Turbo Quotes

I cannot stress this topic enough. As parents, we have to communicate with our children. "Sometimes we have to go into great details from the past and bring them to the present to remind them of how great of a person they are. We have to be their “turbo-charge” to renew their positive thoughts.

Motivation is what gets you into this game; learning is what helps you continue to play; creativity is how you steer; and flow is how you turbo-boost the results beyond all rational standards and reasonable expectations.

See this?" Isa pulled something dark and oblong out of her purse. Chance's mouth twitched. "Turbo Vagisil?" "No, it's a taser!

It’s NOT what happens to you but what you do with what happens to you that shapes your future

Sextus gave her turbo cancer.

At that point, when she'd been staring down the account-whoring, turbo-bitch's face, she wouldn't have much cared if her head spun around and she'd yarked up pea soup at warp speed all over her. At least it would have matched Linda's new color ranking.

You had to give credit to anyone who managed to excel at their chosen pastime, be it golf, hang-gliding or hoovering up cocaine with the speed and efficacy of a Dyson Turbo.

I COULD'VE BEEN TURBO

Ranger slung an arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the top of my head. “Someday I need to talk to you about car care.” “I know about car care. I kept a case of motor oil in the back.” “That’s my girl.” His Porsche 911 turbo

You're a beautiful young woman walking without an escort at one in the morning. Why doesn't one of your staff at least see you to your car?" "Because they're not sexist pigs who think women are incapable of taking care of themselves." Chance rolled his eyes. "This has nothing to do with feminism. I'm all for gender equality, but the fact remains that women are targeted for more specific crimes than men, and the perpetrators of those crimes often look for circumstances such as these to attack." "See this?" Isa pulled something dark and oblong out of her purse. Chance's mouth twitched. "Turbo Vagisil?" "No, It's a taser!" Isa said indignantly. "I can take care of myself, Chance. I've been doing that just fine for the past twenty-nine and a half years before you showed up, remember?

You can't let pain go beyond a certain level or you start doing crazy things : you swallow some Destop Turbo and your internal organs, composed of the same substances that usually block sinks, break down amidst horrible pain: or else you throw yourself under a metro and find yourself two legs short with your balls crushed to bits, but still alive.

The problem with all that falling in love was that eventually it had to come to an end, and the end would be painful.

Porsche 911 GT2 – Turbo Charged!

The Porsche 911 GT2 turbo-charged racer is one of the fastest and most powerful cars ever built!  It is a very famous car that is enjoyed by anyone who drives it.

Worry and guilt and regret may serve a function—as a turbo-charger of conscience—but in excess they are useless and incapacitating.

Ours is an age of onrushing turbo-capitalism, wherein the present feels more abbreviated than it used to be – at least for the world's privileged classes who live surrounded by technological time-savers that often compound the sensation of not having enough time. Consequently, one of the most pressing challenges of our age is how to adjust rapidly eroding attention spans to the slow erosions of environmental justice. If, under neoliberalism, the gulf between the enclaved rich and outcast poor has become ever more pronounced, ours is also an era of enclaved time wherein for many speed has become self-justifying, propulsive ethic that renders "uneventful" violence (to those who live remote from its attritional lethality) a weak claimant on our time. The attosecond pace of our age, with its restless technologies of infinite promise and infinite disappointment, prompts us to keep flicking and clicking distractedly in an insatiable –often insensate– quest for quicker sensation".

These same people were required to be adept at software. They’d pull an all-nighter building a turbo pump for the engine and then dig in the next night to retool a suite of applications used to control the engines. Hollman did this type of work all the time and was an all-star, but he was not alone among this group of young, nimble engineers who crossed disciplines out of necessity and the spirit of adventure. “There was an almost addictive quality to the experience,” Hollman said. “You’re twenty-four or twenty-five, and they’re trusting you with so much. It was very empowering.” To get to space,

Motivation is what gets you into this game; learning is what helps you continue to play; creativity is how you steer; and flow is how you turbo-boost the results beyond all rational standards and reasonable expectations. That, my friends, is the real art of impossible.

I haven’t hoovered, Meryl,” I said as Wilfred started to turbo crawl and disappeared round the back of the sofa. “It’s okay,” she said. “I want him to build up his resistance and be exposed to lots of germs. That’s one of the reasons we popped over.”  Rosencrantz and I looked at each other.

When we depend less on industrially produced food and live in the world’s quiet spaces,” she says, quoting something she read in the Whole Earth Catalog, her mouth still turbo-charged by the pills, “our bodies become vigorous. We discover the serenity of living in sync with the rhythms of the Earth. We cease oppressing one another.

My parents first rented a tiny apartment on Chapel Street with their black standard poodle, Turbo. When I arrived, they had to move out because the landlord allowed dogs but not babies. They found a place on Edwards Street, where the owner allowed babies but not dogs. Fortunately, I made the cut and Turbo went to live at Grove Lane.

