human rights defender when you have clean and pure intentions, lawful and morally upright, and have an honest heart." ~ Angelica Hopes, an excerpt from Calunniatopia Book 1, Stronzata Trilogy Genre: inspirational, political, literary novel © 2021 Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn

When we are sold perfume, we are accustomed to also being sold the idea of a life we will never have. Coty's Chypre enabled Guerlain to create Mitsouko; Coty's Emeraude of 1921 was the bedrock on which Shalimar was built and Coty's L'Origan become the godmother of L'heure bleue, also by Guerlain. Some people dedicate themselves to making life beautiful. With instinctual good taste, magpie tendencies and a flair for color, they weave painfully exquisite tableaux, defining the look of an era. Paul Poiret was one such person. After his success, he went bust in 1929 and had to sell his leftover clothing stock as rags. Swept out of the picture by a new generation of designers, his style too ornate and Aladdinesque, Poiret ended his days as a street painter and died in poverty. It was Poiret who saw that symbolic nomenclature could turn us into frenzied followers, transforming our desire to own a perfume into desperation. The beauty industry has always been brilliant at turning insecurities into commercial opportunities. Readers could buy the cologne to relax during times of anxiety or revive themselves from strain. Particularly in the 1930s, releases came thick and fast, intended to give the impression of bounty, the provision of beauty to all women in the nation. Giving perfumes as a gift even came under the Soviet definition of kulturnost or "cultured behavior", including to aunts and teachers on International Women's Day. Mitsouko is a heartening scent to war when alone or rather, when not wanting to feel lonely. Using fragrance as part of a considered daily ritual, the territorial marking of our possessions and because it offers us a retrospective sense of naughtiness. You can never tell who is going to be a Nr. 5 wearer. No. 5 has the precision of well-cut clothes and that special appeal which comes from a clean, bare room free of the knick-knacks that would otherwise give away its age. Its versatility may well be connected to its abstraction. Gardenia perfumes are not usually the more esoteric or intellectual on the shelves but exist for those times when we demand simply to smell gorgeous. You can depend on the perfume industry to make light of the world's woes. No matter how bad things get, few obstacles can block the shimmer and glitz of a new fragrance. Perfume became so fashionable as a means of reinvention and recovery that the neurology department at Columbia University experimented with the administration of jasmine and tuberose perfumes, in conjunction with symphony music, to treat anxiety, hysteria and nightmares. Scent enthusiasts cared less for the nuances of a composition and more for the impact a scent would have in society. In Ancient Rome, the Stoics were concerned about the use of fragrance by women as a mask for seducing men or as a vehicle of deception. The Roman satirist Juvenal talked of women buying scent with adultery in mind and such fears were still around in the 1940s and they are here with us today. Similarly, in crime fiction, fragrance is often the thing that gives the perpetrator away. Specifically in film noir, scent gets associated with misdemeanors. With Opium, the drugs tag was simply the bait. What YSL was really marketing, with some genius, was perfume as me time: a daily opportunity to get languid and to care sod-all about anything or anyone else.

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Brendan McMahan HomeMy Books Browse ▾ Community ▾ Find Quotes Results for "J.R.Nyquist" Showing 161-167 of 167 (0.02 seconds) “This brief overview of our situation does not lend itself to an optimistic forecast. Too many of our fellow citizens, year after year, have hidden themselves in the “riskless private sphere,” resting on the safe possession of their “private property,” staying out of political controversies, yielding political ground to increasingly pathological narratives and persons. At long last this “riskless private sphere” is no longer safe. The exits have been blocked. A confrontation is now unavoidable.” ― J.R. Nyquist tags: ayn-rand, libertarianism 0 likes in my quotes “There is a silver lining to all this, according to Jean Bodin. If an insurrection fails, its poison is purged from the body politic. A deluded mob can be cured once its ringleaders are apprehended. And who are these ringleaders, in truth? At beginning of Bodin’s book, On Sovereignty, there is a listing of principles necessary to a well-ordered commonwealth. The cornerstone of these principles might surprise you. In the first place, wrote Bodin, right ordering involves distinguishing “a commonwealth from a band of thieves or pirates. With them one should have neither intercourse, commerce, nor alliance.” ― J.R. Nyquist tags: ayn-rand, libertarianism 0 likes in my quotes “Since most whites are ashamed of America’s past treatment of blacks, they are susceptible to “white guilt.” This guilt is now being exploited to advance a communist agenda, as opposed to the color-blind agenda envisioned by conservatives. The political significance of this cannot be underestimated. According to Trevor Loudon, the organizations behind today’s revolutionary unrest are Maoist; that is, they are ideologically allied with the Chinese Communists in Beijing.

