text:
Shaved Butternut Squash & Caramelized Onion Pizza with Goat Cheese
Serves: 8
Hands-on time: 15 minutes
Total time: 45 minutes
- 1/2 tbsp olive oil
- 1 large yellow onion, thinly sliced
- 1 lb frozen whole-wheat pizza dough, thawed
- 4 oz peeled and shaved butternut squash, about 1/4 of an average size squash (TIP: Choose a squash with a long neck to ease peeling)
- 3 oz goat cheese, crumbled
- 1/2 oz dry-roasted unsalted pumpkin seeds
- 2 cups baby arugula
- 3/4 cup balsamic vinegar
- Preheat oven to 450˚F. Heat oil in a medium nonstick skillet on medium-low. Add onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until soft and golden, about 25 minutes. If onions begin to stick to skillet, occasionally add a splash of water.
- Roll dough into a 12- to 13-inch circle and transfer to a pizza pan or baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Scatter onions, squash, goat cheese and pumpkin seeds over top. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until crust is lightly browned and squash is wilted.
- Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, add vinegar and bring to a boil on high heat. Cook until reduced to 1/4 cup, about 5 minutes. Set aside. Remove pizza from oven and immediately scatter with arugula. Drizzle with vinegar reduction and slice into 8 equal pieces.
Nutrients per serving (1/8 of pizza): Calories: 215, Total Fat: 5 g, Sat. Fat: 2 g, Carbs: 34 g, Fiber: 4 g, Sugars: 5 g, Protein: 7 g, Sodium: 48 mg, Cholesterol: 5 mg
Love butternut squash? Try this recipe, too!


text:
MarketCurrents Wealth Management announces 2nd Annual October Investment Report Summit for Family Offices
New York, NY, September 25, 2018 – MarketCurrents Wealth Management will host the 2nd Annual October Investment Summit to be held in New York City on October 17th, 2018. The annual summit is an invite only event for single and multi-family offices looking to gain insights on investment opportunities in private equity, real estate and hedge funds and network with peers.
This year's agenda will include a panel discussion, Assessing Your Family Office Investment Portfolio, focusing on due diligence, risk management and deal flow. Three roundtable discussions on real estate, private equity and hedge funds will follow. Participants can expect to discuss commercial real estate performance, hedge fund fees, the growing trend of co-investments and resilient investment strategies.
A number of prominent family offices from across North America, Asia and the Middle East will attend this year's summit. Attendees include representatives from RIN Capital and Witter Family Offices.
The 2nd Annual Investment Report summit is co-hosted by RSM, a leading provider of audit, tax and consulting services in the asset management industry, specializing in the family office sector.
For further details, contact firstname.lastname@example.com
About MarketCurrents Wealth Management
MarketCurrents Wealth Management LLC. is an investment research data provider and event organizer focused on the family office industry. We offer insights, reports, and news analysis for investors seeking direct investment opportunities. Through our events platform, we offer executives and family office investment managers an opportunity to network and dissect emerging trends, regulations, opportunities, and threats in the global capital market.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
cern, cms, art@cms, in seach of the higgs boson, boson, higgs, particle physics, physics, pete markowitz, collider, detector, split, atoms, quarks, ZZ, gamma gamma, WW, tau tau, bottom bottom, xavier cortada, cortada, science, prints, geneva, solenoid, compact muon solenoid
Print Page | Contact Us | Report Abuse | Sign In | Register
|Membership Management Software Powered by YourMembership :: Legal
©2008-2014 Xavier Cortada. All text content, videos, and images are the property of Xavier Cortada.
Any reproductions, revisions or modifications of this website without expressed consent of Xavier Cortada is prohibited by law.


text:
Do people think about the daily sacrifices they make? Do you? Like pulling yourself out of bed in the morning, to start. And dragging yourself in to work. After all, you could just live on the street (move to a warmer climate, first!) Just think about what it would be like to have absolutely zero responsibility… no one expecting you to be anywhere or do anything, or to look a certain way–no expectations of any kind! No deadlines, in fact, no clock or calendar needed!
What sacrifices are you making in preparation for Christmas? Are you spending some money, taking some time to wrap gifts? Mothers tend to truly shine in the sacrifice category; no less at this time of year, with all the baking to be done, school concerts to attend, keeping their kids' diets in some kind of control while allowing some special treats, making sure there will be some great surprises, decorating to create just the right atmosphere, etc.
A mother's sacrifice starts even before she gives birth, with those nine months of often uncomfortable waiting. And the birth itself! Who could argue about that sacrifice? Well, a mother herself might. Most of these things we've been talking about, do have a return for what is suffered. What can be more wonderful than a tiny one to care for? (To cook, clean, sacrifice for?) What can be more rewarding than watching a little person, who came from you, grow and develop into an adult?
Do you think Mary considered it a sacrifice to allow God to occupy her body? Perhaps she was so caught up in wonder, that she barely noticed the "disgrace" of being pregnant before marriage. The really hard part, was what she had to "ponder in her heart". It was what He would sacrifice…


text:
Picture this: It's 1am and you're trying to get to sleep. You've got a new job interview tomorrow and you want to be bright and perky for it.
But you. Just. Can't. Sleep. All you can hear is the incessant sound of a…
We can think of a few noises we like hearing as we drift off to sleep. The rolling of the waves on a beach. The sounds of quiet forest around us. A gently purring kitten.
But, it turns out, when it comes to the noises keeping us awake we all react a little differently.
For women, the noise most likely to keep you awake is a crying baby. Which is understandable if it's your own baby, but in today's close-quarter, city dwelling it's also possible you'll be kept awake by neighbours squalling babe.
However, for men a baby's crying doesn't even register in their top ten annoying noises. They're way more likely to be woken by howling wind, a car alarm or buzzing fly.
And while you may put this down to men just pretending to be asleep when the baby cries, researchers say it actually comes down to subconscious brain activity.
They posit that a woman's maternal instinct kicks in when she hears a baby wailing, whether she's the parent or not.
Meanwhile, men are more likely to respond to noises that represent a threat to the family (although that doesn't really explain the fly thing…).The research was conducted by MindLab, a British neuromarketing research firm. They played various sounds to sleeping volunteers and measured their brain activity on an electroencephalography (EEG) machine to see how the noises affected their sleep.
If noise is regularly keeping you awake there are a few solutions you can try. Obviously, if it's something like a dripping tap or ticking clock, your best option is to fix it or move it to another room.
But if it's something outside then you'll need to do something to block the noise.
You can buy fancy white noise machines to block out the noise. These work by creating an even, low hiss sound that masks external sounds. Other machines can play noises like a rainforest, underwater sounds or waves crashing on a beach.
If you're not keen to shell out for a new machine for the bedroom, a fan works just as well and plays double duty by keeping bug disturbance to a minimum.
Look, they take some getting used to, but earplugs are an effective way of blocking out just about all sound – from next door's late-night party sesh to your partner's snoring. Grab the squishy foam ones from the pharmacy and pop them in for a good night's sleep.
Say the roadworks company have decided to hold early morning drilling competitions right out the front of your house, or the local sparrows have decided you bedroom windowsill is the perfect love nest for their coupling. If you've got a spare bedroom in another area of the house then a temporary move might be the solution to a restful sleep.
And while a shared bed is the bastion on a loved-up relationship, if your partner's nocturnal rumblings are keeping you awake, there's nothing wrong with deciding to sleep in separate bedrooms. Especially if this means you'll feel like giving them a loving hug in the morning, rather than a kick in the shins.
Torin loves all things about the bedroom and given that we spend a third of our lives in bed, it's therefore all the more crucial that our bedroom should be as beautiful – and practical – as possible.
At Sleeping Duck we're committed to providing the best night sleep possible.Customise now
Hatched in 2014, Sleeping Duck was founded by Melbourne-based engineers Winston Wijeyeratne and Selvam Sinnappan. Frustrated by the expensive, tedious, and confusing process of buying a bed, the duo took on the mattress industry.Read the story


text:
2010 SA Premier's Food Awards Winner
Try this delicious and simple recipe using Olga's Fine Foods Lamb Kofta for a quick weeknight meal.
Read our top tips for mastering the BBQ!
Skip the drive-through and get your burger fix gourmet-style!
+61 (08) 8346-6299
31 Hindmarsh Avenue, Welland, SA 5007, AUSTRALIA
31 Hindmarsh Avenue, Welland SA


text:
Hong Kong ,  2002
Directed by Dante Lam.
Karena Lam is a dancer, Nic Tse a mailman. They have a chance encounter, and she is thinking of him when she suddenly gets flattened by a passing bus. Now her ghost is back, inhabiting his body so she can finish the dance recital she was going to give. Only trouble is, if she stays in him for too long he may die too. Only other trouble is, he's falling in love and doesn't mind dying if it means being with her. Those looking to see a lot of dancing are in for a disappointment, this is no PARA PARA SAKURA (2001). But director Dante Lam does create a very interesting representation of the underworld -- it looks a lot like the Loire valley, France, except with some black riders right out of LORD OF THE RINGS constantly threatening to kill you.
Posted by Peter Nepstad on September 08, 2004.
Great romance movie. It's a work of art, keep up the marvelous work ^^.Posted by: Alwin at January 23, 2005 01:17 PM
Note: Posts are moderated to eliminate comment spam. There will be some delay before your comment appears.


