Elias revved the engine menacingly. I put my hand on the steering wheel. "That's my mom! Don't even think about it." "How about I just back over the ones behind us?" " Or the ones on the sidewalk, " one of the guys in the backseat suggested. "Be serious, " I said, though they might have been.
My entire body shaking, I carefully unstrapped the seat belt and turned around as far as I could to look at the backseat. Or rather, the dog that sat on it. He was panting, his eyes round, but there was nothing at all odd about him. Other than the fact that I'd just heard him speak. "You can't talk, " I told him. "I think I can, " he answered.
Mankind is supposed to have evolved in the treetops. But I have examined my sense of balance, the prehensility of my various appendages, and my attitude toward standing on anything higherthan, say, political principles, and I have concluded that, personally, I evolved in the backseat of a car.
P. J. O'Rourke
As far as my projects are concerned, I have always maintained a healthy balance. My south Indian projects have never taken a backseat even though I've been busy in Hindi. Both regions have loved me, and being wanted by both the north and south film industries is a compliment by itself.
My mother and father, with my newborn brother and me in the backseat of the 1938 Ford sedan that would be our family car for the next decade, moved to that hastily constructed Army ammunition depot called Igloo, on the alkaline and sagebrush landscape of far southwestern South Dakota. I was three years old.
From the back came an unearthly, satisfied chuckle. All I could see in the rearview mirror was a dark shadow with red goat-slitted eyes. Fear slithered through me. Shit, I have a demon in my backseat. What in hell am I playing with? 'Good witch, ' Al said, his voice coming from nothing, and I stifled a shudder. 'You're starting to understand.
But my personal favorite words of wisdom came from Gulley during the last thirty minutes of the trip, when she broke up a backseat scuffle by declaring, 'When you lick the person sitting next to you, there's a good chance you're going to get punched.' I believe the only reason that gem is missing from the book of Proverbs is because Solomon must never have traveled with three kids in the back of his chariot.
Any government will work if authority and responsibility are equal and coordinate. This does not insure 'good' government, it simply insures that it will work. But such governments are rare - most people want to run things, but want no part of the blame. This used to be called the 'backseat driver' syndrome.
Robert A. Heinlein
Any government will work if authority and responsibility are equal and coordinate. This does not insure "good" government, it simply insures that it will work. But such governments are rare "" most people want to run things, but want no part of the blame. This used to be called the "backseat driver" syndrome.
Robert A. Heinlein
Fifteen-year-old girls produce children with sixteen-year-old boys in the backseat of cars and in the stairwells of apartment buildings. Why can't two loving adults who have contemplated parenthood and are prepared to offer love, patience, and devotion come up with enough chromosomal matter to stick together and create a child?
I feel bad that people think that "feminism" is a dirty word. I don't understand that at all, I'm proud to be labeled a feminist. I consider myself a person who has throughout my entire life stood up for myself. It's never been my ambition to be someone who takes a backseat to anything. I'm not a male basher at all. I divide people into assholes and non-assholes, and that's genderless. I encounter sexism everyday.
When he sees little kids sitting in the backseat of cars, in those little car seats that have steering wheels, with grim expressions of concentration on their faces, clearly convinced that their efforts are causing the car to do whatever it is doing, he thinks of himself and his relationship with God: God who drives along silently, gently amused, in the real driver's seat.
I wander though China. Without ever having boarded a plane. My travels take place here in the Tokoyo subways, in the backseat of a taxi... all of a sudden this city will start to go. In a flash, the buildings will crumble. Over the Tokyo streets will fall my China, like ash, leaching into everything it touches. Slowly, gradually, until nothing remains. No, this isn't a place for me.
I can't learn everything in a few months, Charles. Magic came first. Stupid hierarchy of egotistical penises had to take a backseat." "Penises don't have egos. And what about the women in command? They can be pretty damn bitchy." "The women have bigger balls than you do, Charles. Let's get focused." Kind of a dick thing to say.
Ronan Lynch lived with every sort of secret. His first secret was himself. He was brother to a liar and brother to an angel, son of a dream and son of a dreamer. He was a warring star full of endless possibilities, but in the end, as he dreamt in the backseat on the way to the Barns that night, he created only this...
Susan hardly had begun to slow down when Tera appeared from between a couple of buildings and loped over to the car. I leaned forward, opened the door, and she got into the backseat. I threw her the extra clothes I had picked up, and she began to dress without comment. It worked," I said. "We did it." Of course it worked," Tera said. "Men are foolish. They will stare at anything female and naked.
So we have that, where there are moments where it's just Nic Cage and Amber Heard and you're in the car with them and it's not stuff flying at your face but you're literally sitting in the backseat. You're sitting there and it's just sort of interesting. At the same time we're going to throw cars and guns and bullets and frogs and naked people at your face because it's fun and that's the roller coaster. We do write some things for 3-D.