Even after a century of effort, scientific research has not revealed a consistent, physical fingerprint for even a single emotion. When scientists attach electrodes to a person’s face and measure how facial muscles actually move during the experience of an emotion, they find tremendous variety, not uniformity. They find the same variety—the same absence of fingerprints—when they study the body and the brain. You can experience anger with or without a spike in blood pressure. You can experience fear with or without an amygdala, the brain region historically tagged as the home of fear. To be sure, hundreds of experiments offer some evidence for the classical view. But hundreds more cast that evidence into doubt. The only reasonable scientific conclusion, in my opinion, is that emotions are not what we typically think they are.

Der selbstgefällige Eindruck, den die Bundesrepublik von sich machte, als sie in den sechziger Jahren stolz von einem «Eingliederungswunder!» sprach, ist durch die Forschung der letzten Jahre korrigiert worden. Viele Deutschen verhielten sich ihren geflohenen Landsleuten gegenüber nicht weniger hartherzig als gegenüber den ausländischen DPs (Displaced Persons). Daraus könnte man den womöglich tröstlichen Schluss ziehen, ihr Egoismus sei zumindest nicht rassistisch motiviert gewesen. Doch die Vertriebenen wurden gern und häufig als «Zigeunerpack» beschimpft, mochten sie noch so blond und blauäugig sein. [...] Die Zuzügler, wie sie damals von der Verwaltung genannt wurden, trafen auf eine Mauer von Ablehnung. [...] Die Einheimischen, ob in Bayern oder Schleswig-Holstein, wehrten sich teilweise so vehement gegen die Einquartierungen, dass die Vertriebenen nur unter dem Schutz von Maschinengewehren in ihre zugewiesenen Behausungen geleitet werden konnten. Gegen deren Not wappneten sich die Bauern mit einer Sturheit, die die ihrer Ochsen weit übertraf. Der Schriftsteller Walter Kolbenhoff berichtete 1946 aus einem oberbayrischen Dorf: «Diese Bauern haben nie in Luftschutzkellern gesessen, als die Bomben hagelten und das Leben der Angehörigen erlosch. Sie sind nie frierend und hungernd über fremde Landstraßen gezogen. Sie haben, als die anderen jeden Tag, den ihnen das Leben erneut schenkte, wie eine Gabe begrüßten, auf ihren Höfen gesessen und Geld verdient. Aber dieses Schicksal hat sie nicht demütig gemacht. Es ist, als wäre alles nicht gewesen und als ginge alles sie nichts an.» [...] Besonders unwürdige Szenen spielten sich ab, wenn die Bauern selbst bestimmen konnten, wen aus der ankommenden Flüchtlingsgruppe sie aufzunehmen bereit waren. Es ging zu wie auf dem Sklavenmarkt. Man wählte unter den Männern die Kräftigsten, unter den Frauen die Schönsten und stieß die Schwachen unter höhnischen Bemerkungen weg. Manche Bauern sahen in den Vertriebenen einen ihnen rechtmäßig zustehenden Ersatz für die Zwangsarbeiter und reagierten wütend auf das Ansinnen, den «Polacken» künftig angemessenen Lohn zahlen zu sollen.

You are beyond a particular tag. You cannot be labeled. Be undefinable. Let them wonder who you are while you create a personality

If you want to know yourself, you have to be interested in yourself for the rest of your life. And you must remember one thing, You are beyond a particular tag. You cannot be labeled. Be undefinable. Let them wonder who you are while you create a personality for yourself that makes you fall in love with yourself every day.