Nothing moves forward in a story except through conflict. Writers who cannot grasp this truth, the truth of conflict, writers who have been misled by the counterfeit comforts of modern life into believing that life is easy once you know how to play the game. These writers give conflict a false inflection. The scripts they write fail for one of two reasons, either a glut of banal conflict or a lack of meaningful conflict. The former are exercises in turbo special effects written by those who follow textbook imperatives to create conflict but because they're disinterested in or insensitive to the honest struggles of life, devise overwrought excuses for mayhem. The latter are tedious portraits written in reaction against conflict itself, these writers take the pollyanna view, that life would really be nice if it weren't for conflict. What writers at these extremes fail to realize is that while the quality of conflict in life changes as it shifts from level to level, the quantity of conflict is constant. When we remove conflict from one level of life, it amplifies ten times over on another level. When, for example, we don't have to work from dawn to dark to put bread on the table, we now have time to reflect on the great conflict within our mind and heart or we may become aware of the terrible tyrannies and suffering in the world at large. As Jean-Paul Sartre expressed it, "The essence of reality is scarcity. There isn't enough love in the world, enough food, enough justice, enough time in life. To gain any sense of satisfaction in our life we must go in to heady conflict with the forces of scarcity. To be alive is to be in perpetual conflict at one or all three levels of our lives.

There’s a big difference between knowing what to do and doing what you know. A goal is the bridge that spans this gap.

What I lack in expertise I make up for with desperation and tenacity, because I only get paid when I catch someone.

Yeet!” said Jack, shambling out of his room. “Walking is for Normies. It’s a dank meme.

I RODE THE turbo elevator back up to the observation deck. The moment the elevator doors swished open and I stepped into the large domed room, the odor of burning cannabis filled my nose. The smell grew increasingly stronger the farther I ventured into the room, as did the familiar strains of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, punctuated by fits of only slightly suppressed laughter.

Dear Abba, I’m starting out free today, free from the advertised lies that promise me everything from four-doors of turbo-charged happiness to some contraption that will shake, rattle, and roll my abs back into a pack I never had even in my twenties. It would be comical if it wasn’t so sad: all of our desires to make ourselves worthy of this world but unfit for the world to come. I want to be a follower of the sacred dream, and one day arrive fully free, free at last.

Time was constructed with love in mind. It is why the moments before a desired kiss stretch, why when your lips are fully introduced with another pair, it feels as if they have wanted to meet for sometime, and why a day with your loved one can feel like an eternity on turbo-speed. Achingly, deliciously slow, but too fast, intertwined, they are both measures of life, they are two clocks. And, for love to operate as it should, it is imperative that the timing should be right.

and hearing him claim me as his, bypassed every instinct in my body that had pushed me to succeed on my own. It didn’t make me feel like I was worth more, but it gave me a turbo boost regardless of how stupid it was for me to take his statement out of context. It was useless to hope. Useless to love him. Care about him, sure. I’d cared about him for years. Had a massive crush on him during that time too. But this… It made me want to hope, and that was the last fucking thing I needed.

The last dealership had a Toyota Carina 1800 GT Twin-Cam Turbo and a Toyota Mark II. Both new, both with car stereos. I said I’d take the Carina. I didn’t have a crease of an idea what either car looked like. Having done that, I went to a record shop and bought a few cassettes. Johnny Mathis’s Greatest Hits, Zubin Mehta conducting Schönberg’s Verklärte Nacht, Kenny Burrell’s Stormy Sunday, Popular Ellington, Trevor Pinnock on the harpsichord playing the Brandenburg Concertos, and a Bob Dylan tape with Like A Rolling Stone. Mix’n’match. I wanted to cover the bases—how was I to know what kind of music would go with a Carina 1800 GT Twin-Cam Turbo?

One Friday, after a particularly shattering day at the office, in which my code reviews had all come back red with snotty comments, and my manager, Peter, had gently inquired about the pace of my refactoring ("perhaps not sufficiently turbo-charged"), I arrived home in a swirl of angst, with petulance and self-recrimination locked in ritual combat to determine which would ruin my night. On the phone with Beoreg, I ordered my food with a rattling sigh, and when his brother arrived at my door, he carried something different: a more compact tub containing a fiery red broth and not one but two slabs of bread for dipping. "Secret spicy," he whispered. The soup was so hot it burned the frustration out of my, and I went to bed feeling like a fresh plate, scalded and scraped clean.

I whirled on him. He was spattered with blood, breathing hard, head down, eyes narrowed, and fury was rolling off him in thick, dangerous waves. How dare he be furious with me? I was the wronged party! My battle was interrupted, bloodlust was bottled up inside me, a turbo engine revved to redline. “The vamp was mine< Barrons.” “Inspect his teeth, Ms. Lane,” he said tightly. “They were cosmetic enhancements. He was no vampire.” I punched him lightly in the shoulder. “I don’t care what he was! It was my fight, you bastard!” He punched me back with the same light, warning force. “You were taking too long to finish it up.” “Who are you to decide how long is too long?” I gave him another tap in the shoulder. He returned the blow with equal force. “You were enjoying it!” “I was not!” “You were smiling, bouncing on the balls of your feet, egging him on.” “I was trying to end the fight!” I punched his shoulder, hard this time. “You were way past trying to end it,” he snapped, punching me back. I nearly fell over. “You were prolonging it. You were glorying in it.” “You don’t know what the feck you’re talking about!” I shouted. “I couldn’t tell the difference between the two of you anymore!” he roared. I smashed my fist into his face. Lies roll off us. It’s the truths we work hardest to silence. “Then you weren’t looking hard enough! I’m the one with boobs!” “I know you’re the one with boobs! They’re in my fucking face every fucking time I turn around!” “Maybe you need to get a grip on your libido, Barrons!” “Fuck you, Ms. Lane!” “You just try. I’ll kick the shit out of you!” “You think you could?” “Bring it on.” He grabbed a fistful of my T-shirt, and dragged me up against him until our noses touched. “I’ll bring it on, Ms. Lane. But remember you asked for it. So don’t even think about trying to tap out on the mat and quit the fight.” “You hear anybody crying ‘Uncle’ here, Barrons? I don’t.” “Fine.” “Fine.