Susan hardly had begun to slow down when Tera appeared from between a couple of buildings and loped over to the car. I leaned forward, opened the door, and she got into the backseat. I threw her the extra clothes I had picked up, and she began to dress without comment. It worked, " I said. "We did it." Of course it worked, " Tera said. "Men are foolish. They will stare at anything female and naked.
...Cops just surrounding me with pistols everywhere. They put me in the backseat of their car handcuffed, Pushed out them chests like they're big rough and tough. A cop come and said 'You'll never sell your guns now.' I said 'It doesn't matter, you'll sell them anyhow. You take the guns from me, you sell them for a fee; Anyway you put it, they'll get in the city!'
Look, Laszlo. I'll have the dentist with me, and I don't want to alarm her any more than necessary. So take Vanna out of the backseat and stick her in the trunk." Shanna halted. Her mouth dropped open. Her throat seized up, making it hard to breathe. I don't care how much crap you have in the trunk. We're not driving around with a naked body in the car." Oh no! She gasped for air. He was a hit man.
We have to ensure free and open exchange of information. That starts with an open internet. I will take a backseat to no one in my commitment to network neutrality. Because once providers start to privilege some applications or websites over others then the smaller voices get squeezed out and we all lose. The internet is perhaps the most open network in history, and we have to keep it that way.
Anybody else think that was weird?" Shane asked as they got into the car. Eve sent him an exasperated glance; the three of them were, of course, in the backseat. Amelie had the front, with Michael. "Ya think? In general, or in particular?" "Weird that we got through the entire thing, and I didn't have to hit anybody." There was a moment of silence. Michael said, as he started the car, "You're right, Shane. That is strange.
Anybody else think that was weird?' Shane asked as they got into the car. Eve sent him an exasperated glance; the three of them were, of course, in the backseat. Amelie had the front, with Michael. 'Ya think? In general, or in particular?' 'Weird that we got through the entire thing, and I didn't have to hit anybody.' There was a moment of silence. Michael said, as he started the car, 'You're right, Shane. That is strange.
I gave her a look. 'Rachel.' 'Grace, you have to admit this is pretty weird. Say it. You disappearing from the hospital and Olivia is - and Sam suddenly shows up with you and, well, the freaky hallucinogenic mushrooms are looking more and more realistic, especially when you start talking about wolves. Because next step is for Isabel Culpeper to show up saying that everybody's going to be abducted by aliens and I have to tell you, I can't take that in my fragile emotional state. I think that -' I sighed. 'Rachel.' 'Fine, ' she said. She threw her bag in the backseat and climbed in after.
While spay neuter is important, our goal has never been no more births, even though reducing birth rates might help. Our goal has been and is, and has always been no more killing. And when you focus on the no more killing part, spay neuter actually takes a backseat to all those other programs like foster care, and adoptions, and helping people overcome the challenges they face that cause them to surrender their animals.
I'd like to have a kid, and I'd like to be driving around. I know a kid is going to be a big part of my life. I can trust my kid. I know my kid would be in the backseat of my car, and when I say You wanna get some ice-cream? he's going to be happy. My brother has kids. I see that trick work, the ice cream trick.
There are, occasionally, writers who are able to combine both story and style. They are, of course, the best. You get a spectacular view and you also get to look at it from the backseat of a chauffeur-driven Cadillac. In the field of fantasy, those writers able to combine story-as-narration with story-as-style are even rarer. But there are a few...the late Theodore Sturgeon, the early Ray Bradbury...and Richard Christian Matheson. A brilliant chip off the old block.
Nowhere does it say that investors should strive to make every last dollar of potential profit; consideration of risk must never take a backseat to return. Conservative positioning entering a crisis is crucial: it enables one to maintain long-term oriented, clear thinking, and to focus on new opportunities while others are distracted or even forced to sell. Portfolio hedges must be in place before a crisis hits. One cannot reliably or affordably increase or replace hedges that are rolling off during a financial crisis.
That's just stupid, Tory! Quit being so damn stubborn!' 'Not a chance! You've got some kind of death wish! We can't even trust our power lately. They're too erratic for a public heist.' Ben thumped the steering wheel in frustration. 'Maybe for you.' I glowered at Ben from the backseat. I'd given Hi shotgun, having sensed this argument was inevitable. I didn't want to be close. The urge to slap might become overpowering. 'Why don't we all use our friendly words?' Hi suggested. 'Let's take five, and everyone can say something we like about each other. I'll start. Shelton, you're super at-' 'Shut up, Hi!' Ben and I shouted, the first thing we'd agreed upon all morning.