Nope. I thought I might get him to slip up when I tagged him out in base quest, since he’s always been SUCH a sore loser. But he just laughed and told me, “Well played.” I swear it’s like he’s rehearsing all the perfect things to say. He actually might be. He knows he’s going back to that cell if he doesn’t convince everyone he’s a better person now. But wait—how did you beat him in base quest? Are you off your crutches? No—I’m just getting better at levitating. I . . . kinda had to after I got tangled in a chandelier my first night home. Seriously? Sophie cracked up as she tried to imagine that. Oh, it was way more humiliating than what you’re thinking, he told her, sharing his actual memories of the way the strings of crystals seemed to wrap around him like sparkly tentacles. How did you even manage to do that? she wondered. No idea. I was just trying to get upstairs and I launched myself too high, and then my sleeve got caught and I tried to untangle it and next thing I knew Biana was collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles and my dad was calling for the gnomes. It took five of them to free me. They had to stand on each other’s shoulders in a giant gnome stack. Sophie was laughing so hard that Sandor peeked his head into her room, probably making sure she wasn’t losing her mind. I wish I’d been there, she told Fitz. Me too. You probably could’ve floated up there and helped me. My parents were too busy laughing with Biana.

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I added the police report number, the morgue number, and the Laboratoire de Médecine Légale, or LML, number and experienced my usual wave of anger at the arrogant indifference of the system. Violent death allows no privacy. It plunders one’s dignity as surely as it has taken one’s life. The body is handled, scrutinized, and photographed, with a new series of digits allocated at each step. The victim becomes part of the evidence, an exhibit, on display for police, pathologists, forensic specialists, lawyers, and, eventually, jurors. Number it. Photograph it. Take samples. Tag the toe. While I am an active participant, I can never accept the impersonality of the system. It is like looting on the most personal level.

Note: I am sure that now they will approach Medium to stop me from writing. Let’s see what happens. “A genuine person or celebrity doesn’t need a certificate or blue tick. Such ways are blackmailing your passion, emotion, or willingness. Criminals and money-mongers misuse and try to earn in an ugly and easy way. This trend also discriminates against others who cannot afford such an awkward notion.” Istay determined every day. I cannot tolerate liars and those who misuse their authority and attempt to victimize the righteous for their will and purpose in an illegitimate way to please their godfathers of the mafia and international criminal intelligence agencies. I am pretty sure, after reviewing again the replies from the Twitter team that mirror and endorse the Twitter team, that someone works for intelligence agencies or criminal and mafia groups. Since the beginning months of this year, I have been continuously victimized without specifying why I was posting the wrong things. I am going to publish a few emails that will exhibit the picture of how I was being victimized, harassed, and even threatened about things that I was neither aware of nor that the team explained. I was already under the attacks of criminals and even the gang of filthy-minded gays who were suffering from mental issues and sexual frustration; knowing it, I am not gay. In the Twitter team, the presence of such ones is not excluded since I felt a similar style of victimization. How do they dare to adopt such mean tactics to gain their will and desire? This reply email shows that a screenshot article has been displayed since 2020. After four years, it became an issue for someone in the Twitter team who continued to lock my account and tag the restriction flag. Text of my emails; “I am still uncertain about what to post and what not to post. You didn’t specify why my account was locked, whether it was because of the content I removed or something else. Is it permissible for me to share media and social media links in which my quotes are mentioned? My writings do not contain any personal attacks; nonetheless, thank you.” “You locked my Twitter, @EhsanSehgal, again; you know why you are doing it. Now, I can say only goodbye to my locked account and enjoy your terror. It is not a protection of my account; it is victimization. No more requests to unlock my account. Someone of angelic character will do it without my request. Shame on you all, involved ones.” Team replied; Hello, “We had a look at your account, and it appears that everything is now resolved! If that’s not the case, please reply to this message, and we’ll continue to help. Thanks,” X Support This was a screenshot article from Wikipedia about me on my profile that was illegitimately removed by such people as the Twitter team forced me to remove. Despite that, they continued locking my account to identify and provide an ID or passport. I did that twice and identified several times, but the team seemed not satisfied since their goal was something else; they would not approach nor be able to do it. To stop such criminal torture, I deactivated my account and decided never to come back there again.

Was she wearing a tracking tag?” “She tends to get blackout drunk. At least with a tracking tag, if she can’t figure out where she is in the morning or loses her phone, I can find her.” I gawked at her. “Seriously? Even here?” She shrugged. “Levi’s not exactly the most responsible person. If she wanders off, I’m sure he just grabs the closest girl to warm his bed.

