Ukulele Quotes

Leo didn't usually think of the ukulele as a sad instrument. (Pathetic, sure. But not sad.) Yet the tune Apollo strummed was so melancholy it broke Leo's feels.

I watched a lot of YouTube videos of cute geeky girls playing '80s cover tunes on ukuleles. Technically, this wasn't part of my research, but I had a serious cute-geeky-girls-playing-ukuleles fetish that I can neither explain nor defend.

I had a serious cute-geeky-girls-playing-ukuleles fetish that I can neither explain nor defend.

Does Zeus have a perfect tan? Can he play the ukulele? I think not!

A man of honor never surrenders his ukulele.

All her stories seemed to involve rowboats and ukuleles, full moons and campfires and grog. I was desperately jealous.

Let me be the first to admit that the naked truth about me is to the naked truth about Salvador Dali as an old ukulele in the attic is to a piano in a tree, and I mean a piano with breasts. Senor Dali has the jump on me from the beginning. He remembers and describes in detail what it was like in the womb. My own earliest memory is of accompanying my father to a polling booth in Columbus, Ohio, where he voted for William McKinley.

I love crafting. Knitting, decoupage, scrapbooking, any "lady-ish" art form, I'm a fan. For about six months each. Then I shove all the supplies in a closet, alongside the skeletons of long dead New Year's resolutions, like saber fencing, playing the ukulele, and Japanese brush painting.

I never said how sorry I was," I ventured, "about your Uncle Amax." Crest sniffed the ukulele fret board. "Why would you be sorry? Why would I?" "Uh... It's just, you know, an expression of courtesy... when you kill someone's relatives.

I watched a lot of YouTube videos of cute geeky girls playing ’80s cover tunes on ukuleles. Technically, this wasn’t part of my research, but I had a serious cute-geeky-girls-playing-ukuleles fetish that I can neither explain nor defend.

The guys in the saloons shoving free ones across the bar and saying happy new year and many more of them kid you been a good customer have one on the house happy new year and the hell with the prohibitionists some day the bastards are going to give us trouble. The girls from the hash houses and the girls from the hotels and the guys swarming out of dirty little apartment bedrooms and music and dancing and smoke and somebody with the ukulele and have another and the feeling of being lonesome that everybody has inside him and people bouncing against you and off you and have another one and a girl passing out at the bar and a fight and happy new year.

I didn’t understand the purpose of the seeds, but it was comforting to know that in a dire emergency I could hit people with my ukulele while Meg planted geraniums.

Princess Elowyn whirls at the center of a circle of Larks. Her skin is a glittering gold, her hair the deep green of ivy. Beside her, a human boy plays the fiddle. Two more mortals accompany him less skillfully, but more joyfully, on ukuleles.

Strumming a ukulele just right can make you sound like a pro, even if you only know one chord.

Maybe he’s got a ukulele and wants to serenade you in the moonlight.

I watched a lot of YouTube videos of cute geeky girls playing ’80s cover tunes on ukuleles.

Technically, this wasn’t part of my research, but I had a serious cute-geeky-girls-playing-ukuleles fetish that I can neither explain nor defend.

The seeing-eye dog was giving a lecture called A Corpse Ate Death. There was an avant-garde orchestra accompanying ihs lecture. Dogs barked along, and small children played answering machines, recorders, trombones, triangles, and ukuleles.

Perhaps Dexter’s dutiful but uninspired brain pictured him as Sherlock Holmes, able to examine the wheel ruts and deduce that a left-handed hunchback with red hair and a limp had gone down the road carrying a Cuban cigar and a ukulele. I would find no clues, not that it mattered.

The amplified ukulele music was giving me a migraine.

I could hit people with my ukulele.

Hilary says to her sister, “You can’t eat only pie for lunch.” “Just watch me.” Lily plucks her ukulele out of the tote bag at her feet and strums it, singing, “Pie is fine. It’s very nice/ Especially with lots of spice/ Like cinnamon and ginger too/ My sis would like it, but she’s a poo.” “Oh, well, that’s brilliant,” Hilary says. “Taylor Swift must be looking over her shoulder.

Rick shuffled through the cards again. “Where is the tallest mountain on earth?” Lydia put her hand over her eyes so she could concentrate. “You said tallest, not highest elevation, so it can’t be Everest.” She made some thinking noises that caused the dogs to stir. The cat started making biscuits on her stomach. She could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. Finally, Rick said, “Think ukulele.” She peeked through her fingers. “Hawaii?” “Mauna Kea.

