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Ryu Hayabusa is the main protagonist in the Ninja Gaiden series of action games which are developed by Team Ninja.
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Latest Games
Yaiba: Ninja Gaiden Z (2014)
Developed by Comcept, Spark Unlimited, Team Ninja for WIN, PS3, X360Yaiba: Ninja Gaiden Z is a third person action game developed by Comcept in collaboration with Team Ninja and Spark Unlimited, and set to be published by Tecmo Koei for the PlayStation 3, Xbox 360, Windows PC and iOS platforms on 4 March, 2014 in North America, and 28 February in Europe.3.505
Dead or Alive 5 (2012)
Developed by Sega AM2, Team Ninja for ARC, PS3, PSV, X360Dead or Alive 5 is a fighting game developed by Team Ninja for PlayStation 3, PlayStation Vita, Xbox 360, and Arcade. Part of the Dead or Alive series, it is the first to have a multi-platform release since Dead or Alive 2 and the first installment released for PlayStation 3. The gameplay is similar to previous Dead or Alive games, with guest characters from Sega's Virtua Fighter series, as well as new gameplay mechanics and improved graphics.4.135
Ninja Gaiden 3 (2012)
Developed by Team Ninja for PS3, WiiU, X360Ninja Gaiden 3 is an action-adventure hack and slash game, developed by Team Ninja and published by Tecmo Koei for the PlayStation 3 and Xbox 360, and is a sequel to Ninja Gaiden 2. An enhanced port, called Ninja Gaiden 3: Razor's Edge, was later released for the Wii U, PlayStation 3, and Xbox 360.3.655
Dead or Alive: Dimensions (2011)
Developed by Team Ninja for 3DSDead or Alive: Dimensions is a fighting game developed by Team Ninja and released on Nintendo 3DS.4.385
Ninja Gaiden Sigma 2 (2009)
Developed by Team Ninja for PS3, PSVNinja Gaiden Sigma 2 is an action game developed by Team Ninja and released on PlayStation 3, PlayStation Vita.4.125
Ryu Hayabusa Brainwaves
8th October, 0 replies
Yaiba: Ninja Gaiden Z Will be Available on Steam
It's not just PlayStation 3 and Xbox 360 gamers who will be able to enjoy Yaiba: Ninja Gaiden Z. Tecmo...


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'Very easy to attach to baby carrier and keeps baby lovely and warm and dry.'
Macinblack - Darlington
At Kiddicare, we've got you covered when it comes to baby slings and baby carriers... Front or rear facing, Babybjorn or Littlelife, you'll find what you need here! Plus, don't forget - if you spend over £29.99, delivery's on us!
©Kiddicare 2014

subset: commoncrawl


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Sam Fletcher
Senior Writer
HOUSTON, Oct. 29 -- Energy prices continued to tumble Thursday with the momentum created by the market's earlier reaction to a larger-than-expected increase in US commercial crude inventories.
The Energy Information Administration reported US stocks of crude increased by 4 million bbl to 283.4 million bbl in the week ended Oct. 22. It said US underground storage of natural gas increased by 26 bcf to more than 3.2 tcf during the same period (OGJ Online, Oct. 28, 2004). That's just 5 bcf below the all-time record high of 3.254 tcf registered in November 2001, said analysts Friday at Enerfax Daily. They expect EIA next week to report an addition of 20-40 bcf, which should set a new natural gas storage record going into this winter's heating season..
Reports that China raised its interest rates to rein in the rapid pace of its economic growth also dampened the energy market. China rarely increases its interest rates, said analysts, and this move is viewed as a serious effort by the Chinese government to prevent its economy from overheating.
Purnomo Yusgiantoro, conference president of the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries, said Friday that energy prices likely would continue falling now that world crude supply is again "normal." He said current OPEC production would be sufficient to meet any increased demand in the coming months, but that OPEC ministers would decide whether to hike the group's production ceiling still further at their December meeting in Cairo.
OPEC recently increased its production ceiling to 27 million b/d, effective Nov. 1. However, member countries are reportedly producing 2 million b/d above that level.
Energy prices
The December contract for benchmark US light, sweet crudes fell by $1.54 to $50.92/bbl Thursday on the New York Mercantile Exchange, while the January position lost $1.43 to $50.74/bbl. On the US spot market, West Texas Intermediate at Cushing, Okla., also lost $1.54, to $50.93/bbl. Gasoline for November delivery dropped 4.29¢ to $1.29/gal Thursday on NYMEX. Heating oil for the same month retreated by 4.23¢ to $1.45/gal. The new front-month December natural gas contract slipped by 9.1¢ to $8.68/Mcf.
In London, the December contract for North Sea Brent declined by $1.08 to $48.37 on the International Petroleum Exchange.
The average price for OPEC's basket of seven benchmark crudes lost $1.16 to $43.59/bbl Thursday.
Contact Sam Fletcher at firstname.lastname@example.com


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The film also features exceptional villains in Richard Tyson as Crisp, an Oedipal psychopath, and Carroll Baker as his cold-blooded mom, Eleanor. Long sought by L.A. cop Kimble (Schwarzenegger), the pair is hunting down Crisp's wife and son, who have fled to Oregon. Kimble teams with fellow cop
Phoebe (Reed), a former schoolteacher, to find the woman and child and bring them back to L.A. to testify against Crisp and his mother. However, unlike the v...
While tracking down a ruthless drug lord, a tough-as-nails cop poses as an elementary school teacher and faces his biggest challenge: children! Unfortunately, this hit comedy is much too violent for your little ones!
Kindergarten Cop -- Arnold Schwarzenegger stars as a policeman who takes on the toughest assignment of his career when he poses as a kindergarten teacher in order to catch a criminal.
Kindergarten Cop -- A tough cop is given his most difficult assignment: masquerade as a a kindergarten teacher in order to find a drug dealer.
more Kindergarten Cop videos
Download the TV Guide app for iPhone, iPad and Android!


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Mechanical Engineering Curriculum
Degree Requirements - Mechanical Engineering
Students are required to take a minimum of 30 graduate credits of course work and complete a written and oral comprehensive examination. All students must take at least three core courses and a minimum of 12 credits at the 6000 (graduate only) level.
30 to 32 graduate credits of which:
- 12 credits of Core Courses
- 20 credits of electives
- A minimum of 12 credits must be at the graduate-only level (6000 level)
- Maximum of two courses (6 to 8 credits) may be transferred from outside the College.
Core Courses
GEN 5001 Systems Engineering
GEN 6002 Numerical Methods
and one from the following:
GEN 6001 Finite Elements
GEN 6004 Project Management
GEN 5265 Engineering Management
GEN 6034 Life Cycle Costing
Minimum two additional courses from the following (or from the above additional core courses listed above that are not chosen to fulfill the core requirement):
MEN 5010 Advanced Mechanics/FEM
MEN 5012 Instrumentation/Robotics
MEN 5020 Mechanical Behavior of Polymers
MEN 5030 Energy Systems
MEN 5032 Solar and Direct Energy Conservation
MEN 5034 Windpower Systems
MEN 5040 Advanced Fluid Mechanics
EEN 5145 Discrete Time Signals and Systems
EEN 5175 Digital Architecture
EEN 5270 Energy, Generation, Conservation and Technology
GEN 5036 Sustainable Energy: the Engine of Sustainable Development
GEN 6001 Finite Elements


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For much of the latter half of the 20th century, California's Lake County was known as a "growers' county," serving as a back-40 for the more glamorous North Coast appellations of Napa and Sonoma. Even now, the vast majority of its grapes are sold to wineries outside the county, mainly for blending.
For the full article, check out the new issue of Wine Spectator, on newsstands November 30, 2004.
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NUSTLS Saadhana 'A' Level Tuition
Traditionally known as 'A' Level Tuition Project, Saadhana is a non-profit project carried out by NUS Tamil Language Society (NUSTLS). It provides quality 'A' Level tutoring at affordable rates.
This annual project, which is supported by SINDA and SIET, was launched on a small scale with NUS undergraduates tutoring A-level students 30 years ago. The aim of Saadhana is to help Indian students excel in their 'A' Level Examinations so as to pursue university education. To this end, qualified and experienced teachers are enlisted to facilitate the students' learning and lessons are provided at highly-subsidised, affordable rates.
Teachers ensure that optimal learning is not compromised at any cost. Over time, Saadhana has grown and undergone numerous improvements via constant feedback from teachers and students.
While Saadhana caters to Indian students from Junior Colleges and Pre-Universities preparing for their 'A' levels, students of other races are also welcome. Tuition is conducted from March to October each year and admission is based on availability for all students.
For more information on the NUSTLS 'A' Level Tuition Programme, please contact:
Mr Shameer
Saadhana Coordinator
9275 6701
Mr Pranesh
Saadhana Coordinator
9275 6710
E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.com
Visit http://www.nustls.org/


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The Cardinals wanted to the pace to be slow. Mission accomplished.
The Cyclones could not get the pace up to their speed. Still Ottawa led 46-33 with five minutes left.
Eudora made a push and came within six points and even fouled out Ottawa's Semi Ojeleye.
Ottawa persevered and advanced with a 51-42 victory. This will be Ottawa's 13th straight sub-state championship game and 15th out of the past 18. It was the 25th straight postseason home victory. The Ottawa seniors improved to 30-0 on its home floor and extended the Cyclones' homecourt winning streak to 33.
The Cyclones (21-0) play 6 p.m. today against De Soto, 48-33 winners over Louisburg, in the sub-state championship game.
Ottawa saw a determined team in Eudora.
"They guarded us better than they have," Ottawa senior Kaden Shaffer said. "They played with a lot more intensity. It is hard to beat a team three times. Spring Hill showed us that last year.
Ottawa coach Jon McKowen knows postseason is about surviving.
"We don't care how we win," he said. "We just want to find ways to win. Teams win for a reason.
"Most of [Eudora] guys played in state championship game in football two years in a row. They know how to win. It resonates both ways."
Ottawa's basketball team has experience and been in tough situations like the big hole the Cyclones climbed out of to beat Spring Hill last year in sub-state.
"Last year at sub-state was really crazy," Shaffer said. "We have experienced this before. Nobody lost their focus. It definitely helped us down the stretch."
Ottawa did not play its style of basketball.
"Things off the ball was not great," McKowen said. "We were good defensively on the ball. We were great with the ball in our hands. We were a little flat."
The Cyclones scored the first nine points of the game.
"We scored seven early, but it was all on jump shots," McKowen said. "We started relying on that jump shot, sitting back and not attacking off the ball. It was tough to get out of that mode."
Ottawa shot just 16 of 37 from the field.
"The timing is off because of lack of practice time," McKowen said. "We are used to going six days. The past two weeks we went four. That is tough. You have to grind a little bit."
Ojeleye paced the Cyclones with 25 points. Alex Hasty and Dallas Natt had 11 points each.
Eudora (42) — Ballock 19, Becker 12, Hadl 9, Shockley 1, Elston 1.
Ottawa (51) — Ojeleye 25, Hasty 11, Natt 11, Boeh 2, A. Blaue 2.