I got these for you." Andy makes himself tag on those last two words so Nick will know this wasn't an errand; it's a gesture. It's someone bringing flowers to the person he loves. Simple as that.

In actuality, many are—but on a personal level only. There is, in general, a double-mindedness about the free market among woke leaders. On the one hand, it is seen as wicked and inherently corrupt. On the other hand, woke scholars and activists do well by it—in some cases, obscenely well. Robin DiAngelo charges fifteen thousand dollars per speaking event and has earned over two million dollars from her book White Fragility, even while castigating capitalism as a racist economic system.64 Ibram Kendi and Ta-Nehisi Coates have even higher price tags: Kendi’s speaking fee is twenty-five thousand dollars, while Coates’s fee is between thirty thousand and forty thousand dollars per event.65 Even as these leaders decry “capitalism,” they make more in a day than many Americans make in a year.

How many books do we read from which the writer lacked courage to tie off the umbilical cord? How many gifts do we open from which the writer neglected to remove the price tag? Is it pertinent, is it courteous, for us to learn what it cost the writer personally?

A common pitfall I see is multiple cofounders trying to tag-team fundraising. This is nonoptimal. As with any business objective: one person needs to be ultimately responsible. With fundraising, one cofounder should take a leading role. The other cofounder should focus on keeping the business running and should be leveraged in a supporting role to: ● Attend a 2nd/3rd meeting with the investor (increases buy-in and adds another touchpoint) ● Amplify the shared network and investor introductions ● Help check references ● Take the blame for being a hard negotiator :-) As I hope I’ve illustrated, fundraising isn’t an afterthought — it requires this kind of discipline, follow-through, and planning to get right. Make that one person’s whole job, not two people’s shared job.

So... you and I are friends now?” she asked with a playful grin. “Well, no. I didn’t mean it like that. Like, I’m not gonna ask to tag along with you and your girls to go get your nails done. Not that I’m opposed,” he said, holding up his hands to reveal jet-black painted fingernails. “I just meant that you’re a person that I don’t necessarily hate interacting with. You know, from time to time.

In seven days they found 306 bodies, far more than they had anticipated, and 116 of these were buried at sea because of lack of identification. All of the bodies were numbered, were cataloged by description and personal effects, and had tags attached to their toes. Only three of the musicians were found and, although their numbers are close together, suggesting they were found near each other, they would appear to have been picked up on three consecutive days—Hume on April 23, a day that Hamilton described as full of “rain and fog”; Clarke on April 24, which was “cold, wet, miserable and comfortless”; and Hartley on April 25.

There is a misconception that those with ADHD lack the ability to pay attention or stay focused. The reality is that ADHD causes us to pay too much attention to everything most of the time—especially when it comes from our environment. We may become easily distracted by irrelevant information that our five senses are detecting: people whispering, crooked artwork on the wall, perfume that is too strong, the itchy tag of our T-shirt, lights that are too bright. Because we don’t have the filters to sift out unnecessary information, these distractions, which are nearly invisible to the neurotypical person, compete for our attention. Because of our brains that go ping! our attention is often inefficiently redirected.

When she was six months old, Mädchen was hit by a car and killed. Her food was still in the bowl when our father brought home an identical German shepherd, which the same Cindy thoughtfully christened Mädchen II. This tag-team progression was disconcerting, especially to the new dog, which was expected to possess both the knowledge and the personality of her predecessor. “Mädchen One would never have wet the floor like that,” my father would scold, and the dog would sigh, knowing she was the canine equivalent of a rebound.

I used to think that love was something a person fell into? Not anymore. It's an occurrence. A stupendous, spectacular incident. Something we never even realize how much we need until it's there.

You know I used to think that love was something a person fell into? Not anymore. It's an occurrence. A stupendous, spectacular incident. Something we never even realize how much we need until it's there.

Kai’s lips ticked up. “I don’t think you’ll convince Tag of anything. This is one man who could use some time on my couch. I dream about it at night, you know. Ian Taggart is one large mass of previously undiagnosed personality disorders. He’s a walking, talking Nobel Prize. Well, if they gave them out to psychologists.