text:
Removing Lacquer Finishes
Lacquer is a hard, durable finish used on wood, particularly on fine pieces of furniture, and brass, particularly on kitchen utensils, musical instruments and statuettes. Removing lacquer from wood is labor-intensive, but doable; removing it from brass is somewhat easier. The chemicals used to strip the finish from wood produce toxic fumes, so take the item outside to remove the lacquer if possible. If you can't take it outside, open windows and turn on fans for ventilation, and work in small sections so you can take breaks.
Lacquer on Wood
Put on rubber gloves to protect your hands. Clean the wood with a cloth dipped in turpentine. This removes any wax or other substances on the lacquer.
Combine equal parts denatured alcohol and lacquer thinner. Apply a thick coat of the mixture to a small area of the wood with a paintbrush.
Scrub the lacquer with steel wool. Move the steel wool in small circles to scrape off the finish. Use a small scraping tool to access the finish in any crevices. Wipe off the remaining thinner mixture while it is still wet with a cloth.
Examine the stripped section of wood. If some lacquer remains, repeat the process until it is completely free of the finish. Continue removing the lacquer in this fashion from small sections of the wood until you have stripped the whole item. For the final removal, rub the steel wool in the direction of the wood grain.
Lacquer on Brass
Mix a solution of baking soda and water in a kitchen pot. Use 1 tablespoon of baking soda per quart of water. Bring the pot to a boil.
Place as much of the brass item as possible into the boiling solution. Let it sit for 15 minutes or until the lacquer finish separates from the item.
Lift the item out of the pot, using kitchen tongs if necessary. Rinse it with hot water to remove the lacquer.
Repeat the process with any parts of the item that didn't fit in the pot. Rinse the item again, and let it cool to the touch.
Apply acetone to a cotton ball. Scrub any decorative details on the item with it to remove lacquer that may be hiding in creases. Rinse the item clean.
Things Needed
- Rubber gloves
- Turpentine
- Cloths
- Denatured alcohol
- Lacquer thinner
- Paintbrush
- Steel wool
- Small scraping tool
- Pot
- Baking soda
- Kitchen tongs (optional)
- Acetone
- Cotton balls
- Lacquer thinner is toxic and flammable. If it comes into contact with your skin or eyes, flush them with water for 15 minutes, and call a doctor if they remain irritated. Don't introduce open flames into the area while you are working with lacquer thinner. Dispose of used rags in sealed bags.
- If the lacquer thinner mixture isn't effective, increase the ratio of thinner to alcohol in the mixture to make it stronger.
- Commercial lacquer strippers are available for wood and brass surfaces. If you choose a commercial product instead of a homemade mixture, follow the manufacturer's directions to use them safely and effectively.
- Remove lacquer from copper the same way you would remove it from brass.
Photo Credits
- Hemera Technologies/PhotoObjects.net/Getty Images


text:
A crisp and detailed vocal mic. Cardioid condenser that brings out the best you've got to offer.
The 'normal' Beta87 we see around town is the supercardioid version, Beta87A - however some prefer the cardioid version to use with in-ear monitoring.
Alternatively, some just simply prefer the slightly looser polar pattern that some like to sing into.
Transducer Type: Condenser
Polar Pattern: Cardioid
Frequency Response: 50 Hz - 20 kHz
Sensitivity (1 kHz): -51,5 dBV/Pa / 2,7 mV/Pa
Equivalent Selfnoise: 22 dB(A)
Sound Pressure: 139 dB
Weight: 207 g


text:
Call it a moment of karmic resonance or proof that irony is the soul of wisdom. While channel-surfing in advance of the latest Republican debate I happened upon a scene from the movie "Billy Jack Goes to Washington" (1977). For those with the good fortune never to have seen it, the movie features Tom Laughlin (who also directs and produces) as Billy Jack, a rugged individual who manages to combine the squared-away look of a martial arts expert with the political sensibilities and laid-back lifestyle of a middle aged hippie. Indeed, as a character type it's as hard to pin him down as it is for his many adversaries to beat him up.
Wearing a T-shirt with blue jean jacket and signature black, flat-brimmed hat, Billy confronts a broad cross-section of evil doers–from smug frat-boys, to biker gangs, to run-of-the-mill thugs–who inevitably surround and vastly outnumber him, at which point he confronts the leader of the menacing group and serenely explains that, while he doesn't want to fight, if forced to do so he intends to kick said leader in the face (knee, kidney or what have you), pointing precisely to the place where the blow will land. The villain, of course, laughs scornfully at so absurd a threat, and what happens next is a blur of carefully-choreographed karate maneuvers whereby the entire gang is reduced to a mass of battered bodies moaning helplessly on the ground.
The movie in question offers a variation on the theme. In this, the second of three sequels of the original, "Born Losers (1967)," Billy is called upon to appear before a congressional hearing, where he is subjected to a long list of alleged offences. (Somehow, whatever he has done in the way of righteous ass-kicking has become a matter of national interest and concern.) It was at this point that I happened upon the show, just in time for the climactic moment when, if past performances were any guide, our hero would somehow make mincemeat of his enemies. Instead, Billy stands before the self-important yet corrupt legislators and, pausing dramatically with a look of implacable disgust on his face, turns his back and walks out of the chamber. Take that, representatives of the people!
Cut to the steps of the Jefferson Memorial at dusk, where Billy is brooding over the day's events. Here he is joined by some woman that follows him around (precise relationship unclear), who begins consoling him about what happened at the hearing. Meanwhile Billy sits in front of the iconic statue, wondering how ol' Tom Jefferson could have founded such a great but ultimately screwed-up country. He starts speaking in heartfelt tones and… well, that's where I gave up, cutting away to one of the more nuanced episodes of "The Beverly Hillbillies."
It wasn't until later, during the debate, that I was reminded of the scene from the movie. In the words of the late Yogi Berra, it was like deja vu all over again. Indeed, it seemed as if each of the debaters were doing his or her best impression of Billy Jack, evoking the same sense of stalwart individualism pitted against a sadly corruptible American government. On their faces was the same look of implacable disgust at the machinations of the federal authority. There too was the same deep sense of aggrievement at what the sainted Founding Fathers would think of those modern Americans who have so thoroughly desecrated their creation, trampling on the deathless pronouncements of the Constitution! –Oh, the humanity!
Witness also the candidates' thinly-veiled threats of what will befall wayward Americans (liberals) on day one of a new Republican presidency, when a litany of self-indulgent federal programs and weak-kneed law enforcement operations will be terminated with the unequivocal finality of a karate chop. Obamacare? –chop! Illegal immigrants? –chop! Federal Reserve? –chop! Internal Revenue Service? –chop! And then, in the time it takes to put one's hat back on, everything will be made right again, the way it was back in Jefferson's day.
You see, folks, it's all about leadership. This was the subtext of the entire evening. We need true leadership: the kind that comes from forceful personalities. It's what the electorate is crying out for; how else does one explain Donald Trump's swift elevation to front-runner status? Diplomacy? –to hell with it! Compromise? –not a chance! When it comes to domestic politics as well as international affairs, we need someone who will kick asses and take names. We need a hero like Billy Jack. So forget about learning the details of the candidates' budgets or any particulars about how they intend to govern. That kind of thing is for corrupt losers without the stones to simply get 'er done.
Maybe this kind of thing once made for good entertainment ("Billy Jack" was a blockbuster hit when it came out in 1971), but it's hard to see how it leads to a credible candidate for the world's most important job. And let's be honest, its entertainment value has long since passed its sell-by date.


text:
While the outlook on traditional bookstores is not looking too bright due to the invention of e-books and e-zines, the need for new writers is at an all-time high. Fortunately for Seattleites, the Northwest is a haven of inspiration and support for writers, old and young alike. Here are just five of best options for the aspiring writer.
Richard Hugo House
1634 11th Ave.
Seattle, WA 98122
(206) 322-7030
On Capitol Hill in Seattle sits a 16,206-square-foot Victorian house that was a former funeral home, then a theater called the Richard Hugo House. Here, young and old writers come together to build community and master their writing skills. The 1902 house is rich with history and holds classes for students from all walks of life and backgrounds coming together for the purpose of writing. Classes are offered throughout the year on a variety of topics including teachings on how to write your memoir, blogging, novel-writing and just getting your feet wet in the world of publishing.
Write on the Sound Writers Conference
Frances Anderson Center
700 Main St.
Edmonds, WA 98020
(425) 771-0228
The 28th Annual Write on the Sound conference, one of the largest north of Seattle, will take place on October 4-6, 2013. It features over 30 sessions on the craft, marketing and specialty writing. This conference is for fiction, non-fiction, poetry and social networking authors. Fees range from $73-$150, but register before August 30th for the best deals. With the conference center right on the shores of Edmonds, you'll have plenty of inspiration should writer's block strike.
The Eulalie and Carlo Scandiuzzi Writers' Room
The Seattle Public Library
1000 4th Ave.
Seattle, WA 98104
(206) 386-4636
Located on the ninth floor of the Seattle Public Library central location is a room set aside just for serious writers. With an abundance of reference materials only feet away, this space makes for a convenient place to write. Writers who are currently under a book contract or show a serious commitment to writing can obtain access for six months with the option of a second round of six months if there is no waiting list. The room can be accessed anytime that the library is open.
Pacific Northwest Writers Association
1420 N.W. Gilman Blvd., Suite 2
Issaquah, WA 98027
(425) 673-2665
Over 50 years ago, the Pacific Northwest Writers Association was born to help Northwest writers connect and inspire other writers in their own backyard. Here, members can connect with over 1,000 fellow writers, listen to monthly speakers, receive discounts on writer's magazines and gain attendance to the annual summer conference.
826 Seattle
8414 Greenwood Ave. N.
Seattle, WA 98103
(206) 725-2625
Created in 2004, 826 Seattle is a community-focused, nonprofit writing and tutoring center for youth, ages six to 18. The goal is to help kids improve their creative writing skills while also helping teachers to inspire young writers in their classrooms. Participants are mentored one-on-one and all programs for public school students are free. 826 offers after-school tutoring, publishing projects, field trips and more.
Related: Best Poetry Events in Seattle
Head to CBS Seattle's Best Of pages for more local tips on family fun, shopping, nightlife, food, culture and more!
Jeffrey Totey is a freelance writer living in Seattle. He has a love for the arts and is a student of pop culture. He covers stories about the performing arts, theater, museums, cultural events, movies and more in the greater Seattle area. His work can be found at Examiner.com.


