R&R

Space: Above and Beyond (1995) - E20 - R&R - 

HD AI Remaster - Full Episode

Capt. Shane Vansen : 

Lookin' for action — 

I'm a dead-stroke player 

going strong for the cheese. 

Won't fade with the nits or sharks. 

Got no time for hustles, lemonading, 

or stalling. Now, *who* in this room has 

the... *heart* to show me their speed?

[like Clint Eastwood]

Handsome Alvin: 

They call me Handsome Alvin. 

This is my house. And in my house, 

attitudes like yours... get spanked.

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

Sounds like you got 

the plums... Alvin. Rack 'em.

[Whispering.]

Handsome Alvin: 

That's a sweet Szamboti cue.

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

You can't shark me.

Two in the corner.

Handsome Alvin: 

It's been in The Family a long time? 

Four in the side.

Handsome Alvin: 

Daddy's stick? 

Ooh! - [Chuckling.]

[Man.]

Oh, man.

Handsome Alvin: 

A present to his little girl? 

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

Nine in the corner.

Or did he leave it 

to you before you died? 

He left it for me.

His spirit lives in 

this stick.

Handsome Alvin: 

How'd he die? 

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

Artificial Intelligence 

killed him and my mother.

Handsome Alvin: 

You know, it's kind of rude, 

you walk into my house, turn 

into King Kong, run four straight.

No chance for me to take back the cheese.

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

Hey, I'll just run the table all night.

You break.

Handsome Alvin: 

Shame what happened to your parents.

You shouldn't let a couple of rotten apples 

spoil it for the whole bunch of us —

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

A stinkin' A.I.? 

Handsome Alvin: 

Aero-Tech bought me to be the player here.

Model-Alvin EL 1543.

Programmed to play billiards 

and do impersonations.

Do you know who 

Clint Eastwood is? Do ya? 

Four in the corner.

! Game.

Handsome Alvin: 

That's your last C-note.

I guess you had enough.

You know, I got you off your game 

once it wasn't about money anymore.

And now you ain't got no more money.

That's what you get for 

coming into my house and 

shooting off your mouth better 

than you do the balls —

Looks like you got some stake horses.

What do you say, one more game? 

Do you feel lucky? [Groans.]

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

Three in the corner.

- Four in the side.

- [Pool Balls Clack.]

Here.

Let me help.

[Alvin.]

Game.

[Alarm Blaring.]

[P.

A.

.]

All hands, now hear this.

This is Commodore Ross of the U.S.S. Saratoga.

All hands are to report immediately to duty.

I say again.

Report immediately to active duty.

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

That's game.

Now, where's the gift shop? 

I gotta get out of here.

I'm in a hurry.

[Man On P. A. .]

All units, liberty is over.

report bay 7, shuttle 4.

Capt. Shane Vansen: 

Hey.Thanks for 

the cheese, Alvin.

your departure is-[Continues.]

Infamy

 

Don ZALUCHI 

(after some laughter from The Group,
The King-Fool rises 

to speak -- He got words.) 

I also don't believe in drugs. For years 

I paid my people extra so they
wouldn't do that kind of business. -- 

[Tattaglia whispers something to his aide] 

Don ZALUCHI (continues) 

-- Somebody comes to them and says, 

"I have powders; if you put up 

three, four thousand dollar investment -- 

we can make fifty thousand distributing." 

So they can't resist. 

I want to control it 

as a business, 

to keep it respectable --

(then, as he slams his hand 

on the table -- a most insincere and

unconvicing pantomine that fails to pesuade

anybody of this dumb thug's moral outrage.) 

I don't want it near schools -- 

I don't want it sold 

to children! That's an infamia. 

( He mispronounces ‘infamia’. )

In my city, we would keep the traffic 

in the dark people -- the coloured. 

They're animals anyway, 

so let them lose their souls...

The Prodigal Daughter

Henry VIII makes a damaging decision 

for His Daughter's future - BBC

Instance of Perfect Recursion

IF you had an Index File

You could look it up 

in the Index File

under “Index File”.

