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Apple Harvest 2012: Carrying on the Tradition
Aug 29 by Lied Lodge Blog in General tagged apple orchard, apple trees, Apples, Arbor Day Farm, heirloom apples, heritage apples, Nebraska City with 1 comment
Apples and apple orchards are a time-honored tradition at Arbor Day Farm in Nebraska City, and the 2012 apple harvest carries on that heritage.
Apple trees have thrived here since 1855, when J. Sterling Morton and his wife, Caroline, moved to Nebraska City from Michigan, and planted several varieties of apple trees on their homestead, the property now known as Arbor Day Farm.In the 1920s, J. Sterling and Caroline's son, Joy – founder of the Morton Salt Company – partnered with Grove Porter and formed the Joy Morton Orchard Company on this land, one of many local orchards supplying a wide selection of apples for the southeast Nebraska region.
Today, the orchards at Arbor Day Farm are still going strong, even with the very dry year that 2012 has turned out to be. As is typical in drought years, the apples are smaller in size this year but the quantity of apples in the orchard remains relatively consistent with recent harvests.
U-Pick and Pre-Picked Apples
From now through late October, 14 varieties of traditional apples will be available here. Many people enjoy the "u-pick" orchards, where one can wander through the apple trees and hand-pick for themselves any combination of varieties in five- or ten-pound bags, or half- or full-bushel. Improved orchard signage at Arbor Day Farm will help people find just the apples they're looking for. Free hayrack rides to the orchard are available for the fall season on Saturdays and Sundays, noon to 5pm.
For those who love apples but don't necessarily wish to pick their own, the Apple House Market is a one-stop shop for pre-picked apples. A team of orchard workers picks apples daily in the orchard, bringing their harvest into the market for
purchase. Five- and ten-pound bags, half- and full-bushel quantities are ready to go for your convenience.
The Preservation Orchard
It's impossible to discuss apples and apple traditions without noting the Preservation Orchard at Arbor Day Farm.
This collection of heirloom-variety apple trees was originally planted in the late 1980s and today consists of 90 rare, antique apple varieties, some dating back to the 1500s and originating in Rome, France, Ireland, Turkey and beyond.
Many varieties of preservation apples are not necessarily "pretty" – many have russeting (discoloration of the skin), odd shapes, or irregular sizes. But just as one shouldn't judge a book by its cover, one also shouldn't judge a vintage apple by its outward appearance. Certain varieties of these heirloom apples have exceptional flavor and are prized for baking.
For the 2012 apple harvest season, visitors to Arbor Day Farm will have the opportunity to purchase these heirloom apples in five-pound bags at the Apple House Market. Quantities are limited and selection will vary as different varieties are ready for harvest.
We look forward to sharing the apple tradition with you this fall at Arbor Day Farm in Nebraska City.
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text: I would even settle for a decent quality outline of the island itself that I can edit. I suppose I could draw it by hand, but it would be nice to find help from someone much better than myself. I've seen some nice fantasy cities, and even that style wouldn't be bad for this. Basically, I want major features outlined. Districts/Neighbourhoods, major roads, maybe major buildings. For that I would leave up to the artist. I'd even forego rights for commercial use, as being able to use it for my games is my priority. Anyhow, thanks again.

subset: commoncrawl


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Videos: Diamond Jubilee celebration tips from TV presenter Ben Fogle and party queen Polly Betton
16:04 01 June 2012
Watch these videos for some great last-minute party tips for anyone throwing a Diamond Jubilee celebration.
Polly Betton is founder of events company Tea Time Production and has been hailed as the "get together guru" by Harpers Bazaar.
She has some fun ideas for how you can make sure your Jubilee party goes off with a bang.
Meanwhile, TV presenter and royal insider Ben Fogle also looks ahead to this weekend and teaches Brits how to host a Jubilee tea party fit for the Queen, revealing aspects of Royal etiquette.
If you've got any great advice on throwing a successful party, post it in the comments box below.