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How To Increase Testosterone Levels Naturally
April 1, 2013
As many as 13 million men in the United States currently suffer from low testosterone levels, according to the American Diabetes Association. Even more men would like to increase their testosterone production for the physical benefits associated with higher T-levels.
After all, the decreased testosterone production that begins around age 30 often leads to depression, weight gain, and low libido. And nobody wants that.
Fortunately, there are ways to increase testosterone without relying on dangerous steroids and other injections. Take a look at these five tips to bring your T-levels up to working order and beyond.


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School board to discuss full-day kindergarten
BARKHAMSTED -- The Board of Education has scheduled a meeting for 6 p.m. Monday in the Barkhamsted School cafeteria to discuss the possibility of implementing full-day kindergarten in the fall. The public is invited.
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About Tananarive Due
Tananarive Due is the Cosby Chair in the Humanities at Spelman College (2012-2013), where she teaches screenwriting and journalism. She also teaches in the creative writing MFA program at Antioch University Los Angeles. The American Book Award winner and NAACP Image Award recipient is the author of twelve novels and a civil rights memoir. In 2010, she was inducted into the Medill School of Journalism's Hall of Achievement at Northwestern University.
Due's novella Ghost Summer, published in the 2008 anthology The Ancestors , received the 2008 Kindred Award from the Carl Brandon Society, and her short fiction has appeared in best-of-the-year anthologies of science fiction and fantasy. Due is a leading voice in black speculative fiction; a paper on Due's work recently was presented at the College Language Association (CLA) Conference.
Due collaborates on the Tennyson Hardwick mystery series with her husband, author Steven Barnes, in partnership with actor Blair Underwood. Due also wrote The Black Rose , a historical novel about the life of Madam C.J. Walker, based on the research of Alex Haley and Freedom in the Family: A Mother-Daughter Memoir of the Fight for Civil Rights , which she co-authored with her mother, the late civil rights activist Patricia Stephens Due. Freedom in the Family was named 2003's Best Civil Rights Memoir by Black Issues Book Review . (Patricia Stephens Due took part in the nation's first Jail-In in 1960, spending 49 days in jail in Tallahassee, Florida, after a sit-in at a Woolworth lunch counter.)
In 2004, alongside such luminaries as Nobel Prize-winner Toni Morrison, Due received the New Voice in Literature Award at the Yari Yari Pamberi conference co-sponsored by New York University's Institute of African-American Affairs and African Studies Program and the Organization of Women Writers of Africa.
Due has a B.S. in journalism from Northwestern University and an M.A. in English literature from the University of Leeds, England, where she specialized in Nigerian literature as a Rotary Foundation Scholar. In addition to VONA, Due has taught at the Hurston-Wright Foundation's Writers' Week and the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop. As a screenwriter, she is a member of the Writers' Guild of America (WGA).
Due and her husband, Steven Barnes, met at a speculative fiction conference at Clark Atlanta University in 1997.
Due lives in the Atlanta area with Barnes and their son, Jason. Her writing blog is at www.tananarivedue.wordpress.com . Her website is at www.tananarivedue.com .


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Bureau . Schofield Hall 201 . Eau Claire, WI 54702
phone: (715) 836-4741
fax: (715) 836-2900
EAU CLAIRE - The University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire's chemistry department is quietly humming with activity as 13 faculty members and more than 25 undergraduates engage in a wide range of summer research projects involving organic and inorganic chemistry, biochemistry, physical chemistry, photochemistry, and surface and analytical chemistry.
Dr. David Lewis, who has six students currently assisting him with several ongoing research efforts in organic chemistry, described himself and his students as "molecule builders." One of their research efforts involves developing a strategy for synthesizing certain aconite alkaloids that are highly toxic but have been used in China for more than ten years to help suppress withdrawal syndrome in heroin addicts. The specific structural features of the alkaloids that are responsible for this effect are not understood, so Lewis and his students will be engaged in making and then modifying synthetic alkaloid molecules and testing and studying resulting reactions. By learning what key structural features are responsible for the suppression effects, the researchers may be able to identify compounds that might be less toxic and/or more effective in addressing not only heroin addiction, but also addiction to other substances, such as cocaine, amphetamines or nicotine.
Lewis stresses that this research is still in the early stages. "If you compare the ultimate goal of our research to, say, building a cathedral, then we're still building low-income housing," said Lewis.
Another project Lewis and his students are working on involves making fluorescent dyes for tagging molecules. The dyes could not only make it easier for researchers to follow where molecules migrate in cells, but also might have other applications, such as in medical diagnoses.
Dr. Alan Gengenbach, who works in the area of inorganic chemistry, currently has two students working with him full-time, and he said they are also making molecules. Their work involves studying porphyrins, molecules found as part of many different proteins and enzymes in the human body. In hemoglobin, for example, a porphyrin is responsible for giving blood its red color.
Gengenbach and his students are making, modifying and studying porphyrin molecules because they are known to be effective catalysts for biological and other reactions. Their specific interest is in studying porphyrins that catalyze the degradation of perchloroethylene, a dry cleaning solvent that contaminates groundwater. Their ultimate goal, which Gengenbach also stresses is probably far down the road, is to find compounds that might be even more effective or useful for breaking down perchloroethylene and cleaning up or protecting the environment.
Gengenbach said he enjoys working with undergraduate students and tries to teach them basic research techniques so they can work as independently as possible. Although he guides them in the general direction he wants the research to go, he said his goal is to teach them how to solve problems, make connections, and eventually get to the point where they begin to have their own ideas about what to do next.
"I'm as interested in the learning process that occurs during research as I am in the results of the research itself," said Gengenbach.
Dr. Ignacia Porras, a visting professor from the University of Granada, Spain, also is working on research with Dr. Fred King this summer, giving some students the opportunity to get another point of view and see how researchers in other parts of the world approach problems.
Students currently involved in student/faculty research in the chemistry department are senior Nicholas Robertson, Eau Claire, and junior Joey Rosemeyer, Platteville, working with Dr. Mike Carney; seniors Nathan Pillsbury, Peshtigo, Emily Gilles, Plum City, and Logan Ausman, Eau Claire, working with Dr. Steve Drucker (Ausman is also working with professor emeritus Dr. Jack Pladziewicz); senior Jill Hudacek, Bloomer, working with Dr. Elisabetta Fasella; senior Matthew Giese, Eau Claire, working with Dr. Warren Gallagher; juniors Anna Dahl, Hudson, and Bernard Huettl, Eau Claire, working with Gengenbach; senior Rachel Nauss, Eau Claire, working with Dr. Scott Hartsel; seniors Elizabeth Burgener, Gleason, Chong Hoong Leong, Malaysia, and Corey Schuster, Elcho, working with King and Porras; seniors Nicholas Deprez, Green Bay, Glen Gullickson, Chippewa Falls, Paul Erdman, Champlin, Minn., and Kristy McNitt, Spooner, and juniors Grant Sormunen, Duluth, Minn., and Jessica Ann Walters, Clearwater, Minn., working with Lewis; sophomore Katie Atherton, Waukesha, junior Christopher Conklin, Green Bay, and seniors Brenda Cook, Shell Lake, Matthew Goertz, Manitowoc, and Timothy Schleusner, Eau Claire, working with Dr. Marc McEllistrem; seniors Jennifer Biesterveld, Inver Grove Heights, Minn., and Michael Mbughuni, Stevens Point, working with Dr. Marcia Miller-Rodeberg: sophomores Christopher Knutson, Beaver Dam, and John Wrass, New Berlin, working with Dr. James Phillips; and senior Erin Moritz, Baraboo, working with Dr. Mel Sahyun.
Designated by the UW System as a Center of Excellence for Faculty
and Undergraduate Student Research Collaboration, UW-Eau Claire annually awards
more than $500,000 for faculty student research projects. In the chemistry department,
many research projects are also funded by organizations like the National Science
Foundation through the successful grant writing efforts of UW-Eau Claire's chemistry
Judy Berthiaume, Director
UW-Eau Claire News Bureau
Schofield 201
(715) 836-4741
Updated: July 18, 2003


text: I would have to say keep the sip 346 item, especially if the other secondary stat is mastery. As h priests spi is our bread and butter, more so than the other healing classes IMO, due to holy concentration. Now on my healadin, I'll sport a couple 359s and forge spi on them, but only a couple.


