Wearing Goggles Quotes

Think of the most fussy science teacher you ever had. The one who docked your grade if the sixth decimal place in your answer was rounded incorrectly; who tucked in his periodic table T-shirt, corrected every student who said "weight" when he or she meant "mass", and made everyone, including himself, wear goggles even while mixing sugar water. Now try to imagine someone whom your teacher would hate for being anal-retentive. That is the kind of person who works for a bureau of standards and measurement.

You’re looking at me like you like me,” he says. “It’s the mai tai goggles you’re wearing. I hate you as much as ever.” Ethan lifts a skeptical brow. “Really?” “Yep.” Nope.

I will fly, alone. Wearing my own pair of goggles, my view of the world just as unique, just as wonderful, and his was, but different. Mine.

Arthur McKnight had raised a 10M round on the idea that skaters, boarders and cyclists were hot to film themselves acting out Feartoshred’s dares: catapult over a creek or a river, surf the Big Island at dawn wearing a fluorescent tee and ski goggles.

If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band, We’d travel all over the land. We’d play and we’d sing and wear spangly things, If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band. If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band, And we were up there on the stand, The people would hear us and love us and cheer us, Hurray for that rock ‘n’ roll band. If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band Then we’d have a million fans. We’d goggle and laugh and sign autographs, If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band. If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band, The people would all kiss our hands. We’d be millionaires and have extra long hair, If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band. But we ain’t no rock ‘n’ roll band, We’re just seven kids in the sand With homemade guitars and pails and jars And drums of potato chip cans. Just seven kids in the sand, Talkin’ and wavin’ our hands, And dreamin’ and thinkin’ oh wouldn’t it be grand, If we were a rock ‘n’ roll band.

He wore safety goggles on the tour. The press would criticize him for not wearing a mask, not knowing that the depth of his vanity had caused him to reject masks

In those first years the roads were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. Wearing masks and goggles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators. Their barrows heaped with shoddy. Towing wagons or carts. Their eyes bright in their skulls. Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

Almost all divers wear goggles or a face-mask as without them the eyes are unable to focus underwater and everything appears blurred. This is because when a light ray passes from one medium to another – in this case from air (or water) into the eye – it is bent (refracted). This property is used to help focus the light rays on the layer of light-sensitive cells, known as the retina, at the back of the eye. The extent to which a light ray is bent at the surface of the eye is very much less in water than in air, which makes it impossible to focus the image on the retina. Maintaining an air space next to the eye, by wearing goggles or a face-mask, obviates the problem. But because the light rays will now be refracted by the glass/water interface of the mask, objects appear some 30 per cent larger and closer underwater than they do in air. It may be useful to remember this when listening to divers’ tales of giant sharks.

First thing I did was put on the inner lining of my EVA suit. Not the bulky suit itself, just the inner clothing I wear under it, including the gloves and booties. Then I got an oxygen mask from the medical supplies and some lab goggles from Vogel’s chem kit. Almost all of my body was protected and I was breathing canned air.

They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, but it isn’t; it’s as fogged by the goggles we swim through life wearing as anything is.

Impact Players Wear Opportunity Goggles The approach taken by Impact Players isn’t just marginally different, it is radically different—and

If you are wearing yellow goggles, every blue thing will appear green to you. It is your perception, and it is your reality.

There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh Who wears goggles of ebony hue. As he mostly sees double To wear them why trouble? I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you?

If the choice is dying from COVID-19 or surviving by wearing a hazmat suit, a gas mask and goggles to the shops, I choose the latter.

When you’re wearing slasher goggles, everything can look like a slasher.

One day, after Worsley declined to wear tinted goggles, he suffered from snow blindness. But he and the others learned from their mistakes, and emerged with a better understanding, as Adams put it, of how “to live on the ice.

Hagrid was wearing his best (and very horrible) hairy brown suit, plus a checked yellow-and-orange tie. This wasn’t the worst of it, though; he had evidently tried to tame his hair, using large quantities of what appeared to be axle grease. It was now slicked down into two bunches – perhaps he had tried a ponytail like Bill’s, but found he had too much hair. The look didn’t really suit Hagrid at all. For a moment, Hermione goggled at him, then, obviously deciding not to comment, she said, ‘Erm – where are the Skrewts?