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Apple Oatmeal Muffins
1 egg, beaten
1 cup skim milk
1/4 cup oil
½ cup raisins
1 finely chopped apple (with or w/out the skin)
1 cup flour (may use ½ whole wheat)
1 cup oatmeal, uncooked
1/4 cup brown sugar
3 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
2 tsp. cinnamon
Beat egg; add all other ingredients mixing just until moistened.
Grease muffin pan, or line with foil liners.
Spoon batter into cups, filling 3/4 full.
Bake at 325 degrees for 20-25 minutes or until done to the touch.
Makes one dozen muffins.
- For Breakfast, with soups, for snacks, these are quick and great!
- Do be brave and try craisins (dried cranberries) for a tangy touch.
- I'll add some chopped walnuts the next time.


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Thanks to DtL reader johanne for tipping me off to the latest news on Rafael Nadal.
LaListaWIP.com, a Spanish research-based website that collects and measures information uploaded online about famous people in sports, politics, entertainment, technology, religion and more, is reporting that Rafa is the third most popular athlete on the Internet behind David Beckham + Cristiano Ronaldo, respectively. According to his site, the Mallorcan Matador has gained 28 million references with only the two footballers gaining more than him.
Other ballers who made the Top 100 include Rainer Schuettler (17), Anna Kournikova (42), Maria Sharapova (53), Roger Federer (54), Ana Ivanovic (60), Serena Williams (79), Justine Henin (82), Bjorn Borg (86), Andy Roddick (89), Venus Williams (91), and Andre Agassi (100). Seriously, Rainer at #17? Weird.
Anyway, congrats Rafa! And, believe you me, you're sorely missed right now (at least by a bunch of readers on this blog.)
PS - I know a sure-fire way of getting yourself to the top of this list: more boom-boom shots.
(image via Getty)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Rafa the third most referenced athlete online, Beckham + Ronaldo take top spots
Labels: celebrity, Rafael Nadal, tennis
7 comments:
- johanneNovember 18, 2008 at 2:08 PM
Happy to help, Rich!ReplyDelete
BTW, that top 3 is a mouth-watering sandwich of smokin' hot deliciousness. YUH-UM!
- AnonymousNovember 18, 2008 at 2:20 PM
ahaha, ok.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...Rafa. Now I feel better. Thanks, Rich.ReplyDelete
Hey, he's #1 mentioned here. Isn't that newsworthy?
- AnonymousNovember 18, 2008 at 6:37 PM
I would think Schuettler's rank had a lot to do with his Olympic elligibility.ReplyDelete
- AnonymousNovember 18, 2008 at 9:47 PM
Does Shuettler share the same name with another famous athlete? Do his friends have different blogs where they mention him all the time? How come he's 17?ReplyDelete
Yeah Schuettler's rank weirds me out - especially when Roger's no. 54.ReplyDelete
Tee hee, now that's a miserable ranking, even worse than no. 2, huh? Pun intended. :P
But to get to the actual topic: YAY, RAFA NEWS!!!! Finally. I'm thirsting Rafa infos right now. He's indeed so so missed.
anon 9:37 - ok that could make sense. no other explanation really would besides rainer's olympic eligibility issues this summer. thanks!ReplyDelete


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Metallica Through The Never (2013)
Metallica Through The Never SynopsisAward-winning filmmaker Nimród Antal (Predators, Kontroll) creates a groundbreaking 3-D motion picture event, Metallica Through the Never. The music-driven feature film combines a bold narrative and spectacular live-performance footage of one of the most popular and influential rock bands in history to produce a bracing, raw and visceral cinematic experience. Emerging young star Dane DeHaan (The Place Beyond thePines, Kill Your Darlings, The Amazing Spider-Man 2) portrays Trip, a youngroadie sent on an urgent mission during Metallicas roaring live set in front of a sold-out arena.