text:
Hi, I am here to report potential bugs where all Intel HD/Iris seams to be impacted.
Test platform
CPU: i7-6700HQ
GPU: Intel HD 530 (drivers: 184.108.40.20678)
OS: Windows 10
Software: http://cemu.info/ CEMU
Shaders use more RAM than needed
It seems like Intel's driver can commit up to several megabytes of RAM (CPU ram, not VRAM) for linked GLSL shader programs. As one would suspect, the amount of consumed RAM is somewhat proportional to the complexity of the shader program. However, it still seems much higher than it needs to be. For example, some of our more complex shader programs easily exceed 2MB. When dealing with high quantity of shaders, this becomes a huge problem.
Longer description:
In the application (CEMU) we generate shaders dynamically and they often end up being quite complex (Example https://pastebin.com/K9PyBuQa Vertex and https://pastebin.com/K62caHaJ Fragment shader). Furthermore, we deal with large amounts of shaders, in the range of 5k to 20k. The problem we are facing is that the graphics driver allocates up to GBs of RAM just for compiled shaders. The question is, is this intended behavior or a bug? We already double and triple checked to make sure this is not a mistake on our end.
Here is a test application to demonstrate the issue. Source is available http://cemu.info/uploads/ShaderCompileTest.zip here (VS2015). It links one set of vertex + fragment shader 1000 times and then prints the amount of RAM commited by the application. The application itself does not allocate any extra memory. Additionally, the .zip comes with multiple sets of example shaders taken from our application to see the difference in RAM usage. For more details see main.cpp
Shaders get corrupted when stored and reloaded
On the same application we save compiled shaders for them to be reloaded at next launch with less calculation. It appears OpenGL implementation in Intel drivers is incorrect and shaders get corrupted when storing and reloading it via OpenGL's glGetProgramBinary() & glProgramBinary().
Some other observations that has been made:
Occurs on all driver versions and all Windows versions
RAM usage is proportional to complexity of shader (no surprise here)
Conditionals (if clauses and '?' operator) seem to massively increase RAM usage and compile times
The size of uniform buffer arrays only slightly affect RAM usage
Detaching and deleting shaders (glDetachShader+glDeleteShader) after glLinkProgram helps only a bit
Calling glDeleteProgram() correctly releases all memory, indicating there is no leak
Same problem occurs when the shader programs are loaded via glProgramBinary
Thanks in advance!
At least you should tell the name of the problematic game and your system specs as described at
EDIT: Added some information on my post.
benjamin.lesueur schrieb:
EDIT: Added some information on my post.
With these infos you should get better support in the developer forum: https://software.intel.com/en-us/forums/developing-games-and-graphics-on-intel Developing Games & Graphics on Intel