The best description of this book is found within the title. The full title of this book is: "This is the story my great-grandfather told my father, who then told my grandfather, who then told me about how The Mythical Mr. Boo, Charles Manseur Fizzlebush Grissham III, better known as Mr. Fizzlebush, and Orafoura are all in fact me and Dora J. Arod, who sometimes shares my pen, paper, thoughts, mind, body, and soul, because Dora J. Arod is my pseudonym, as he/it incorporates both my first and middle name, and is also a palindrome that can be read forwards or backwards no matter if you are an upright man in the eyes of God or you are upside down in a tank of water wearing purple goggles and grape jelly discussing how best to spread your time between your work, your wife, and the toasted bread being eaten by the man you are talking to who goes by the name of Dendrite McDowell, who is only wearing a towel on his head and has an hourglass obscuring his “time machine”--or the thing that he says can keep him young forever by producing young versions of himself the way I avert disaster in that I ramble and bumble like a bee until I pollinate my way through flowery situations that might otherwise have ended up being more than less than, but not equal to two short parallel lines stacked on top of each other that mathematicians use to balance equations like a tightrope walker running on a wire stretched between two white stretched limos parked on a long cloud that looks like Salt Lake City minus the sodium and Mormons, but with a dash of pepper and Protestants, who may or may not be spiritual descendents of Mr. Maynot, who didn’t come over to America in the Mayflower, but only because he was “Too lazy to get off the sofa,” and therefore impacted this continent centuries before the first television was ever thrown out of a speeding vehicle at a man who looked exactly like my great-grandfather, who happens to look exactly like the clone science has yet to allow me to create

I’d love to be able to tell you a story about the future, but I’d rather tell you a story that counts. I’d rather give you a sense of where you might come from, because you need to know where you’ve been to know where to go. The future is your story to tell. And maybe you have more options for the future than you thought. Maybe there are different ways to see what comes next. Wear your iron goggles and walk down Dark Lane at night to see what you can see. Stand by the weir and look at the river of time. Understand that you are part of something very old and yet constantly renewed. And that you may think you can forget history, but history will certainly not forget you. We all need a cunning plan. So be cunning.

Blue approaches the temple in pilgrim’s guise: hair shorn to show the shine of circuitry curling around ears and up to scalp, eyes goggled, mouth a smear of chrome sheen, eyelids chrome hooded. She wears antique typewriter keys on her fingertips in veneration of the great god Hack, and her arms are braceleted in whorls of gold, silver, palladium, glinting brighter than bright against her dark skin.

Speaking of makeovers, anyone notice Hort’s looking even juicier than he did at school?” chirped Dot, biting into the cocoa-pizza she’d swiped off the floor. “Saw him when we came in and he has this swarthy tan from working the moors and mud stains on his cheeks, like he’s Captain Lumberjack or something. But you know how I like woodsy types, with my crush on Robin Hood and all. Anyway, I sneak behind and give him a good sniff and notice he smells like a man now, nothing like that boy who used to wear frog pajamas and reek of baby powder, and all I could think was since there aren’t too many rooms in this place, I wonder if I can get Merlin to put me and him in the same—” “Over my dead body,” bellowed Hort, who stuck his head out from around the corner. Hester glared back, demon twitching. “That can be arranged.” Hort muttered something obscene and vanished behind the wall. Hester saw Dot goggling at her. “What now?” “Did you just defend me?” “Only because you look so stupid in that crown,” Hester grumped. All the girls laughed, even Dot.

So we do go out to the San Jose highway to watch Cody recap tires—There he is wearing goggles working like Vulcan at his forge, throwing tires all over the place with fantastic strength, the good ones high up on a pile, “This one’s no good” down on another, bing, bang, talking all the time a long fantastic lecture on tire recapping which has Dave Wain marvel with amazement—(“My God he can do all that and even explain while he’s doing it”)—But I just mention in connection with the fact that Dave Wain now realizes why I’ve always loved Cody—Expecting to see a bitter ex con he sees instead a martyr of the American Night in goggles in some dreary tire shop at 2 A.M. making fellows laugh with joy with his funny explanations yet at the same time to a T performing every bit of the work he’s being paid for—Rushing up and ripping tires off car wheels with a jicklo, clang, throwing it on the machine, starting up big roaring steams but yelling explanations over that, darting, bending, flinging, flaying, till Dave Wain said he thought he was going to die laughing or crying right there on the spot.