That wind. I see it's blowing now. Furtive but commanding, it has dictated every move we've ever made. My mother felt it, and so do I - even here, even now - as it sweeps us like leaves into his backseat corner, dancing us to shreds against the stones. V'la l'bon vent, v'a l'joli vent. I though we'd silenced it for good. But the smallest thing can wake the [email protected] a word, a sign, even a death. There's no such thing as a trivial thing. Everything costs; it all adds up until finally the balance shifts and we're gone again, back on the road, telling ourselves - well maybe next time
Niten's eyes didn't move, but a trace of a smile curled his lips. "I do not need my eyes to tell me where I'm going." "I have no idea what that means," Josh said. "Is it like some sort of ninja trick?" Niten shot Josh a warning look. "Whatever you do, don't mention-" It was too late. In the backseat Aoife stirred. "Ninjas," she spat. "Why is everyone so obsessed with ninjas? They were never that good. And they were cowards, sneaking around in their black pajamas, stabbing their victims with poisoned darts. I hate ninjas-they have no honor.
It's that moon again, slung so fat and low in the tropical night, calling out across a curdled sky and into the quivering ears of that dear old voice in the shadows, the Dark Passenger, nestled snug in the backseat of the Dodge K-car of Dexter's hypothetical soul. That rascal moon, that loudmouthed leering Lucifer, calling down across the empty sky to the dark hearts of the night monsters below, calling them away to their joyful playgrounds.
You know, equality is a myth, and for some reason, everyone accepts the fact that women don't make as much money as men do. I don't understand that. Why do we have to take a backseat? I truly believe that women should be financially independent from their men. And let's face it, money gives men the power to run the show. It gives men the power to define value. They define what's sexy. And men define what's feminine. It's ridiculous.
I pulled into the Grand Union parking lot and drove to the end of the mall where the bank was located. I parked at a safe distance from other cars, exited the BMW, and set the alarm. You want me to stay with the car in case someone's riding around with a bomb in his backseat looking for a place to put it?" Lula asked. Not necessary. Ranger says the car has sensors." Ranger give you a car with bomb sensors? The head of the CIA don't even have a car with bomb sensors. I hear they give him a stick with a mirror on the end of it.
Making a Fist For the first time, on the road north of Tampico, I felt the life sliding out of me, a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear. I was seven, I lay in the car watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass. My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin. "How do you know if you are going to die?" I begged my mother. We had been traveling for days. With strange confidence she answered, "When you can no longer make a fist." Years later I smile to think of that journey, the borders we must cross separately, stamped with our unanswerable woes. I who did not die, who am still living, still lying in the backseat behind all my questions, clenching and opening one small hand.
Naomi Shihab Nye
Kipster is a perfectly valid word, ' Wendy argued, about to write down her score on the little notepad that had come with the game. 'Okay, so what does it mean?' Mandy wanted to know. Wendy struggled to come up with an answer, and finally just changed the subject with school gossip. Mandy found herself just ignoring it... it always sounded the same, the same events, same rumors, same secrets, same affairs, but never anything of interest to her. 'Well Sarah's on drugs again and that's why she did it in Mario's backseat, but now she might be pregnant, oh, and that messed-up Seth kid's been cutting himself again so he was sent away to Halifax last week, and there's a festival in Wolfville but Kathy won't go because Audrey-Rose is going to be there and they hate each other, and... ' Mandy had learned two years ago to detach herself from gossip; she'd learned it from Jud's death. Wendy may have been eighteen years old but she could be immature on the best of days.
As Ian popped the lock and opened the car door, he turned to Phoebe. 'Can you do me a favour?' She immediately stepped toward him, fully embracing their new mature relationship. 'Of course.' Ian looked pointedly over his own shoulder and said, 'Tell me the truth. Does this car make my glowing ass look fat?' She'd naturally followed the direction of his gaze, but now she looked up, hard, into his eyes. And she smiled back at him despite herself. She even laughed. 'You're an idiot.' 'When things get too serious, I get a rash.' She pointedly looked back down at his nether regions, despite the fact doing so made her blush. Still, she spoke coolly, dryly. 'Not on your ass.' If Ian believed in love, that would've been it for him. Instantly. Enthrallingly. Eternally. Instead, he just laughed. 'Thank God for that. See if there's anything remotely clothinglike in the backseat or the trunk.
What, you didn't pack your lunch?' Ty asked sarcastically as he shifted around in the seat and wedged himself against the door. He kicked a foot up and propped it on the console between the two front seats. 'Sure, in my SpongeBob SquarePants lunch box. I have the thermos, too, ' Morrison shot right back. Zane kept his mouth shut, eyes moving between the two men, and occasionally back to the driver, who was casually paying attention. Ty stared at the kid and narrowed his eyes further. 'Spongewhat?' he asked flatly. Zane didn't even try to hold back the chuckle when Morrison looked at Ty like he'd lost his mind. 'Spongewha ... you're yanking my chain, aren't you?' Morrison said. 'Henny, he's yanking my chain.' 'Yeah, well, that's what you getting for waving it in his face, ' the driver answered reasonably. 'What the hell is a SpongeBob?' Ty asked Zane quietly in the backseat.