I.F. — stands for “Index File”.

wicked (adj.)

c. 1200, extended form of earlier wick "bad, wicked, false" (12c.), which apparently is an adjectival use of Old English wicca "wizard" (see witch). Formed as if a past participle, but there is no corresponding verb. For evolution, compare wretched from wretch. Slang ironic sense of "wonderful" first attested 1920, in F. Scott Fitzgerald. As an adverb from early 15c. Related: Wickedly.

also from c. 1200

witch (n.)

Old English wicce "female magician, sorceress," in later use especially "a woman supposed to have dealings with the devil or evil spirits and to be able by their cooperation to perform supernatural acts," fem. of Old English wicca "sorcerer, wizard, man who practices witchcraft or magic," from verb wiccian "to practice witchcraft" (compare Low German wikken, wicken "to use witchcraft," wikker, wicker "soothsayer").

OED says of uncertain origin; Liberman says "None of the proposed etymologies of witch is free from phonetic or semantic difficulties." Klein suggests connection with Old English wigle "divination," and wig, wih "idol." Watkins says the nouns represent a Proto-Germanic *wikkjaz "necromancer" (one who wakes the dead), from PIE *weg-yo-, from PIE root *weg- "to be strong, be lively."

That wicce once had a more specific sense than the later general one of "female magician, sorceress" perhaps is suggested by the presence of other words in Old English describing more specific kinds of magical craft. In the Laws of Ælfred (c. 890), witchcraft was specifically singled out as a woman's craft, whose practitioners were not to be suffered to live among the West Saxons:

Ða fæmnan þe gewuniað onfon gealdorcræftigan & scinlæcan & wiccan, ne læt þu ða libban.

The other two words combined with it here are gealdricge, a woman who practices "incantations," and scinlæce "female wizard, woman magician," from a root meaning "phantom, evil spirit."

Another word that appears in the Anglo-Saxon laws is lyblæca "wizard, sorcerer," but with suggestions of skill in the use of drugs, because the root of the word is lybb "drug, poison, charm" (see leaf (n.)). Lybbestre was a fem. word meaning "sorceress," and lybcorn was the name of a certain medicinal seed (perhaps wild saffron). Weekley notes possible connection to Gothic weihs "holy" and German weihan "consecrate," and writes, "the priests of a suppressed religion naturally become magicians to its successors or opponents." Whatever the English word's origin, the use of a "poisoner" word for "witch, sorceress" parallels that of the Hebrew word used for "witch, sorceress" in the Levitical condemnation.

In Anglo-Saxon glossaries, wicca renders Latin augur (c. 1100), and wicce stands for "pythoness, divinatricem." In the "Three Kings of Cologne" (c. 1400) wicca translates Magi:

Þe paynyms ... cleped þe iij kyngis Magos, þat is to seye wicchis.

The glossary translates Latin necromantia ("demonum invocatio") with galdre, wiccecræft. The Anglo-Saxon poem called "Men's Crafts" (also "The Gifts of Men") has wiccræft, which appears to be the same word, and by its context means "skill with horses." In a c. 1250 translation of "Exodus," witches is used of the Egyptian midwives who save the newborn sons of the Hebrews: "Ðe wicches hidden hem for-ðan, Biforen pharaun nolden he ben."

Witch in reference to a man survived in dialect into 20c., but the fem. form was so dominant by 1601 that men-witches or he-witch began to be used. Extended sense of "old, ugly, and crabbed or malignant woman" is from early 15c; that of "young woman or girl of bewitching aspect or manners" is first recorded 1740. Witch doctor is from 1718; applied to African magicians from 1836.

At this day it is indifferent to say in the English tongue, 'she is a witch,' or 'she is a wise woman.' [Reginald Scot, "The Discoverie of Witchcraft," 1584]

wretch (n.)

Old English wrecca "wretch, stranger, exile," from Proto-Germanic *wrakjon "pursuer; one pursued" (source also of Old Saxon wrekkio, Old High German reckeo "a banished person, exile," German recke "renowned warrior, hero"), related to Old English wreccan "to drive out, punish" (see wreak). "The contrast in the development of the meaning in Eng. and German is remarkable" [OED]. Sense of "vile, despicable person" developed in Old English, reflecting the sorry state of the outcast, as presented in Anglo-Saxon verse (such as "The Wanderer"). Compare German Elend "misery," from Old High German elilenti "sojourn in a foreign land, exile."

wretched

shrewd

wickedness

*weg-

See all related words (6) >

Trends of wicked

adapted from books.google.com/ngrams/. Ngrams are probably unreliable.