The Ryland website showed a few nominal photos of students in goggles doing something with a torch in a laboratory, or squinting over a whiteboard jammed with calculations, but the rest of the photos were social, cornball: an afternoon of ice skating on a frozen pond, a classic “three in a tree” shot of students chatting beneath a spreading oak. In fact, the campus only had one such tree, which had been over-photographed into exhaustion. In daylight, students straggled to class along the paths of the inelegant campus, occasionally even wearing pajamas, like the members of a good-natured bear family in a children’s book

In those first years the roads were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. Wearing masks and goggles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators. Their barrows heaped with shoddy. Towering wagons or carts. Their eyes bright in their skulls. Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

Turns out, I learned a lot from not being able to go to France. Turns out, those days standing on the concrete floor wearing a hairnet, a paper mask and gown, goggles, and plastic gloves, and- with a pair of tweezers- placing two pipe cleaners into a sterile box that came to me down a slow conveyor belt for eight excruciating hours a day taught me something important I couldn't have learned any other way. That job and the fifteen others I had before I graduated college were my own personal "educational opportunities." They changed my life for the better, though it took me a while to understand their worth. They gave me faith in my own abilities. They offered me a unique view of worlds that were both exotic and familiar to me. They kept things in perspective. They pissed me off. They opened my mind to realities I didn't know existed. They forced me to be resilient, to sacrifice, to see how little I knew, and also how much. They put me in close contact with people who could've funded the college educations of ten thousand kids and also with people who would've rightly fallen on the floor laughing had I complained to them about how unfair it was that after I got my degree I'd have this student loan I'd be paying off until I was forty-three. They made my life big. They contributed to an education that money can't buy.

God bless her, but the child is wild. It’s not her fault. But she’ll never be normal. At least let her enjoy her childhood. You read the report, didn’t you? There was rotten food in the fridge, clothes all over the floor. She came here wearing one of her father’s T-shirts and his baseball cap. You just wanted to throw out all the things that she had in her suitcase and give her a chance to start all over again. And the child’s fingernails were long. Who ever heard of long fingernails on a twelve-year-old? And she smelled!’ ‘Is she worse than Rodney?’ ‘Rodney? No, God no. She doesn’t need psychiatric help. I’m just saying that she needs a couple extra things like a sweater or some new toys of her own.’ Later that afternoon, Isabelle came into my room with a box filled with girls’ toys. I pulled out a blue pony with long yellow hair and pink seashells on its butt. ‘Who was Rodney?’ I asked her. A little boy who lived here and used to wear swimming goggles all the time. Who’s been talking to you about Rodney?’ ‘You mentioned him to the social worker.’ ‘Lord! Don’t worry what I say to the social worker. I have to make you sound like a real sorrowful case to be able to get you more things. See, I got you a pretty pony, didn’t I?’ I guess it was worth having your self-esteem destroyed if there was a free toy involved. Isabelle told me that she was trying to get us a subscription to Ranger Rick magazine. I didn’t want to hear what she was going to say about me to get it.

 "Oh, but I love them so. There." Margo stepped back, then nodded in satisfaction. "I didn't have much to work with, but…"  "Keep it up, Miss D Cup," Kate grumbled, then looked down and goggled. "Jesus, where did they come from?"  "Amazing, isn't it? In the right harness, those puppies just rise."  "I have breasts." Stunned, Kate patted the swell rising above black satin and lace. "And cleavage."  "It's all a matter of proper positioning and making the most of what we have. Even when it's next to nothing."  "Shut up." Grinning, Kate slicked her hands down her torso. "Look, Ma. I'm a girl." ....Her friend was sitting in an elegant Queen Anne chair wearing a black bustier with matching lacy garter belt and sheer black stockings. "Why, Kate, you look so… different."  "I have tits," she stated and rose. "Margo gave them to me."  

Being traumatized is not just an issue of being stuck in the past; it is just as much a problem of not being fully alive in the present. One form of exposure treatment is virtual-reality therapy in which veterans wear high-tech goggles that make it possible to refight the battle of Fallujah in lifelike detail. As far as I know, the US Marines performed very well in combat. The problem is that they cannot tolerate being home. Recent studies of Australian combat veterans show that their brains are rewired to be alert for emergencies, at the expense of being focused on the small details of everyday life.43 (We’ll learn more about this in chapter 19, on neurofeedback.) More than virtual-reality therapy, traumatized patients need “real world” therapy, which helps them to feel as alive when walking through the local supermarket or playing with their kids as they did in the streets of Baghdad.