text:
The great American writer, Flannery O'Connor, was born into a Catholic family in Georgia, in 1925. She graduated from Georgia State, and went on to the graduate writing program at the University of Iowa where she published her first short story and, received a publisher's prize for her novel, Wise Blood. Stricken with lupus, O'Connor returned to the South and lived and worked on her family's farm until her death at 39. She is known for her ironic, subtly allegorical fiction about deceptively backward Southern characters, who undergo transformations, often through pain, violence, or ludicrous religious behavior in pursuit of the holy. O'Connor often portrayed her characters as touched by divine grace. She once remarked:
"When people have told me that because I am a Catholic, I cannot be an artist, I have had to reply, ruefully, that because I am a Catholic, I cannot afford to be less than an artist."
She wrote her final short story, Parker's Back, while she was in the hospital dying of lupus. It was published in her last collection Everything That Rises Must Converge. Read "Parker's Back" the story of O.E. Parker, a man covered with meaningless tattoos who has a life changing experience and gets "God" tattooed on his back only to be shunned by Christians here: Parker's Back by Flannery O'Connor. Or, read it below. Then read Everything That Rises Must Converge.
Parker's Back
by Flannery O'Connor
Parker's wife was sitting on the front porch floor, snapping beans. Parker was sitting on the step, some distance away, watching her sullenly. She was plain, plain. The skin on her face was thin and drawn as tight as the skin on an onion and her eyes were gray and sharp like the points of two icepicks. Parker understood why he had married her – he couldn't have got her any other way – but he couldn't understand why he stayed with her now. She was pregnant and pregnant women were not his favorite kind. Nevertheless, he stayed as if she had him conjured. He was puzzled and ashamed of himself.
The house they rented sat alone save for a single tall pecan tree on a high embankment overlooking a highway. At intervals a car would shoot past below and his wife's eyes would swerve suspiciously after the sound of it and then come back to rest on the newspaper full of beans in her lap. One of the things she did not approve of was automobiles. In addition to her other bad qualities, she was forever sniffing up sin. She did not smoke or dip, drink whiskey, use bad language or paint her face, and God knew some paint would have improved it, Parker thought. Her being against color, it was the more remarkable that she had married him. Sometimes he supposed that she had married him because she meant to save him. At other times he had a suspicion that she actually liked everything she said she didn't. He could account for her one way or another; it was himself he could not understand.
She turned her head in his direction and said, "It's no reason you can't work for a man. It don't have to be a woman."
"Aw shut your mouth for a change," Parker muttered.
If he had been certain she was jealous of the woman he worked for he would have been pleased but more likely she was concerned with the sin that would result if he and the woman took a liking to each other. He had told her that the woman was a hefty young blonde; in fact she was nearly seventy years old and too dried up to have an interest in anything except getting as much work out of him as she could. Not that an old woman didn't sometimes get an interest in a young man, particularly if he was as attractive as Parker felt he was, but this old woman looked at him the same way she looked at her old tractor – as if she had to put up with it because it was all she had. The tractor had broken down the second day Parker was on it and she had set him at once to cutting bushes, saying out of the side of her mouth to the nigger, "Everything he touches, he breaks." She also asked him to wear his shirt when he worked; Parker had removed it even though the day was not sultry; he put it back on reluctantly.
This ugly woman Parker married was his first wife. He had had other women but he had planned never to get himself tied up legally. He had first seen her one morning when his truck broke down on the highway. He had managed to pull it off the road into a neatly swept yard on which sat a peeling two-room house. He got out and opened the hood of the truck and began to study the motor. Parker had an extra sense that told him when there was a woman nearby watching him. After he had leaned over the motor a few minutes, his neck began to prickle. He cast his eye over the empty yard and porch of the house. A woman he could not see was either nearby beyond a clump of honeysuckle or in the house, watching him out the window.
Suddenly Parker began to jump up and down and fling his hand about as if he had mashed it in the machinery. He doubled over and held his hand close to his chest. "God dammit!" he hollered, "Jesus Christ in hell! Jesus God Almighty damn! God dammit to hell!" he went on, flinging out the same few oaths over and over as loud as he could.
Without warning a terrible bristly claw slammed the side of his face and he fell backwards on the hood of the truck. "You don't talk no filth here!" a voice close to him shrilled.
Parker's vision was so blurred that for an instant he thought he had been attacked by some creature from above, a giant hawk-eyed angel wielding a hoary weapon. As his sight cleared, he saw before him a tall raw-boned girl with a broom.
"I hurt my hand," he said. I HURT my hand." He was so incensed that he forgot that he hadn't hurt his hand. "My hand may be broke," he growled although his voice was still unsteady.
"Lemme see it," the girl demanded.
Parker stuck out his hand and she came closer and looked at it. There was no mark on the palm and she took the hand and turned it over. Her own hand was dry and hot and rough and Parker felt himself jolted back to life by her touch. He looked more closely at her. I don't want nothing to do with this one, he thought.
The girls' sharp eyes peered at the back of the stubby reddish hand she held. There emblazoned in red and blue was a tattooed eagle perched on a cannon. Parker's sleeve was rolled to the elbow. Above the eagle a serpent was coiled about a shield and in the spaces between the eagle and the serpent there were hearts, some with arrows through them. Above the serpent there was a spread hand of cards. Every space on the skin of Parker's arm, from wrist to elbow, was covered in some loud design. The girl gazed at this with an almost stupefied smile of shock, as if she had accidentally grasped a poisonous snake; she dropped the hand.
"I got most of my other ones in foreign parts," Parker said. "These here I mostly got in the United States. I got my first one when I was only fifteen years old."
"Don't tell me," the girl said, "I don't like it. I ain't got any use for it."
"You ought to see the ones you can't see," Parker said and winked.
Two circles of red appeared like apples on the girl's cheeks and softened her appearance. Parker was intrigued. He did not for a minute think that she didn't like tattoos. He had never yet met a woman who was not attracted to them.
Parker was fourteen when he saw a man in a fair, tattooed from head to foot. Except for his loins which were girded with a panther hide, the man's skin was patterned in what seemed from Parker's distance – he was near the back of the tent, standing on a bench – a single intricate design of brilliant color. The man, who was small and sturdy, moved about on the platform, flexing his muscles so that the arabesque of men and bears and flowers on his skin appeared to have a subtle motion of its own. Parker was filled with emotion, lifted up as some people are when the flag passes. He was a boy whose mouth habitually hung open. He was heavy and earnest, as ordinary as a loaf of bread. When the show was over, he had remained standing on the bench, staring where the tattooed man had been, until the tent was almost empty.
Parker had never before felt the least motion of wonder in himself. Until he saw the man at the fair, it did not enter his head that there was anything out of the ordinary about the fact that he existed. Even then it did not enter his head, but a peculiar unease settled in him. It was as if a blind boy had been turned so gently in a different direction that he did not know his destination had been changed.
He had his first tattoo some time after – the eagle perched on the cannon. It was done by a local artist. It hurt very little, just enough to make it appear to Parker to be worth doing. This was peculiar too for before he had thought that only what did not hurt was worth doing. The next year he quit school because he was sixteen and could. He went to the trade school for a while, then he quit the trade school and worked for six months in a garage. The only reason he worked at all was to pay for more tattoos. His mother worked in a laundry and could support him, but she would not pay for any tattoo except her name on a heart, which he had put on, grumbling. However, her name was Betty Jean and nobody had to know it was his mother. He found out that the tattoos were attractive to the kind of girls he liked but who had never liked him before. He began to drink beer and get in fights. His mother wept over what was becoming of him. One night she dragged him off to a revival with her, not telling him where they were going. When he saw the big lighted church, he jerked out of her grasp and ran. The next day he lied about his age and joined the navy.
Parker was large for the tight sailor's pants but the silly white cap, sitting low on his forehead, made his face by contrast look thoughtful and almost intense. After a month or two in the navy, his mouth ceased to hang open. His features hardened into the features of a man. He stayed in the navy five years and seemed a natural part of the gray mechanical ship, except for his eyes, which were the same pale slate-color as the ocean and reflected the immense spaces around him as if they were a microcosm of the mysterious sea. In port Parker wandered about comparing the run-down places he was in to Birmingham, Alabama. Everywhere he went he picked up more tattoos.
He had stopped having lifeless ones like the anchors and crossed rifles. He had a tiger and a panther on each shoulder, a cobra coiled about a torch on his chest, hawks on his thighs, Elizabeth II and Philip over where his stomach and liver were respectively. He did not care much what the subject was so long as it was colorful; on his abdomen he had a few obscenities but only because that seemed the proper place for them. Parker would be satisfied with each tattoo about a month, then something about it that had attracted him would wear off. Whenever a decent-sized mirror was available, he would get in front of it and study his overall look. The effect was not of one intricate arabesque of colors but of something haphazard and botched. A huge dissatisfaction would come over him and he would go off and find another tattooist and have another space filled up. The front of Parker was almost completely covered but there were no tattoos on his back. He had no desire for one anywhere he could not readily see it himself. As the space on the front of him for tattoos decreased, his dissatisfaction grew and became general.
After one of his furloughs, he didn't go back to the navy but remained away without official leave, drunk, in a rooming house in a city he did not know. His dissatisfaction, from being chronic and latent, had suddenly become acute and raged in him. It was as if the panther and the lion and the serpents and the eagles and the hawks had penetrated his skin and lived inside him in a raging warfare. The navy caught up with him, put him in the brig for nine months and then gave him a dishonorable discharge.
After that Parker decided that country air was the only kind fit to breathe. He rented the shack on the embankment and bought the old truck and took various jobs which he kept as long as it suited him. At the time he met his future wife, he was buying apples by the bushel and selling them for the same price by the pound to isolated homesteaders on back country roads.
"All that there," the woman said, pointing to his arm, "is no better than what a fool Indian would do. It's a heap of vanity." She seemed to have found the word she wanted. "Vanity of vanities," she said.
Well what the hell do I care what she thinks of it? Parker asked himself, but he was plainly bewildered. "I reckon you like one of these better than another anyway," he said, dallying until he thought of something that would impress her. He thrust the arm back at her. "Which you like best?"
"None of them," she said, "but the chicken is not as bad as the rest." "What chicken?" Parker almost yelled. She pointed to the eagle. "That's an eagle," Parker said. "What fool would waste their time having a chicken put on themself?"
"What fool would have any of it?" the girl said and turned away. She went slowly back to the house and left him there to get going. Parker remained for almost five minutes, looking agape at the dark door she had just entered.
The next day he returned with a bushel of apples. He was not one to be outdone by anything that looked like her. He liked women with meat on them, so you don't feel their muscles, much less their old bones. When he arrived, she was sitting on the top step and the yard was full of children, all as thin and poor as herself; Parker remembered it was Saturday. He hated to be making up to a woman when there were children around, but it was fortunate he had brought the bushel of apples off the truck. As the children approached him to see what he carried, he gave each child an apple and told it to get lost; in that way he cleared the whole crowd.
The girl did nothing to acknowledge his presence. He might have been a stray pig or goat that had wandered into the yard and she too tired to take up the broom and send it off. He set the bushel of apples down next to her on the step. He sat down on a lower step.
"Hep yourself," he said, nodding at the basket; then he lapsed into silence.
She took an apple quickly as if the basket might disappear if she didn't make haste. Hungry people made Parker nervous. He had always had plenty to eat himself. He grew very uncomfortable. He reasoned he had nothing to say so why should he say it? He could not think now why he had come or why he didn't go before he wasted another bushel of apples on the crowd of children. He supposed they were her brothers and sisters.
She chewed the apple slowly but with a kind of relish of concentration, bent slightly but looking out ahead. The view from the porch stretched off across a long incline studded with iron weed and across the highway to a vast vista of hills and one small mountain. Long views depressed Parker. You look out into space like that and you begin to feel as if someone were after you, the navy or the government or religion.
"Who them children belong to, you?" he said at length.
"I ain't married yet," she said. "They belong to momma." She said it as if it were only a matter of time before she would be married.
Who in God's name would marry her? Parker thought.
A large barefooted woman with a wide gap-toothed face appeared in the door behind Parker. She had apparently been there for several minutes.
"Good evening," Parker said.
The woman crossed the porch and picked up what was left of the bushel of apples. "We thank you," she said and returned with it into the house.
"That your old woman?" Parker muttered.
The girl nodded. Parker knew a lot of sharp things he could have said like "You got my sympathy," but he was gloomily silent. He just sat there, looking at the view. He thought he must be coming down with something.
"If I pick up some peaches tomorrow I'll bring you some," he said.
"I'll be much obliged to you," the girl said.
Parker had no intention of taking any basket of peaches back there but the next day he found himself doing it. He and the girl had almost nothing to say to each other. One thing he did say was, "I ain't got any tattoo on my back."
"What you got on it?" the girl said. "My shirt," Parker said. "Haw." "Haw, haw," the girl said politely.
Parker thought he was losing his mind. He could not believe for a minute that he was attracted to a woman like this. She showed not the least interest in anything but what he brought until he appeared the third time with two cantaloupes. "What's your name?" she asked.
"O.E. Parker," he said.
"What does the O.E. stand for?"
"You can just call me O.E.," Parker said. "Or Parker. Don't nobody call me by my name."
"What's it stand for?" she persisted.
"Never mind," Parker said. "What's yours?"
"I'll tell you when you tell me what them letters are the short of," she said. There was just a hint of flirtatiousness in her tone and it went rapidly to Parker's head. He had never revealed the name to any man or woman, only to the files of the navy and the government, and it was on his baptismal record which he got at the age of a month; his mother was a Methodist. When the name leaked out of the navy files, Parker narrowly missed killing the man who used it.
"You'll go blab it around," he said.
"I'll swear I'll never tell nobody," she said. "On God's holy word I swear it."
Parker sat for a few minutes in silence. Then he reached for the girl's neck, drew her ear close to his mouth and revealed the name in a low voice.
"Obadiah," she whispered. Her face slowly brightened as if the name came as a sign to her. "Obadiah," she said.
The name still stank in Parker's estimation. "Obadiah Elihue," she said in a reverent voice. "If you call me that aloud, I'll bust your head open," Parker said. "What's yours?" "Sarah Ruth Cates," she said. "Glad to meet you, Sarah Ruth," Parker said.
Sarah Ruth's father was a Straight Gospel preacher but he was away, spreading it in Florida. Her mother did not seem to mind his attention to the girl so long as he brought a basket of something with him when he came. As for Sarah Ruth herself, it was plain to Parker after he had visited three times that she was crazy about him. She liked him even though she insisted that pictures on the skin were vanity of vanities and even after hearing him curse, and even after she had asked him if he was saved and he had replied that he didn't see it was anything in particular to save him from. After that, inspired, Parker had said, "I'd be saved enough if you was to kiss me."
She scowled. "That ain't being saved," she said.
Not long after that she agreed to take a ride in his truck. Parker parked it on a deserted road and suggested to her that they lie down together in the back of it.
"Not until after we're married," she said – just like that.
"Oh that ain't necessary," Parker said and as he reached for her, she thrust him away with such force that the door of the truck came off and he found himself flat on his back on the ground. He made up his mind then and there to have nothing further to do with her.
They were married in the County Ordinary's office because Sarah Ruth thought churches were idolatrous. Parker had no opinion about that one way or the other. The Ordinary's office was lined with cardboard file boxes and record books with dusty yellow slips of paper hanging on out of them. The Ordinary was an old woman with red hair who had held office for forty years and looked as dusty as her books. She married them from behind the iron-grill of a stand-up desk and when she finished, she said with a flourish, "Three dollars and fifty cents and till death do you part!" and yanked some forms out of a machine.
Marriage did not change Sarah Ruth a jot and it made Parker gloomier than ever. Every morning he decided he had had enough and would not return that night; every night he returned. Whenever Parker couldn't stand the way he felt, he would have another tattoo, but the only surface left on him now was his back. To see a tattoo on his own back he would have to get two mirrors and stand between them in just the correct position and this seemed to Parker a good way to make an idiot of himself. Sarah Ruth who, if she had had better sense, could have enjoyed a tattoo on his back, would not even look at the ones he had elsewhere. When he attempted to point out especial details of them, she would shut her eyes tight and turn her back as well. Except in total darkness, she preferred Parker dressed and with his sleeves rolled down.
"At the judgment seat of God, Jesus is going to say to you, 'What you been doing all your life besides have pictures drawn all over you?'" she said.
"You don't fool me none," Parker said, "you're just afraid that hefty girl I work for'll like me so much she'll say, 'Come on, Mr. Parker, let's you and me …'"
"You're tempting sin," she said, "and at the judgment seat of God you'll have to answer for that too. You ought to go back to selling the fruits of the earth."
Parker did nothing much when he was at home but listen to what the judgment seat of God would be like for him if he didn't change his ways. When he could, he broke in with tales of the hefty girl he worked for. "Mr. Parker,'" he said she said, 'I hired you for your brains.'" (She had added, "So why don't you use them?")
"And you should have seen her face the first time she saw me without my shirt," he said. "Mr. Parker,' she said, 'you're a walking panner-rammer!'" This had, in fact, been her remark but it had been delivered out of one side of her mouth.