And we’re going to bring him in.” “How are you gonna do that? You got an elephant gun? You got Ranger in the trunk of your car?” “I have you. I’m going to send you into Fat Dave’s and you’re going to charm Winkle.” “That might not be a bad idea,” Lula said. “I am charming. I could charm the ass off him.” “Exactly. And then we convince him that once we get him rebonded he’s going to have a really good time.” “He might even know my reputation,” Lula said. “I was known for doing quality work back in the day. Of course, we aren’t really going to show him a good time. Unless he got some hot qualities. Then I might

Fish at breakfast is sometimes himono (semi-dried fish, intensely flavored and chewy, the Japanese equivalent of a breakfast of kippered herring or smoked salmon) and sometimes a small fillet of rich, well-salted broiled fish. Japanese cooks are expert at cutting and preparing fish with nothing but salt and high heat to produce deep flavor and a variety of textures: a little crispy over here, melting and juicy there. Some of this is technique and some is the result of a turbo-charged supply chain that scoops small, flavorful fish out of the ocean and deposits them on breakfast tables with only the briefest pause at Tsukiji fish market and a salt cure in the kitchen. By now, I've finished my fish and am drinking miso soup. Where you find a bowl of rice, miso shiru is likely lurking somewhere nearby. It is most often just like the soup you've had at the beginning of a sushi meal in the West, with wakame seaweed and bits of tofu, but Iris and I were always excited when our soup bowls were filled with the shells of tiny shijimi clams. Clams and miso are one of those predestined culinary combos- what clams and chorizo are to Spain, clams and miso are to Japan. Shijimi clams are fingernail-sized, and they are eaten for the briny essence they release into the broth, not for what Mario Batali has called "the little bit of snot" in the shell. Miso-clam broth is among the most complex soup bases you'll ever taste, but it comes together in minutes, not the hours of simmering and skimming involved in making European stocks. As Tadashi Ono and Harris Salat explain in their book Japanese Hot Pots, this is because so many fermented Japanese ingredients are, in a sense, already "cooked" through beneficial bacterial and fungal actions. Japanese food has a reputation for crossing the line from subtlety into blandness, but a good miso-clam soup is an umami bomb that begins with dashi made from kombu (kelp) and katsuobushi (bonito flakes) or niboshi (a school of tiny dried sardines), adds rich miso pressed through a strainer for smoothness, and is then enriched with the salty clam essence.

Mostly Gaylord deals with insurance scamming. He takes a car off a lot and the insurance company pays.” “That’s still stealing.” “I guess, but it’s an insurance company, and everyone hates those people.” “I don’t hate them.” “Well, you’re weird,” Lula said. “Do you like the car?” “I love the car.” “There you go. And by the way, you might want to put a dab of concealer on your nose.” Kranski’s Bar was on the corner of Mayberry Street and Ash. This was a neighborhood very similar to the Burg, but the houses were a little larger, the cars were newer, the kitchen appliances were probably stainless. I parked in the small lot beside the tavern, and Lula and I sashayed into the dim interior. Bertie was working behind the bar that stretched across the back of the room. A bunch of high-top tables were scattered around the front of the room. Two women sat at one of the tables, eating nachos and drinking martinis. At one end of the bar four men were drinking beer and watching the overhead television. I spotted Kenny Morris at the other end. He was alone, nursing what looked like whiskey. Bertie caught my eye, tilted his head toward Kenny, and I nodded back. “I guess that’s the guy you’re looking for,” Lula said. “You want to tag-team him?” “No. I just want to talk to him. I’ll go it alone.” Lula hoisted herself onto a barstool by the four men, and I approached Kenny. “Anyone sitting here?” I asked him. “No,” he said. “No one ever sits there.” “Why not?” “The television is at the other end.” “But you’re here.” “Yeah, I’m not into the team television thing.” He looked a lot like his yearbook photograph. His hair was a little longer. He was slim. Medium height. Pleasant looking. Wearing jeans and a blue dress shirt with the top button open and the sleeves rolled. He was staring at my nose with an intensity usually displayed by dermatologists during a skin cancer exam. I couldn’t blame him. I’d smeared some makeup on it, but even in the dark bar it was emitting a red glow. “It’s a condition,” I said. “It comes and goes. It’s not contagious or anything. Do you come in here often?” “Couple times a week.

Quia ecce Dominus in igne veniet, et quasi turbo quadrigæ ejus: reddere in indignatione furorem suum, et increpationem suam in flamma ignis. (For behold the Lord will come with fire, and his chariots are like a whirlwind, to render his wrath in indignation, and his rebuke with flames of fire.) – Isaiah 66:15

Phil Klay’s collection of 21st century war tales resonates in Redeployment (Penguin Press, March). For more commercial debuts, there is Naomi Wood in a cross between The Paris Wife and The Women with Mrs. Hemingway (Penguin, June), while Australian Samantha Hayes tackles turbo-charged domestic suspense in Until You’re Mine (Crown, April), and Shane Kuhn looks at the homicidal side of office work in The Intern’s Handbook (S&S, April). Finally, debut novels from well-known personalities include one by Ruth Reichl, the memoirist and former Gourmet editor-in-chief, moving to fiction for the first time with Delicious! (Random House, May). Musician and former soap opera star Rick Springfield also tries his hand at fiction with Magnificent Vibration (Touchstone, May).

