Wheelie Quotes

One can often recognize herd animals by their tendency to carry bibles.

Certainty is not to be had. But as we learn this we become not more moral but more resigned. We become nihilists.

Elves, pixies, gnomes- the Moomins, Chorlton and the Wheelies, SpongeBob SquarePants- they all tried to invade you at some point.

Carrie Underwood, take the wheel-I was not okay.

The sequence is suffering, insight, will, action, change.

Skate, you’re about to pop the best wheelie of your life.

The Dora bag has straps, it’s like Backpack but with Dora on it instead of Backpack’s face. It has a handle too, when I try it pulls up, I think I broke it, but then it rolls, it’s a wheelie bag and a backpack at the same time, that’s magic. “You like it?” It’s Deana talking to me. “Would you like to keep your things in it?” “Maybe one that’s not pink,” says Paul to her. “What about this one, Jack, pretty cool or what?” He’s holding up a bag of Spider-Man. I give Dora a big hug. I think she whispers, Hola, Jack. Deana tries to take the Dora bag but I won’t let her. “It’s OK, I just have to pay the lady, you’ll get it back in two seconds…” It’s not two seconds, it’s thirty-seven.

Vargo climbed in, twisted and turned a few times to get comfortable on the pillow, then pulled the lid down and latched it. As the eye of narrative drew back from the coffin on its stand, two things happened. One happened comparatively slowly, and this was Vargo's realization that he never recalled the coffin having a pillow before. The other was Greebo deciding that he was as mad as hell and wasn't going to take it any more. He'd been shaken around in the wheely thing and then sat on by Nanny, and he was angry about that because he knew, in a dim, animal way, that scratching Nanny might be the single most stupid thing he could do in the whole world, since no one else was prepared to feed him. This hadn't helped his temper. Then he'd encountered a dog, which had tried to lick him. He'd scratched and bitten it a few times, but this had had no effect apart from encouraging it to try to be more friendly. He'd finally found a comfy resting place and had curled up into a ball, and now someone was using him as a cushion- There wasn't a great deal of noise. The coffin rocked a few times, and then pivoted around.

Nothing guarantees our freedom. Deny it often enough and one day it will be gone, and we'll not know how or when.

Desire is endless and unappeasable, is most intense where most forbidden, and is never far from despair.

boys popped wheelies that landed very near the men, then exercised their audacity by requesting quarters to stop. “I could scuff your shoes for nothin’,” they said, “but when a quarter’s

Nelson mentally adds ‘lounging trousers’ to the list of things that he will one day make illegal. It joins wheelie suitcases, pumpkin-flavoured coffee and people who tell him to have a nice day.

I grabbed my book and rode the banisters down to the first floor, where I found Wheelie at her desk in the main office. She’s called the secretary, but as far as I can tell she basically runs the school.

They’re lounging trousers,’ says Ballard, when Nelson can’t help mentioning the fact. Nelson mentally adds ‘lounging trousers’ to the list of things that he will one day make illegal. It joins wheelie suitcases, pumpkin-flavoured coffee and people who tell him to have a nice day.

Seattle. I’ve never seen a city so overrun with runaways, drug addicts, and bums. Pike Place Market: they’re everywhere. Pioneer Square: teeming with them. The flagship Nordstrom: have to step over them on your way in. The first Starbucks: one of them hogging the milk counter because he’s sprinkling free cinnamon on his head. Oh, and they all have pit bulls, many of them wearing handwritten signs with witticisms such as I BET YOU A DOLLAR YOU’LL READ THIS SIGN. Why does every beggar have a pit bull? Really, you don’t know? It’s because they’re badasses, and don’t you forget it. I was downtown early one morning and I noticed the streets were full of people pulling wheelie suitcases. And I thought, Wow, here’s a city full of go-getters. Then I realized, no, these are all homeless bums who have spent the night in doorways and are packing up before they get kicked out. Seattle is the only city where you step in shit and you pray, Please God, let this be dog shit. Anytime you express consternation as to how the U.S. city with more millionaires per capita than any other would allow itself to be overtaken by bums, the same reply always comes back. “Seattle is a compassionate city.” A guy named the Tuba Man, a beloved institution who’d play his tuba at Mariners games, was brutally murdered by a street gang near the Gates Foundation. The response? Not to crack down on gangs or anything. That wouldn’t be compassionate. Instead, the people in the neighborhood redoubled their efforts to “get to the root of gang violence.” They arranged a “Race for the Root,” to raise money for this dunderheaded effort. Of course, the “Race for the Root” was a triathlon, because God forbid you should ask one of these athletic do-gooders to partake in only one sport per Sunday.