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The Rise Of The Dick Pic. You See What I Did There.
Friends, this is an emergency. A no-joke fucking crisis. The Dick Pic Problem we have, as a nation, is in Stage 5. Code Blue. Zero Fucking Hour. It has reached a fever pitch, and we are, as a species, at Peak Dick. This is not a good place to be. Much press has been given to this issue of late, thankfully bringing to light a scourge that has been largely unrecognized by our non-single ranks for too long. I'm glad people are talking about it, writing about it, complaining about it. But the truth is, it's not doing one goddamn bit of good.
Too many of our men are broken. Even the ones who READ the articles begging them to stop sending dick pics to unsuspecting women…they don't stop. It might be – and I know this sounds crazy – that maybe men aren't the greatest listeners sometimes. Or that they don't particularly give a shit what we, as women, want and don't want – I know, shocking, right? They assume that their dick is special. Excluded from the advisories. Insulated by its sheer awesomeness. My dick is magnificent, they think. Who wouldn't want to see MY dick?
The answer is everyone. EVERYONE wouldn't want to see your dick. It is safest, gentlemen, to just go forth on that simple assumption until the very moment you encounter someone who says, plainly, "Please, I would like to see your dick." And we will, guys. When we want to see it, we really will tell you. What people don't seem to realize is that this is not a new phenomenon – not some fresh outrage brought about by entitled Millennials who've been parented primarily by technology. Dick pics have been around as long as cameras have, and I suspect – as long as dicks themselves have. I've been single, on and off, for an awfully long time – and while those old-timey rascals of Last Century had to be slightly more innovative in their approach to delivery, their plucky, pioneering dick-spirits prevailed. The difference back then, and up until very recently – is that we, as women do, THOUGHT IT WAS US. That this was only happening to us, because of some shameful defect or secret whore vibe that we MUST be sending out to make guys think we wanted to see pictures of their dicks. What is it about ME, we asked ourselves, that makes them think I want this? We slut-shamed our own selves, for fuck's sake – because the guys we liked couldn't keep their dicks in their pants and off camera. How fucked up is that?
Nowadays, thanks to the likes of Tinder (also known as The End Of Civilization), women are finally calling bullshit and starting to understand that it's not actually us. That we are not inviting the onslaught of genitalia into our unsuspecting eyeballs. Although shaming is still a big part of the deal, it's now primarily used by men in a SUPER clever reverse-psychology kind of way. When we do not Ooh and Ahh at the dicks, when we fail to swoon, we are immediately berated – chided for being frigid, prudish, and (my favorite) "not as much fun as I thought you were." It's still Our Fault, somehow. Ever and always.
Again, this discussion is not groundbreaking – it's everywhere. But what's disturbing (aside from the fact that MEN CONSTANTLY SEND US PICTURES OF THEIR PENISES) is that we women are largely portrayed as victims of the dick pic with no recourse whatsoever. For, let's face it, responding in kind with pictures of our own junk would hardly be taken in the vengeful spirit in which it was delivered. Because men. Using our voices to tell them we are displeased, again, only results in petulant attempts at Boomerang Shame. Not one of the articles I have read offers resolve to this issue apart from tepidly using reason, entreating men to please stop. And well, we know how that goes.
Here's where I come in. I – teller of truths, warrior of women, docent of dick pics – am here to deliver this news, guys. WE ARE MOCKING YOU. We save them. We collect them. We show our friends. We make fun of them. We draw faces on them (sad faces, mostly). We point and laugh. We name names. We cackle uproariously at your pitiable lack of self-esteem, so thinly veiled as cock bravado. We feel a little sorry for you. We do not want to fuck you.
Because here's the thing, fellas. We will, every time, choose the guy who didn't send the dick pic – content to take our chances with what lies beneath over that which rears its ugly purple head. Because if it turns out you are worthy of our affections, our bodies, our time, our love, especially – we won't fucking care what your dick looks like.
Truth, Misanthropista style. Please, everyone, do your part. Pass this shit on. Stop the madness. Save the world.
The Only Advice You Will Ever Need. Like, Ever.
**Pre-Emptive Disclaimer: Whilst Googling images to use for this post, I discovered that several people have already written about this subject. Pretty extensively. Which simultaneously makes me feel awesome because it means I am obviously right, again, but also stupid because I probably should have checked before I spent two fucking hours writing something that has already been written. I am an idiot. But I figure, one can not ever hear this advice too many times. So apologies and a hat tip to those who went there first. You are my heroes.
That's right, friends. Your horny, half-witted, humble-ish, eighth-favorite blogger is in possession of the ONE SINGLE THING you need to know in order to fully participate, winningly, in Life. I realize that sounds like a bold claim, but I promise you, it's true. There really IS a secret to life, and I am going to tell it to you. There really is only one thing you need to do to change your entire fucking existence. Are you ready? Here it is: the Only Advice You Will Ever Need:
Don't be a dick.
That's it. It's so simple, and everyone thinks they already know it, but they do not. There is never a time, a situation, or a problem that cannot be solved by simply making the choice, right then and there, to NOT be a dick. You will never go wrong. "But Misanthropista," you cry, "surely you cannot solve all of my problems with just that one little thing…" Yes. Yes, I can.
This directive will never fail you. This is the I-Ching. The Holy Fucking Grail of unsolicited advice. If everyone on earth did this one thing, there would be no war. There would be no divorce, there would be no hunger, poverty, racism, child abuse. There would be no bullying. No crime. None. If every person, every day, in every quandary, faced their choices with the simple aim of Not Being A Dick, just imagine how different things would be. Here are some examples, in case you are finding this hard to grasp:
I'm in a hurry, and the only parking spot left at the gym is handicapped parking: should I take the spot (because seriously, like, are any handicapped people REALLY going to come to the gym in the 45 minutes it might take me to go prance around in my spandex, flirt with some meat suits, drink a smoothie and not work out?)? No. You should not take the handicapped spot. Don't be a dick.
I don't want to vaccinate my children because I think I know better than a century of doctors and scientists, and I want to start wielding the tight fist of parental control over my kids as early as possible by gambling with oh, I don't know, Their Health, and I don't really give a shit whether their pure, unvaccinated asses make everyone else in the entire fucking world sick. What should I do? Vaccinate your fucking kid. Don't be a dick.
I'm kinda seeing this girl/guy/whatever but I've lost interest and I don't really feel like explaining myself or risking a scene, so is it OK if I just disappear into the ether and never call or text her/him/whatever again? No. It's not OK. Find some humane way to let her/him/whatever know that you won't be calling again. Don't be a dick.
Should I tip the movers/server/cab driver/etc? Yes. Don't be a dick. Should I take up two parking spots at the crowded mall, since my car is so much nicer than all of the other ones? No. Don't be a dick. My country is hosting the Olympics and I'd like to make sure that gay people know they are unwelcome in my land because gay people are obviously pedophiles and also criminals, and will definitely brainwash our 100% heterosexual children to join the Gay Side. May I ban homosexuals from my country? No. Don't be a dick. Should I blow up an airplane full of people because it will score me some big points and a few virgins in the afterlife? Dude. No. Don't be a dick. I make a lot of money. Should I have to share it with the less fortunate or pay more taxes to help ensure that each human being in our country has their basic needs taken care of? Yes. Don't be a dick. I'm thinking about spying on my wife. Should I make up a fake Facebook profile and go to elaborate lengths to trick her into thinking I'm someone else in order to extract information out of her? No. You should not to that. Don't be a dick. My beautiful yellow-haired God-fearing daughter wants to get married to a (insert racial, religious or ethnic inconvenience here). Can I stop her? No, you cannot. Don't be a dick. I'm dating two people at once, and they both think that we're exclusive…can I continue on like this indefinitely, 'cause it's pretty fucking awesome. No. Pick one. Don't be a dick. I think my husband is cheating in me with his secretary. Should I send her a dead bunny? No. Don't be a dick. Should I call someone fat or ugly because I secretly loathe myself and being mean makes me feel important? No. You should not. Don't be a dick.
Do you SEE, my friends? How easy? There are always, always, two very simple choices. To be (a dick), or not to be (a dick.) That is the question. And I'm giving you the answer. Don't be a Dick. Ever. The choice is virtually never ambiguous or "complicated" (which, let's face it, is just Asshole for "I am not willing to make a choice." Also known as Being a Dick.). I personally guarantee that if YOU make a conscious and focused effort to Not Be A Dick, others will follow. Because Being a Dick feeds on itself – it perpetuates the dickdom and spreads it throughout society like an unvaccinated toddler with their medieval fucking swamp measles. When you stop Being a Dick, people around you and affected by you won't need to Be a Dick, and they will stop, too. It's magic. Like a beautiful, twinkly, dickless unicorn spreading peace and kindness throughout the land. Fine, it's *probably* just cheap glitter. But it's still a magical dickless unicorn, so you shut right up. That shit is so sparkly.
So that's all, my friends. The Secret of Life. It's the only thing you ever need to know and the only thing you ever need to teach your children. So what's it going to be? Do you want to be the swamp measles or the unicorn glitter?
Don't be a dick. Pick the glitter. You're welcome.
Life is a Dammit Rock
The story goes like this: on a family vacation long ago – back when our big, extravagant grandfather hosted big, extravagant getaways for the whole extended lot of us – we all found ourselves on some tropical island together. Barbados, maybe. During the week we were there, the whole bunch of us would head down to the beach each morning – cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, nannies – and each morning, my father would trip over the very same rock on the same pathway down to the shore. And each time, he would yell, "DAMMIT!" Every. Single. Day. So on the last day of vacation, on our way down to the beach, my youngest cousin (3 or 4 at the time), adorable in her sweetness to this day, called out to my father, "Uncle Bill! Watch out for the Dammit Rock!"
I think of this story often, always with a mixture of tenderness and sorrow. Because don't we all have a Dammit Rock (or two or ten) that continues to trip us up throughout our lives? And since most of us don't have the benefit of an adorable tow-headed cherub to tell us, "Watch out for the Dammit Rock!" we continue to trip, painfully, over the same flotsam again and again. Would we even hear her if she did?
Like my father, I am clumsy. I literally fall down, all the fucking time. Ice, dogs, shadows, rugs…there's pretty much nothing I can't find a way to fall over. I eat spectacular shit no matter the occasion, the footwear, the familiarity of the terrain – no goddamn matter. And I almost always hurt myself – badly. I have had at least as many X-Rays as Evil Knievel and have accepted that it's only a matter of time before I begin to actually glow in the dark. Or grow one of those tiny me-twin tumors that look like goiters but are exponentially more terrifying. The more imperative it is that I maintain grace and dignity in any situation, the more certain the odds that I will end up ass-over-teakettle on the ground, likely having opted for *commando* as the favored underwear option that day. It's all very predictable. And yet, I still put on the heels, I still forego the underpants, I still look everywhere but down when I walk – still do all the things that pretty much guarantee I will continue to single-handedly put my orthopedists' children through college.
There are other, less literal but every bit as damnable Dammit Rocks. Boys; the ones I favor being too young and/or broken to possibly NOT end up crushing me. I know they're broken, I know they're dangerous, I KNOW that I'd have much better luck finding some squirrelly meth tweaker to fall in love with than a beautiful, broken, too-young boy. And yet I do it anyway. Not often. But the outcomes of these infrequent trip-ups are so dizzyingly bad that they run a pervasive course through my entire life. It's not that I forget, when the next one comes around. It's not that I don't see it. I know the Dammit Rock is there and that I will definitely fall on my face. But time after time, I fail to give a fancy fuck. I still take the same path.
Tolerating the intolerable. Fixing the unfixable. Tending, mending, managing problems that are not my own. Rescuing – people, pets, itinerant workers…ignoring red flags or painting them pink, with glitter! Entrusting secrets to *friends* I already kind of know cannot be trusted with them. Speaking before filtering. Moving to strange places and gaping, amazed, at the loneliness. Leaving my family and then aching for the comfort of them. Needing help and refusing to ask. So very many Dammit Rocks.
Is this Human Nature? Or just my nature? Are we supposed to keep fucking the same shit up until we finally learn, by vast experience, not to? Or do we just keep clambering up and down the same rocky path forever, paying the price for our stupidity in bruises and scabs? I don't know. The way I see it, my own options are few, and none of them particularly appealing: I can blanket my home in porn-shag and stay in my onesie forever, avoiding the perils of Outside altogether; or I can pick myself up, put my heels on, aim straight for the rock, and hope to fuck I don't fall. Or perhaps I can just learn to be more careful. Rein my shit in. Proceed with caution. Wear sensible shoes. Put on some goddamn underpants. Avoid the rocks and the strays and the love and the pain. That, I'm sure, is the answer. And it sounds perfectly awful. It sounds like defeat. It sounds like surrender. It sounds, to me, like death.
So at the risk of, well, everything – I think I'll stick to the path I know best. I'll keep falling down and fucking up until I finally get it right, or not. For better or worse, for as long as they keep making Percocet and Lifetime movies, I think I'll take my chances with the Dammit Rock, dammit.
What are your Dammit Rocks, my friends? Share in the comments if you'd care to make me feel better about myself.
How I Spent My Summer (Hint: in a Basement With 12 Severed Heads, Some Soul-Crushing Grief, and Not Much Else.)
Don't worry – this is not going to be some Cheryl Strayed-style
gag me with how hot and awesome I think I am and how every thing I ever fucked up was actually someone else's fault account of hard-won redemption and triumph over the very grief that leveled me. It's just not – there's no redemption in sight, and certainly no triumph. I've spent the past 3 months in some stranger's basement, for fuck's sake – not to mention that said basement's every vertical surface is covered with the heads, skins, pelts, and antlers of things he's personally killed for, I assume, fun. Said basement has no internet or cable. Said basement has no kitchen. Aside from the whole "being indoors" thing, it's camping. I'm lucky to have it, as I had nowhere else to go with my 5 pets – and grateful in a way that I keep needing to remind myself to be. Like, I am grateful not to be homeless. Which is not a small thing, but still. No fucking cable?
So, this might sound obvious, but: you should never move immediately after the sudden loss of a parent (You're welcome.). Especially when you weren't planning to move and therefore have no fucking idea of where to go next or what to do when you get there. While selling my house to the guy who came out of nowhere and just *asked* if he could buy it seemed like a good idea at the time, I can tell you in hindsight that this was a seriously fucked-up thing to do. I did it because that's what I do – I leave. That's how I handle pain, how I've ALWAYS handled pain – I cut and run and never look back; and not in a theoretical or emotional way which would allow me to stay conveniently stationed in my home whilst doing the cutting and running. Nope. I fucking RELOCATE. Sell houses I just bought and move across the country to places I've never been and where I know no one. I start over, thinking the pain won't come with me or that it will somehow be less awful if the scenery around it is different. And this time it just dropped in my lap. It was the Universe clearly telling me, once again, to haul ass away from the sadness. Right? *The Things We Tell Ourselves.*
Since 9/11/01, I have moved 13 times. Next month will make it 14 times. In 12 years. It does not take a genius to determine that this pervasive discontent with my surroundings is merely a reflection of the chaos that exists within me on a cellular level and the bloody, beefy lasagna of scar tissue over my heart from a life touched by far too much death. Illness, financial ruin, betrayal, relationship flame-outs: these things all hurt, too, and yes – I have fled from those as well, many times over. But it's the death that really gets you.
If there's anything I should have learned from losing 2 parents, 4 grandparents, 1 uncle, 2 godparents, 13 close friends and 1 boyfriend (all but the grandparents were sudden. The phone calls and news stories that I will never have the luxury of forgetting.), it's that there's no going around grief. You have to go through it. Much like the Thieves' Forest in The Princess Bride: while it would be really, really nice to take the scenic belt loop around that shit and avoid the flame bursts, lightning sand, and ROUSs that you're pretty sure are going to kill you, make no mistake: that plan has its own set of perils. Better to risk the Fire Swamp with its well-documented dangers and just get the fuck to the other side.