Dissatisfaction began to grow so great in Parker that there was no containing it outside of a tattoo. It had to be his back. There was no help for it. A dim half-formed inspiration began to work in his mind. He visualized having a tattoo put there that Sarah Ruth would not be able to resist – a religious subject. He thought of an open book with HOLY BIBLE tattooed under it and an actual verse printed on the page. This seemed just the thing for a while; then he began to hear her say, "Ain't I already got a real Bible? What you think I want to read the same verse over and over for when I can read it all?" He needed something better even than the Bible! He thought about it so much that he began to lose sleep. He was already losing flesh – Sarah Ruth just threw food in the pot and let it boil. Not knowing for certain why he continued to stay with a woman who was both ugly and pregnant and no cook made him generally nervous and irritable, and he developed a little tic in the side of his face.
Once or twice he found himself turning around abruptly as if someone were trailing him. He had had a granddaddy who had ended in the state mental hospital, although not until he was seventy-five, but as urgent as it might be for him to get a tattoo, it was just as urgent that get exactly the right one to bring Sarah Ruth to heel. As he continued to worry over it, his eyes took on a hollow, pre-occupied expression. The old woman he worked for told him that if he couldn't keep his mind on what he was doing, she knew where she could find a fourteen-year-old colored boy who could. Parker was too preoccupied even to be offended. At any time previous, he would have left her then and there, saying drily, "Well, you go ahead on and get him then."
Two or three mornings later he was baling hay with the old woman's sorry baler and her broken down tractor in a large field, cleared save for one enormous old tree standing in the middle of it. The old woman was the kind who would not cut down a large old tree because it was a large old tree. She had pointed it out to Parker as if he didn't have eyes and told him to be careful not to hit it as the machine picked up hay near it. Parker began at the outside of the field and made circles inward toward it. He had to get off the tractor every now and then and untangle the baling cord or kick a rock out of the way. The old woman had told him to carry the rocks to the edge of the field, which he did when she was there watching. When he thought he could make it, he ran over them. As he circled the field his mind was on a suitable design for his back. The sun, the size of a golf ball, began to switch regularly from in front to behind him, but he appeared to see it both places as if he had eyes in the back of his head. All at once he saw the tree reaching out to grasp him. A ferocious thud propelled him into the air, and he heard himself yelling in an unbelievably loud voice, "GOD ABOVE!"
He landed on his back while the tractor crashed upside down into the tree and burst into flame. The first thing Parker saw were his shoes, quickly being eaten by the fire; one was caught under the tractor, the other was some distance away, burning by itself. He was not in them. He could feel the hot breath of the burning tree on his face. He scrambled backwards, still sitting, his eyes cavernous, and if he had known how to cross himself he would have done it.
His truck was on a dirt road at the edge of the field. He moved toward it, still sitting, still backwards, but faster and faster; half-way to it he got up and began a kind of forward-bent run from which he collapsed on his knees twice. His legs felt like two old rusted rain gutters. He reached the truck finally and took off in it, zigzagging up the road. He drove past his house on the embankment and straight for the city, fifty miles distant.
Parker did not allow himself to think on the way to the city. He only knew that there had been a great change in his life, a leap forward into a worse unknown, and that there was nothing he could do about it. It was for all intents accomplished.
The artist had two large cluttered rooms over a chiropodist's office on a back street. Parker, still barefooted, burst silently in on him at a little after three in the afternoon. The artist, who was about Parker's own age, twenty-eight – but thin and bald, was behind a small drawing table, tracing a design in green ink. He looked up with an annoyed glance and did not seem to recognize Parker in the hollow-eyed creature before him.
"Let me see the book you got with all the pictures of God in it," Parker said breathlessly. "The religious one."
The artist continued to look at him with his intellectual, superior stare. "I don't put tattoos on drunks," he said.
"You know me!" Parker cried indignantly. "I'm O.E. Parker! You done work for me before and I always paid!"
The artist looked at him another moment as if he were not altogether sure. "You've fallen off some," he said. "You must have been in jail."
"Married," Parker said.
"Oh," said the artist. With the aid of mirrors the artist had tattooed on the top of his head a miniature owl, perfect in every detail. It was about the size of a half-dollar and served him as a show piece. There were cheaper artists in town but Parker had never wanted anything but the best. The artist went over to a cabinet at the back of the room and began to look over some art books. "Who are you interested in?" he said, "saints, angels, Christs or what?"
"God," Parker said.
"Father, Son or Spirit?"
"Just God," Parker said impatiently. "Christ. I don't care. Just so it's God."
The artist returned with a book. He moved some papers off another table and put the book down on it and told Parker to sit down and see what he liked. "The up-t-date ones are in the back," he said.
Parker sat down with the book and wet his thumb. He began to go through it, beginning at the back where the up-to-date pictures were. Some of them he recognized – The Good Shepherd, Forbid Them Not, The Smiling Jesus, Jesus the Physician's Friend, but he kept turning rapidly backwards and the pictures became less and less reassuring. One showed a gaunt green dead face streaked with blood. One was yellow with sagging purple eyes. Parker's heart began to beat faster and faster until it appeared to be roaring inside him like a great generator. He flipped the pages quickly, feeling that when he reached the one ordained, a sign would come. He continued to flip through until he had almost reached the front of the book. On one of the pages a pair of eyes glanced at him swiftly. Parker sped on, then stopped. His heart appeared to cut off; there was absolute silence. It said as plainly as if silence were a language itself, GO BACK.
Parker returned to the picture – the haloed head of a flat stern Byzantine Christ with all-demanding eyes. He sat there trembling; his heart began slowly to beat again as if it were being brought to life by a subtle power.
"You found what you want?" the artist asked.
Parker's throat was too dry to speak. He got up and thrust the book at the artist, opened at the picture.
"That'll cost you plenty," the artist said. "You don't want all those little blocks though, just the outline and some better features."
"Just like it is," Parker said, "just like it is or nothing."
"It's your funeral," the artist said, "but I don't do that kind of work for nothing." "How much?" Parker asked. "It'll take maybe two days work." "How much?" Parker said.
"On time or cash?" the artist asked. Parker's other jobs had been on time, but he had paid.
"Ten down and ten for every day it takes," the artist said.
Parker drew ten dollar bills out of his wallet; he had three left in.
"You come back in the morning," the artist said, putting the money in his own pocket. "First I'll have to trace that out of the book."
"No no!" Parker said. "Trace it now or gimme my money back," and his eyes blared as if he were ready for a fight.
The artist agreed. Anyone stupid enough to want a Christ on his back, he reasoned, would be just as likely as not to change his mind the next minute, but once the work was begun he could hardly do so.
While he worked on the tracing, he told Parker to go wash his back at the sink with the special soap he used there. Parker did it and returned to pace back and forth across the room, nervously flexing his shoulders. He wanted to go look at the picture again but at the same time he did not want to. The artist got up finally and had Parker lie down on the table. He swabbed his back with ethyl chloride and then began to outline the head on it with his iodine pencil. Another hour passed before he took up his electric instrument. Parker felt no particular pain. In Japan he had had a tattoo of the Buddha done on his upper arm with ivory needles; in Burma, a little brown root of a man had made a peacock on each of his knees using thin pointed sticks, two feet long; amateurs had worked on him with pins and soot. Parker was usually so relaxed and easy under the hand of the artist that he often went to sleep, but this time he remained awake, every muscle taut.
At midnight the artist said he was ready to quit. He propped one mirror, four feet square, on a table by the wall and took a smaller mirror off the lavatory wall and put it in Parker's hands. Parker stood with his back to the one on the table and moved the other until he saw a flashing burst of color reflected from his back. It was almost completely covered with little red and blue and ivory and saffron squares; from them he made out the lineaments of the face – a mouth, the beginning of heavy brows, a straight nose, but the face was empty; the eyes had not yet been but in. The impression for the moment was almost as if the artist had tricked him and done the Physician's Friend.
"It don't have eyes," Parker cried out.
"That'll come," the artist said, "in due time. We have another day to go on it yet."
Parker spent the night on a cot at the Haven of Light Christian Mission. He found these the best places to stay in the city because they were free and included a meal of sorts. He got the last available cot and because he was still barefooted, he accepted a pair of second-hand shoes which, in his confusion, he put on to go to bed; he was still shocked from all that had happened to him. All night he lay awake in the long dormitory of cots with lumpy figures on them. The only light was from a phosphorescent cross glowing at the end of the room. The tree reached out to grasp him again, then burst into flame; the shoe burned quietly by itself; the eyes in the book said to him distinctly GO BACK and at the same time did not utter a sound. He wished that he were not in this city, not in this Haven of Light Mission, not in a bed by himself. He longed miserably for Sarah Ruth. Her sharp tongue and icepick eyes were the only comfort he could bring to mind. He decided he was losing it. Her eyes appeared soft and dilatory compared with the eyes in the book, for even though he could not summon up the exact look of those eyes, he could still feel their penetration. He felt as though, under their gaze, he was as transparent as the wing of a fly.
The tattooist had told him not to come until ten in the morning, but when he arrived at that hour, Parker was sitting in the dark hallway on the floor, waiting for him. He had decided upon getting up that, once the tattoo was on him, he would not look at it, that all his sensations of the day and night before were those of a crazy man and that he would return to doing things according to his own sound judgment.
That artist began where he left off. "One thing I want to know," he said presently as he worked over Parker's back, "why do you want this on you? Have you gone and got religion? Are you saved?" he asked in a mocking voice.
Parker's throat felt salty and dry. "Naw," he said,"I ain't got no use for none of that. A man can't save his self from whatever it is he don't deserve none of my sympathy." These words seemed to leave his mouth like wraiths and to evaporate at once as if he had never uttered them.
"Then why …"
"I married this woman that's saved," Parker said. "I never should have done it. I ought to leave her. She's done gone and got pregnant."
"That's too bad," the artist said. "Then it's her making you have this tattoo." "Naw," Parker said, "she don't know nothing about it. It's a surprise for her." "You think she'll like it and lay off you a while?"
"She can't hep herself," Parker said. "She can't say she don't like the looks of God." He decided he had told the artist enough of his business. Artists were all right in their place but he didn't like them poking their noses into the affairs of regular people. "I didn't get no sleep last night," he said. "I think I'll get some now."
That closed the mouth of the artist but it did not bring him any sleep. He lay there, imagining how Sarah Ruth would be struck speechless by the face on his back and every now and then this would be interrupted by a vision of the tree of fire and his empty shoe burning beneath it.
The artist worked steadily until nearly four o'clock, not stopping to have lunch, hardly pausing with the electric instrument except to wipe the dripping dye off Parker's back as he went along. Finally he finished. "You can get up and look at it now," he said.
Parker sat up but he remained on the edge of the table.
The artist was pleased with his work and wanted Parker to look at it at once. Instead Parker continued to sit on the edge of the table, bent forward slightly but with a vacant look. "What ails you?" the artist said. "Go look at it."
"Aint' nothing ail me," Parker said in a sudden belligerent voice. "That tattoo ain't going nowhere. It'll be there when I get there." He reached for his shirt and began to gingerly put it on.
The artist took him roughly by the arm and propelled him between the two mirrors. "Now look," he said, angry at having his work ignored.
Parker looked, turned white and moved away. The eyes in the reflected face continued to look at him – still, straight, all-demanding, enclosed in silence.
"It was your idea, remember," the artist said. "I would have advised something else."
Parker said nothing. He put on his shirt and went out the door while the artist shouted, "I'll expect all of my money!"
Parker headed toward a package shop on the corner. He bought a pint of whiskey and took it into a nearby alley and drank it all in five minutes. Then he moved on to a pool hall nearby which he frequented when he came to the city. It was a well-lighted barn-like place with a bar up one side and gambling machines on the other and pool tables in the back. As soon as Parker entered, a large man in a red and black checkered shirt hailed him by slapping him on the back and yelling, "Yeyyyyyy boy! O.E. Parker!"
Author: Flannery O'Connor "Parker's Back" Page 9
Parker was not yet ready to be struck on the back. "Lay off," he said, "I got a fresh tattoo there."
"What you got this time?" the man asked and then yelled to a few at the machines, "O.E.'s got him another tattoo."
"Nothing special this time," Parker said and slunk over to a machine that was not being used.
"Come on," the big man said, "let's have a look at O.E.'s tattoo," and while Parker squirmed in their hands, they pulled up his shirt. Parker felt all the hands drop away instantly and his shirt fell again like a veil over the face. There was a silence in the pool room which seemed to Parker to grow from the circle around him until it extended to the foundations under the building and upward through the beams in the roof.
Finally some one said, "Christ!" Then they all broke into noise at once. Parker turned around, an uncertain grin on his face.
"Leave it to O.E.!" the man in the checkered shirt said. "That boy's a real card!"
"Maybe he's gone and got religion," someone yelled.
"Not on your life," Parker said.
"O.E.'s got religion and is witnessing for Jesus, ain't you, O.E.?" a little man with a piece of cigar in his mouth said wryly. "An o-riginal way to do it if I ever saw one."
"Leave it to Parker to think of a new one!" the fat man said.
"Yyeeeeeeyyyyyyy boy!" someone yelled and they all began to whistle and curse in compliment until Parker said, "Aaa shut up."
"What'd you do it for?" somebody asked.
"For laughs," Parker said. "What's it to you?"
"Why ain't you laughing then?" somebody yelled. Parker lunged into the midst of them and like a whirlwind on a summer's day there began a fight that raged amid overturned tables and swinging fists until two of them grabbed him and ran to the door with him and threw him out. Then a calm descended on the pool hall as nerve shattering as if the long barnlike room were the ship from which Jonah had been cast into the sea.
Parker sat for a long time on the ground in the alley behind the pool hall, examining his soul. He saw it as a spider web of facts and lies that was not at all important to him but which appeared to be necessary in spite of his opinion. The eyes that were now forever on his back were eyes to be obeyed. He was as certain of it as he had ever been of anything. Throughout his life, grumbling and sometimes cursing, often afraid, once in rapture, Parker had obeyed whatever instinct of this kind had come to him – in rapture when his spirit had lifted at the sight of the tattooed man at the fair, afraid when he had joined the navy, grumbling when he had married Sarah Ruth.
The thought of her brought him slowly to his feet. She would know what he had to do. She would clear up the rest of it, and she would at least be pleased. It seemed to him that, all along, that was what he wanted, to please her. His truck was still parked in front of the building were the artist had his place, but it was not far away. He got in it and drove out of the city and into the country night. His head was almost clear of liquor and he observed that his dissatisfaction was gone, but he felt not quite like himself. It was as if he were himself but a stranger to himself, driving into a new country though everything he saw was familiar to him, even at night.
He arrived finally at the house on the embankment, pulled the truck under the pecan tree and got out. He made as much noise as possible to assert that he was still in charge here, that his leaving her for a night without a word meant nothing except it was the way he did things. He slammed the car door, stamped up the two steps and across the porch and rattled the door knob. It did not respond to his touch. "Sarah Ruth!" he yelled, "let me in."
There was no lock on the door and she had evidently placed the back of a chair against the knob. He began to beat on the door and rattle the knob at the same time.
Author: Flannery O'Connor "Parker's Back" Page 10
He heard the bed springs screak and bent down and put his head to the keyhole, but it was stopped up with paper. "Let me in!" he hollered, bamming on the door again. "What you got me locked out for?"
A sharp voice close to the door said, "Who's there?" "Me," Parker said, "O.E." He waited a moment. "Me," he said impatiently, "O.E."
Still no sound from inside.
He tried once more. "O.E.," he said, bamming the door two or three more times. "O.E. Parker. You know me."
There was a silence. Then the voice said slowly, "I don't know no O.E."
"Quit fooling," Parker pleaded. "You aint' got any business doing me this way. It's me, old O.E., I'm back. You ain't afraid of me."
"Who's there?" the same unfeeling voice said.
Parker turned his head as if he expected someone behind him to give him the answer. The sky had lightened slightly and there were two or three streaks of yellow floating above the horizon. Then as he stood there, a tree of light burst over the skyline.
Parker fell back against the door as if he had been pinned there by a lance.
"Who's there?" the voice from inside said and there was a quality about it now that seemed final. The knob rattled and the voice said peremptorily, "Who's there, I ast you?"
Parker bent down and put his mouth near the stuffed keyhole. "Obadiah," he whispered and all at once he felt the light pouring through him, turning his spider web soul into a perfect arabesque of colors, a garden of trees and birds and beasts.
"Obadiah Elihue!" he whispered.
The door opened and he stumbled in. Sarah Ruth loomed there, hands on her hips. She began at once, "That was no hefty blonde woman you was working for and you'll have to pay her every penny on her tractor you busted up. She don't keep insurance on it. She came here and her and me had us a long talk and I …"
Trembling, Parker set about lighting the kerosene lamp.
"What's the matter with you, wasting that kerosene this near daylight?" she demanded. "I ain't got to look at you."
A yellow glow enveloped them. Parker put the match down and began to unbutton his shirt.
"And you aint' going to have none of me this near morning," she said.
"Shut your mouth," he said quietly. "Look at this and then I don't want to hear no more out of you." He removed the shirt and turned his back to her.
"Another picture," Sarah Ruth growled. "I might have known you was off after putting some more trash on yourself."
Parker's knees went hollow under him. He wheeled around and cried, "Look at it! Don't just say that! Look at "I done looked," she said.
"Don't you know who it is?" he cried in anguish.
"No, who is it?" Sarah Ruth said. "It ain't anybody I know." "It's him," Parker said. "Him who?" "God!" Parker cried.
"God? God don't look like that!" "What do you know how he looks?" Parker moaned. "You ain't seen him." "He don't look," Sarah Ruth said. "He's a spirit. No man shall see his face." "Aw listen," Parker groaned, "this is just a picture of him."
"Idolatry!" Sarah Ruth screamed. "Idolatry! Enflaming yourself with idols under every green tree! I can put up with lies and vanity but I don't want no idolater in this house!" and she grabbed up the broom and began to thrash him across the shoulders with it.
Parker was too stunned to resist. He sat there and let her beat him until she had nearly knocked him senseless and large welts had formed on the face of the tattooed Christ. Then he staggered up and made for the door.
She stamped the broom two or three times on the floor and went to the window and shook it out to get the taint of him off it. Still gripping it, she looked toward the pecan tree and her eyes hardened still more. There he was – who called himself Obadiah Elihue – leaning against the tree, crying like a baby.