My father came first," says a Missouri painter who consistently faces a work slump whenever she commits herself to submitting paintings for a show. "My mother was defined by him. If she behaved well he would love her, buy her presents, and take care of her - she was a queen. He did take care of her. She behaved, she ran the house. He bought her presents all the time." "Was she smart?" I asked. "I don't know," the woman replied. "I think she may have been, once. She stopped thinking." One reason Mother remains shadowy is that she was intimidated by the forceful, vivid personality of her husband. The peacemaker, a kind of half-person who chooses to tag along safely behind her husband, Mother is protected from the more abrasive aspects of life in the world. Huge fights, open power struggles - these were not characteristic of the girl's relationship with her elusive mother. (...) Mother was there (...). But she was also not there. (...) Father is active; Mother is passive. Father is able to rely on himself; Mother is helpless and dependent.

Now, there is a great deal of difference between a person who requires assistance or looks to be served, and one who is needy. The average person meets his or her fellow on more or less equal ground; needy individuals imagine their demands to be broadcast from a position of height, when in fact anyone coming to their aid usually views them as lacking in either intelligence or ambition—possibly both. The needy person, becoming a needy customer, is often the first to be waited upon and probably the first to be despised. Grace habitually emanated such weary neediness; she would ask the price of an object without first scrutinizing the tag hanging from it. “I

A person whom works exclusively for money places a price tag on his or her soul. A person whom labors to attain fame seeks a false form of adulation. The writer ignores the lure of a glamorous life by seeking to penetrate the darkness of their own being and meditate the larger issues that frame existence. A seeker knowingly follows a path that is barren, bleak, desolate, and unproductive in terms of attaining recognition and exulted social and financial status.

I told them my new entity would make a series of apps—I had learned the language well enough to counterfeit a convincing plan—constructed around the GPS location software now built into most every device. Users would tag their experience in the street, in bars and clubs, on different modes of public transport. “So, like Foursquare,” my interviewer said, with the doubt of a young person looking at an old man in front of a computer. “Exactly like that,” I said, “except that our users will record incidences of hate. We’ll be working initially to produce a live map—like a traffic congestion map—of more and less racist areas, safe routes home, institutionally racist police forces and local authorities, local populations. We’ll have a star rating system and so on. Eventually I want to roll out iterations for anyone who is not part of the obvious privileged class—for women, for trans people, for people of colour, for the blind and the deaf and so on so that we can map prejudice and racism intersectionally—but one must start somewhere, so I’m calling version one Walking Whilst Black. I have some concerns about the name because I don’t wish to rule out those who are in wheelchairs or mobility carts, but the phrase is there in the language and I feel it is well understood.

Fast forward to today. Americans still have very few options when it comes to trying the lesser-known varieties of charcutería available to the Spanish people. Hope exists, however, that this may be soon rectified, as evidenced by the sweeping acquittal of many Italian cured-meat imports in April 2013.20 For now, anyway, we can travel to Spain and consume to our heart’s content. We can buy what precious little is available in our country. We can make it ourselves. Or we can make a futile attempt at stuffing contraband pork into our suitcases and pray, with the wide-eyed, guilt-laden face of a Colombian drug mule, not to get busted by the Department of Homeland Security. Just know that on this point, dear reader, I can offer a bit of personal advice: Getting caught is an epic fail of disastrous proportions, even if it’s not your fault. Case in point: After a trip to Madrid and the surrounding countryside, my Spanish “family” thought that they’d surprise me with a little package of morcilla secreted away in my suitcase. It was a gesture borne of more heart than brains, as ultimately it truly was a great surprise—especially when I found myself tagged for an agricultural check at a particularly thorough US Customs checkpoint. I simply didn’t understand. I’d filled out my Customs card and done everything right. Yet there I was, unloading my dirty unmentionables on a counter for God, curious passersby, and the TSA to look over and admire. And that’s when I caught a waft of

It's like one blind person asking another blind person for directions. The first will speak softly,shout, try to entice, try to devalue not knowing the other can't see as well.The second will be amused and understanding their mutual handicap-enables the first.Either having a slightly better or worse sense of direction- wanting to go East takes them west.The first then takes over leading them north instead of south. The result is a monotonous cycle of miscommunication and speculation.An endless simulation of the game - tag you're it.Each leading each other astray till their need for sight and direction is met. The second tired and wanting to be a better person tells the first of their shared handicap.The direction thereafter becomes quite simple they can either get lost together each for their own reasons - till they find their way or they can split and go their own way to the people who will help them see where they're going.

the U.S. is on the precipice of a permanent shift that threatens to transform the country from a thriving, diverse community of religious believers who share a marketplace and a public square into a collection of separate mini-theocracies, where we are more concerned about the religion of the person sitting next to us than the fact that he or she is a fellow American, where an employee needs to know the religion of a Fortune 500 company's owners to know what the health coverage will be, and where goods are tagged with religious identity.