Which brings me back to the basement: the Belly of the Grief Beast. My own personal Fire Swamp. Even though I got here technically by "running away again," I knew that this time, leaving was not going to be enough. So I came here intending to take the summer off from all the things I'd normally do to distract myself from the pain of losing my mother. What I didn't realize was that there were far many more of those things than I even realized, and that I couldn't do any of them even if I wanted to. Aside from the obvious distractions like work, parties, committees, boys, booze, opiates, clubs, sports – I suddenly found myself with no kitchen, where I have always sought comfort – traveling, through food, to other worlds (i.e. away from my own) without ever leaving the house. No internet, where I might spend vast, empty hours of time-suckage on Facebook or numbing out to teen vampire marathons on Netflix. No bathtub, where I'd surely be spending evenings luxuriating with books and wine and the occasional inappropriate jet usage. There's no shopping nearby, and friends here are few and far between. (In my experience, friends typically don't handle your grief well, anyway. They liked you the way you were, and you're not that way anymore. It's inconvenient for them, the fact that your entire world has caved in on you.) So I don't see much of anyone at all. I stopped playing roller derby. Although I still skate often, I skate alone. I eat alone. I walk alone. I go to the beach alone, if I go at all. I even stopped sexting with the adorable, too-young boy – not because it wasn't tons of fun, but because it was. I am going THROUGH it, goddammit, not around. I am in self-imposed exile in some dude's basement with the looming specter of my dead mother and the heads of a dozen murdered animals to remind me why I'm here and what I need to do. Which is cry. Cry so hard that I choke on my own sobs and fight for breath through a gullet near-strangled by the sadness. Rage. Rest. Talk to people who are not there anymore. Forgive them. Forgive God. Forgive myself.
Through it. Not around.
Next month I will move to another beautiful home in another beautiful town where I will know no one. I will start over as I always do. And while I like to think that This Time will be different because I've forced myself to feel the pain fully, I don't know that it will. While I like to imagine that the unbearable darkness of the Basement Days will ready me for a life better lived in the light, I don't know that it will. While I like to dream that this experience will finally turn me into someone who believes that the things that don't kill you make you stronger instead of someone who believes that those things chip away at you little by little until there's almost nothing left, I don't know that it will. But I do know that when I leave here, the worst will be behind me, and that I will have survived it, again. I will cook and skate and see friends and laugh and shop and watch movies and mastur-bathe because those things should be for the living, not just for avoiding the dead. I will try my hardest to stay in one place, no matter what happens – because I will know that running doesn't fix it.
Through it, not around. And from now on, not away.
Wish me luck.
A Sexter's Guide to the Galaxy (Generally, Avoid Uranus)
GUYS. Sexting? Is awesome. I am a HUGE fan of sexting. *Disclaimer: If you are a teenaged girl, please do not send naked pictures of yourself to your boyfriend. Teen boys are helpless douche-nozzles, especially when it comes to boobies. It's not their fault. They are biologically obligated to show their friends, and YOUR NAKED PICTURE WILL END UP ON THE INTERNET FOREVER. Just don't do it.*
Anyway, I, a fully-formed and mostly-functioning adult, love sexting. And I don't mind telling you, I'm pretty goddamn good at it. It's so easy, when you have the right playmate. Think about it. The only thing that needs to be looking hot or smelling fresh for me to KILL it sexting is my vast Pervertian Lexicon, which is – not gonna lie – top-shelf. I can be sending the filthiest, Penthouse Forumiest content to my cellularly intended whilst wearing flannel pajamas, coke-bottle glasses, TMJ mouthguard, tube socks, and two cats on my head, with a nosebleed. He doesn't need to know that instead of writhing around in a vat of strippers, cherries, and coconut oil as advertised, I'm watching Saved By The Bell and eating Bugles (Witch Fingers!). Here's why I'm so good – it's because I actually mean it. If given the chance and the miracle of good timing, huge lady-balls, and a lawless society, I would be doing exactly what I say I'd be doing. To exactly whom I say I'd be doing it.
I am not an indiscriminate sexter. I don't sext with anyone I wouldn't actually have All The Sex with, given the above conditions. I am totally monogamous, sextually speaking. And there have been exactly 2.5 people with whom I've sexted over the course of a decade or so. It's fun. It's secret. It's clean. I don't *do* actual Sex Outside of Relationships. Never have. It's far too dangerous and it's just…well, awkward. The ONE time I decided I'd really go wild and have totally safe, protected sex with someone who wasn't my boyfriend or husband, the condom came off and got STUCK IN MY VAGINA FOR 24 HOURS (the thing's like a steel trap, what can I tell you?) and I spent the entire next day – as per instructions procured on the internet – shooting warm water up there with a turkey baster and fisting myself in an effort to retrieve the lost condom without a visit to the ER. Like there's even an insurance code for that. I made the grave mistake of sharing this – um, mishap? – with a close male friend, who still refers to me as "Old Southpaw" and swears he'll never come for Thanksgiving.
Sexting can be a very good option for someone like me, or you! Generally, sexting is a lot cleaner, and not just bio-hazard-wise. It's emotionally cleaner as well. It could be someone you haven't seen in years, or as is the case with my most recent sexting partner, someone you know well enough to trust with your naked selfies, but don't really *know.* There's nothing to lose, really. It's the whole point. You can see them however you want to see them, or however their Facebook photo album wants you to see them – and vice versa. There's no backne or halitosis or sauerkraut BO on his end to contend with, and frankly, you don't have to wax or aerate or hide your wobbly bits in order to get handily rogered via sext. You don't have to worry about accidentally farting in the middle of it, or accidentally farting in your sleep afterwards, or accidentally farting in the morning when you pee in his bathroom because you've held in the fart all fucking night long and it just slips out because it won't freaking wait any longer and FUUUUUCKKPPLEASETELLMEHEDIDNOTJUSTHEARTHAT (he totally did). Sexting is virtually worry free in the Fart Department. Fart away! He'll never know. And all the while, YOU know it's all an illusion. And your heart is as safe as your lady business.
But what happens when, at like, 1:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday, you find yourself wondering what kind of sandwich he might get for lunch that day? Or how many brothers and sisters he has, or what makes him laugh – really laugh, from the belly – not just LOL, as evidenced by the yellow emoticon indicating hilarity. What happens when you realize that you almost just actually water-shat your pants when he texted unexpectedly because you have managed to work yourself and your stomach up into such school-girly knots over him that your bowels are no longer your own? What happens when you find yourself reasoning that the ridiculous age difference between you or the geographical impossibilities of your arrangement or the fact that you have good reason to suspect he might be a Republican are nothing but mild nuisances? What happens when you realize – to your abject horror – that you actually LIKE him? For fuckssake, then what?! This was not part of the plan. You never like anybody. WTF?
How would that GO, anyway, for argument's sake? I mean, how would one even begin to move the conversation in that direction? "Baby, I will make you a nutritionally sound breakfast SO hard." Or, "You can watch while I slowwwwly pull up to the curb, take off my seatbelt, and pick up your mother for her optometrist appointment. Mmmm…" Or, "I am soooooooo hot right now, babe. I think it's the pre-menopause." Yeah, it's awkward. Not to mention the fact that the only way to find out if your cursed "feelings" are mutual is to risk a) cocking up a perfectly thermonuclear tickle party in your pants and b) getting really hurt and terribly embarrassed – which defies the Ultimate and Universal Law of Sexting: It's Just Sext, You Idiot.
Plus, HE OBVIOUSLY SMELLS LIKE SAUERKRAUT. He has to. He just has to.
The problem is, of course, that once you *feel* something, you can't really just *unfeel* it. You've crossed a line, and the course goes in one direction all the way to the end of the story. The options are few: carry on as is and pretend you don't care while you water-shit your pants every time you hear from him, or fess the fuck up. Great. Death by Krazy Glue sounds better than either of those. So I ask you, dear readers: Why is it so much easier to say, "Baby, I am gonna ___ your ___ until you ___ and then I'm gonna ___ while you ___ my ___," than it is to say, "Hey, I kinda like you. For real." ??? (I confess, I have no idea what to do with that, grammatically. Which is upsetting.) Finally, there is the choice just to stop. Disappear into the ether, never to be sexted from again. And that's the worst one of all. But it's the one I will probably choose, if I'm being honest. Unless he happens to read this post, in which case I will most likely just kill myself.
So sext away, friends. Sext away. Strengthen those thumbs and get good at taking naked selfies. But make no mistake: however disengaged you intend to remain, however detached you assume your tech-only affair will keep you – your heart is not, in fact, as safe as your lady business. Take it from this intrepid sexter, who for once finds herself deep in a pickle for her cause, and not the other way around. Way to go, ass-hat. Way to go.
Life, With a Twist of Lyme
Last night, a friend posted a link on Facebook to a short documentary on Lyme Disease – I don't always click on these things because I know myself – I am weirdly reactive and hyper-emotional on this subject, even though it's been nearly a decade since I was cured. I lost 5 years of my life to this illness, as well as countless friends, dignity, confidence, one husband, one almost-husband (well, he was a porn addict, so I can't really blame the Lyme, I guess) and a burgeoning business. I don't want to talk about it – I could write here for hours, nay – days, years – about my life with Lyme disease but I don't want to. It was awful and I just don't fucking want to.
Last night, I did click on the link and had the predicted response. Tears, weird snarfling sobs, and a strong desire to shake my fist at the sky and scream. (I didn't do that last part, OK? I swear.) It also got me so wound up that I spent the entire night in fits – for it seems that in the 13 years since I first became ill, nothing has changed. Not one goddamned thing. And now I really do want to scream. Which is awkward. And given that I don't *actually* want to talk about it, all I can think to do is share here a letter I wrote to the New York Times in 2001 after they published a horrifying and dismissive article on the subject of Lyme. The New York Fucking Times, practically my hometown paper, was basically calling me crazy. It was like being hit in the head by Reggie Jackson (my forever hero) with his magic bat from 1978. It hurt that much.
Below is my editorial letter in its entirety, followed by a link to the original drivel – er, article. Their response was something like "good letter, too long." Please forgive the writing – I was young, I was angry, and I was going through an Adverb Thing. I was also less than a year into my illness, with no idea what I was in for, or what would become of me. (By now, you kinda know what became of me. Yikes.)
June 13, 2001
To Whom it May Concern:
On September 30, 2000, what was to be my wedding day, I awoke in the emergency room of the Valley Hospital paralyzed on my right side from forehead to fingertip, with unspeakable pain in my back, neck, jaw and head, and a life-threatening fever of nearly 105 degrees. Not only did I suffer the devastating loss of my wedding and excruciating hours of painful and invasive tests, but was also made to endure the patronizing solicitations of friends and family who deep-down believed I was merely experiencing some acute pre-wedding jitters. This was not entirely unexpected in light of the fact that in the four days preceding my trip to the ER, I had visited two MDs, two chiropractors, and one acupuncturist in search of some relief from my ever-increasing pain – only to be told repeatedly that I was suffering from wedding-related stress. One such doctor (who had not made note of the fact that my fiance' had to half-carry me from the car to his office because I could not walk on my own), even dared to suggest that I "relax, go shopping." Not one, including my own beloved family practitioner, bothered to take my temperature, vital signs, or blood samples.
I was and remain horrified by their apathy, but after reading Ms. Kolata's shameful and reckless article on Lyme Disease this morning, I at least understand it. For it was indeed Lyme Disease that robbed me of my wedding and very nearly took my life. Had I opted to attend my rehearsal dinner the night before instead of going to the emergency room, Lyme Disease would have killed me. That's right, Ms. Kolata. Lyme Disease.
Ms. Kolata and Dr. Sigal condescendingly assert that Lyme Disease is not much more than a nuisance ailment – fodder for hypochondriacs and fuel for antibiotic junkies. They speak of "inflated public fear of Lyme Disease, which is widely perceived as a grave illness that is easy to catch." Dr. Sigal even dares to declare that, although Lyme is of mild concern in the tick-infested Northeast, "The bigger epidemic is Lyme Anxiety." I defy Dr. Sigal to convince me or any other person who has suffered from this illness that we shouldn't worry. I notice that Ms. Kolata didn't include one word of testimony from an actual Lyme patient on the topic of whether or not this disease is worry-worthy. Interesting.
IN my experience, people aren't afraid enough of Lyme Disease. I can't count the number of well-meaning but uneducated and/or misinformed inquiries I have fielded regarding my illness. "So, uh, Lyme's Disease – how did you get that, from a mosquito?" and "So, what, are you like, tired a lot?" are common questions. My favorite, however, came from an otherwise well-educated New Jersey man: "Whoa. Can you get that from limes?" This guileless ignorance is hardly what I would classify as "inflated public fear." For those who may be inclined to believe Ms. Kolata's dismissive mockery of this illness, consider this:
I and many other Lyme patients suffer from drastic memory loss, cognitive dysfunction, trouble speaking and thinking, constant confusion, tremor, sudden-onset dyslexia, loss of balance, paralysis, chronic arthritis, vertigo, heart damage, Bell's Palsy, and countless other symptoms ranging from inconvenient to unbearable. Add to that the abandonment of one's family and friends, who regard our memory problems as "irresponsible," our need for help and support "selfish," and out "imaginary" fatigue as frankly tiresome. Articles like this one recklessly perpetuate these misconceptions with statements like, "Those symptoms are very common among the general public, leading Dr. Shapiro believe that there is some other cause." There's nothing more demoralizing than a trusted friend who dismisses one's agonizing forgetfulness with statements like, "Well, I must have it then, too, 'cause I'm like that ALL the time (haha!)" To endure the journalistic equivalent from such a respected publication as the NY Times is simply infuriating.
In closing, I feel I must address what is perhaps the most heinous of all the public disservices contained in Ms. Kolata's article. The blase' Dr Shapiro (making the wildly strained assumption that everyone who is bitten by the microscopic deer tick is aware of it) suggests foregoing preventive treatment with antibiotics and instead, simply keeping an eye on the site where the tick fed, and "if they develop a rash within a few weeks, they can take a full course of antibiotics and they will be fine." What Dr. Shapiro fails to mention – in addition to the fact that "a few weeks" may be far too late – and something your reporter neglected to unearth during her exhaustive research on the subject is this: current studies estimate that fewer than 30% of all those infected with Lyme will ever get the tell-tale bull's-eye rash. I didn't, and I very nearly died because of the denigrating attitudes both the public and the medical community continue to perpetuate about Lyme Disease.
But hey, don't worry about it.
This is dangerous and irresponsible journalism. Shame on you, NY Times.
Marie K., Ridgewood NJ.
Here's a link to the original shitpile, should you care to hate her with me: http://www.nytimes.com/2001/06/13/us/lyme-disease-is-hard-to-catch-and-easy-to-halt-study-finds.html
Thanks for reading, and please share with all the Lyme-ignorant assholes in your life.
Loveyameanit! Mwah.
On The Death of My Mother (Or, So Now What the F*ck Am I Supposed To Do?)
My mother is dead. My mother is dead. My mother is dead. Every day now, these words swirl around in my mind and in my mouth until they don't make sense anymore. It's like when you stare at a word on a page for so long that it starts to look like nonsense and it makes you laugh because you know you know this word and yet it suddenly means nothing to you – and then, because of its foreignness, it means everything. And then you have to look away because you know you might lose the word forever if you don't. And when you look back at it with fresh eyes it all makes sense again and it's just a word on a page. A word that you know. But these words – My mother is dead – will never make sense now that they are true. They will never be words that I understand. I say them, over and over again, to remind myself. But that is not the same as understanding.
The last time I heard my mother's voice was in the parking lot of a Buffalo Wild Wings franchise. This small indignity of this is a stain on my heart and memory which will never come out, ever. My mom had called to say that she was having a "routine procedure" the next day. Outpatient. One that would make her feel better and have more energy to do things she was enjoying again."If I get dead," she began…this was something she said constantly – whether she was boarding a plane, going for a manicure, taking a nap – and was usually followed by some inane instruction: "Don't forget to refill your washer fluid." "Don't forget about the smoked salmon in the refrigerator." "Don't forget that anything below the waist is vulgar in polite conversation." This was our routine – and holding up my end of the ridiculous bargain, I mocked her as I always did. "OK, Mom. If you get dead I promise I'll remember that most people from Nevada are degenerates." And that was it. The last conversation I ever got to have with my mother. In a fucking parking lot.
She never woke up. There it is again, the nonsense noises in my brain: She never woke up. My mother is dead. Anything below the waist is vulgar. Again and again. Round and round. Nothing. It simply cannot be. These are not real words. Are they? Because if they are, it is the end of everything. If they are, I am rudderless, and I am alone. If they are, I am an orphan. I am an orphan. I am an orphan.