More to Explore

shrewd

c. 1300, shreued, "wicked, depraved, malicious, evil," from shrewe "wicked man" (see shrew) + -ed. Compare crabbed from crab (n.), dogged from dog (n.), wicked from witch (n.), all from early Middle English. The weaker or neutral sense of "cunning, sly, artful, clever or keen-wit

virtuous

c. 1300, "characterized by vigor or strength; having qualities befitting a knight; valiant, hardy, courageous;" from Old French vertuos "righteous; potent; of good quality; mighty, valiant, brave" (12c.), from Late Latin virtuosus "good, virtuous," from Latin virtus "moral streng

severe

1540s, "rigorous in condemnation or punishment," from French severe (12c., Modern French sévère) or directly from Latin severus "serious, grave, strict, austere," which is of uncertain origin, but de Vaan supports the theory (also in Watkins) that it probably is a suffixed form P

vicious

late 14c., "unwholesome, impure, of the nature of vice, wicked, corrupting, pernicious, harmful;" of a text, "erroneous,...corrupt," from Anglo-French vicious, Old French vicios "wicked, cunning, underhand; defective, illegal" (Modern French vicieux...), from Latin vitiosus (Medieval Latin vicious) "faulty, full of faults, defective, corrupt; wicked, depraved," from vitium...

pernicious

early 15c., of a deed, "evil, wicked;" from 1520s as "having the property of destroying or being injurious," from Old French...

vile

late 13c., "morally repugnant; morally flawed, corrupt, wicked; of no value; of inferior quality; disgusting, foul, ugly;...

foe

deception"), perhaps from the same PIE source that yielded Sanskrit pisunah "malicious," picacah "demon;" Lithuanian piktas "wicked...

repellent

also repellant, "having the effect of repelling," 1640s, from Latin repellentem (nominative repelens), present participle of repellere (see repel). Originally of medicines that reduce tumors; the meaning "morally repelling, repulsive, distasteful, disagreeable" is recorded by 179

revolting

1590s, "rebellious, that revolts, given to revolt," present-participle adjective from revolt (v.). The sense of "repulsive" is from 1749 (implied in revoltingness), from the verb in a sense of "cause to turn away in abhorrence or disgust" (also "rise in repugnance" against, "turn

tally-ho

also tallyho, huntsman's cry to alert others that the game has been spotted, 1772, earlier in the name of a roistering character in English theater, Sir Toby Tallyho (Foote, 1756), apparently altered from French taiaut, cry used in deer hunting (1660s), from Old French taho, tiel

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Dictionary entries near wicked

why

wibble

Wicca

wich

wick

wicked

wickedness

wicker

wickerwork

wicket

widdershins

updated on September 28, 2017

Connectivity Issues

“HI, MOM,” I ALMOST SAY out loud, but I stop myself because I don’t wanna look crazy to the other mourners around me. 

Mourner, singular actually. There’s only one, and it’s the same guy I see here every time. He sits in a lawn chair with a sun umbrella over him, playing soft rock from a stereo and staring at the headstone of who I assume to be his former wife. 

I look at Mom’s headstone. There are about twenty adjectives on it because everyone in the family had adjective pitches and nobody was willing to forsake theirs. 

“We’ve gotta include ‘playful,’ ” Grandpa insisted. 

“Why does nobody like ‘brave’? 

‘Brave’ is a good word!” Grandma wailed. So we just crammed all the words on there. Even Mom’s place of death is cluttered. 

This is my first time visiting Mom’s grave since her birthday, last July. My visits have become less frequent through the years, even though I promised Mom, per her request, that I would visit her grave every day. In the beginning, I visited once a week and felt guilty about it, like it wasn’t enough. But with time and with reality, the visits have become less and less, and so has the guilt. 

I sit cross-legged in front of her grave. I take a longer look at the words on her headstone. 

Brave, kind, loyal, sweet, loving, graceful, strong, thoughtful, funny, genuine, hopeful, playful, insightful, and on and on… 

Was she, though? Was she any of those things? The words make me angry. I can’t look at them any longer. 