Things are so relaxed and uneventful that he thinks to himself in passing, “It is times like these that Murphy strikes.” The PJ is thinking about Murphy’s Law: “If anything can go wrong it will.” Murphy’s Law is particularly notorious for rearing its ugly head during complex military operations. Seconds later, Dan’s thoughts of Murphy prove prophetic. Even though he is wearing a noise-canceling headset, Sergeant Houghton hears a loud pop. He is a trained aircrew member and the unusual noise sets off internal alarm bells in his head. He looks around; the rest of the passengers remain oblivious, but Sergeant Houghton notices flight engineers moving around, nervously referring to their checklists. And then he hears the ominous sound of an engine winding down and losing power. He flips up his night vision goggles and mentally takes stock of his situation. Word quickly circulates around the cabin—hold on!

Just across from Bismarck stood Fort Lincoln where friends and relatives of Custer’s dead cavalrymen still lived, and these emigrating Sioux could perceive such bitterness in the air that one Indian on the leading boat displayed a white flag. Yet, in accordance with the laws of human behavior, the farther downstream they traveled the less hostility they encountered, and when the tiny armada reached Standing Rock near the present border of South Dakota these Indians were welcomed as celebrities. Men, women and children crowded aboard the General Sherman to shake hands with Sitting Bull. Judson Elliot Walker, who was just then finishing a book on Custer’s campaigns, had to stand on a chair to catch a glimpse of the medicine man and reports that he was wearing “green wire goggles.” No details are provided, so green wire goggles must have been a familiar sight in those days. Sitting Bull mobbed by fans while wearing green wire goggles. It sounds like Hollywood.

Unlike Kate, by then I’d had a job. In fact, I’d had sixteen jobs, not including the years I worked as a babysitter before I could legally be anyone’s employee. They were janitor’s assistant (humiliatingly, at my high school), fast-food restaurant worker, laborer at a wildlife refuge, administrative assistant to a Realtor, English as a Second Language tutor, lemonade cart attendant, small town newspaper reporter, canvasser for a lefty nonprofit, waitress at a Japanese restaurant, volunteer coordinator for a reproductive rights organization, berry picker on a farm, waitress at a vegetarian restaurant, “coffee girl” at an accounting firm, student-faculty conflict mediator, teacher’s assistant for a women’s studies class, and office temp at a half a dozen places that by and large did not resemble offices and did not engage me in work that struck me as remotely “officey,” but rather involved things such as standing on a concrete floor wearing a hairnet, a paper mask and gown, goggles, and plastic gloves and—with a pair of tweezers—placing two pipe cleaners into a sterile box that came to me down a slow conveyor belt for eight excruciating hours a day.

Then Beverley Brook stepped onto the footplate and pointed a shotgun straight at the Queen’s head – I recognised the Purdey from my trunk. It was nice to see it getting an airing. Beverley herself was wearing an oversized leather jerkin and jeans. Her dreads had been tied into a plait down her back and a pair of antique leather and brass goggles were pushed up onto her brow. ‘Put your hands on your head,’ she said, ‘and step away from the boyfriend.’ The Queen hissed and gripped the rope harder.

Okay, why don’t we wear pants and a shirt instead of a pair of goggles and a hat.

A country that was able to suppress religion entirely and executed dissenters on the merest suspicion was unable to get welders to wear goggles. At

I am Prince Jason of Iolkos, and my business here is with your king.” “Iolkos?” The lead spearman repeated the name in a way that showed he’d never heard of it. “What would my lord Aetes have to do with Iolkos, wherever that is? If that’s your only claim to an audience with the king--” Argus made an impatient noise. “Since when does Lord Aetes need the likes of you to decide who he’ll want to see? Or has his kingdom become so poor that he can no longer afford a little bread and salt for his own kin?” The spearman goggled at Argus. “Are you claiming kinship to Lord Aetes, old man?” “I look older than I am, fool, just as you’ll look the worse for wear when my grandfather finds out you insulted me. I’m Argus, son of Phrixus and the royal lady Nera, Lord Aetes’ eldest daughter by his chief wife. Do you recognize my name, or were you whelped yesterday, pup?” The spearman’s mouth flattened. “You were banished.” “So I was. Yet here I am. Now use the mind the gods gave you. Ask yourself why any sane man would risk his life by defying an order of exile. What could be so crucial that I’d be willing to put my own blood in the balance for it, eh?” He clapped the spearman on the back before the man could react and concluded, “Don’t you think Lord Aetes might want to know the answer to that, too?