I have always marveled at how, despite the magnitude of any personal tragedy, the world keeps spinning. Life around the loss just goes on. Days keep coming, nights keep falling, stores open, TV shows air, subways run, dogs crap on the floor, mail gets delivered. Nothing, it seems, can kill the mundane being of things. Even my own body seems oblivious to my loss – it continues to wake up, to walk to the shower, to eat, to sleep, to cry, to WORK. How do they do this, the world and life and my body? Don't they fucking know that I am an orphan? Nothing should work anymore. My mother is dead.
People don't know what to say. They try. But what they don't know is that loss like this changes you on a cellular level. That the world will forevermore be divided into categories of "people who understand" and "people who don't." What they don't know is that no matter how much we get that it's said with love, if we ever hear the words "thoughts and prayers" again, we will fucking break something. And it will probably be your face. Say something different. Something that will help. Like, "Wow, that sucks harder than a cow on a kitten teat." Or, "Want to get drunk and cry?" I am grateful, believe me, for the incredible outpouring of love from friends, no matter what form it takes. But I guarantee you that those on the "people who understand" list are not saying things like "thoughts and prayers." They are saying things like, "I have marijuana. I will bring it to you."
Words were supposed to have been my gift, but now they fail me. Intake, output – my words don't work anymore. I can't find the ones I need and I can't lose the ones I don't want. She never woke up. I cannot describe the emptiness of my heart and the brokenness of my being in a way that makes sense to anyone else. I cannot describe the way that I wholly mistrust my decisions without my mother around to approve them. Or the secret fear that my brothers don't like me much at all and that with our Mom gone, they don't have to pretend anymore, ever. I can't properly report the way I feel physically crushed beneath the weight of the aloneness. I simply haven't the words.
I tell myself that I am brave. I tell myself that I can live without her. I tell myself, as I reach for the phone without thinking, that I don't HAVE to call her anymore – that I can just think and she'll hear me. I tell other people that I am "hanging in there" or "taking it easy on myself" or some other nonsense that I expect they want to hear because it's easier than knowing the truth. But the truth is that the final, tiny piece of me that wasn't broken before is broken now. The job is done.
She never woke up.
My mother is dead.
I am an orphan.
Haiti, Babies, and The Clap
I could also have called this post "My Journey into International Adoption" and saved people who are not interested in this subject a whole lot of time and trouble clicking over and clicking back, all bored and eye-rolly and whatnot. But then I would have had to forego my (hopefully only) opportunity to include "The Clap" in the title of one of my posts, which I am obviously in no position to do. That would be like saying, "Oh, no thank you. I think I'll pass on the lifetime supply of Original Twix Bars." That would never happen either. Not on my watch.
So, yes. While I have not talked much about it publicly, this has become my full-time job. For the past 3 or 4 months I have been tits-deep in The Process. And by "process" I mean the rapey, ransacking inquest into my personal life, home, finances, emotions, and vagina. Yup. My vagina. I have had to provide three separate agencies with multiple ORIGINAL sets of tax returns (going back 3 years), bank statements, credit card bills, debts and assets, officially stamped valuations of my home/car/trust/IRA/real estate holdings, utility bills, passport/driver's license/social security card copies, multiple background checks (with fingerprinting), character witnesses (5), photographs (8), certified divorce decrees (2), psychological evaluations (yes, I passed. Asshole.), letters from my bank, letters from my CPA, letters from my local police, letters from my friends, letters from my family, letters of intent, letters to Haitian government officials, autobiographical statements, medical examinations (2), and home inspection reports. All notarized and copied many times over. All seen by several sets of strangers, including the pimply boob-staring guy at the copy-shop. In all my life, I have never felt so violated. Fuck, I have never BEEN so violated. I guess that makes me lucky.
Which brings me to the vagina part. Included in my 2 separate, notarized medical reports are the results of my laboratory tests for cholesterol, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, HIV, Hepatitis A-C, and TB (Yeah, um – 1743 called. It wants its disease back.) Did you want to test me for Consumption, too? How about Plague? The Vapors? Test me, bitches. Bring it right the fuck on, because no matter what you throw at me next, I will hit that shit back at you so hard your head will spin. You can probe my vadge like a goddamned unmanned Titanic rover and show every nosy notary and copy-shop guy on earth what you found in there. Will that be enough? Will that give a starving orphan a chance for a loving home? Will THAT, finally, make me worthy of being someone's mother? If not that, then what?
It's not nearly over. I am only 3 months into what could turn out to be a 3 YEAR process. And all this while, the babies in Haiti waste away, cry for no one, die. They die. While 2 different governments examine my finances, my psyche, my closets, and the contents of my vagina with a fine-toothed comb, the babies wait. They go unheld. And they fucking die. How is this OK? Especially when you consider the non-existent screening process for biological birthers….oh, you're 12? Super! What's that? You're a crack whore with 7 kids and 7 baby-daddies and you want to have another? Sure! How's that abusive relationship? Why not bring an emotionally doomed child into it? For fuck's sake, you have to jump through more hoops to acquire a DOG in this country than you do to have a natural child. No one asks any questions of birth mothers. No one looks at their bank statements. No one demands character witnesses. No one has to DEEM THEM WORTHY. Birth mothers don't have to notarize shit. Am I nuts (No! Yay! I just found out!), or is something very, very wrong here?
Wrong, inhumane, sadistic, invasive – whatever. It doesn't matter. I will wait. I will jump when they say jump. I will give my blood and open my legs for the doctors and expose my home and net worth to strangers and I will have it all fucking notarized. Because someday, I will get to hold her and smell her skin and kiss her tears away and make her dinner and buy her tiny dresses and sing her nonsense songs. Someday, the little girl named Babette who's visited me in dreams ever since the earthquake will be my daughter, my joy, my hope, my family. She will be mine and I will be hers and we will be each other's. And I will wait because it is everything.
Because I have to believe that when I get the call, and get on the plane, and fall to my knees and take her up into my arms, maybe – just maybe – this will all be worth it. It has to be.
It has to be.
I Drank the Kool-Aid. And It Was Goddamned Delicious, OK?
Judge me all you want for my grown-up love of Justin Bieber. Seriously. I don't care. Do it. But while you're judging me, ask yourself this: Is it because you secretly love him too and you totally wish you were a pre-teen girl so you could justify your love, Madonna-style? Or is it because you are a self-righteous, self-professed Music Snob looking for places to leg-lift your disdain, and what better fire hydrant than the adorable teen sensation who won over the world with his awesome hair and mad pop chops? Thought so.
Admittedly, I only first knew about the Biebs because of my three dear nieces, and my single most heart-exploding-with-joy memory is of driving with them in my car and singing "Baby" together over and over at the top of our lungs. Truly. Nothing in this world can make me feel gladder or better or brighter that THAT memory, and hearing the song brings that joy back to me here in the present moment, where, let's be honest – it doesn't frequent much these days…and the ONLY REASON I HAVE THAT MEMORY IS BECAUSE OF JUSTIN BIEBER. I have driven around in the car scream-singing with my nieces for 20 + years and have never had any other artist or song or moment feature so prominently in a picture of pure, captured happiness. That's right. Justin Bieber gave a me a Joy Tattoo.
Which is why I leapt at the chance to take my youngest niece to his concert in Miami last month. It was more selfish than noble, although I totally played the "Aren't I a martyr?" card when chronicling my 4000 mile journey to the jumbotron and back for sympathetic friends. Niece #3 missed out on the NSYNC/Backstreet/X-tina outings that I got to share with the older girls a decade or so ago, and I wanted a moment like that with her. I wanted to bond with her over something she loved, as I had gotten to do with the others. Also I wanted her think I was awesome. Obviously.
I cannot lie – the night was dark and filled with more than a few terrors. Primarily, the enormous, flagrant signage everywhere in and around the arena, announcing Bacardi as the North American sponsor of JB's tour. Nice. Pimping booze to kids not nearly old enough to even drink it illicitly at forbidden high-school parties….to kids who will endure years of anti-alcohol diatribes from parents who ignore the irony of railing against the very thing that delivered the single greatest thing in their world (aka the Biebs) to their very doorstep. Try un-confusing those
future drunks kids. I dare you.
When the Biebs himself finally emerged, my every last remnant of snark and judgment dissolved. I didn't even mind so much about the eardrums. Totally worth it. Both for the joy on my niece's face and for the simple fact that Justin Bieber is a STAR. Which was never more evident than seeing him do his Bieber thing after enduring not one, but TWO horrifically bland opening acts. Those boys could sing, too – maybe even better than JB. They could also dance and show us their teen muscles and mug for the cameras with the best of them. But they were not stars. They will never have a Fever named after them. Not ever.
I used to think it was just the hair. Which, by the way, is magnificent. I mean, the iconic Bieber coiff is obviously an architectural triumph – duh – but it is also a lovingly sculpted nonpareil erected by tiny frenzy-fairies using an unguent of Aphrodite tears and magical gumdrops made from the still-beating hearts of baby unicorns. It's that good. You cannot take your eyes off it – not that you'd want to. Although, I do admit to recoiling with awkward embarrassment the moment that this tiny wonder removed his shirt to reveal the hairless boy-torso beneath. I actually did look away for that – I had to. I mean, I'm as pervy as the next guy (oh, who am I kidding, I'm exponentially more pervy than the next guy, and the guy after that) but seeing those ripped baby-abs – like a six-pack made of Go-Gurt – made me feel icky inside. Which is actually kind of a relief, if you want to know the truth.
So there. I said it. I love Justin Bieber (fully clothed) and I don't care who knows it. I also don't care that you and everyone you know hates him, or why you hate him, or that you now hate me. I love him for the mosaic of joyful memories he's become a part of and the happiness those memories conjure. For the thrill he gave my niece and for the bliss of being there with her to see it. Say what you want – this child is a supernova. He possesses a radiance and a spark and a gift that mere mortals do not have and could not channel if they did. It's not about the hair. It's not about the Bacardi or girls or the dumb pants. It's not about being the best singer, or the best dancer or the best musician. It's about being The Biebs.
And that is all you need to know.
Talk Derby to Me
Greetings, my fine friends! I first must apologize for my longer-than-usual absence from the ether, although as I typed that I immediately thought to myself, "a *You're Welcome* might be more in order." So, you're welcome. I hope you enjoyed my silence while it lasted. But, where have you been, Misanthropista? you ask…. (yes, I can hear your cries in the night, I'm kinda just ignoring you.) The fact is, I've spent the past month or so getting my ass kicked. Really fucking hard. Because that's exactly what I signed up for. That's exactly what I wanted, and EXACTLY what I needed. Roller Derby, y'all. That's what I am telling you. Your mild-mannered, people-hating, underachieving eighth-favorite bloggess ever is now a goddamned, bona-fide Roller Girl.
But this post is not really about me, so much (again, you're welcome). Actually, it totally is. But it's also about the magnificent, indestructible, stunningly beautiful women that have come into my life, or come closer, since I began this awesome ridiculousness. Fierce women. Kind women. Women who teach me about things like " 'Giner Shiners" and "Stripper Stretches." WHERE HAVE THESE PEOPLE BEEN ALL MY LIFE? In the most bizarre way, that blood-splattered track has become my home, my church, my shrink, my PLACE. And I share that track with a large handful of women who feel exactly the same way.**
**Disclaimer: I cannot speak for all Derby Girls, nor do I presume to know Everyone's Story….but I know my own, and I know my friends', and I know why WE are there. It ain't for the 'giner shiners, folks. Ouch, by the way. OUCH.
We are there because we're broken. Beautifully, crushingly, perfectly broken. Busted right the fuck up. And the other ways we've tried to put ourselves back together have failed, or fallen short. We've tried "healing," we've tried breathing, we've tried forgiveness….yoga, therapy, meditation, hiking, knitting, the "high road," booze, food, opiates, teen vampires (did I say that, or did I think it?) – you name it. We've tried it. And sometimes all that's left is just to Kick Some Goddamned Ass. And that's what we've come to do. With deepest apologies to Helen Hunt and that creepy kid who sees dead people, we've come to Break it Forward. And in doing so, to put ourselves back together.
My fellow Dolls and I sport names like Bruiser Ego, Veronica Tastrophe, Cripple D, Decks-Her Morgan, Crystal Brawl, and Waste Management (that's mine – hands off, betchesss). A brief scroll through the International registry of names reveals such gems as Buttermilf Paincakes, Armageddon Smashed, Kinky Tuscadero and Sadie Masochist. See more awesomeness here: http://www.twoevils.org/rollergirls You get the picture. These are our true selves. Every woman should have a Derby Name, whether or not she ever puts on a pair of skates. Every single goddamned woman. We've all got a roller girl inside of us, but most of us don't know it yet – we won't know until we need her. It's how we should see ourselves and sometimes, how we MUST see ourselves. Because let's face it, when the shit hits the fan, who are you gonna call – Sally Sunshine? Or Sally Jesse Rough-As-Hell? Thought so.
Again, I cannot know how each of us found Derby, or how IT found us. But my theory is that most of us ended up here because we had to (please keep in mind, I also once had a theory that if I gave enough "thought energy" to Jordan Catalano, he would magically become real, and also my boyfriend – but whatevs. This one's better). Because, thanks to some past hurt, or hoax, or heartbreak, we had been stripped of our Power, and we wanted it the fuck back.
After an informal practice last week, my 2 friends and I sat – tired, sweating, and so, so happy – removing our gear and chatting about some move we were trying to perfect, when one of them said, "Wow. This is a bench full of Broken Bitches." That shit was DEEP. Profound and perfect and true. There we sat together: Heartbreak, Betrayal, Mayhem – not our Derby names, but they certainly could be….the worst that life has to offer – helping each other to kick those things' asses right back to where they came from (usually, that place has a penis, but I digress.). Making the best of the worst, and doing it together. Putting back the broken pieces and making something stronger and far more beautiful than the original. Digging deep and pushing through (and if you're me, taking out anyone who gets in your way, mostly because you don't know how to stop yet) and doing it for yourself. Or in spite of yourself. What-the-fuck-EVER. Doing it. Just….doing it.
As I write this, I am nestled into a makeshift, home-fashioned traction device, with ice packs on both knees, moist heat on my ass (nothing to do with Derby, that – just, who doesn't love moist heat on their ass? Nobody, that's who.), and vats of ibuprofen and bourbon at the ready. My 44-year-old body creaks and cracks, punishes and protests. And my brandy-new soul tells it to shut the fuck up. Because we're going back tomorrow.
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Face Up: revenue
This Month: revenue
Issue: November/December 2006
Frequency: Bimonthly
Launched: 2004
Circ: 120,000
Editor: Lisa Picarille
Publisher: Montgomery Media Inc.
Art Director: Tamara Dyer
Illustrator: Aaron Pilanda
For the year-ending issue of 2006, revenue editor-in-chief Lisa Picarille wanted to display the impact that mobile marketing would have on the marketing and advertising industry in 2007. Although there were a lot of aspects to the story that would be more difficult to convey, Picarille decided illustrating a smart phone breaking through an egg would symbolize that the emerging mobile marketing is a force with which to be reckoned.
Picarille hired illustrator Aaron Pilanda, with whom she had worked before, to create the image. The cartoon-like style was a departure for the magazine, which typically uses simpler photo illustrations on its cover. The original illustration that came back from the artist was not exactly what Picarille was looking for. ŌĆ£I disliked the original cover,ŌĆØ says Picarille. ŌĆ£It was similar but cartoonish with childlike primary colors. We wanted something more muted.ŌĆØ
The original cover was done in bold red, blues and yellows, which Picarille says was too busy and obscured the magazineŌĆÖs logo. Rather than floating on the page, the coverlines were boxed in. She had to go back to Pilanda to work through her concern. ŌĆ£We tried to preserve his integrity and style and still make it work for us,ŌĆØ say Picarille. ŌĆ£The result was very good.ŌĆØ
After the new cover was created, the revenue design team added words to the screen of the phone to indicate the central issues surrounding the emergence of mobile marketing.
ŌĆ£The limited color palette in the subdued coverlines and background allows the hot colors on the small screen to stand out. The rich black outlines of the artwork also compliment the masthead to create a cohesive overall design.ŌĆØ
ŌĆōBryan Canniff, Bryan Canniff Design
ŌĆØGreat cover visual, wonderful color and poster-like appeal.┬Ā Easy to read typography, with three stories highlighted in the main marketing area, plus another three in the skyline strip. This is strong cover marketing, with lots to choose from for the picky browser.
ŌĆōJohn Brady, Brady & Paul Communications Inc.
ŌĆ£Excellent logo and effective use of simple skylines. Concept covers can be risky, especially if the reader doesn't get the message instantly. This one works.ŌĆØ
ŌĆōGreg Paul, Brady & Paul Communications Inc.
ŌĆ£This is an excellent cover. The message is clear and executed very well. The illustrationŌĆÖs colors and perspective are ŌĆśdead-onŌĆÖ to the message. My only criticism would be concerning the tagline under the logo. It looks misplaced and awkward. Maybe they should relocate it flush right or to the top.ŌĆØ
-Sharen Conway, Studio/monthly