We all have stories like that, stories we rely on to establish our charm in the beginning of relationships. I tell one about wanting to play the ukulele in the school orchestra. They asked me what instrument I wanted to play, and I said the ukulele, and they said, but there’s no ukulele in the school orchestra, and I said, then what can I play that’s like the ukulele, and they said the viola. That story doesn’t sound so charming on the page, but I tell it very well.

The woods came for Emeline the way they always did: creeping in with the shadows, seeping up through the cracks. Emeline, they whispered. Sing us a true song. Emeline gritted her teeth, ignoring it. From her perch on the wooden stool beneath the white lights, she continued to croon into the mic, picking the strings of her ukulele, telling herself she didn't care if the ale in the bar taps turned to mucky creek water tonight, or if the cash in the register transformed into crisp golden maple keys. She didn't care if those spongy green clumps currently sprouting up between the floorboards were, in fact, forest moss.

The eyes from Burma, from Tonkin, watch these women at their hundred perseverances—stare out of blued orbits, through headaches no Alasils can ease. Italian P/Ws curse underneath the mail sacks that are puffing, echo-clanking in now each hour, in seasonal swell, clogging the snowy trainloads like mushrooms, as if the trains have been all night underground, passing through the country of the dead. If these Eyeties sing now and then you can bet it’s not “Giovinezza” but something probably from Rigoletto or La Bohème—indeed the Post Office is considering issuing a list of Nonacceptable Songs, with ukulele chords as an aid to ready identification. Their cheer and songfulness, this lot, is genuine up to a point—but as the days pile up, as this orgy of Christmas greeting grows daily beyond healthy limits, with no containment in sight before Boxing Day, they settle, themselves, for being more professionally Italian, rolling the odd eye at the lady evacuees, finding techniques of balancing the sack with one hand whilst the other goes playing “dead”—cioé, conditionally alive—where the crowds thicken most feminine, directionless . . . well, most promising. Life has to go on. Both kinds of prisoner recognize that, but there’s no mano morto for the Englishmen back from CBI, no leap from dead to living at mere permission from a likely haunch or thigh—no play, for God’s sake, about life-and-death! They want no more adventures: only the old dutch fussing over the old stove or warming the old bed, cricketers in the wintertime, they want the semi-detached Sunday dead-leaf somnolence of a dried garden.

The circumstances that had conspired to put them in their present predicament were convoluted to say the least. You could say the origins lay in an unlikely mix of rock and roll music, Adolf Hitler and a peculiarly persuasive ukulele salesman from Croydon.

At the ukulele workshop that summer. He lectured on the four-note chord in the context of timelessness, and described himself then as a Quaternionist. We had quickly discovered our common love of the instrument,” Miles recalled,“ and discussed the widespread contempt in which ukulele players are held— traceable, we concluded, to the uke’s all-but-exclusive employment as a producer of chords—single, timeless events apprehended all at once instead of serially. Notes of a linear melody, up and down a staff, being a record of pitch versus time, to play a melody is to introduce the element of time, and hence of mortality. Our perceived reluctance to leave the timelessness of the struck chord has earned ukulele players our reputation as feckless, clownlike children who will not grow up.

though my possession of a ukulele had rarely made anyone feel better. Don’t ask me why. When I was a god, I used to do an absolutely blistering ukulele version of “Satisfaction.

Why doesn't have a centralized place for readers and authors to point out the many mistakes it makes in listing books For instance, there are three different listings for my book "The Abalone Ukulele" (one doesn't even provide a cover and the other doesn't used my pen name, and the third provides an incomplete ISBN) and all this does is confuse people.

In 1951, when I was four years old, my grandfather gave me an official Arthur Godfrey ukulele, complete with an authentic chord-maker attachment so I could sing and play along with my records. The attachment was hooked to the fret board, and by pressing one button or another I could make a particular chord. Eventually my curiosity got the best of me and I started peeking under the chord maker to see how the strings were being manipulated. As soon as I realized how the chords were made, I got rid of the attachment and made my own chords. It was my first big career move. The radio, my ukulele, record player, and record collection were my cohorts and confidants. Music was already the center of my life. Later that year, my mother enrolled me for piano lessons at the local conservatory.

Exhausted by this burst of conversation, we relapsed into silence and gulped thankfully at our drinks in preparation for the next round. Some people, I am told, actually enjoy this first-date mutual appraisal disguised as casual conversation, but I think I’d rather go to a preschool ukulele concert. Or a Brazilian waxing appointment.