Und dann die Negative. Wie er die Negative vermisste. Sie waren die tatsächlichen Lichtstrahlen, die eine Landschaft, einen Gegenstand, eine Person reflektierten und die sich in den Film einbrannten. Fotonegative waren die wahrhaftigsten Zeugnisse, die man von seinen Erinnerungen bekommen konnte. Sie waren die Asche, die das Feuer hinterließ, der Bluterguss, der auf der Haut zurückblieb. Dasselbe Licht, das einem an dem Tag, als das Foto entstand, das Bild der Mutter, des Vaters oder des besten Freundes auf die Netzhaut projezierte, blieb für immer auf dem Film gespeichert. Und jetzt, als er auf das Foto von Idas durchsichtigen Zehen auf dem Bettlaken starrte, erkannte er, wie sehr ihre Füße Negativen glichen: Beide gehörten jener Halb-Welt zwischen Erinnerung und Gegenwart an. Das waren keine echten, beweglichen Zehen, mit denen man laufen konnte, sondern ein Spiel des Lichts, das andeutete, wo einst Zehen gewesen waren.

Money Is an Energy" Everybody is already someone else An existential tag line Money is current I would like to not live paycheck to paycheck You could make a pun on currency but not quite Money is an energy nonetheless Dark space Dark water A long silent drive Dark matter(s) Driving is my personality The methods of one wor(l)d revealing the hidden harmonies of another Prayer card Lotto ticket You occupy my pocket My payment has not arrived

One danger zone is dialogue ... At the moment of ultimate showing, we writers get nervous. ... We allow characters to tell us about the story, to soliloquize, to have insights into their lives that no real person could manage. We also work very hard to control the part of dialogue that is not in the character's voice - the tags. We have the characters chortle and wheeze and whisper and whine; we use adverbs to remind the reader and reassure ourselves how things are being said. A nice contrast to this tendency is the following conversation, form Ernest Hemingway's story 'The Sea Change': 'No thanks,' he said. 'It doesn't do any good to say I'm sorry.' 'No.' 'Nor to tell you how it is?' 'I'd rather not hear.' 'I love you very much.' 'Yes, this proves it.' 'I'm sorry,' she said, 'if you don't understand.' 'I understand. That's the trouble. I understand.' How different our experience would be if the storytelling were more anxious: 'No thanks,' he said bitterly, the words sharp in his mouth. 'It doesn't do any good to say I'm sorry?' she poignantly wondered. 'No.' Phil touched her hand with his, then drew it away. He ground his teeth. 'Nor to tell you how it is?' she Sapphically queried. 'I'd rather not hear,' he groused. 'I love you very much,' she said, perhaps ingenuously. (Peter Rock)

One of the reasons Kay laughs so much now is because in the beginning, when Phil was drinking and they didn’t have much money, there wasn’t a lot of laughing going on. But now we laugh at almost everything together. On our birthdays, Kay likes to send us very random cards, like Earth Day or graduation cards. Her favorite thing to do at Christmas is to give us gag gifts. After we’ve exchanged gifts as a family, she’ll give everybody a joke gift. Kay will often forget why she thought it was funny when she bought it. She’ll give someone salt and pepper shakers and won’t even remember why she gave them! Of course, Kay’s gift always say they’re from her dogs. If you get a present from her rat terriers-or some random famous person whose name is on the tag-you know it’s actually one of Kay’s gag gifts. Every one of Kay’s rat terriers has been named Jesse James or some version of his name, because if one dies she’ll still have another one with her. Somehow, that helps her cope with the trauma of losing one of her pets. She’s had like twenty of those dogs and they’ve all been named Jesse, JJ, or Jesse James II. She calls one of her dogs Bo-Bo, but his real name is Jesse James.