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questions, please call us at 803-648-0300.
If you have questions, please call us at 803-648-0300.
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Website for Mary Ann Jackson
Firm Website: http://www.bakerdonelson.com
Mary Ann Jackson, shareholder in the Memphis office, concentrates her practice in the areas of business law, mergers and acquisitions, health law and tax law. Ms. Jackson has extensive experience in forming and structuring business organizations, such as limited liability companies, partnerships and joint ventures, as well as advising clients regarding private securities offerings, shareholder agreements, employment agreements and confidentiality agreements. She also has extensive experience representing clients in acquiring and selling businesses in a variety of industries. Ms. Jackson has advised nonprofit organizations regarding issues of formation, structuring, compliance, joint ventures, for-profit subsidiaries, intermediate sanctions, and unrelated business taxable income. Her work in the health care field includes the acquisition and formation of physician practices and advising clients on tax exemption issues.
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- ALZinfo.org - http://www.alzinfo.org -
What should I look for in a Long-Term Care Insurance Policy?
Posted By alz05 On August 27, 2010 @ 6:05 am In Treatment Care | No Comments
Choosing benefits and understanding reimbursement:
Long-term care insurance policies work like any insurance policy: you pay a premium, which is based on your age when you apply and is projected to stay the same year after year, and in return the insurance company gives you access to a "pool of money." This pool of money is available to you if you need long-term care in the future. When you buy a policy, you can design a plan to fit your needs and budget.
To do so, you make four choices:
Determining the total value of your "pool of money":
The total value of your policy is determined by multiplying the number of days in your benefit period by your daily benefit. For example: If you selected a benefit period of 5 years (or ,825 days) and a daily benefit of $100, your total policy value would be $182,500 (1,825 days multiplied by $100). Of course, if you elect inflation protection, this amount will increase over time.
Coverage Necessities:
Some experts recommend a compounded cost of living rider for applicants younger than 65 and 5% simple for those age 66 to 75. For people 76 and older, foregoing the added expense of inflation protection in order to purchase a slightly higher daily benefit than you may need may be wise. There is not a whole lot of difference between compound and simple during the first 10 years. Some plans now offer to let you buy more coverage (that is, increase your daily benefit amount) in the future without having to be approved.
Tax-qualified vs. non-tax-qualified long-term care policies:
In 1996, the U.S. Congress enacted the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act (HIPAA). HIPAA created "qualified long-term care insurance." If a policy meets the Act's requirements, it receives certain tax advantages. As of January 1, 1997, premiums paid for qualified long-term care insurance may be deductible as a medical expense for Federal income tax purposes, up to a specific limit, based on your age. This means you can claim your premiums as itemized medical deductions in Schedule A, Form 1040, if they (when coupled with other medical expenses) exceed 7.5% of your adjusted gross income. Also, benefits you receive from a qualified long-term care insurance policy are not subject to Federal income taxation. All other policies are considered to be "non-qualified."
Note: Corporations and self-employed individuals were given exceptionally favorable tax incentives under the HIPAA legislation.
Policy Cost:
Note: There is a new policy on the market that guarantees your premium won't change for the life of the contract and gives you the option of paying off your policy in 10 or 20 years. Ask your insurance company or broker for more information.
Article printed from ALZinfo.org: http://www.alzinfo.org
URL to article: http://www.alzinfo.org/08/treatment-care/what-should-i-look-for-in-a-long-term-care-insurance-policy
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Report: 44 percent of Oregon jobs hard to fill
Updated On: Jul 01 2013 12:32:18 PM CDT
More than two-fifths (44 percent) of Oregon's job vacancies in fall 2012 were reported by employers as "difficult to fill," according to a new report from the Oregon Employment Department.
Major findings about Oregon's difficult-to-fill job vacancies include:
--Difficult-to-fill vacancies are more likely to require education beyond high school and much more likely to require previous work experience.
--Difficult-to-fill vacancies offer higher wages on average than vacancies that weren't reported as difficult to fill.
--The most common reasons employers cited for difficulty filling positions were:
-Unfavorable working conditions (18%)
-Lack of qualified candidates (18%)
-Lack of applicants (14%)
-Lack of work experience (13%)
--Employers are looking for the "right" combination of education and experience for unique roles within their companies. This may provide a more difficult training challenge than if companies were looking for a large number of employees with essentially identical skills.
--The education levels for which employers had the most difficulty were positions requiring associate degrees and positions requiring graduate degrees.
--Health care had by far the most vacancies reported as difficult to fill. Manufacturing and trade, transportation and utilities were also more likely to have difficulty filling vacancies.
Top Difficult-to-Fill Occupations, Fall 2012
Heavy and Tractor-Trailer Truck Drivers
Retail Salespersons
Nursing Assistants
Automotive Service Technicians and Mechanics
Hairdressers, Hairstylists, and Cosmetologists
Bus Drivers, School or Special Client
Preschool Teachers, Except Special Education
Physical Therapists
Construction Laborers
Registered Nurses
The full PDF report, Two-Fifths of Oregon's Job Vacancies are Difficult to Fill, is available at QualityInfo.org.
Copyright 2013 KTVZ. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed
The views expressed are not those of this company or its affiliated companies. Please note by clicking on "Post" you acknowledge that you have read the Terms of Service and the comment you are posting is in compliance with such terms.