So what is it really like? What happens when people die?" Noor asks Alice Bhatti, who after finishing her shift has changed into a loose maxi and is lying down on a wheelie stretcher, her forearm covering her eyes. A half-torn poster on the wall behind the stretcher says : Bhai, your blood will bring a revolution. Someone has scrawled under it with a marker: And that revolution will bring more blood. Someone has added Insha'allah in an attempt to introduce divine intervention into the proceedings. Some more down-to-earth soul has tried to give this revolution a direction, and drawn an arrow underneath and scribbled, Bhai, the Blood Bank is in Block C.

Two boys on fluorescent bikes with extravagant ape-hanger handlebars were doing wheelies in the parking lot, weaving in and out of each other’s paths with a dexterity that suggested a solid background in video gaming and possible high-paying futures as air-traffic controllers . . . if they managed to stay away from coke and car accidents, that was.

To know the good is a dangerous thing; to know it for sure is usually fatal for somebody.

As she made her way through the tedium of check-in lines, security lines, boarding lines, she noticed several people wearing paper surgical masks. She wondered if they were being paranoid about that new virus she’d been hearing about. As she stepped from the jetway into the plane, it struck her that for fifteen hours she’d be sealed in a metal tube with hundreds of people. She wished she’d thought to get a mask for herself. It was good she was leaving when she was; if the virus spread, it might get complicated to fly. But then she looked around at all the people cramming their wheelie bags into overhead bins, adjusting their neck pillows, scrolling through the in-flight video choices, and dismissed the idea. Restless humans. You’d never stop them traveling.

We’re still standing outside the front gate of the shell cottage as a boy in football socks stomps down his driveway to retrieve a wheelie bin. Now we watch as he drags it up through the laurel and back to the house. All his gestures are exaggeratedly huffy, though there’s no one to witness his protest, no one but you and me, and the boy didn’t even see us. We walk from the thistles to where the cliff drops into open Atlantic and there’s nothing but luscious, jumping blue all the way to America. I’m still thinking of the boy in the driveway, of how he doesn’t realise how lucky he is to live here where there’s space to run and the salt wind ruddies his cheeks each day, how he takes it all for normal and considers himself entitled to be huffy with the wheelie bin. Now I wonder was I was lucky too, and never grateful? Sometimes a little hungry and sometimes a little cold, but not once sick or struck and every day with the sea to ruddy me. Perhaps I was lucky my father took me back when the neighbour woman rang his doorbell, lucky he never drove away and left me on the road again. But it’s too late to be grateful now. It’s too late now for everything but regret.

People may indeed be treated as objects and may be profoundly affected thereby. Kick a dog often enough and he will become cowardly or vicious. People who are kicked undergo similar changes; their view of the world and of themselves is transformed. . . People may indeed be brainwashed, for benign or exploitative reasons. . . If one's destiny is shaped by manipulation one has become more of an object, less of a subject, has lost freedom. . . If, however, one's destiny is shaped from within then one has become more of a creator, has gained freedom. This is self-transcendence, a process of change that originates in one's heart and expands outward. . . begins with a vision of freedom, with an "I want to become...", with a sense of the potentiality to become what one is not. One gropes toward this vision in the dark, with no guide, no map, and no guarantee. Here one acts as subject, author, creator.

We must affirm freedom and responsibility without denying that we are the product of circumstance, and must affirm that we are the product of circumstance without denying that we have the freedom to transcend that causality to become something which could not even have been provisioned from the circumstances which shaped us.

Matter would have the universe a uniform dispersion, motionless, complete. Spirit would have an earth, a heaven and a hell, whirl and conflict, an incandescent sun to drive away the dark, to illuminate good and evil, would have thought, memory, desire, would build a stairway of forms increasing in complexity, inclusiveness, to a heaven ever receding above, changing always in configuration, becoming when reached but the way to more distant heavens, the last . . . but there is no last, for spirit tends upward without end, wanders, spirals, dips, but tends ever upward, ruthlessly using lower forms to create higher forms, moving toward ever greater inwardness, consciousness, spontaneity, to an ever greater freedom.