Was that unclear?” For once, Vivian didn’t sound sarcastic or impatient. She seemed genuinely confused. “Apparently.” “I don’t understand. Who talks about their friends as their girlfriends?” “Women do it all the time,” Jules said in surprise. Vivian glared at Jules. “Not the women I know.” “That’s because nobody in the fashion industry wears straight goggles. You’re mingling with civilians now.” “But it’s so…infantile.” Vivian looked around with a blistering stare as if the New York Yacht Club was wholly to blame for heterosexuality. “Now what am I supposed to call you? My partner?” Her lip curled as if the notion was too prosaic for words. “How about your piece of ass?” Jules suggested. “Julia,” Vivian said reprovingly, but her lips twitched.

But that didn’t happen. Instead, a unit of about thirty1 Ukrainian soldiers wearing night vision goggles rode quad bikes through the forests around the capital that evening. They dismounted near the column’s head and launched jerry-rigged drones equipped with small explosives. These took out a handful of lead vehicles. Those disabled vehicles then clogged up the central road. Surrounding fields were muddy and impassable. The column, facing freezing weather and faltering supply lines, ground to a halt. Then the same small unit of drone operators managed to blow up a critical supply base using the same tactics, depriving the Russian army of fuel and food.

On October 1941 a separate labour code for Jews allowed employers, for instance, to work fourteen-year-old Jewish boys for unlimited hours. Jews were deprived of protective clothing, welders of goggles and gloves. From September 1941 all Jews aged six or over had to wear a Star of David, black with a yellow background, as large as the palm of the hand, with the word Jude in the middle. This was an identification system which made it much easier to detect Jews breaking the countless regulations, turned the entire German nation into a police force and participants in the persecution, and demoralized the Jews themselves.

from blindness, a positive outcome. But digging deeper, the doctors asked why so many severe eye injuries were occurring. Interviewing their patients, they learned that the young soldiers weren’t wearing their protective goggles because they considered them too ugly and uncool. They recommended that the military switch to “cooler-looking Wiley X ballistic eyewear. The soldiers wore their eyegear more consistently and the eyeinjury rate dropped immediately” (p. A23). By asking these kinds of deeper questions about what’s really going on and questioning basic assumptions about why things are happening, developmental evaluators help get at fundamental systems change implications and understandings. That’s doubleloop learning.

Given all the crazy getups I’d seen Gertie wearing since I met her, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see her squeezed into her old Roller Derby outfit, but I was. Her white hair stuck out from under her old helmet. Her too-tight goggles made the skin around her cheeks puff out, reminding me of a cartoon I had once seen starring a goldfish wearing glasses. Giant padding protected her skinny knees and elbows. An ancient pair of skates that had been tied together with their laces rested over one shoulder, causing her to lean to the right when she walked.

They reminded him of the old two-seater sports cars and seemed to be favoured by the dwarves, wearing helmets and goggles. Ben recognised several makes by their badges, including several Jaguars and a few Caterhams.

Something niggled her. A seemingly small fact she was overlooking. A rodent scurried through some leaves nearby. A mosquito whined in her ear. What was it? No flashlight. That was it. Fitch hadn’t brought a flashlight outside with him. When she’d glimpsed him walking down the steps, she’d expected to see a light wink on. But it never did. And then he’d just strolled up that path in the dark like— Her breath caught in her chest. —like he could see. She sat up. That wasn’t a strange-looking hat he’d been wearing. Those were night-vision goggles.

A clearing of a gravelly throat pulled him from his thoughts. He turned and looked at Thomas, the boat captain, who was seventy if he was a day. “I think that’s your party there,” the older man said, nodding toward the gravel lot at the end of the dock. If he seemed a bit uncomfortable, Cooper chalked it up to the rather taciturn older man being thrust into what, based on the bits and pieces of the conversations Cooper had overheard while eating breakfast at the café that morning, was the biggest gossip story to hit the Cove in ages. Maybe the boat captain had been secretly hoping Kerry wouldn’t show and he’d be excused from chaperoning duties. Cooper was too relieved that Kerry had come to get distracted by what the captain was thinking or feeling. He turned around, a welcoming grin on his face, then went completely, utterly still. Even his heart seemed to have stuttered to a stop. Holy jumping mother of--what in the hell was she wearing? He’d just been hoping she’d show at all and assumed he’d have to cajole her out of being annoyed with him for his high-handedness. Again. Only she sure didn’t look annoyed. She looked…like an edible tray of ripe, luscious fruit. With him being the only guest invited to the bountiful buffet. Sweet Jesus. How was he supposed to keep his hands to himself with her wearing nothing more than a glorified bandana? She drew closer, and her smile turned a shade smug. She was clearly enjoying his all but cartoon character worthy, goggling reaction. And well, hell, what did she expect? He was a red-blooded male whose bed had remained strikingly empty since her departure. Since long before then, truth be told. “Hi, Thomas,” she called to the boat captain as she closed the remaining distance between them, still smiling brightly. If she was uncomfortable in her little getup in front of the older man--a man, Cooper supposed, she had to know, given everybody knew everyone in such a small village--she didn’t show it. Instead, she said, “Did they rook you into being our captain today?” The old man’s cheeks were beet red in a way that had nothing to do with decades of harsh weather. He nodded somewhat tensely. “Did indeed, Miss Kerry. Good to, uh, good to see ya,” he managed to choke out, trying to look anywhere but at the expanse of bare leg and curvy cleavage. Cooper would have felt sorry for the man, but he was too busy trying to get his own voice back.