text:
It is such a tick-off when you start feeling under the weather right on the eve of a long weekend... not to mention the _last_ long weekend of the summer and the one where you had plans for beach picnic and doing tourist-y things in San Francisco. But that is exactly what happened - right around Friday afternoon was when I started feeling some early onset of cough and sore throat. Not very surprising considering the little one was coughing on and off sporadically last few days. Before I became a Mom I used to wonder how grown-ups can have cold and cough multiple times a year, unfortunately now I know only too well how the chain of germ breeding ground moves from sharing toys to hugging Mommy & Daddy :)
Anyway, after my third cup of coffee on Saturday morning (all to sooth an itchy throat), I decided to make a large pot of hot soup - and that too my favorite soup, the one I always turn to for comfort on cold winter nights or whenever someone in family has cold or fever. Lucky for us, we were about to do our weekly visit to farmer's market - so I quickly made a mental note to buy stuff for a lentil soup and for good measure also bought a loaf of freshly baked sourdough bread to go along with my soup.
This is a very versatile recipe - swap whatever fresh vegetables you have at hand. I used green lentils, you use whatever lentil is lying to be used up in your pantry. I used dried oregano and fresh basil, you can use whatever herb combination is crowding your backyard or suits your fancy for the day :) The trick to this soup is slow simmer - can't stress this strongly enough, once the soup starts to boil, reduce heat to as low as your gastop would allow, cover and forget about it for another 40mins or so. Then check the done-ness of the lentils by tasting a little bit and cook further as needed.