Programmers who have worked with (or even just seen applications developed in) libraries such as Borland’s TurboWindows (for DOS) will be familiar with how many of these features can look very attractive in text-​mode consoles.

A veces en desgracia ante el oro y los hombres, lloro mi soledad y mi triste abandono y turbo el sordo cielo con mi estéril lamento, y viéndome a mí mismo, maldigo mi destino. Envidio al semejante más rico de esperanzas y sus bellas facciones y sus buenos amigos. envidio a éste el talento y al otro su poder y con lo que más gozo no me siento contento. Ante estos pensamientos yo mismo me desprecio. Felizmente, te evoco y entonces mi natura, como la alondra al alba, cantando toma altura para entonar sus himnos a las puertas del Cielo. Me da sólo evocarte, dulce amor, tal riqueza, que entonces ya no cambio mi estado por un Reino.

Say Bank A is holding $10 million in A-minus-rated IBM bonds. It goes to Bank B and makes a deal: we’ll pay you $50,000 a year for five years and in exchange, you agree to pay us $10 million if IBM defaults sometime in the next five years—which of course it won’t, since IBM never defaults. If Bank B agrees, Bank A can then go to the Basel regulators and say, “Hey, we’re insured if something goes wrong with our IBM holdings. So don’t count that as money we have at risk. Let us lend a higher percentage of our capital, now that we’re insured.” It’s a win-win. Bank B makes, basically, a free $250,000. Bank A, meanwhile, gets to lend out another few million more dollars, since its $10 million in IBM bonds is no longer counted as at-risk capital. That was the way it was supposed to work. But two developments helped turn the CDS from a semisensible way for banks to insure themselves against risk into an explosive tool for turbo leverage across the planet. One is that no regulations were created to make sure that at least one of the two parties in the CDS had some kind of stake in the underlying bond. The so-called naked default swap allowed Bank A to take out insurance with Bank B not only on its own IBM holdings, but on, say, the soon-to-be-worthless America Online stock Bank X has in its portfolio. This is sort of like allowing people to buy life insurance on total strangers with late-stage lung cancer—total insanity. The other factor was that there were no regulations that dictated that Bank B had to have any money at all before it offered to sell this CDS insurance.

Hadrian was fortunate that for much of his reign he had an indispensable and indefatigable supporter in the Rome city prefect, Marcius Turbo. Turbo, who replaced the equally sound Annius Verus in this crucial role, occupied it for over fifteen years. As guardian of Hadrian’s interests in Rome, Turbo impressed all who saw him as a man of the greatest generalship . . . Prefect or commander of the Praetorians. He displayed neither softness nor haughtiness in anything that he did, but lived like one of the multitude; among other things, he spent the entire day near the palace and often he would go there even before midnight, when some of the others were just beginning to sleep.

I am not going to argue with you before we figure this shit out. Then it’s on like Donkey Kong and you better watch out. I just started those TurboFire workouts and it’s seriously harder than Turbo Jam.” Whitney gave her a look that said “really?” “Uh-huh. Did you do the videos or just watch them?” “That’s not important.” Whitney turned her attention to their cousins. “She just watched them, we’re still more badass than she is.

Przez całą jazdę kierowca nie odezwał się nawet słowem ani na nich nie spojrzał, śledząc drogę zza ciemnych okularów. A Warszawa wokół rozkwitała tysiącem barw. Z budek pełnych kaset magnetofonowych grała zachodnia muzyka, na stołach i łóżkach leżały książki, na rogach kobiety handlowały ubraniami. Ludzie już nie wiedzieli, jak się rozbierać, dziewczyny odsłaniały ramiona i nogi aż po pępek, mężczyźni prężyli muskuły, paru przeszło z gołym torsem i nawet emeryci, zazwyczaj opatuleni w marynarki i swetry, przerzucili się na koszule, jakby godząc się z nieuchronnością zmian. Szarość bruku i kamienic niknęła, zgnieciona, rozprasowana pod ciężarem gumy turbo, całych stosów ubrań, flag z okładkami płyt, naszywek i błyszczących czasopism sprowadzanych z Zachodu. Stanąwszy na światłach, widzieli wyraźnie dziarskiego grubaska, który oferował chyba wszystkie pisma dwóch kontynentów: były gazetki pornograficzne z Niemiec, angielskie wydanie Playboya, rząd pism dla kobiet, wreszcie nieprawdopodobna ilość niemieckiego Bravo i Popcornu, z których uśmiechały się gwiazdy. Obok grubasa akurat leciało dwóch chłopców, z których każdy niby wielką świętość targał plik katalogów samochodowych wydrukowanych na grubym kredowym papierze.

You're so fucking ripe right now," he groaned,licking into my mouth. "God, I'm going to have to knock you up again when you're done nursing. I need more time with you like this." "Slow your roll, turbo," I gasped, shivering as the water running over us went from cool to cold. "We have five children. No more.

She was not some meek, unable female. She was Cathy, strong, tiger. Turbo

Turbo had gouged rivets into the wooden door with his claws in his desperation to go out and help Cathy.

His dark hair looked like it had been teased by the spinning blades of a turbo prop, his black on black ensemble looked like it had walked out of the local “Depressed Teens Shop Here” store, and his flanking goons were dressed to match." (on Obsidian Chylde)

He looked tired. He sat at the dinner table, and Cathy served him some meat they had caught earlier and saved. She fed Turbo, their bulldog, too.

He broke into loud barks when someone knocked on the front door shortly after. “Turbo,” she said, trying to shush him.