While Sean was pulling on his fins, Lily had pretended to be busy herself. She’d made a show of tugging on her goggles, just in case he happened to glance up, and saw her staring like an obsessed ninny. Through the tinted blue of her goggles, she watched him surface. Oh my god. Her knees went weak, threatened to buckle. Sean was doing a butterfly kick on his back. Her eyes traveled down the length of his torso, and stopped, transfixed. She swallowed convulsively. Yet she couldn’t have torn her eyes away from the sight of Sean’s narrow hips if someone had screamed, Fire! Encased in black Lycra, they moved in a suggestive rhythm, breaking the surface of the water, sinking, and then rising again, over and over. Unbearably erotic, an answering beat drummed deep inside Lily. Helplessly, she conjured endless hours of sex, Sean’s body driving into her with the same relentless, unbroken rhythm, each flex of his hips thrusting to her very womb. “Something wrong, Lily?” Hal’s impatient voice demanded. Lily nearly leaped out of her skin. She was the only one left on deck besides Hal. “No, nothing,” she said hurriedly, hyperconscious that her voice was reedy thin. “Just about to jump in.” To clear her mind of the sexual fog that lay thick and heavy, she blinked rapidly—only to mutter a soft curse when she realized what had happened. Yanking her goggles off, she dropped to a kneel and swished them viciously in the water. “What’s the problem now?” Hal’s patience was obviously wearing thin. Embarrassed, resentful, and praying Hal wouldn’t guess the real reason why, Lily ground out her explanation. “My glasses fogged.” “They broken? I’ve got—” “No, no . . .” she interrupted tersely, and felt immediately guilty. It wasn’t Hal’s fault her goggles had literally fogged from the heat of her aroused body. It was hers. That’s what she got from staring at Sean McDermott’s groin for too long: fogged mind, fogged goggles. Determined to ignore the sight of Sean moving like a bold lover through the water next to her, that incredible, muscled body within touching distance, Lily gritted her teeth and dove in.

SpaceX, for example, would have written down all the steps needed to replace a filter—put on gloves, wear safety goggles, remove a nut—and then want to alter this procedure or use a different type of filter. The FAA would need a week to review the new process before SpaceX could actually go about changing the filter on the rocket, a lag that both the engineers and Musk found ridiculous.

An egg would rendezvous with a sperm one not-so-romantic night in a petri-dish, and cellular division would begin under the watchful eye of some goggle-wearing geek.

PROPYLENE GLYCOL (PG) Propylene glycol is the active ingredient in antifreeze. It is also used in makeup, toothpaste, and deodorant. Stick deodorants have a higher concentration of PG than is allowed for most industrial use! Direct contact can cause brain, liver, and kidney abnormalities. The EPA requires workers to wear protective gloves, clothing, and goggles when working with it. Yet the FDA says we can put it into our mouths even though it has determined that it is not safe to use in or on cat food!17