text:
PSK Performance Coaching
Open Water Paddling
For anyone looking to prepare for their first open crossing or for the paddler looking to sharpen their skills before going for a little more of a serious paddle; this package teaches the skills needed to undertake open water crossings, from navigation and planning through to safety and on the water 'admin'.
This session includes:
- Preparation and Planning
- Tides
- Navigation and GPS
- Safety
- Feeding and drinking
- On the water admin
- Kit
- Training
- Pacing and mind games
This package is especially tailored to meet the needs of the individual; let us know what you need and we will customise the training to exactly match your needs. If you are not sure just what you may need then Contact PSK, we can help.


text:
There are several good reasons to look for carpet cleaning companies to do the cleaning of your carpet in a more thorough and professional manner. However, before you pick a particular company it is necessary that you first decide which kind of carpet cleaning method is to be used.
This, in turn, requires that you decide between dry carpet cleaning or wet carpet cleaning; each option has its own share of pluses and minuses and so you must know how a particular option will prove to be better for the kind of carpet that you wish to have cleaned.
Before selecting one of the many carpet cleaning companies you will of course first need to look at the kind of carpet that is to be cleaned. A soggy carpet will take much more time to dry out completely and so it is necessary to plan and prepare a cleaning schedule while taking this factor into account. So, before picking the company that is to do the cleaning of your carpet you should find out how long the company takes to give you back a completely clean and dry carpet.
Secondly, before choosing a carpet cleaning company you must look for a company that has plenty of experience in their field and which can show certifications such as IICRC and also RIA. Such certification shows that the company has completed the required coursework to do the carpet cleaning according to accepted standards.
Professional carpet cleaning services are able to do the cleaning with the help of various cleaning methods including shampooing and dry cleaning as well as foam cleaning and bonnet cleaning and finally, they also can steam clean your carpet. Whichever method you want to use to clean your carpet it is first necessary for the carpet cleaning service to vacuum your carpet thoroughly so as to facilitate proper deep cleaning of the carpet thereafter.
Before picking a particular company to clean up your carpet you must also find out from the company which chemicals they are going to use to clean the carpet. And, you need to also get the company representative to explain to you the benefits and dangers of using these chemicals. It is also never a good idea to hire a company that only provides you with a quote and then insists that you either take it or leave it.
Next, before picking a company to do your carpet cleaning you should also enquire about whether the company has employees to do the cleaning or whether it subcontracts the work to others. Be careful about dealing with carpet cleaning companies that advertise and then book a job and then further sub-let the work to others. Such situations are fraught with dangers as you will not be protected against theft or breakages that are caused by subcontractor while they are doing your carpet cleaning work.
The foam carpet cleaning option is somewhat of a cross between dry cleaning and shampooing and it is also quite effective in removing dirt from the carpet. The bonnet cleaning option, however, is mainly used to clean carpets that are being used in commercial buildings. This option is not the best because its main function is to restore the looks of the carpet rather than clean out all the dirt from the carpet.
By keeping these tips in mind you can start searching for the best carpet cleaning company assured of the fact that you know what makes for a good choice and what decisions can end up costing you a lot of grief and also your money.


text: Mobility Public Sector Wireless & IoT Microsoft gets $10M to extend Windows XP support in U.K. Nestor E. Arellano @NestorArellano Published: April 3rd, 2014How much is the price of failing to get off Windows XP on time?That would be £5.548 million or roughly $10 million if you happen to be the government of the United Kingdom.The government signed an agreement with Microsoft Corp. to provide XP support and security updates to the UK public sector for 12 months after Redmond globally cuts support for the much loved operating system on April 8.The £5.548 million deal, according to the U.K. daily the Telegraph, includes "critical" and "important" security updates for XP, Office 2003 and Exchange 2003. Related Articles Microsoft to continue supporting XP only in this country Will AV vendors still offer Windows XP updates? China headed for Windows XP apocalypse LTE leap suits a small carrier, says MetroPCS The agreement "will provide continuity" for government and public sector organizations still using XP "while they migrate on to alternative operating systems," said Rob Wilmot, crown representative for software of the Crown Commercial Service (CCS) which negotiated the deal.The plan is still just a stop-gap measure, since the government will still have to shell out more money for a new OS eventually.The CSS claims the agreement saved the government more than $40 million, compared with individual departments negotiating their own deals.Microsoft charges $200 per desktop for a year's custom support for Windows XP. This suggests that the U.K. public sector has around 200,000 computers still using the OS, according to the Telegraph.Of course all this could have been avoided had U.K.'s public sector offices converted to Windows 7 or Windows 8 before the April 8 deadline.Windows XP was released in 2001 and Microsoft had tried several times to wean away users from it with the introduction other operating systems such as Vista, Windows 7 and Windows 8. The company for announced the end-of-support date for XP in 2007.'The U.K. is not the only government in an XP bind.An estimated 72.1 per cent of all computers in China are believed to still be running XP. However, Microsoft has partnered with Chinese microblogging site Sina Weibo, to keep XP alive in China.Web analytics firm Net Applications estimates that 37.2 per cent of the world's PC or about 570 million machines are still running the 12-year-old OS.Read the whole story here Mobility, Public Sector, Wireless & IoT laptops, Microsoft, mobile devices, operating systems, PCs, Windows


text:
Guerrilla Marketing for Writers: 100 No-Cost, Low-Cost Weapons for Selling Your Work (Guerilla Marketing Press) (Paperback)
Not on our shelves. Usually ships in 3-5 business days.
Because the battle begins before a book even hits the selves, an author needs every weapon to get ahead of the competition. Guerrilla Marketing for Writers is packed with proven insights and advice, it details 100 "Classified secrets" that will help authors sell their work before and after it's published. This life range of weapons-practical low-cost and no-cost marketing techniques-will help authors design a powerful strategy for strengthening their proposals, promoting their books, and maximizing their sales.
About the Author
- Jay Conrad Levinson, the father of Guerrilla Marketing, has sold more than 21 million Guerrilla Marketing books since 1984 - Rick Frishman is the president of Planned Television Arts, one of the top publicity firms in the book publishing industry - Michael Larsen is a successful literary agent and the author of Literary Agents and How to Write a Book Proposal. - David Hancock is the Chief Evangelist for the Entrepreneurial Author and founder of Morgan James Publishing.


text:
Learn more about Viega and our heritage.
Viega systems worldwide.
Media releases for trade and end consumer media.
Viega as employer - connected in quality.
Trade fairs and events with Viega.
Become our supplier and learn all you need to know about purchasing at Viega.
Our Products
Spare Parts Catalogue
What the future has been waiting for: our innovations for the next decade.
All information about our core competence.
Your partner for industrial applications
Plan and design our products prior to the installation.
Overview of all downloads on this website.
Helpful features and sections of our website at a glance
With the "+"-button you can add entries to the notice list
Cookies help us deliver our services. By using our services, you agree to our use of cookies, e.g. for statistics. Learn more Privacy policy
Product familiy
Product group
Enter your own text filter here.
0 results found for "".
No results have been found for your request.
Please enter a new search word or delete the word from the search field.


text:
A software program package is a set of computer program procedures, and related documentation concerned with the operation of a knowledge processing system. Notice: Candidates ought to have fundamental laptop expertise akin to keyboard proficiency, Internet shopping and searching, and proficiency with an workplace software program suite (phrase processing, spreadsheets, and so forth.) prior to the beginning of this system. As I perceive it, the Courtroom now determined that, following the EPO case law, the computer doesn't have to be part of the declare (and that A/M didn't determine anything on this explicit level). I prefer to program however programming is my first step I actually wish to end up on the enterprise finish of CS but need to get my feet moist and truly know what I am speaking about. Do not even think about attempting to do that for those who don't have already got a pc with design apps and know how you can use them. A computer without a computer program is just a dump box; it's applications that make computers lively.
This system above will do exactly the identical thing as the previous one it has just been set out otherwise. A standard train that actually gets you serious about what pc programming can be like is to explain a course of you are conversant in. And if this can be a new enterprise, this system walks you thru what begin-up prices new companies can deduct. Pc programmers should understand complex directions as a way to create laptop code.
Nonetheless, the excessive prices associated with managing initiatives given to overseas programmers sometimes offsets the savings from the lower wages, causing some firms to carry back or maintain programming jobs within the United States. This two-year Ontario School Diploma program prepares students for a career in software program development. In lots of languages (similar to COBOL), programs are divided into a series of elements. The time period refers to the discovery and correction of errors in computer packages.
As a way to make Good Simulator secure in the sense of by no means freezing, we first let it examine the code partially $A$ utilizing the AI's personal methodology, effectively simulating the AI. That is easy, for the reason that AI's program code is offered.
Thus, in conformance to the 1978 Tips cited by Lasporg above, the that means of a possible program claim becomes the litmus check for the allowability of the opposite claims below Art fifty two.second. Both they are in substance equivalent to the program claim and by consequence not allowable, or they really include something past a program as such.