I want to run around and play, too. I want to play tag without constantly being “it,” because when I chase somebody now I’m ordered to make them a body that can never tag me back. I want to spin around until I get dizzy and feel like I have to puke. Then laugh and do it all over again. Not spin around to kill the person ready to stab me in the back and then vomit because of the resulting nausea. There’s a part of me that wants to do the things that I now think are too stupid or too childish; it’s just that part of me owes a debt to Death, and they’re playing a mean game of hide-and-seek.

Bad credit surgery loans are loan service that is basically meant to assist those borrowers who wish to go for a surgical procedure but they are not having ample amount of funds for financing their surgery. With the assistance of this loan service such borrowers can easily access the desired amount of funds along with the tag of their poor credit. The fund avail from this loan will also assist them to mend their awful credit status.

Mr. Nak taught me a trick. He told me to think of fear as a person who’s going to be around whether he’s invited or not. He said, “Think of him like a big ol’ bully pain-in-the-butt cousin you cain’t get rid of, an’ the only way to get your binniss done is to allow him to tag along, because he’s goin’ to anyway. Then don’t take your eye off him a minute, so he don’t get the chance to make you look like a horse’s patoot.

Let us assume a wealthy person who wants to apply for Rs 50 lakhs worth of shares. He is not eligible to apply with retail investor’s tag and would come under non institutional investor category. Quota for this category is mere 15 percent translating to Rs150 crores worth of shares. Rest would go to foreign institutional investors, mutual funds and qualified institutional investors.

But it isn’t the fun of DIY invention, urban exploration, physical danger, and civil disorder that the Z-Boys enjoyed in 1976. It is fun within serious limits, and for all of its thrills it is (by contrast) scripted. And rather obedient. The fact that there are public skateparks and high-performance skateboards signals progress: America has embraced this sport, as it did bicycles in the nineteenth century. Towns want to make skating safe and acceptable. The economy has more opportunity to grow. America is better off for all of this. Yet such government and commercial intervention in a sport that was born of radical liberty means that the fun itself has changed; it has become mediated. For the skaters who take pride in their flashy store-bought equipment have already missed the Z-Boys’ joke: Skating is a guerrilla activity. It’s the fun of beating, not supporting, the system. P. T. Barnum said it himself: all of business is humbug. How else could business turn a profit, if it didn’t trick you with advertising? If it didn’t hook you with its product? This particular brand of humbug was perfected in the late 1960s, when merchandise was developed and marketed and sold to make Americans feel like rebels. Now, as then, customers always pay for this privilege, and purveyors keep it safe (and generally clean) to curb their liability. They can’t afford customers taking real risks. Plus it’s bad for business to encourage real rebellion. And yet, marketers know Americans love fun—they have known this for centuries. And they know that Americans, especially kids, crave autonomy and participation, so they simulate the DIY experience at franchises like the Build-A-Bear “workshops,” where kids construct teddy bears from limited options, or “DIY” restaurants, where customers pay to grill their own steaks, fry their own pancakes, make their own Bloody Marys. These pay-to-play stores and restaurants are, in a sense, more active, more “fun,” than their traditional competition: that’s their big selling point. But in both cases (as Barnum knew) the joke is still on you: the personalized bear is a standardized mishmash, the personalized food is often inedible. As Las Vegas knows, the house always wins. In the history of radical American fun, pleasure comes from resistance, risk, and participation—the same virtues celebrated in the “Port Huron Statement” and the Digger Papers, in the flapper’s slang and the Pinkster Ode. In the history of commercial amusement, most pleasures for sale are by necessity passive. They curtail creativity and they limit participation (as they do, say, in a laser-tag arena) to a narrow range of calculated surprises, often amplified by dazzling technology. To this extent, TV and computer screens, from the tiny to the colossal, have become the scourge of American fun. The ubiquity of TV screens in public spaces (even in taxicabs and elevators) shows that such viewing isn’t amusement at all but rather an aggressive, ubiquitous distraction. Although a punky insurgency of heedless satire has stung the airwaves in recent decades—from equal-opportunity offenders like The Simpsons and South Park to Comedy Central’s rabble-rousing pundits, Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert—the prevailing “fun” of commercial amusement puts minimal demands on citizens, besides their time and money. TV’s inherent ease seems to be its appeal, but it also sends a sobering, Jumbotron-sized message about the health of the public sphere.