Mr. Jones had just started her on scraping the bottom when he came around the bow and stopped short. He shook his head in disbelief. “How did you manage to get so filthy so fast?” he said. “Didn’t I tell you to wear a painter’s cap?” Denny shrugged and squinted at him through her safety goggles. “I thought the wind would blow the old paint and junk away as I scraped it off,” she said. Mr. Jones came over and took a closer look. “Look at your hair,” he said. “Your mother’s going to kill me. Try and shake some of that junk out of it.” Denny leaned over and shook her hair in the wind. She was almost sorry she’d let it grow. Long hair was such a pain sometimes. She heard the putter of an outboard motor and looked up to see Spence making his way across the bay. “Him again,” she grumbled, but she pulled the comb out of her back pocket and started furiously tugging at her hair. Mr. Jones grinned. “Thought you couldn’t stand him,” he said. “I can’t,” said Denny, whipping off her safety glasses. “Oh,” said Mr. Jones; then he gave her a maddening smile and went back to rebuilding the cradle. Denny glanced at Spence out of the corner of her eye as he approached. He stood at the wheel, wearing a knit sailor’s cap and an old navy peacoat. A shock of blond hair stuck out under the cap and was swept back by the wind. His dark eyes squinted into the sun, and the cut of his jaw was firm and square. Denny shook her head. “You’ve been away from civilization too long,” she told herself, “when somebody like him starts looking good.

the proportion of people wearing quasi-military body armor with gas masks and goggles has shot up. Hey, look! There’s that guy with a flag pitchfork, again.

And this was all getting a bit steampunk for my liking. If Jacob Astor turned out to be wearing goggles it was going to go very hard on him indeed.

He took Mother for a ride in his first automobile, some early ancestor of Foolish Carriage. As Dad and Mother, dressed in dusters and wearing goggles, went scorching through the streets of Boston, bystanders tossed insults and ridicule in their direction... ..."Say, Noah, what are you doing with that Ark?" That did it. Dad slowed the car and cocked his checkered cap belligerently over one eye. "Collecting animals like the good Lord told me," he screamed back. "All I need is a jackass. Hop in.

Its two hundred miles to the ship, we’ve got half a tank of gas, no cigarettes, its dark and we’re wearing goggles.’ ‘Hit it.

If Bliss Brain is so desirable and pleasurable, why is it so fragile? Why can our brains be distracted from happiness by the slightest hint of a thought? Why is the demon’s slightest whisper enough to drag us out of bliss? Why are our brains hardwired for negativity? The answer is simple: That’s how our ancestors survived. Those who were the most responsive to danger lived. If your ancestor’s brain had a genetic mutation that heard the rustle of the tiger in the grass a nanosecond earlier, he started running a moment sooner. Genes that paid close attention to threats conferred an enormous survival advantage, as I illustrate in my book The Genie in Your Genes. People who were less responsive to potential threats died, and their genes were lost to the gene pool. Those who reacted to the smallest hint of danger survived, passing their paranoid genes to the next generation. In contrast, happiness provided little or no survival value. Fail to notice a beautiful sunset, ignore the sound of children singing, walk by a rose bush without smelling the blooms? Nothing bad happens. But miss the rustle of the tiger? That’s fatal. So thousands of generations of evolution have honed our ability to respond to even the most minuscule whisper of the remotest possibility of threat, and abandon happiness at the drop of a hat. Mother Nature cares greatly about your survival—and not at all about your happiness. That’s why the DMN defaults to worry, instead of to bliss. Mentally rehearsing future stuff that might just possibly hurt us, past stuff that definitely hurt us, and present stuff that might signal danger—all these are signs of a brain that is successfully practicing the strategies that ensured our ancestors’ survival. This isn’t bad. It’s just excessive for the safe modern world in which we live. If you’re at a construction site where a skyscraper is being built, you wear a hard hat and safety goggles. Such an outfit is entirely appropriate for that context. As attire for tea with the queen? Not so much. Although the DMN interrupts meditation, it plays a useful role in our lives. It is active when we are thinking about others, considering our safety, remembering the past, and planning for the future. It is also active in self-oriented and social tasks, including memorizing the experiences we collect during task-oriented activities. The path of your inner mystic will elevate you to enlightenment. The goal of your inner demon is to keep you safe. You can’t get enlightened if you’ve been eaten by the tiger.

The camera looks down at a man strapped onto a centrifuge, which spins rapidly. The man wears a strange noduled steel helmet and sensory deprivation goggles. The man silently screams.