Malcolm Lowry Late of the Bowery His prose was flowery And often glowery He lived, nightly, and drank, daily, And died playing the ukulele

The very first thing I saw at this year's Telluride Film Festival was sheer bliss. "Lava," a musical romance from Pixar Animation, was one of the shorts that traditionally precede almost every festival screening; the director was James Ford Murphy. The story, spanning millions of years in 7 minutes, starts with a lonely Hawaiian volcano who, crooning to ukulele accompaniment, yearns for "someone to lava.

Is that a ukulele?" I ask. We stop and listen closely. "Actually," says Elena, "it's a bunch of ukuleles.

Sergeant Perez began singing, “My dog has fleas.” As far as I know, Perez doesn’t play the ukulele or guitar, but I guess he knows someone who does. Guitarists and uke players sing that song to help them tune their instruments. Perez sings it to annoy me. “My dog has fleas,” he sang again. Being off-key didn’t help his song. “Your wife has crabs,” I sang, hitting the tune just right. Maybe that’s why Perez flipped me the bird. He was jealous of my singing.

Tammy had read this article online called “Making Your First Million on Social Media” that said ukuleles were trending, along with hydroponic gardening, tattoos, eco-friendly period products, and Boston terriers.

It can't be a mob if it comes with ukuleles.

Now that I crossed off annoying you from today’s to-do list, I’m all done.” I readjust my suit for the umpteenth time. “Do you have any intention of doing something useful with your life?” “I’m not sure. I considered learning to juggle, but then I saw a video about ukuleles, so I started getting into that during my spare time.

Then he held up his ukulele. “Now I am off to play a good old piece of jazz.

One of her most interesting findings was presented in a report that concluded the ukulele not to be of Hawaiian origin, even though it was (and still is) widely associated with Hawaiʻi by tourists, musicians, scholars, and even the Native Hawaiians. In truth, the ukulele descended from the Madeiran machete, with the word “machete” referring to an instrument, not a broad, heavy knife. It was introduced to Hawaiʻi by Portuguese immigrants from the island of Madeira, which is located off the coasts of Morocco and Portugal. The Madeiran machete is an instrument that looks much like the ukulele; in other words, it looks like a small guitar. It is a string instrument that has five metal strings and is traditionally made of wood. This was the template upon which three carpenters would fashion the ukulele and claim to be the inventor of the instrument.

few months into our relationship, Barack invited me to come home with him to Honolulu over Christmas, so I could see the place where he’d grown up. I immediately said yes. I’d never been to Hawaii. I’d never even imagined getting myself to Hawaii. My only conception of the place was a kind of pop-media fantasy involving ukuleles, tiki torches, grass skirts, and coconuts. My impressions were largely if not entirely derived from the Brady Bunch’s three-episode visit to Oahu in 1972, in which Greg took up surfing, Jan and Marcia wore bikinis, and Alice threw out her back learning to hula. I incorporated what I thought I knew about Hawaii into my daydreams about what spending Christmas there would be like. Barack and I were still in the fantasy stage of our new relationship, so it all felt fitting. We hadn’t yet had a fight.

Some twenty-three hundred miles away Major General H.H. “Hap” Arnold, head of the Army Air Corps, had traveled to Hamilton Field near Sacramento to personally see off a flight of thirteen B-l 7s destined for MacArthur in the Philippines by way of Hawaii. The first leg to Hickam Field took fourteen hours, so the big bombers flew with only four-man crews and were unarmed. One of the pilots objected. At least they ought to carry their bomb sights and machine guns. Arnold said they could be put aboard but without ammunition to save weight. So the bombers could home in on its signal, Major General Frederick L. Martin, head of the Hawaiian Air Force, had his staff ask station WGMB in Honolulu to stay on all night. Sure thing, general. Another night of ukuleles and Glenn Miller drifting out across the Pacific courtesy of the U.S. Army Air Corps. When Lieutenant Colonel George W. Bicknell of Army intelligence heard about it, he blew up. Why tip our hands whenever we have planes coming in? Why not keep WGMB on the air every night? One of those who caught the station was Lieutenant Kermit Tyler on his way to work the graveyard shift at the radar coordinating station at Fort Shafter. Must be planes coming in from the States, he told himself.