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Cosplay, figurines, comic books, novels, film screenings, celebrities, and a chance to play games before they hit store shelves? Oh my! If you haven't purchased your flight and San Diego Comic-Con tickets yet, we have an opportunity you shouldn't pass by. Today is your last chance to enter for a chance to win a trip to San Diego Comic-Con for you in a friend! Hotel and air fare included! And, if you happen to share the contest with a friend, you get to get two entries towards the grand prize.
I hope I win, but if not at least I tried :)
Play Rage of bahamut on your smart phones, use code bnn52880, and begin playing the most adicting phone game ever. Join the order Unholy wake and all your demon cards are enhanced.
for those that like the band of 360 are dumasses ps3 will not have no comption u will get the same shit every year i have both .ur rigth we pay for live .but its not for live dumasses its for security unlike ps3 we it was down for a moth all the games are the same unlise u have a spl game for the system.ans sony makes up for no charge .by chargeing u for ad ons dumasses thay make billons on ad nos.if u dont like xbox fne dont buy it .ho buy the way 360 is the number 1 selling conlse in the world look it up be for u talk
Just entered! :D


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A collection of news and information related to Alexia Echevarria published by this site and its partners.
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"Real Housewives of Miami" fashion designer teams with artist
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Bravo to air live 'Real Housewives' reunion specialStory | Mar 29, 2011It's rare to watch a train wreck happen in real time — unless, of course, you're watching Charlie Sheen's Ustream channel. But viewers who like a good cat fight are now in luck. Bravo will air its first live (LIVE!)......