text:
How to Wire a Dryer Cord
In older houses, electrical sockets dedicated to heavy appliances such as clothes dryers are distinguished by three slots in the receptacle. In newer construction, these have been replaced by 220-volt 4-slot sockets. Both socket styles accommodate the heavy-current draws of appliances that combine heating or cooling with other motor-driven functions. A worn cord can expose appliance users to serious danger. Replacing three or four-prong cords requires slightly different techniques to assure safe operation of your clothes dryer.
Three-Wire Dryer Cord
Unplug the dryer.
Remove the cord-connection panel from the back of the dryer.
Disconnect the wires from their screws in the following order: left (red or black), right (red or black) and center (white). Red and black wires are current-bearing, and their positions are interchangeable. The central white wire is neutral. You will see a green wire or strap that might have been attached to the center terminal screw. Remove it, and attach it to the screw provided on the machine chassis.
Four-Wire Dryer Cord
Remove the old dryer wire.
Connect the red and black wires to the left and right terminal screws, as with the three-wire cord. Red and black wires are current-bearing, and their positions are interchangeable.
Connect the neutral white wire to the center terminal screw.
Connect the remaining green ground wire to the screw holding the green ground strap from the terminal. Both green wires belong on the same screw. Close the access panel.
Things Needed
- Three-prong or four-wire heavy-appliance cord, as required by your dryer
- Flat-blade or Phillips-head screwdriver, as needed
- Follow written directions for connecting cord wires, rather than referring to online picture diagrams. Many of the photos displayed in articles on replacing cords are incorrect and therefore dangerous, even if text points out the error.
- Consult a licensed electrician if you have any concerns about your ability to replace the cord correctly.
Photo Credits
- Ryan McVay/Photodisc/Getty Images


text:
At the village Dzevri parquet production plant launched. Deputy Prime Minister, Minister of Economy and Sustainable Development of Georgia Dimitry Kumsishvili inspected the on-going situation. The enterprise belongs to the partnership titled – "Dzevri Merkani". A three-man partnership received 15 000 GEL as a government fund within the project "Produce in …Read More »
Monthly Archives: June 2016
The Auction Announced on the Canning Plant Construction
The auction was announced on the construction of the canning plant. The National Agency for State Property Management of the Ministry of Economy and Sustainable Development, brought out for sale 249 to 999 sq.m. non-agricultural land and the buildings on the N1-N11 located on that territory on E-auction in Zugdidi. The above mentioned real estate …Read More »
Georgia Celebrates International Children's Day
The international Children's Day marked throughout the world on June 1 is also celebrated in Georgia. International Day for Protection of Children is marked in many countries as Children's Day on June 1 since 1950 and represents the reminder of the obligation of state to ensure the prosperity of each …Read More »
Controversy at the Stock Exchange – Who Hinders Market Development
Shareholders of Stock Exchange still cannot agree on capital increase by 1,2 million GEL. However, the compact plan, submitted by the director of the Stock at Tuesday's meeting, has not turned out sufficient argument for the part of shareholders (42%) to give a support, like a year ago when emission …Read More »
Overview of Georgia's External Trade- Canada Emerges as Number Two Trade Partner
According to a preliminary report by Geostat, the national statistics service of Georgia, Georgia's foreign trade turnover in January to April 2016 marked 3.3 billion USD, up 8% compared to the same period of 2015 (+300 million USD). The structure of trade partner countries has also changed. Despite low indicators …Read More »
Natural Products Started Massive Production of Cheese
Company "Natural Products" started production of dairy products. The enterprises, equipped with the modern devices, is located in village Diokni, Khulo Municipality. The plant is opened with financial support of Swiss Development and Cooperation Agency. The plant takes milk from more than 15 villages of Khulo municipality and daily severs …Read More »
10 Million USD To Be Funded in Poti for the Textile Factory Construction
In Poti, it is planned to fund 10 million USD for the construction of the textile factory. The company "Adjara Textile" is about to open new plant in Poti. Initially, around 300 persons will be employed in the factory, however, it is foretasted to increase the number of employees till …Read More »
Ronny Solberg: Georgia Has the Strong Potential to Become a Self-sufficient Net Exporter by Means of Deregulating the Power Market
Today, AGL's CEO Ronny Solberg attended the "Georgia Cross-Border Electricity Trading" summit. As the representative of Georgia's largest energy sector investor, he addressed summit participants and discussed the Shuakhevi HPP's relationship with the government as well as the project's challenges and achievements. "From the point of view of an investor …Read More »


text:
|Phoenix in its smoggy winter glory
|Papago Park
|Phoenix in its smoggy winter glory
|Papago Park
What a great way to spend an anniversary. That pool looks quite inviting. So glad the hotel was accommodating with regards to the noise level. LOL. The last time I went to Pheonix, I definitely remember the deliciousness of food. FreshMint sounds like an awesome place to eat. Will keep that in mind!ReplyDelete
What a fun impromptu trip!! I love last minute getaways :)ReplyDelete
Looks do fun! And not bad with the expenses either! I haven't been on a last minute getaway in too long. I'd say this is inspiration, but then I'd start planning, defeating the impromptu aspect. :pReplyDelete
Thank you! It was a fun and much-needed getaway. I didn't realize how much I needed a break until we were in the car and on our way. It was really relaxing.Delete
Fun times! We are in Phoenix and I think we ate dinner at this resort once with a Groupon. I could be wrong though. Great choice in Pomo and Scramble. I hadn't heard of FreshMint. Pomo is one of our favorite pizza places. You guys are kind of close, at least closer than us, to our favorite pizza place in Arizona, Pizzicleta in Flagstaff. Also, something we have done the last few years in the summer is stay at the Arizona Biltmore where you get a room and breakfast, lunch and dinner all for about $199 a night. You get vouchers for the food. For instance, you get to spend about $46 for breakfast and $96 for dinner with not tip required. It is only good for Arizona residents so it is nice to take advantage of as a staycation.ReplyDelete
I've never been to that area, though I flew over it once. Defintely want to get out to the desert one day.ReplyDelete
Sounds wonderful, and I agree - spending money that you have on the things that are important to you is what it is all about. Happy anniversary!ReplyDelete


text:
It's the way he tells them .....
Still coming to terms with the recent death of Lesley's husband Ed, the choir nonetheless kept its commitment to perform with the Keevil Singers in Wiltshire on Sunday 19 July.
We were warmly greeted by the rector, Jane Knowles, an old friend of Lesley's and the Keevil choir's conductor, and shared an improvised stage in the church - health and safety experts got a bit nervous but the men survived! - with this friendly local choir. Keith, Jane and Amanda managed the task of accompanying, performing and conducting between them in Lesley's absence; the choirs sang separately, and then together for The Sound of Silence; soloists and instrumentalists from both choirs performed well; and the audience was enthusiastically appreciative. It is however probably true that the most memorable part of the afternoon was the magnificent tea laid out for us afterwards and stretching the length of the village hall. There was no atmosphere of competition musically, but when it comes to a return visit from Keevil to Witney - well, the refreshments might be another matter....
Pictures below from Jennifer
You are viewing the text version of this site.
Need help? check the requirements page.


text:
Latest Blog Posts
How I revisited a sad golf memory and created a new—and better—one
My late father Dennis and I enjoying a happy golf moment. Years earlier, we shared a not-so-swell golf memory at the Early Bird tourney. It started with an email from a fellow university golf coach. Jim Waite, long-time coach of the Western University men's team, sent me a note about the upcoming Early Bird golf tournament, and asked if I'd send it along to my University of Guelph men's team. Then, I thought, 'Why don't I enter?' A lot of my … [Read More...]
Sometimes the best plan is to have no plan
Sometimes the best plan is to have no plan Like most club golfers, the greatest annual test of my golf is the club championship. In the Club C, it's always fascinating to see how well I can incorporate the coaching and performance fundamentals that I provide to my clients. I want to empower my clients, but I want to play well too! If a coach doesn't admit this to you, he or she is lying. I was in the A Flight this year. I had a frustrating … [Read More...]
The secret to making a swing change revealed—ignore your whiny ego
The secret to making a swing change revealed—ignore your whiny ego Hey, we're not grizzled veterans, just veteran ... coaches. Mike Martz (left) has helped me get my game back on track--and to stay with the process when I struggled."That shot had character," Mike Martz said, watching one of my iron shots flying on a penetrating trajectory to the yellow flag on the range."Character?" I inquired.The coach explained: … [Read More...]
A caddie's tattered running shoes and a black life
Until a week or so ago, I was unaware of Juneteenth, which commemorates that on June 19, 1865, a group of enslaved people in Galveston, Texas learned that they had been freed by emancipation.At 63 years old, as a former journalist, and someone who considers himself fairly aware of social issues, I felt embarrassed that I was not aware of this important historical event, although I read in the New York Times today that "this holiday … only became … [Read More...]
The Voice doesn't go away, but you can pause it
"How do I silence The Voice that is constantly saying negative things to me?"This is one of most frequently asked questions that I get every year as a coach who is known for dealing with mental stuff. In fact, I was asked twice this week during my Obedience Training For Your Brain webinars.What is The Voice? It's the innner dialogue in your head. That constantly barking critic that tells you what to do, and especially what you can't do. It calls … [Read More...]
Like an easy swing, a little humility goes a long way
Thomas Merton, the late Trappist monk and author of New Seeds of Contemplation, Oh Lord, it's hard to be humble, but I'm doin' the best that I can. Mac Davis If I wrote that saying thanks to the person serving you your morning coffee would make you a better golfer—or better at whatever you do—would you be more likely to try it? A silver lining of the pandemic lockdown is that, … [Read More...]
Real leaders get it. It's not about power. It's about service
If you need more reasons to say thanks to the person who serves you your morning coffee, here's a couple: By doing so, you will be committing an act of service. and honing your leadership skills. Among the silver linings of the pandemic lockdown is that we've been pushed out of our rote ways of living. We've all had to adapt. You could resist. Some are. I believe that a contributing factor to this whole mess is that we have demanded the world … [Read More...]