...can we pause for a moment to talk about that term, Innovention? A neologism that, in an effort to turbo-charge meaning, takes two perfectly eloquent and unassailable words and by combining them renders both suspect. It is a word developed by a committee, one that can only be spoken unironically if one is being paid to do so, like menus in chain restaurants that list “Snacketizers” and “Appeteasers.” Can’t you just taste the process-mapping? The neon-orange layer of melted reconstituted-milk-solids-derived “cheese,” the pink stratum of animal-protein-cultured “meat”? Vacuum-packed and irradiated and shipped to some franchise that itself was unpackaged from boxes sent directly from corporate, with ready-made walls of homey, weathered fake brick and battered retro license plates. “Innovention” can only leave a similar taste in the mouth. It makes one suspicious, wondering about the ways in which the object in question is found so wanting, so insufficiently innovative or lacking in invention to warrant this linguistic boost.

We're trying to count the rebel ships, Lord Vader," he said, "but we lost count at three. We expect there are a million and a half of them. However, they're so small that they're evading our turbo saser sauce.

Twitter Is Twitter the ultimate Mythos medium? Writing too hard for you? Analysis too hard for you? No need to worry. Now you can say it all in 140 characters, roughly reflecting the size of your vocabulary, knowledge and brain. Twitter is successful because 140 characters corresponds to the typical size of a meme: a single idea that can shoot off into the Darwinian meme pool and be naturally selected by all the jostling Mythos meme machines (Twitterati, or Twits, to you and me). Don’t you just love it? This is dumbing down with go-faster stripes and turbo engines. Maybe we can reach the ultimate Tweet: zero characters and a complete flatline of human mental activity.

Like NeXT, like Polavision, like the Boeing 747, the PIC was a beautiful, turbo-powered, wildly expensive machine—with no customers. Once again, love of loonshots had triumphed over strength of strategy, just as it had with Juan Trippe and Edwin Land. Only Jobs, unlike the other two, had doubled down on the Moses Trap. After two more years and over $50 million invested, Jobs finally pulled the plug on the PIC. In April 1990, Pixar sold its hardware business to a California-based technology company, Vicom Systems.

At the far end of the taxiway, B-17s began to roll out of their hardstands and onto the perimeter track. Karl nudged the throttles up to 1500 RPM to exercise the turbos. One by one, he eased back the prop control levers and watched for an RPM drop to make sure the propeller governors were working. Everything checked good; Hellstorm gave him no release from the dilemma splitting his heart in two. Good hydraulic pressure, good suction, good voltages. Good Lord.

The best first dates I've experienced were seeded by talking on the phone a day or two before meeting up. So much nuance is lost via texting and it never has the impact of a real conversation. Texting is a lazy way of communicating and stunts first dates that could otherwise have been in full throttle turbo mode from the start.

She could go at a full sprint in high heels, but if she really wanted to come after me she had this thing where she’d kick her shoes off while still going at top speed. She’d do this weird move with her ankles and the heels would go flying and she wouldn’t even miss a step. That’s when I knew, Okay, she’s in turbo mode now.

No matter where he went in the City, there was an odor-iferous mix of food and vehicles, like the alchemic concoctions of some mad gourmet mechanic: Kung Pao Saab Turbo, Buick Skylark Carbonara, Sweet-and-Sour Metro Bus, Honda Bolognese with Burning Clutch Sauce.

SnapTax competes directly with one of Intuit’s flagship products: the fully featured TurboTax desktop software. Usually, companies like Intuit fall into the trap described in Clayton Christensten’s The Innovator’s Dilemma: they are very good at creating incremental improvements to existing products and serving existing customers, which Christensen called sustaining innovation, but struggle to create breakthrough new products—disruptive innovation—that can create new sustainable sources of growth.

Every time I turn around, Short Stuff got his nose in my business. But

together on tiny

Gravy isn’t a food group.” “Say what?

I asked him what he did. He said his name was John Lord and that he was in the software business. “What kind of software?” I asked. He said that his company’s goal was to make “lawyers obsolete” wherever possible by creating software applications that enable individuals to do more and more legal work without the aid of an attorney. Indeed, Neota Logic, his company, says that its goal is to massively improve access to advice and justice for “the 40+% of Americans who can’t afford an attorney when they need one”—in order to produce wills and basic legal documents and even to handle crucial life events such as home foreclosure, domestic abuse, or child protection. Neota Logic is part of a new strain of software called “expert systems” that aims to identify a large chunk of business that clients need, and that lawyers charge for, but that actually can be done by software: think TurboTax for the legal profession. The company’s website quoted one commentator complaining that Neota Logic’s technology cannot “read between the lines … [or] hold hands and wipe away tears.” To which Neota Logic responded: “You will surely see a press release when we can.” Lord later explained to me that “I have always had a special respect for trial lawyers and hope it will be a long time before algorithms replace them and juries.” Alas, he added, that is “not beyond the realm of possibility of course, but not yet Neota’s mission.” Suddenly I was glad my daughters were not planning to be lawyers.

Turbo Twenty-Three

Popeyes Naked Sandwiches: At any Popeyes, you have the option to get your sandwich “naked,” which means no breading on your meat. 196 Long John Silver’s Side of Crumbs: A free box of batter parts that have fallen off the fish or chicken. It’s a great topping for salads. 197 Dunkin’ Donuts Turbo Hot Coffee: A coffee with an extra shot of espresso in it. 198 Burger King’s Frings: Can’t decide between fries and onion rings? Order the Frings and they’ll give you half and half. 199 McDonald’s Monster Mac: A Big Mac made with eight meat patties. 200 Onions and garlic are both foods that accelerate

Where’s my candy bar?” Lula asked. “I don’t have

He pulled his nose out of her cleavage and turned to me. “Gaylord Brown,” he said. “It’s the perfect name because I’m gay and I’m brown.

he hasn’t cut his hair in at least ten years. For all I know that was also the last time he washed it.