As the band performs its most iconic songs for thousands of their fans in a never-before-seen performance created exclusively for the film, Trip is dispatched outside the arena to meet a disabled delivery truck and recover a mysterious item beingtransported to the show. But the seemingly simple assignment turns into a surreal adventure when his car is hit by an out-of-control driver. Trip, dazed and bruised, climbs out of his van only to find himself pitched in the middle of a tense standoff between angry protesters and charging riot police. In the ensuing mayhem, a vicious masked horseman sets his murderous eye on Trip while delivering indiscriminate deathblows to rioters and cops alike. Fleeing through the desolate, post-apocalyptic urban streetscape, Trip has only his wits toprotect him as he attempts to deliver the bands precious cargo and avoid becoming the horsemans next victim.
Featuring dazzling pyrotechnics, the most elaborate live-performance stage ever built and imagery drawn from the bands trailblazing iconography, the immersive 360-degree show creates a mind-bending, ear-shattering mirror image of the destruction and chaos of Trips journey. Metallica Through the Nevers state-of-the-art 3-D photography, captured using up to 24 cameras simultaneously, engulfs audiences in one of the most innovative andexciting cinematic experiences ever imagined.
Metallica Through The Never Release Date
In Theaters September 27, 2013
Metallica Through The Never Credits
Starring: Dane DeHaan, James Hetfield, Kirk Hammett, Robert Trujillo, and Lars Ulrich
Written by: Nimród Antal
Directed by: Nimród Antal
Produced by: Charlotte Huggins
MPAA Rating: [ R ]
Distributor: Picturehouse
External Info: Metallica Through The Never Official Website
Subscribe To Metallica Through The Never Updates
if you're excited for Metallica Through The Never


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No. 20 Cyclones Prepare for Titans
AMES, Iowa - The No. 20 Iowa State women's basketball team (7-0, 0-0 Big 12) takes on Cal State Fullerton (1-6, 0-0 Big West) on Sunday at 2 p.m. at Hilton Coliseum.
Webcast: Cyclones.tv
Cyclone Headlines
- Sunday's game serves as a family affair for Bill Fennelly and company, with son Steven Fennelly returning to Hilton Coliseum as an assistant coach for Cal State Fullerton. Steven was formerly a graduate assistant for the Cyclones last season.
- Already off to its best start in 11 seasons, Iowa State looks to improve to 8-0 with a win over Cal State Fullerton. The Cyclones are off to their fourth-best start in school history. ISU held records of 9-0 (2000-01), and 12-0 (1995-96, 2001-02) twice in program history.
- The Iowa State women's basketball team is listed as 15th in the nation in the Jeff Sagarin RPI indicator. Iowa State is third in the Big 12 on the model behind Baylor and Oklahoma State. However, ISU has a schedule rank of 181, compared to Baylor's 338 and OSU's 318.
- After winning two games in two days over Thanksgiving, Iowa State improved three spots in the Associated Press poll to No. 20. The ranking of 20th in the nation is a season-high for the Cyclones. The Cyclones came in at No.12 in the USA Today Coaches poll, which is the highest since the 2010-11 season. This is the 14th-straight time Iowa State has been ranked in the AP or USA Today polls.
- Iowa State is one of just 23 teams in the country with an undefeated record and one of just three teams in the Big 12 without a loss. The Big 12 is also one of two conferences in which every team is .500 or better and no team has more than four losses.
- Iowa State is one of three Division 1 programs with undefeated men's and women's basketball teams.
- Senior forward Hallie Christofferson is averaging 23.9 points and 7.6 rebounds through six games this season. Her 23.9 points per game ranks 11th nationally and second in the Big 12.
The Iowa State starting lineup consists of a senior, two juniors and two freshmen, with Jadda Buckley and Seanna Johnson joining last year's returners in Nikki Moody, Christofferson and Brynn Williamson. Iowa State is one of just four Big 12 schools this season that have started at least one freshman and one of three schools to have multiple freshman in the starting lineup. Iowa State is the only team in the top-25 to have started two freshmen in every game this season.
- This will be the second meeting between Iowa State and Cal State Fullerton, in 2006 the Cyclones handed the Titans an 85-62 loss in Hilton Coliseum.
- Iowa State continues its impressive showing at the free-throw line, ranking second nationally shooting 82.4 percent at the line. ISU led the nation last year in free-throw shooting making 86.3 percent.