You know that you and Hunter aren't even remotely subtle," Kieran told me through the open window. I just grinned at him. "Wave to the top-floor corner window over there. Lia's got a crush on you." Kieran's ears went red. "How does she even know I'm here?" "I told her you were coming," I said, sliding into my seat. I dropped my knapsack full of weapons at my feet. "You're a menace." "I was twelve once." I shrugged. "A little crush in a place like this can make a difference. She's got to think about something other than vampires." "What, like you?" he remarked drily, reversing out of the parking-spot. "Come on, drive like you're cool," I urged him, ignoring his very valid point. "Pop a wheelie or something. It'll give her something to swoon over." He laughed despite himself. "I can't pop a wheelie in an SUV, you lunatic.

A man in chains need not be a slave. If he has pride and self-respect he is a free man though a prisoner, and a constant danger to his jailers. Conversely, a slave who escapes is not a free man, but a runaway slave who may be caught and returned to servitude. A slave is one who accepts the identity ascribed to him by a master: "You are an inferior and unworthy person and so will remain, and therefore must serve me with obedience and humility.

A free man is not a slave who has escaped his master; such a man is but a runaway slave who may be caught and returned to servitude. A free man, though he may be overpowered, may be killed, cannot be reduced to servitude; something in him asserts freedom as an inviolable right. It is not negotiable. He does not *ask* that others respect his right, he *requires* it; and it is ultimately his willingness to die for this freedom which forms the basis of his demand that others respect it.

One theft, however, does not make a thief . . Action which defines a man, describes his character, is action which has been repeated over and over and so has come in time to be a coherent and relatively independent mode of behavior. At first it may have been fumbling and uncertain, may have required attention, effort, will - as when first drives a car, first makes love, first robs a bank, first stands up against injustice. If one perseveres on any such course it comes in time to require less effort, less attention, begins to function smoothly; its small component behaviors become integrated within a larger pattern which has an ongoing dynamism and cohesiveness, carries its own authority. Such a mode then pervades the entire person, permeates other modes, colors other qualities, in some sense is living and operative even when the action is not being performed, or even considered. . . . Such a mode of action tends to maintain itself, to resist change. A thief is one who steals; stealing extends and reinforces the identity of a thief, which generates further thefts, which further strengthen and deepen the identity. So long as one lives, change is possible; but the longer such behavior is continued the more force and authority it acquires, the more it permeates other constant bodes, subordinates other conflicting modes; changing back becomes steadily more difficult; settling down to an honest job, living on one's earnings becomes ever more unlikely. And what is said here of stealing applies equally to courage, cowardice, creativity . . . or any other of the myriad ways of behaving, and hence of being.

I remember a spring night in a school auditorium, during the rehearsal of a play. I am thirteen. I am weary of the farce, weary of the silliness of the cast, of our endless horseplay, mindlessness. A scene in which I have no part is being rehearsed; I stand in an open door at the rear of the dark and empty hall. A storm is under way. The door is on the lee of the building, and I step out under the overhang. The rain swirls and beats. Lightning reveals a familiar schoolyard in a ghostly light. I feel a sudden poignancy. Images strike my mind. The wind is the scream of a lost spirit, searching the earth and finding no good, recalling old bereavements, lashing the land with tears. Consciousness leaves my body, moves out in time and space. I undergo an expanding awareness of self, of separateness, of time flowing through me, bearing me on, knowing I have a chance, the one chance all of us have, the chance of a life, knowing a time will come when nothing lies ahead and everything lies behind, and hoping I can then look back and feel it well spent. How, in the light of fixed stars, should one live?

In a condition of struggle and of failure we must be able to say "I must try harder" or "I must try differently." Both views are essential . . . A change in either makes for a change in outcome. When we say "I must try harder" we mean that the most relevant variable is something within us - intention, will, determination, "meaning it" . . When we say "I must try differently" we mean that the most relevant variable lies in the situation within which intention is being exerted, that we should look to the environment, to the ways it pushes and pulls at us, and in this study find the means to alter that interaction.