It’s a bad combination for the amygdala to be oversensitized while the hippocampus is compromised: painful experiences can then be recorded in implicit memory—with all the distortions and turbo-charging of an amygdala on overdrive—without an accurate explicit memory of them. This might feel like: Something happened, I’m not sure what, but I’m really upset. This may help explain why victims of trauma can feel dissociated from the awful things they experienced, yet be very reactive to any trigger that reminds them unconsciously of what once occurred. In less extreme situations, the one-two punch of a revved-up amygdala and a weakened hippocampus can lead to feeling a little upset a lot of the time without exactly knowing why.

No matter where he went in the City, there was an odoriferous mix of food and vehicles, like the alchemic concoctions of some mad gourmet mechanic: Kung Pao Saab Turbo, Buick Skylark Carbonara, Sweet-and-Sour Metro Bus, Honda Bolognese with Burning Clutch Sauce.

For example, every year, I rent Intuit’s TurboTax so I can do my income taxes. I pay for something I only need for a few weeks in February even though it holds my data for the entire year. That is because it has my data from the previous year (and for years before that). It simply asks if my financial situation has changed or if I have unique needs for a given tax year. It even has built-in, crowd-based support to help me when I get stuck. TurboTax meets many of the lovability requirements. It solves my problem, meets needs I did not know I had, makes my life easier, and adapts as my circumstances change. Best of all, I pay a reasonable price to rent it every year. But how does Intuit really know what I need? Well, Intuit is famous for a program they call Follow Me Home. It sounds exactly like what it is — a way to observe customers in their homes or offices in order to understand how they actually use Intuit’s products. The founding team used Follow Me Home as a way to help their teams get an immersive look at what customers liked and what they needed, as well as what worked and what did not work. By observing customers in their own spaces, the Intuit team was able to see how often customers were interrupted while trying to use their product, or if they started on one device and finished the task on another. They were able to funnel that information back to their development team to make updates in subsequent releases. It is important to note that they were not following customers home to look for bugs in the product. No, they had a deeper purpose — to truly understand the experience of their customers and if their products were making their work and life easier. That deep commitment to understanding customers helped Intuit find elegant ways to help them. It is a simple concept and one that more product builders would benefit from.

Gus gave me a list of ice cream orders. “You can read, right?” “Yep.” “I always gotta ask these days.

The tunnel was massive. Its grey concrete walls were illuminated by orange bursts of light that flashed overhead. The roar of the GTR and the high-pitched whine of the turbo-charged Acura merged in an unholy mechanical scream. As they shot past the traffic at the entrance, the cars behind them slowed to a crawl. For a brief second, they were alone in the tunnel, like two shiny bullets racing down the barrel of a gun. Here on the smooth straightaway of the tunnel, Caine’s powerful GTR had the advantage. He closed the gap, pulling up next to the Acura. He saw the driver glance over at him, his brow furrowed in determination. Caine turned his eyes back to the road. A sea of blinking red tail lights filled his view: they had caught up with the tunnel traffic.

Where you may say, “I finally got my oil changed,” Turbo would say, “The day started with a dark cloud hovering over my rumbling vehicle. The check engine light flickered multiple times, but it never stayed on full. I knew something was amiss so I drove to town, only to get caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Time felt like it stopped. People were honking their horns and two men had stepped out of their cars to settle a dispute regarding the right to merge at the last second. The small guy won. The cops showed up and I got to the shop thirty minutes later. They checked every aspect of my car until finally determining that I needed an oil change.” I

this long enough and you get to wishing he’d take a poop,” Lula said. We got out of my SUV, and I hung cuffs from my back pocket and stuck a small canister of pepper spray in the other back pocket. Lula was wearing a poison green spandex

Anaerobic energy is generated only with glucose (a simple sugar), and it’s quicker and easier for our bodies to access. It’s a kind of backup system and turbo boost when the body doesn’t have enough oxygen.

the Cottonwood Creek one, or maybe it was Indian Creek—so that I could park near the broken-down van that had given up one of its occupants that cold night. I parked and got out, walking toward whatever damn creek it was, and looked up at the makeshift poster still stapled to the power pole. The snow was falling steadily, very much like the night Jeanie One Moon had gone missing, almost as if the fates were toying with me, laughing in my face. I reached up and tore the now brittle plastic from the tree, having been fastened there for over a year, and studied the photo of the missing girl with half her face faded away, as if she were lying in a snowdrift somewhere, waiting to be discovered. Carefully folding the notice, I slipped it into the inside pocket of my jacket just as a pair of headlights appeared in the distance from the south, roiling the snow in their wake. I watched, fully expecting it to continue on I-90 up to Billings, but instead it slowed, turned in, and pulled up behind my truck. The big, full-ton turbo diesel dually engine rattled to a stop and the lights shut off. A large man extricated himself from the driver’s seat and lumbered toward me. “How did you know I would be here?” Lyndon Iron Bull stomped through the couple of inches of snow and pulled up the collar on his blanket-lined coat, his glasses steaming with his breath. “This is my land;

A commentator had correctly stated that Queen Victoria was essentially a drug lord; like a turbo-charged Dawood Ibrahim with a better headdress.

looked at my watch. Damn. Too early to quit work and start drinking.