Last Time Out
- Iowa State continued its winning ways an 28-point victory over Northern Iowa, 83-55. Iowa State shot 44.3 percent from the field and outrebounded the Panthers 49-30.
- The Cyclones were led on the court by senior Hallie Christofferson who tallied 22 points, five rebounds and five assists in just 22 minutes of play. Freshman Seanna Johnson showed why she's been the back-to-back Big 12 Player of the week with a 14 point, 13-rebound performance.
- Kidd Blaskowsky was close to a double-double with eight points and nine rebounds, while Nikki Moody posted 16 points and a season-high eight assists.
Scouting Cal State Fullerton
- The Titans have hit a bit of a rough patch early this season, holding a 1-6 overall record with their sole win being an 80-54 victory at Columbia on 11/22.
- Chante Miles leads the Titans on the court averaging 14.9 points, 2.6 rebounds and 4.6 assists.
- Cal State Fullerton returns 91 percent of its 1,779 points scored, 91 percent of its rebounds, 90 percent of its field goals made, 68 percent of its free throws made, and 67 percent of its blocked shots from a season ago.


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Hello all
Well, like many of you I've been reading these forums for a few weeks and finally decided that it was about time I actually shared my story with everyone else.
I first noticed that I was starting to thin around my 26 birthday (happy 26th right?), nothing major but a little bit of thinning at the front. I've definitely got an adult hairline but I'd never really worried about it, I noticed that as I pulled my hair back I could see it just wasn't as strong around the hairline as the rest of the head.
Naturally, I kinda freaked and decided that I wanted to sort this problem as soon as possible. So stupidly I went straight out and being a victim of fantastic marketing, headed straight for some regaine foam. BIG mistake here. I put it all over my frontal hairline (which at the time was actually not that bad) and to cut a long story short, I had to stop after 5 days due to it giving me quite severe headaches. Over the next month I shed like a dog. I've lost about an 1 inch of my entire frontal hairline. After talking to J&J and a dermatologist, I've been told that shedding is normal (even to this level) and that it should come back to what it was pre-regaine in about 3-4 months but suffice to say I regret this whole experience and waiting for hair to regrow is literally torture.
Anyway... after stopping regaine, I still wanted to tackle my hairloss and after talking to my older brother I found that he had a similar experience to me and had begun propecia. He has been on it for 2 years and said it regrew most of the hair he lost and he had no sides from it. So after reading about propecia (and I'm mean seriously reading about propecia), I decided to take the plunge. I've now been on it for about 2 months and have noticed a little diffuse shedding all over (although not too bad so far) and no real side-effects as of yet.
I suppose the point of this thread is just so I can continue to post my progress just so anyone else in the same position as me has someone to compare to. At this point I think it is worth mentioning that I am currently a final year medical student, and if my exams go well, I'll be a doctor come June. I also have a degrees in biochemistry and immunology (I know, I've been in education for WAY too long). This has given me a bit of an insight into understanding exactly what to look out for and what to expect with each of the treatments that I'm trying, as I'm trying to look at this whole event from a scientific perspective. It also means that I've read countless numbers of papers on the effects of DHT blockers on the human body to try and get as much info as possible.
Long term I'm hoping for a positive result as I think I've caught this early but even just stopping further loss would be great and even longer term I guess the aim is to hold on propecia until (fingers crossed) something better comes out. I'm going to try and post once a week or once every other week just to keep updates on where I am and what's going on and hopefully help anyone else in the same position as me. Any input, advice or responses are always welcome!
That's all folks!


text:
Mission: We deliver integrated mission support during routine and contingency operations throughout the Fourteenth District area of responsibility.
Vision: Be the model of field level services to enable effective mission execution.
Values: Honor, Respect, Devotion to Duty
Contact Us:
Commanding Officer
USCG Base Honolulu
400 Sand Island Parkway
Honolulu, Hawaii 96819-4398


text:
Valerie Rogers
JOHN, Augustus (1878 - 1961)
(Amgueddfa Cymru regrets that we are not able to provide an image for this item at this time. This is either due to copyright restrictions, or the item is awaiting digitisation. We apologise for any inconvenience caused.)