Born close to the water," White wrote, "be it on a coast or the shores of an inland sea, the Blues are known for striking and vivid eye color ranging from silvering indigo to a deep and meditative navy. Prone to song, they are apt to take up the mandolin or ukulele--really, any small, whimsical stringed instrument will do. The Blue, without exception, will be deeply spiritual (see:Rituals [Solstice], Herbology, Volunteerism) though not eager to join standard organized religion, and will draw to herself an eclectic and accomplished circle of artists, musicians, recovering addicts, fallen capitalists, the elderly, the poor, the romantics, seekers of all sorts. This endearing breed is most easily identified by her ability to sync all other women around her to her own monthly cycle, since her fecundity is among the strongest on the planet (though you will almost never find her the wife of any man). Her houseplants are among the healthiest you will find in a home. Catch her feeding them with the water used to rinse clean her cloth menstrual pads, and you are certain to have found a true Blue. Count yourself very lucky indeed.

Me Time Zone It’s okay to be a “me-time mom.” ~Author Unknown The day has ended yet only just begun for I have two lives — one that hides behind the sun You may not see my secret life — the one lurking in the dark, the one that eagerly awaits its time to spark Daytime me puts the other me aside Daytime me doesn’t get to hide Daytime me washes all the clothes Daytime me kisses the injured toes I am a teacher, a maid and a cook I hand out the cuddles and the disconcerting looks I referee the arguments, the teasing and the fights I fasten the helmets to go ride the bikes Nighttime me relaxes in the chair Nighttime me reads books without a care Nighttime me watches comedy shows Nighttime me eats the treats that I chose I sometimes wonder whether I used to be bored when I had just one life and hardly any chores I want to do all the things that I did before but how do I fit them in now there’s so much more? I read books, played piano and swam I cycled and socialised and ran I wrote poetry, played video games and went to bars I knew popular culture and all the famous stars Now my me time has become so small sometimes I feel it’s hardly there at all When the children will not settle but the sun has gone away I throw my arms in the air, for daytime me has to stay. I count to ten and breathe in deep Why oh why won’t they go to sleep? Me time is a ship that has sailed past How could I be so foolish to think that it would last I tuck their hair behind their ears and then I begin to feel the tears Am I crying for my me time? That seems a little mad Surely it’s something else that’s making me sad Crying for my me time does seem a little daft As I leave the children’s room I begin to laugh. I’m trying to put me time into a time slot I precariously balance it on the top. But I realise my me time comes in different forms to be enjoyed even while daytime storms I read a book whilst I make the tea I play ukulele whilst the children dance with me I swim in the sea with the children under my wings I run around the park between pushing them on swings And there are famous stars that I know, even if they come from the children’s favourite show Yes the ultimate me time is when I’m on my own but me time can also be enjoyed when you’re not alone My me time is a state of mind When I’m in the me time zone who knows what I’ll find? — Anneliese Rose Beeson —

Rifiuti e oggetti abbandonati completano il paesaggio desolato e pittoresco che un urban vlogger avrebbe sicuramente monetizzato benissimo ai tempi in cui Youtube ancora valeva qualcosa. Cinque anni prima dell’apocalisse, circa. Sorrido a pensare che, se ancora esistesse internet, camminare in mezzo agli zombie sarebbe parte delle morning routine di praticamente chiunque. Mi immagino una squinzia con l’ukulele raccontare quali prodotti per mantenere morbida la pelle possono essere usati come deterrente per essere ingurgitati dai mostri. Mi sarebbe molto utile, visto come sono ridotto in questo periodo.

It seems blasphemous that my mother's death even existed in the same reality as those moments that subsequently came to define my youth; taking the long way home from Nixon's Corner so I could listen to Kid A twice, or poring over the lurid covers of horror paperbacks in a newly discovered corner of Foyle Street library. How is my mother's passing even part of the same universe that gave me the simple pleasures of ice cream after swimming lessons in William Street baths, or scenting the sun cream on girls' skin as they daubed polish on their outstretched, nonchalant nails. My life wasn't over from that point on. I'd laugh and cry and scream about borrowed jumpers, school fights, bomb scares, playing Zelda, teenage bands, primary-school crushes and yet more ice cream after yet more swimming lessons. I'd just be doing it without her. To some extent, I'd be doing it without a memory of her. The most dramatic moment of my life wasn't scored by wailing sirens, weeping angels or sad little ukuleles, nimbly plucked on lonely hillsides. Mammy's death was mostly signalled by tea, sandwiches, and an odd little boy in corduroy trousers, announcing it with a smile across his face.

I met Tyler roughly a year after his minimalist decision to leave social media. He was clearly excited by how his life had changed during this period. He started volunteering near his home, he exercises regularly, he’s reading three to four books a month, he began to learn to play the ukulele, and he told me that now that his phone is no longer glued to his hand, he’s closer than he has ever been with his wife and kids.