It’s a bad combination for the amygdala to be oversensitized while the hippocampus is compromised: painful experiences can then be recorded in implicit memory—with all the distortions and turbo-charging of an amygdala on overdrive—without an accurate explicit memory of them. This might feel like: Something happened, I’m not sure what, but I’m really upset. This may help explain why victims of trauma can feel dissociated from the awful things they experienced, yet be very reactive to any trigger that reminds them unconsciously of what once occurred.

Motivation is what gets you into this game; learning is what helps you continue to play; creativity is how you steer; and flow is how you turbo-boost the results beyond all rational standards and reasonable expectations. That, my friends, is the real art of impossible. Welcome to the infinite game.

The heavens open and close in about two minutes, and then the flickers of of light dart before our eyes: dragonflies, their silken wings etched with the maps of the Carboniferous(their wings spanned six feet when their ancestors flew with dinosaurs). They zoom still, like turbo-boosted flecks of light and showing us glimpses of eons past.

The turtles came to a halt, and before any of us could say another word, they swiftly joined themselves together, the sides of their shells connecting like Legos with a loud click. “What are they doing?!” "Maybe they’re turning into turbo turtles,” Alana said. “Or ninja turtles,” Hondo added, nodding frantically.

Our Death Star, a technology-driven nuclear concentration of economic and political power, has already been built. It was built 40 years ago in the new right revolution: a turbo-charged, no limits, corporate-dominated global capitalism.

For instance, Ben Jonson’s folio of 1616 features a laurel wreath, a motto, and a Latin inscription from Horace explaining that he wrote not for the crowd but for the discriminating few: Neque, me vt miretur turbo laboro: Contentus paucis lectoribus (“ I do not labor for the crowd to admire me, I am content with a few readers”).

For instance, Ben Jonson’s folio of 1616 features a laurel wreath, a motto, and a Latin inscription from Horace explaining that he wrote not for the crowd but for the discriminating few: Neque, me vt miretur turbo laboro: Contentus paucis lectoribus

We waren losgeslagen stuiterballen die werden aangedreven met turbo-energie. Als we een goede dag hadden waren we zowel de flipper als de kast, en dat zorgde voor een eindeloze reeks aan grappen, kattenkwaad en propjes.

Turbo-charged with sectarian violence, anaemic rule of law and hefty reliance on foreign debts we cannot compete in the world by allowing outrageous racial inequalities to destroy our dreams, our hopes and our future.

Imagine two independent worlds, in one of which the wealthy are taxed more heavily than in the other. In the high-tax world, the wealthiest drivers buy Porsche 911 Turbos for $150,000 rather than $333,000 Ferrari F12 Berlinettas, the vehicle of choice of wealthy drivers in the low-tax world. But because the lowly Porsche includes every design feature that materially affects handling and performance, the absolute differences between these cars are minuscule. In both cases, drivers would take the same pride in owning the best car on the road. Available evidence suggests that even if all other features of the two worlds were exactly the same, it would be difficult to detect any measurable happiness differences between wealthy drivers in these environments. But of course other features would not be the same. Even if governments in both worlds were highly wasteful, at least some of the extra revenue in the high-tax world would go for public investment, including better road maintenance. So the real question is this: “Who is happier, someone who drives a $333,000 Ferrari on roads riddled with foot-deep potholes, or someone driving a $150,000 Porsche on well-maintained roads?

twin-engine turbo-prop Beechcraft King Air B200

For example, consider one of Intuit’s flagship products. Because TurboTax does most of its sales around tax season in the United States, it used to have an extremely conservative culture. Over the course of the year, the marketing and product teams would conceive one major initiative that would be rolled out just in time for tax season. Now they test over five hundred different changes in a two-and-a-half-month tax season. They’re running up to seventy different tests per week. The team can make a change live on its website on Thursday, run it over the weekend, read the results on Monday, and come to conclusions starting Tuesday; then they rebuild new tests on Thursday and launch the next set on Thursday night. As Scott put it, “Boy, the amount of learning they get is just immense now. And what it does is develop entrepreneurs, because when you have only one test, you don’t have entrepreneurs, you have politicians, because you have to sell. Out of a hundred good ideas, you’ve got to sell your idea. So you build up a society of politicians and salespeople. When you have five hundred tests you’re running, then everybody’s ideas can run. And then you create entrepreneurs who run and learn and can retest and relearn as opposed to a society of politicians. So we’re trying to drive that throughout our organization, using examples which have nothing to do with high tech, like the website example. Every business today has a website. You don’t have to be high tech to use fast-cycle testing.” This kind of change is hard. After all, the company has a significant number of existing customers who continue to demand exceptional service and investors who expect steady, growing returns. Scott says, It goes against the grain of what people have been taught in business and what leaders have been taught. The problem isn’t with the teams or the entrepreneurs. They love the chance to quickly get their baby out into the market. They love the chance to have the customer vote instead of the suits voting. The real issue is with the leaders and the middle managers. There are many business leaders who have been successful because of analysis. They think they’re analysts, and their job is to do great planning and analyzing and have a plan.

St John had always been a fan of the RS Turbo, mainly due to the colour coded rear spoiler and air vents in the bonnet, which distinguished it from the more common and less powerful XR3i.