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The Back Country (Music)
With Jeff Corbin
Sat Jan 5th 2013 3.00pm–5.00pm
R=listener request. N=music new at the station. L=local music. Your purchases using the Buy it! links
Time zone: central
The Texas Troubadors "Buddy's Boogie (intro)" from Almost To Tulsa (Bear Family 2008)Buy it!
Roger Miller "Lock, Stock and Teardrops" from King of the Road: The Genius of Roger Miller (Polygram 1994) —Recorded 50 years ago in 1963 for RCA, and featuring Pete Drake's talking steel guitar..Buy it!
Roger Miller "Husbands and Wives" from King of the Road: The Genius of Roger Miller (Polygram 1994) —Recorded in 1966 for the Smash label.Buy it!
Roger Miller "Invitaton to the Blues" from King of the Road: The Genius of Roger Miller (Polygram 1994)Buy it!
Jim Byrnes "Don't Let Her Know" from I Hear the Wind In the Wires (Black Hen Music 2012) L —Jim grew up on the city's north side and emigrated to Vancouver almost 40 years ago. This is a Buck Owens song.Buy it!
Rhonda Vincent and the Rage "Drivin' Nails In My Coffin" from Ragin' Live (Rounder Records www.rounder.com 2005) L —Rhonda and the Rage are at Grant Shelter (indoors) at Jefferson Barracks Park next Thursday, January 10th, 7PM. LJ and the DJs with Walter and Willa Volz open the show.Buy it!
The Carolina Chocolate Drops "Jackson" from We Walk the LIne: A Celebration of the Music of Johnny Cash (Legacy 2012) —This disc was recorded on April 20th of last year at the Moody Theater in Austin as part of an 80th birthday salute to Johnny Cash.Buy it!
Iris DeMent "Mornin' Glory" from Sing the Delta (Flariella Records 2012)Buy it!
Robert Earl Keen "That Buckin' Song" from Live in Austin, TX (New West www.newwestrecords.com 2004) —Recorded August 22, 2001 for Austin city Limits.Buy it!
Robert Earl Keen "Gringo Honeymoon" (SUGAR HILL 1994) —Perhaps my favorite REK album.Buy it!
Robert Earl Keen "The Bluegrass Widow" from The Party Never Ends: Songs You Know from the Times You Can't Remember (SUGAR HILL 2003)Buy it!
Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys "Time Changes Everything" from San Antonio Rose, Volume 5 (Bear Family 2000) —Originally recorded for Columbia in 1940, Tommy Duncan co-wrote this one.Buy it!
Cow Bop "It's All Your Fault" from Cowlifornia Swing (self 2012) N —New Western Swing and Jazz from Bruce Forman and Pinto Pammy.Buy it!
Leon McAuliffe & His Western Swing Band "Take It Away, Leon" from Steelin' It: The Steel Guitar Story (Proper 2008) —Recorded live at the Playmor Ballroom in Tulsa, OK in 1947 and released on the Majestic label.Buy it!
Mike Auldridge "Everybody Slides" from Blues and Bluegrass (TAKOMA 1974) —So many great players on this: Bromberg, Vassar, Lowell George, Linda Ronstadt, Seldom Scene boys, etc.Buy it!
The Seldom Scene "Panhandle Rag" from Live at The Cellar Door (Rebel www.rebelrecords.com 1994) —Originally recorded in 1974.Buy it!
Mike Auldridge "Wake Forest" from The Great Dobro Sessions: A Gathering of Resophonic Pickers (SUGAR HILL 1994) —RIP Mike Auldridge, December 30, 1938-December 29, 2012.Buy it!
The SteelDrivers "Blue Side of the Mountain" from The SteelDrivers (Rounder www.rounder.com 2006)Buy it!
The Starline Rhythm Boys "One Foot in the Honky Tonk" from Live at Charlie-O's World Famous (Cow Island 2008) —One co-written by Mike Henderson and Kevin Welch.Buy it!
Orville Johnson "Ghost Picker" from Southern Filibuster - A Tribute to Tut Taylor (E1 Music www.e1entertainment.com 2010)Buy it!
Jack Grelle and the Johnson Family "Blind Dog" from Jack Grelle And The Johnson Family (Big Muddy Records 2012) N LBuy it!
The SaddleTones "Hitch Yer Wagon" (The SaddleTones 2012) N Buy it!
Corb Lund "Drink It Like You Mean It" from Cabin Fever (New West www.newwestrecords.com 2012) —Corb Lund will be at Off Broadway next Thursday, January 10th at 9PM, along with the John D. Hale band.Buy it!
Daniel Romano "Middle Child" from Come Cry With Me (Normaltown 2013) N Buy it!
Leona Williams "He's Just On My Mind Again" from New Patches (Heart of Texas Records 2008)Buy it!
The Red-Headed Strangers "Hello Stranger" from Live at the Focal Point (RHS 2011) —The RHS return to the scene of their 2011 recording almost two years to the day as they play The Focal Point next Saturday, January 12th. The Trio Project will also perform, 8PMBuy it!
Patty Loveless "That's All It Took" from Sleepless Nights (Saguaro 2008)Buy it!
Carrie Rodriguez "Devil in Mind" from Give Me All You Got (Ninth Street Opus 2013) N —Carrie returns to St. Louis on Wednesday, February 13th at the Old Rock House, 8:30PM. This is a Listening Room Series show.Buy it!
Jimmy Bryant "Georgia Boogie (outro)" from Frettin' Fingers: The Lightning Guitar of Jimmy Bryant (Sundazed 1995)Buy it!
Like everything else, times are approximate. Spinitron and this station are not liable for errors or omissions.


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text:
"sf" <[email protected]> wrote in message
news:[email protected]..
> I wonder if it came from here
> http://hommuswtabbouli.blogspot.com/...e-fasolia.html
I doubt it. That blog is dated 2008. I had a chili recipe that was served
over rice prior to that. But most chili isn't served over rice. If you get
it in a restaurant it isn't.