Date: 1958 c.
Media: oil on canvas
Size: 60.6 x 55.9 cm
Acquired: 1972; Purchase
Accession Number: NMW A 1993


text:
Adapted from the original, which was published in 1989 in the Louisville Courier-Journal Magazine. Footnotes from the author (as told to Tommy Craggs) are included throughout the story, and a postscript from Glenn Stout, editor of Houghton Mifflin's Best American Sports Writing series, follows. The story is the basis for a new opera, Approaching Ali, which debuts this weekend at the Kennedy Center in Washington D.C.
I'd been waiting for years. When it finally happened, it wasn't what I'd expected. But he's been fooling many of us for most of our lives.
For six months, several of his friends had been trying to connect me with him at his farm in Michigan. When I finally got to see him, it wasn't in Michigan and I didn't have an appointment. I simply drove past his mother's house in Louisville.
It was mid-afternoon on March 31, three days before Resurrection Day. A block-long white Winnebago with Virginia plates was parked out front.* Though he hadn't often been in town lately, I knew it was his vehicle.
I was sure it was him because I know his patterns and his style. Since 1962, when he has traveled unhurried in this country, he has preferred buses or recreational vehicles. And he owns a second farm in Virginia. The connections were obvious. Some people study faults in the earth's crust or the habits of storms or of galaxies, hoping to make sense of the world and of their own lives. Others meditate on the life and work of one social movement or one man. Since I was 11 years old, I have been a Muhammad Ali scholar.
I parked my car behind his Winnebago and grabbed a few old magazines and a special stack of papers I'd been storing under the front seat, waiting for the meeting with Ali I'd been certain would come. Like everyone else, I wondered in what shape I'd find The Champ. I'd heard all about his Parkinson's syndrome and had watched him stumble through the ropes when introduced at recent big fights. But when I thought of Ali, I remembered him as I'd seen him years before, when he was luminous.
I was in my early 20s, hoping to become a world champion kickboxer. And I was fortunate enough to get to spar with him. I later wrote a couple of stories about the experience and had copies of those with me today, hoping he'd sign them.
Yes, in those days he had shone. There was an aura of light and confidence around him. He had told the world of his importance: "I am the center of the universe," he had said, and we almost believed him. But recent reports had Ali sounding like a turtle spilled onto his back, limbs thrashing air.*
It was his brother Rahaman who opened the door. He saw the stack of papers and magazines under my arm, smiled an understanding smile, and said, "He's out in the Winnebago. Just knock on the door. He'll be happy to sign those for you."
Rahaman looked pretty much the way I'd remembered him: tall as his brother, mahogany skin, and a mustache that made him look a little like a cross between footballer Jim Brown and a black, aging Errol Flynn. There was no indication in his voice or on his face that I would find his brother less than healthy.
I crossed the yard, climbed the couple of steps on the side of the Winnebago, and prepared to knock. Ali opened the door before I got the chance. I'd forgotten how huge he is. His presence filled the doorway. He had to lean under the frame to see me.
I felt no nervousness. Ali's face, in many ways, is as familiar to me as my father's. His skin remained unmarked, his countenance had nearly perfect symmetry. Yet something was different: Ali was no longer the world's prettiest man. This was only partly related to his illness; it was also because he was heavier than he needed to be. He remained handsome, but in the way of a youngish granddad who tells stories about how he could have been a movie star, if he'd wanted. His pulchritude used to challenge us; now he looked a bit more like us, and less like an avatar sent by Allah.*
"Come on in," he said and waved me past. His voice had a gurgle to it, as if he needed to clear his throat. He offered a massive hand. He did not so much shake hands as he placed his in mine. His touch was as gentle as a girl's. His palm was cool and uncalloused, his fingers were the long, tapered digits of a hypnotist, his fingernails look professionally manicured. His knuckles were large and slightly swollen, as if he'd recently been punching the heavy bag.
He was dressed in white, all white: new leather tennis shoes, over-the-calf cotton socks, custom-tailored linen slacks, thick short-sleeved safari-style shirt crisp with starch. I told him I thought white was a better color for him than the black he often wore those days.