Their average height was somewhere between two-and-a-half and three feet, which meant that they hardly reached above Ganelon’s kneecap. They were colored a vile, poisonous green, covered with lumps like warts only about the size of doorknobs. Their tremendous breadth of shoulders and thick, massively-thewed arms and barrel chests reminded him of the Indigons he had battled on the Plains of Uth. Bald and hairless, with bullet heads, they had heavy prognathous jaws and long, lipless, gash-like mouths that made them look rather froggy. Froglike, too, were their ugly, goggling eyes which glistened in the moonlight like puddles of spilt ink. They didn’t wear any clothing to speak of, just odd bits, scraps and pieces of iron armor; but they bristled with weapons. Among these were flint-knives, stone axes, clubs roughly carven from petrified wood, and long spears made from slender stony stalactites, with obsidian blades for points. They had no ears, and conversed amongst themselves in clicks, squeaks and hissings. They also had no genitals, just bare tough flesh between their crooked little bowlegs, which terminated in ugly, four-toed feet. They emitted a vile medicinal stench, like iodine. The insides of their mouths were black. And they had fat white tongues, like plump worms.

I’m lurking in the shubbery behind an industrial unit, armed with a clipboard, a pager, and a pair of bulbous night-vision goggles that drench the scenery in ghastly emeralt tones. The bloody thing make me look like a train-spotter with a gas-mask fetish, and wearing them is giving me a headache

How can intermediate level beings see or experience this artificial life? The answer is that we already have virtual reality goggles through which we can view, in three dimensions, sporting events on the opposite side of the world. Today you can purchase equipment that enables you to watch and listen to a professional basketball game that takes place in the United States while you are in your bedroom in Japan, wearing the virtual reality goggles and headphones. Imagine the authenticity, accuracy and realism of virtual reality that a civilization a thousand years more advanced than us can produce!

Professor Paglia attended a presentation and lecture by a "feminist theorist from a large Ivy League university who had set out to 'decode' the subliminal sexual oppressiveness . . . [and] to expose the violent sexism . . . in fashion photography". The presentation featured slides of cosmetic ads. One was a Revlon ad of a woman standing in a pool in water up to her chin. "Decapitation!" the feminist theorist shouted. "She showed a picture of a black woman who was wearing aviator goggles and had the collar of her turtleneck sweater pulled up. "Strangulation!" she shouted. "Bondage!". When the "lecture" was over, Professor Paglia, "who considers herself a feminist, stood up and made an impassioned speech. She declared that the fashion photography of the past 40 years is great art, that instead of decapitation she saw the birth of Venus, instead of strangulation she saw references to King Tut". After Professor Paglia finished, "she was greeted, she says, 'with gasps of horror and angry murmuring. It's a form of psychosis, this slogan-filled machinery. The radical feminists have contempt for values other than their own, and they're inspiring in students a resentful attitude toward the world (New York Magazine, 21 January 1991, p. 38).

He won’t even wear goggles—he says they “spoil the effect.” Unprotected mucous membranes can spoil a hell of a lot more than that,

When you're wearing slasher goggles, everything can look like a slasher.

Major Plank?' he said. Plank, too, was goggling. 'Who on earth are you?' 'Chief Inspector Witherspoon, sir, of Scotland Yard. Has this man been attempting to obtain money from you?' 'Just been doing that very thing.' 'As I suspected. We have had our eye on him for a long time, but till now have never been able to apprehend him in the act.' 'Notorious crook, is he?' 'Precisely, sir. He is a confidence man of considerable eminence in the underworld, who makes a practice of calling at houses and extracting money from their owners with some plausible story.' 'He does more than that. He pinches things from people and tries to sell them. Look at that statuette he's holding. It's a thing I sold to Sir Watkyn Bassett, who lives at Totleigh-in-the-Wold, and he had the cool cheek to come here and try to sell it to me for five pounds.' 'Indeed, sir? With your permission I will impound the object.' 'You'll need it as evidence?' 'Exactly, sir. I shall now take him to Totleigh Towers and confront him with Sir Watkyn.' 'Yes, do. That'll teach him. Nasty hangdog look the fellow's got. I suspected from the first he was wanted by the police. Had him under observation for a long time, have you?' 'For a very long time, sir. He is known to us at the Yard as Alpine Joe, because he always wears an Alpine hat.' 'He's got it with him now.' 'He never moves without it.' 'You'd think he'd have the sense to adopt some rude disguise.' 'You would indeed, sir, but the mental processes of a man like that are hard to follow.' 'Then there's no need for me to phone the local police?' 'None, sir. I will take him into custody.' 'You wouldn't like me to hit him over the head first with a Zulu knobkerrie?' 'Unnecessary, sir.' 'It might be safer.' 'No, sir, I am sure he will come quietly.' 'Well, have it your own way. But don't let him give you the slip.' 'I will be very careful, sir.' 'And shove him into a dungeon with dripping walls and see to it that he is well gnawed by rats.' 'Very good, sir.