Why do we romanticise The Dead? Why can’t we be honest about them? Especially moms. They’re the most romanticised of anyone. 

Moms are saints. Angels by merely existing. NO ONE could possibly understand what it’s like to be a mom. Men will never understand. Women with no children will never understand. No one but moms know the hardship of motherhood, and we non-moms must heap nothing but praise upon moms because we lowly, pitiful non-moms are mere peasants compared to the goddesses we call mothers. 

Maybe I feel this way now because I viewed my mom that way for so long. I had her up on a pedestal, and I know how detrimental that pedestal was to my well-being and life. That pedestal kept me stuck, emotionally stunted, living in fear, dependent, in a near constant state of emotional pain and without the tools to even identify that pain let alone deal with it. 

My mom didn’t deserve her pedestal. She was a narcissist. She refused to admit she had any problems, despite how destructive those problems were to our entire family. My mom emotionally, mentally, and physically abused me in ways that will forever impact me. 

She gave me breast and vaginal exams until I was seventeen years old. These “exams” made my body stiff with discomfort. I felt violated, yet I had no voice, no ability to express that. I was conditioned to believe any boundary I wanted was a betrayal of her, so I stayed silent. Cooperative. 

When I was six years old, she pushed me into a career I didn’t want. I’m grateful for the financial stability that career has provided me, but not much else. I was not equipped to handle the entertainment industry and all of its competitiveness, rejection, stakes, harsh realities, fame. I needed that time, those years, to develop as a child. To form my identity. To grow. I can never get those years back. 

She taught me an eating disorder when I was eleven years old — an eating disorder that robbed me of my joy and any amount of free-spiritedness that I had. 

She never told me my father was not my father. 

Her death left me with more questions than answers, more pain than healing, and many layers of grief — the initial grief from her passing, then the grief of accepting her abuse and exploitation of me, and finally, the grief that surfaces now when I miss her and start to cry — because I do still miss her and start to cry. 

I miss her pep talks. Mom had a knack for finding just the right thing in a person to get them to light up and believe in themselves. I miss her childlike spirit. Mom had an energy that could at times be so endearing. Even captivating. 

And I miss when she was happy. It didn’t happen as often as I would’ve liked, it didn’t happen as often as I tried to force it to happen, but when she was happy it was infectious. 

Sometimes when I miss her I start to fantasise about what life would be like if she were still alive and I imagine that maybe she’d have apologised, and we’d have wept in each other’s arms and promised each other we’d start fresh. 

Maybe she’d support me having my own identity, my own hopes and dreams and pursuits. 

But then I realise I’m just romanticising the dead in the same way I wish everyone else wouldn’t. 

Mom made it very clear she had no interest in changing. If she were still alive, she’d still be trying her best to manipulate me into being who she wants me to be. I’d still be purging or restricting or binging or some combination of the three and she’d still be endorsing it. I’d still be forcing myself to act, miserably going through the motions of performing on shiny sitcoms. How many times can you pratfall over a carpet or sell a line you don’t believe in before your soul dies? There’s a good chance I would’ve had a complete and public mental breakdown by this point. I’d still be deeply unhappy and severely mentally unhealthy. I look at the words again. Brave, kind, loyal, sweet, loving, graceful… 

I shake my head. I don’t cry. The Doobie Brothers’ “What a Fool Believes” starts playing from the sad man’s stereo. I stand up, wipe the dirt off my jeans, and walk away. I know I’m not coming back. 

Acknowledgments Thank you to my editor, Sean Manning, for your impact on this book. For understanding my voice and making it so much stronger. 

To my manager, Norm Aladjem, your early support and encouragement means so much to me. Thank you for your wisdom, strategy, thoughtfulness, and unshakeable calm. 

To Peter McGuigan, Mahdi Salehi, and Derek Van Pelt — thank you for your talent and humor, and to the wonderful Stephen Fertelmes for helping to make this happen. To Jill Fritzo and everyone at Jill Fritzo PR, thank you for your brilliance and expertise. To Erin Mason and Jamie C. Farquhar — for the transformative guidance and tools you have provided me. And finally, thank you, Ari, for your endless love, support, and encouragement. I love you so much. You’re my best friend. I’m so happy we’re a team. <harmonizing> We are here for uuuussss.