Neurotic suffering indicates inner conflict. Each side of the conflict is likely to be a composite of many partial forces, each one of which has been structured into behavior, attitude, perception, value. Each component asserts itself, claims priority, insists that something else yield, accommodates. The conflict therefore is fixed, stubborn, enduring. It may be impugned and dismissed without effect, imprecations and remorse are of no avail, strenuous acts of will may be futile; it causes - yet survives and continues to cause - the most intense suffering, humiliation, rending of flesh. Such a conflict is not to be uprooted or excised. It is not an ailment, it is the patient himself. The suffering will not disappear without a change in the conflict, and a change in the conflict amounts to a change in what one is and how one lives, feels, reacts.

We are cradlers of secrets. Every day patients grace us with their secrets, often never before shared. Receiving such secrets is a privilege given to very few. The secrets provide a backstage view of the human condition without social frills, role playing, bravado, or stage posturing. Sometimes the secrets scorch me and I go home and hold my wife and count my blessings. Other secrets pulsate within me and arouse my own fugitive, long-forgotten memories and impulses. Still others sadden me as I witness how an entire life can be needlessly consumed by shame and the inability to forgive oneself. Those who are cradlers of secrets are granted a clarifying lens through which to view the world—a view with less distortion, denial, and illusion, a view of the way things really are. (Consider, in this regard, the titles of books written by Allen Wheelis, an eminent psychoanalyst: The Way Things Are, The Scheme of Things, The Illusionless Man.) When I turn to others with the knowledge that we are all (therapist and patient alike) burdened with painful secrets—guilt for acts committed, shame for actions not taken, yearnings to be loved and cherished, deep vulnerabilities, insecurities, and fears—I draw closer to them. Being a cradler of secrets has, as the years have passed, made me gentler and more accepting. When I encounter individuals inflated with vanity or self-importance, or distracted by any of a myriad of consuming passions, I intuit the pain of their underlying secrets and feel not judgment but compassion and, above all, connectedness. When I was first exposed, at a Buddhist retreat, to the formal meditation of loving-kindness, I felt myself much at home. I believe that many therapists, more than is generally thought, are familiar with the realm of loving-kindness.

In this green, scratchy muddle Finn eventually ended up barking at a bush. I couldn’t see anything in it, but not for the first time in our partnership I shouted a challenge at an inanimate object because Finn told me to. I’ve shouted challenges at more bushes and trees than I can remember down the years – not to mention cars, vans, cupboards, lofts, roofs, boxes, wheelie bins and haystacks.

October mornings peeled the night cloud back to its subcutaneous lilac tissue. The leaves earned their name by leaving the trees. Browned and blistered foliage cascaded from the sycamore, swilling into the exterior nooks of the house, ruffling the gravel, snagging on the tortured remains of the thistle, bottlenecking and compacting in the corner where the wheelie bin was kept, so that when it was taken off for collection, its absence created a rectangular hollow the shape of a short, stocky pillar that held its shape for several seconds before crumbling.

Leila wished she were at home too, enveloped in the warmth of bed covers with her cat curled at her feet, purring in drowsy contentment. Her cat was stone deaf and black – except for a patch of snow on one paw. She had named him Mr Chaplin, after Charlie Chaplin, for, just like the heroes of early cinema, he lived in a silent world of his own. Tequila Leila would have given anything to be in her apartment now. Instead she was here, somewhere on the outskirts of Istanbul, across from a dark, damp football field, inside a metal rubbish bin with rusty handles and flaking paint. It was a wheelie bin; at least four feet high and half as wide. Leila herself was five foot seven – plus the eight inches of her purple slingback stilettos, still on her feet. There was so much she wanted to know. In her mind she kept replaying the last moments of her life, asking herself where things had gone wrong – a futile exercise since time could not be unravelled as though it were a ball of yarn. Her skin was already turning greyish-white, even though her cells were still abuzz with activity.

We’re just staring at each other. “You stay away from the boys?” I laugh. This is like boyfriend’s talk. Oh God. “I go to a co-ed school in case you didn’t notice.” He smiles. “I mean…you got a boyfriend?” “No,” I answer like he’s crazy. “What if I did? What would you do?” “Pay him no mind at all,” he says without even blinking. I don’t have an answer to that. “You had one…a boyfriend?” I don’t say right off. It’s not exactly his business unless I allow it…is it? “No.” “You want to…spend time with me?” “Like I’ll just ignore you now, living down the road with Disbro.” “You could,” he laughs, “but I’ll make it hard.” “What are you going to do, pop a wheelie in front of my house?” I think I’m doing pretty well with my answers but I don’t know where they are coming from. He laughs at that. “Take you down to the trestle,” he says and there’s something to it, and he’s got this look, and it’s sex. I know it because I’m in high school, but with him it is nothing like what I’ve known around boys saying stuff. This doesn’t make me mad at all, but I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. He is. It’s like another door just swung wide open and it’s a jungle in there.