Outside the man who strolls up and down the plaza selling yo-yos stops at a bench to tighten his shoes. He is your city's version of the dandy in the double-breasted suit who roots through the garbage scavenging for recyclables, or the old couple with sombreros and ukuleles who sit in the park singing songs about their sex life — recognized by everybody, the object of a thousand jokes, but so lasting a feature of the landscape that they inspire as much affection as anyone you could mention.

in Napa County. I eventually lost focus on the dome project and ended up busking with another friend on the streets of Berkeley—he played accordion, I played violin and ukulele and struck ironic poses. It was successful. I realized that at that time I was more interested in irony than utopia.

Hey tomorrow, I can't show you nothin' You've seen it all pass by your door So many times I said I been changin' Then slipped into patterns of what happened before. 'Cause I've been wasted and I've over-tasted All the things that life gave to me

On the bus to St. Louis, a man with a ukulele stood in the aisle and offered to play requests. Someone shouted out, “Freebird,” and the man sat back down, visibly angered

The fifth, in a rumpled plaid suit and plastic devil mask, plunked a ukulele. Even without the Satan-head mask, I realized Hawaii was a hell of a long way from Mexico, and I didn’t freeze, didn’t pause, just made a U-turn and cut back through the crowd. The last thing I saw was Ski Mask Guy’s neck twisting in my direction. I flew down the hall and then remembered that I was in the Commodore, and that the name of the Outfit-run hotel probably began with the third letter in the alphabet for a reason. I stepped around a corner and stared at a wall covered in flocked wallpaper. The pattern was end-to-end diamond shapes with small raised C’s in the middle. I pushed one, and then another, and another—I realized Ski Mask Guy would be rounding the corner any second—and pushed another, and one more, and then I thought screw it and took a fire extinguisher from the wall, listened for galumphing footsteps, and stepped out swinging. I nailed him at solar plexus level. He staggered backward groping at air, caught himself, and charged. I went low on the next shot, kneecapping him, and he squealed like a debutante. And then I was gone, down the hallway, pushing through the revolving door briefcase-first and sprinting for the Lincoln, yelling, “Al! Throw me the keys!” “Head’s up, Al!” he said, flipping them through the air. I snagged them, leaped in, and called out, “Thanks, Al!” “My pleasure! Watch your back, Al!” I roared from the curb, waved from the window, and hoped for more Als just like him

A veces no cogíamos y nos mirábamos sin decir nada. A veces no cogíamos y nos contábamos anécdotas. A veces no cogíamos y jugábamos a ser marido y mujer en un flamante departamento de Polanco. A veces no cogíamos y sentados, frente a frente, nos cantábamos con el ukulele. A veces no cogíamos y nos metíamos a la tina. A veces no cogíamos porque nos queríamos y con eso bastaba para ser felices.

Is 650 543 4800 Facebook? {{FAQs Resolve Facebook}} The number 650-543-4800 is linked to Facebook, the prominent social media platform. Additionally, the number +

To understand what the Royal is now you must first understand what it was, from 1927 through the Thirties, the distant and mildly exotic “pink palace” of the Pacific, the resort built by the Matson Line to rival and surpass such hotels as the Coronado, the Broadmoor, Del Monte. Standing then almost alone on Waikiki, the Royal made Honolulu a place to go, made all things “Hawaiian”—leis, ukuleles, luaus, coconut-leaf hats and the singing of “I Wanna Learn to Speak Hawaiian”—a decade’s craze at country-club dances across the United States. During the fourteen years between the Royal’s opening and Pearl Harbor people came in on the Matson Line’s Malolo and Lurline and they brought with them not only steamer trunks but children and grandchildren and valets and nurses and silver Rolls-Royces and ultramarine-blue Packard roadsters. They “wintered” at the Royal, or “summered” there, or “spent several months.” They came to the Royal to rest “after hunting in South Africa.” They went home “by way of Banff and Lake Louise.

roasted in a firepit, baby peas, and buttery potatoes rissole. Throughout the meal, they talked about their hopes for life after Vietnam, the friends they’d made over there, the protests going on back home. When dinner was over—after a fabulous Baked Alaska—Rye picked up a picnic basket at his feet and offered Frankie his arm. They walked out of the restaurant, past a trio of women dancing the hula in the lobby to the sweet strains of the ukulele. Outside, the hotel grounds were a wonderland of shadow and moonlight and tiki torches. The grounds enveloped them in fragrance and sound—sweet ginger and plumeria and a warm, salt-tinged breeze. Flaming tiki torches stood amid

The ukulele is a surprisingly aggressive instrumennt in the hands of a mermaid.