Attention, God the Judge, God the Father, who Art in Heaven, give me one miracle, please. If You exist as I know You do, even if no one else in the world believes in You, please give me a brain tumor. Please tear my limbs from their sockets and let the backseat and my older sister be totally covered with blood. Please make me dumb and blind and deaf, please make me a martyr, please, dear heavenly Father. Tear my heart right from my chest. Drive spikes into my eyes and let hot lava shoot out of my mouth. Make me silent and thoroughly dead, but please hurry. Before we get home, before we reach the next stoplight, let the only sound be no sound, the silence of my death burning in the empty sky. If You are a mighty and true God, if You are not just a dream I have made up, please, before another hour, another minute passes, let the wire in my bra poke through my heart. Dear Lord, please, please, give me this one miracle. I have begged You every day, every evening, so please, let Your will be done, let Your will be done. Give me a gruesome death as fast as You possibly can. Thank you, God. Amen.
What do you think he saw?" Damn-I regret the awed way I phrased that and the hushed voice I used. As if I think acid is a "religious" experience, a visionary thing. "Himself, " Josh says. "You always see your true self on acid. You just usually see more than you want to see. So it all seems disorted." See what I mean? He's not your normal stoner. The guy should become a poet, a psychologist, a scientist. We pull up near Greg's house and stare at it like it's a damn fortress. "You don't think he needs to go to the hospital?" I ask. "Nope, " Josh says. "For a while, I thought maybe, yeah. But he's good now, he's off it, he's not hallucinating anymore." "You're sure?" "Yeah." "'Cuz you can die on LSD-" "That's such anti-drug propaganda bullshit, Dan, " Josh interrupts. "Nobody's ever died from an LSD overdose. Ever. As long as you keep people from doing stupid things while they're tripping, it's all good man, man. Why do you think I babysat him?" He reaches into the backseat and punches my shoulder. "LSD isn't your dad's smack. So stop worrying." I scrunch down in the seat. How'd he know about that? "Right. What's the plan?" "I'd ask him if ther was a key hidden under a rock, " Josh says, "but he's not gonna be much help. Watch." He pokes Greg in the leg, prods him on the shoulder, grabs his cheeks and smushes them together, the way parents do to a baby, and says, " Ootchi googi Greggy, did ums have a good trippy? Did ums find out itty-bitty singies about oos-self zat oos didn't likeums?" Yup... Greg was in his own little world...
Hester Lipp had written Where the Sidewalk Starts, an inexplicably acclaimed book of memoir, recounting - in severe language and strange, striking imagery - Lipp's childhood and adolescence on a leafy suburban street in Burlington. Her house was large and well-kept, her schooling uneventful, her family - the members of which she described in scrupulous detail - uniformly decent and supportive. Sidewalk was blurbed as a devastatingly honest account of what it meant to grow up middle class in America. Amy, who forced herself to read the whole thing, thought the book devastatingly unnecessary. The New York Times had assigned it to her for a review, and she stomped on it with both feet. Amy's review of Sidewalk was the only mean-spirited review she ever wrote. She had allowed herself to do this, not because she was tired of memoirs, baffled by their popularity, resentful that somehow, in the past twenty years, fiction had taken a backseat to them, so that in order to sell clever, thoroughly imagined novels, writers had been browbeaten by their agents into marketing them as fact. All this annoyed her, but then Amy was annoyed by just about everything. She beat up on Hester Lipp because the woman could write up a storm and yet squandered her powers on the minutiae of a beige conflict-free life. In her review, Amy had begun by praising what there was to praise about Hester's sharp sentences and word-painting talents and then slipped, in three paragraphs, into a full-scale rant about the tyranny of fact and the great advantages, to both writer and reader, of making things up. She ended by saying that reading Where the Sidewalk Starts was like "being frog-marched through your own backyard.
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't grow on trees, like in the old days. So where does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy, like being unleashed with a credit card in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss. The sloppy kiss. The peck. The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips taste so good kiss. The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss. The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss. The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad sometimes kiss. The I know your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road, with its purple thumb out. If you were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's red door just to see how it fits. Oh where does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile. Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling. Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss. Now what? Don't invite the kiss over and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whiskey. It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters, but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of your body without saying good-bye, and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left on the inside of your mouth. You must nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow, then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C. But one kiss levitates above all the others. The intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss. The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss. Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth, like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.