Dirty old men are dirty because they are hanging on to life. Sex is the life force, and the nearer they come to death, the more urgent their desire. Thus it comes about that the drive becomes most insistent at the time when the ability to gratify it is disappearing. So they augment a waning potency by reaching down into the dirt, adding lust and aggression to hold aloft an impulse that once soared effortlessly on wings of love alone.

As no designation of good and evil can be absolute, neither can it be fixed; no law which is just now will be forever just, and no political institution designed to secure the good can remain the best means to that good.

They’re not nuts, friends, they’re simply seeing it all through different eyes. They have imagination, and they know something about being alone and in pain. They’re altering the real world to fit their fantasies. That’s okay. We all do it. Don’t say you don’t. How many of you have come out of the movie, having seen Bullitt or The French Connection or Vanishing Point or The Last American Hero or Freebie and the Bean, gotten in your car, and just about done a wheelie, sixty-five mph out of the parking lot? Don’t lie to me, gentle reader, we all have weird-looking mannerisms that seem perfectly rational to us, but make onlookers cock an eyebrow and cross to the other side of the street. I’ve grown very fond of people who can let it out, who can have the strength of compulsion to indulge their special affectations. They seem to me more real than the faceless gray hordes of sidewalk sliders who go from there to here without so much as a hop, skip, or a jump.

He was so stocky. He was like a wheelie bin.

Bob's Bicycle Helmet Bob's on his bike and I'm on Bob. I'm Bob's helmet. I'm on the job. Bob burns rubber. Bob climbs hills. Bob does wheelies. Bob takes spills. Bob skins his elbow. Bob scrapes his knee. Bob doesn't hurt his head— Bob's got me. And if some day the sky should fall it will not hurt Bob's head at all. Bob's on his bike again. I'm on Bob. I've got him covered. I'm on the job.

The ends of his moustache have been waxed into little tips. Here on the Lower East side, he is the absolute pinnacle of sophistication. McAvoy cannot help but think that back home, in Hull, he would be found in a wheelie bin with a cocktail shaker wedged somewhere invasive.

Can I stay here?" In response, Mary smiled and opened the door wide. Tianna walked inside. Flames flickered in the hearth, and the smell of popcorn wrapped around her. Shannon and Todd looked up in surprise when they saw her. Shannon ran to her with arms spread as wide as wings, and Todd did happy wheelies around the room. Hours later, stomach filled with popcorn and Pepsi, Tianna crawled onto the soft cotton-flowered sheet and pulled the comforter over her head. Her bed smelled fresh and new, and she had a cozy feeling that she hadn't felt for a long time. Tears stung her eyes. She missed her parents and Jamie, but now at least she had a chance to start to live a normal life after so many years of running and living on the street. She stared out the window at the dark night sky and touched the amulet hanging around her neck. "Goddess," she murmured. The word felt so right.

Language: if you’re not a member of your target market, you need to learn the language and jargon used within your target market. If you’re selling BMX bikes, you need talk about “endos,” “sick wheelies” and “bunny hops,” not features, benefits, and specifications. If you’re selling golf clubs, you need to talk about “hooks,” “slices” and “handicaps.

While the vision he had shown in building Trump Tower remained, the discipline he had summoned to get the skyscraper built evaporated. Emboldened by easy money and a laudatory press, Donald went on a massive and ill-considered shopping spree. Among the projects he juggled was a promising expanse on the West Side on the same turf where Zeckendorf wanted to erect Atomic City, and Donald gave the development-in-waiting an equally retro, Jetsons-like label: Television City. As Donald wheelied along, fine-tuning his performance as the business world’s answer to Evel Knievel, the media lavished whopping reams of attention on him. For the most part, reporters didn’t cover Donald’s ventures because what he did was smart. They covered Donald’s doings because what he did was fun to watch. Whether any of them recognized that what they were watching was a slow-motion car crash didn’t matter. It was the ’80s.