Construction of the SS Morro Castle was begun by the Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock Company in January of 1929 for the New York and Cuba Mail Steam Ship Company, better known as the Ward Line. The ship was launched in March of 1930, followed in May by the construction of her sister ship the SS Oriente. Both ships were 508 feet long and had a breath of almost 80 feet and weighed in at 11,520 gross tons (GRT). The ships were driven by General Electric turbo generators, which supplied the necessary electrical current to two propulsion motors. Having twin screws both ships could maintain a cruising speed of 20 knots. State of the art, each ship was elegantly fitted out to accommodate 489 passengers and had a complement of 240 officers and crew. It is estimated that the ships cost approximately $5 million each, of which 75% was given to the company as a low cost government loan to be repaid over twenty years. The SS Morro Castle was named for the fortress that guards the entrance to Havana Bay. On the evening of September 5, 1934 Captain Robert Willmott had his dinner delivered to his quarters. Shortly thereafter, he complained of stomach trouble and shortly after that, died of an apparent heart attack. With this twist of fate the command of the ship went to the Chief Mate, William Warms. During the overnight hours, with winds increasing to over 30 miles per hour, the ship continued along the Atlantic coast towards New York harbor. Early on September 8, 1934 the ship had what started as a minor fire in a storage locker. With the increasing winds, the fire quickly intensified causing the ship to burn down to the waterline, killing a total of 137 passengers and crew members. Many passengers died when they jumped into the water with the cork life preservers breaking their necks and killing them instantly on impact. Only half of the ships 12 lifeboats were launched and then losing power the ship drifted, with heavy onshore winds and a raging sea the hapless ship ground ashore near Asbury Park. Hard aground she remained there for several months as a morbid tourist attraction. On March 14, 1935 the ship was towed to Gravesend Bay, New York and then to Baltimore, MD, where she was scrapped. The Chief Mate Robert Warms and Chief Engineer Eban Abbott as well as the Ward Line vice-president Henry Cabaud were eventually indicted on various charges, including willful negligence. All three were convicted and sent to jail, however later an appeals court later overturned the ship’s officers convictions and instead placed much of the blame on the dead Captain Willmott. Go figure….

No dream is too big, and no dreamer is too small.

Turbo Sasquatch, or T-Squatch, was a Redwood original, a hardrock pop-punk bhangra electro surf hybrid that did highly danceable sambas. It was a supergroup, a mighty Voltron formed from three other successful local bands. Sometimes they had a dhol drum and horn section depending on the lineup, becoming Ultra Mega Turbo Sasquatch, a musical macrophage mashup absorbing other bands at will. They played only by the light of the full moon and were not to be missed under any circumstances. “The only band that matters,” it was said.

woke to the crack of gunfire, screaming, and running feet. Before she could move, a gun was shoved into her back. She looked over her shoulder at the merciless dark eyes of the man holding the weapon. “Hello, Dana Sorenson. I’ve got a job for you.” She’d had a job, one that hadn’t turned out as she’d hoped. Had it only been a week ago she’d been standing on a dock in Turbo, Colombia, a disreputable port town rife with violence on the coast of Colombia and in the horseshoe of the Gulf of Urabá to fulfill her mom’s wish. It was just before dawn, the sun nothing but a glimmer on the horizon. She’d waited for a boat that would take her and her crew into the Darién Gap, a place that

The ship’s electricity was produced by three turbo-drive 300 kW DC generators when at sea, but when ashore, for the most part, electricity came from either the Central Maine power grid or a generator in the Engineering Laboratory. The State of Maine was considered cold iron until her boilers were lit off, breathing life into her soul. This would be the first time the engineers fired up the boilers and cautiously brought up a head of steam close to her rated 450 psi at 759 degrees. At this temperature, a failure was not an option. The steam was so hot as to be invisible and could instantly cut a two by four in half. There have been recorded boiler and steam pipe failures resulting in the deaths of people in the engine room, so we were taking no chances! Out on the open deck the sky was sunny however the air was frigid. It was the kind of day you could expect in Maine this time of year and we were just happy that the sun was shining. Now it was up to deck force to let go of all but the forward spring lines. Slowly the ship pulled ahead and as the spring line tightened, our stern swung out into the channel. At the right moment the order was given and we backed away from the dock. It was the first time for our new TS State of Maine to get underway, and so far, everything functioned satisfactorily.

And I was careful to balance out my meal with something from different major food groups. I got fried protein, tasty carbohydrates, and gravy.” “Gravy isn’t a food group.” “Say what?

In this story, or “narrative” to use the technical term, history is something of a foundation and bedrock and this is why rewriting history is as important as writing the news. What you believe today depends on what you believe about the past. In that sense it is important for the “political technologists,” to use the pithy and apt term popular in post-Soviet countries, who might be understood by Westerners as turbo-spin doctors, to fashion a past which suits the future they are trying to create.

Just a few more questions, please.’ She’d heard that before. Lara gritted her teeth and considered closing the door in his face but an image of the girl screamed into her mind on turbo boost. Couldn’t let this crime go unpunished even if it meant dealing with the law.

As Baca tells it, that's our job as writers, to strip away the artifice and expectations of life and talk to the world in the dark. Honestly. Authentically. With vulnerability and fear and hope. This is nowhere more important than when you're crafting the people who will populate your novel. The motivations and desires of your characters drive your story and are the engine of your personal transformation. Crafting believable and compelling fictional characters turbo boosts real-life empathy and strengthens social skills as well as coping mechanisms because it guides the writer to consider other people's motives and desires, the consequences of choice and of action, and the complexity of life.