It seems to make little sense how a person's self-worth or self-confidence should be wrapped up in how much their jacket is worth or what shoe they are wearing. Does a person's round or pointy-tip shoe really say anything of value about who a person is? It seems that true luxury lies in a freedom from needing that red-bottom shoe, that handbag with all the tiny initials and big price tag, or the latest trend to know that a person truly matters. True luxury seems to lie in the separation of confidence and materialism. Authentic luxury flourishes from the untying of self-worth from popular opinion.

I realize I live in a city with a Jewish population of less than two percent, but the assumption that everyone celebrates Christmas has never not rubbed at me like the softest sweater’s sharp-edged tag. This time of year, it’s nearly constant. I’ve been the only person ever not wearing a Santa hat during a broadcast, and our social media blew up with accusations that I hated America.

It is we who make people big by our assesments and then a price tag is added to them.

Survival of urban trees increases when saplings are embedded within the human social network. A tree planted by its human neighbors will live longer than one placed by an anonymous contractor. When a tree bears a tag naming it and listing its needs- water, mulch, loose soil, no litter- the probability of its survival jumps to nearly 100 percent. Psychological bonds to trees in cities are often fierce. In my experience of talking with people about trees, New Yorkers echo, in their own way, Amazonia Waorani. Relationships with trees are deep and personal. Outrage flares when the conversation turns to trees heedlessly damaged, whether a tree in a Manhattan street damaged by building construction or an Amazonian ceibo tree cut to make room for a road. These wounds are keenly felt by the people who live with the tree, people whose lives are wrapped into the tree’s own narrative. Trees, especially those who grow close to human homes, are portals to unselfed experience.

Our mind is the most active part of the body, even when we are resting. It has an opinion about everything we see, listen to, touch, or feel. It tags and compares everything with its notions, which we built over the years. While meditating, we need to observe and analyze this over-reactive mind from a third-person perspective. That is real awareness.

may make a post on my Facebook wall or on my Instagram stories talking about an awesome podcast I heard or product I bought, telling other people that they should go buy it while tagging my Dream 100 person in the post.

Quando mi sento sopraffatta e non riesco a concentrarmi su una cosa sola, quando i miei pensieri orribili mi travolgono tutti insieme, è come se fossi uno di quei tornado giganteschi dei cartoni animati, quegli ammassi grigi e spessi che travolgono tutto al loro passaggio: l'ignaro postino, una mucca, un cane, un idrante. Quando divento un tornado tiro su tutte le cose brutte che ho fatto in vita mia, tutte le persone che ho imbrogliato e fregato alla grande, tutti i tagli che mi sono fatta, tutto, tutto. Quando divento un tornado vortico e vortico, diventando sempre più grande e affollato.

I threw away picture-frame wire, metal bookends, cork coasters, plastic key tags, dusty bottles of Mercurochrome and Vaseline, crusted paintbrushes, caked shoe brushes, clotted correction fluid. I threw away candle stubs, laminated placemats, frayed pot holders. I went after the padded clothes hangers, the magnetic memo clipboards. I was in a vengeful and near savage state. I bore a personal grudge against these things. Somehow they’d put me in this fix. They’d dragged me down, made escape impossible. The two girls followed me around, observing a respectful silence. I threw away my battered khaki canteen, my ridiculous hip boots. I threw away diplomas, certificates, awards and citations. When the girls stopped me, I was working the bathrooms, discarding used bars of soap, damp towels, shampoo bottles with streaked labels and missing caps.

Almost as sick as before, I clicked out the light and curled up in my own ball of misery. I couldn’t sleep. Images of her, so long repressed, played in my mind like a montage. The first time I laid eyes on her at the diner. Her sweet sensual face, those dorky glasses, her self-consciousness burning away with her growing anger. I recalled holding her slender curves while she thrashed around, desperately trying to escape from the one person who was trying the hardest to help her. The shocked anticipation on her face in the pharmacy when she thought I was going to kiss her. Even the unflattering florescent light couldn’t detract from her beauty, or hide her shame at her weakness for me. We had been drawn to each other, from the very beginning. And then I flashed forward to how we’d ended—with her leaving me for my mortal enemy. The one who’d back-handed her for kicking him in the shin and called her a “country bimbo.” The one who tagged and dragged her to The Academy against her will. The commander who put me in charge of this mission—to get his baby mama back. She was just a girl I used to know.