He motioned for me to sit, but didn't speak. His mouth was tense at the corners; it looked like a kid's who has been forced by a parent or teacher to keep it closed. He slowly lowered himself into a chair beside the window. I took a seat across from him and laid my magazines on the table between us. He immediately picked them up, produced a pen, and began signing. He asked, "What's your name?" and I told him.
He continued to write without looking up. His eyes were not glazed as I'd read, but they looked tired. A wet cough rattled in his throat. His left hand trembled almost continuously. In the silence around us, I felt a need to tell him some of the things I'd been wanting to say for years.
"Champ, you changed my life," I said.* It's true. "When I was a kid, I was messed up, couldn't even talk to people. No kind of life at all."
He raised his eyes from an old healthy image of himself on a magazine cover. "You made me believe I could do anything," I said.
He was watching me while I talked, not judging, just watching. I picked up a magazine from the stack in front of him. "This is a story I wrote for Sports Illustrated when I was in college," I said. "It's about the ways you've influenced my life."
"What's your name?" he asked again, this time looking right at me. I told him. He nodded. "I'll finish signing these in a while," he said. He put his pen on the table. "Read me your story."
"You have a good face," he said when I was through. "I like your face."
He'd listened seriously as I'd read, laughing at funny lines and when I'd tried to imitate his voice. He had not looked bored. It was a lot more than I could have expected.
"You ever seen any magic?" he asked. "You like magic?"
"Not in years," I said.
He stood and walked to the back of his RV, moving mechanically. It was my great-grandfather's walk. He motioned for me to follow. There was a sad yet lovely, noble and intimate quality to his movements.
He did about 10 tricks. The one that interested me the most required no props. It was a very simple deception. "Watch my feet," he said, standing maybe eight feet away, his back to me and his arms perpendicular to his sides. Then, although he'd just had real trouble walking, he seemed to levitate about three inches off of the floor. He turned to me and in his thick, slow voice said, "I'm a baadd niggah," and gave me the old easy Ali smile.
I laughed and asked him to do it again; it was a good one. I thought I might like to try it myself, just as 15 years earlier I had stood in front of the mirror in my dad's hallway for hours, pushing my worm of a left arm out at the reflection, wishing mightily that I could replicate Ali's cobra jab. And I had found an old cotton laundry bag, filled it with socks and rags and hung it from a ceiling beam in the basement. I pulled on a pair of my dad's old brown cotton work gloves and pushed my left hand into that 20-pound marshmallow 200, 300, 500 times a day: concentrating on speed: dazzling, crackling speed, in pursuit of godly speed, trying to whip out punches so fast they'd be invisible to opponents. I got to where I could shoot six to eight crisp shots a second—"Shoe shinin," Ali called it—and I strove to make my fists move more quickly than thought (like Ali's), as fast as ionized Minute Rice; and then I'd try to spring up on my toes, as I had watched Ali do: I would try to fly like Ali, bounding away from the bag and to my left.
After the levitation trick, Ali grabbed an empty plastic milk jug from beside a sink. He asked me to examine it. "What if I make this jug rise up from the sink this high and sit there? Will you believe?"
"I'm not much of a believer these days, Champ," I said.
"Well, what if I make it rise, sit this high off the ground, then turn in a circle?"
"I'm a hard man to convince," I said.
"Well, what if I make it rise, float over here to the other side of the room, then go back to the sink, and sit itself back down. Then will you become … one of my believers?"
I laughed and said, "Then I'll believe."
"Watch," he said, pointing at the plastic container and taking four steps back. I was trying to see both the milk jug and Ali. He waved his hands a couple of times in front of his body, said, "Arise, ghost, arise," in a foggy-sounding voice. The plastic container did not move from the counter.
"April Fools'," said Ali. We both chuckled and he walked over and slipped his arm around my shoulders.
He autographed the stories and wrote a note on a page of my book-length manuscript I asked him to take a look at. "To Davis Miller, The Greatest Fan of All Times," he wrote, "From Muhammad Ali, King of Boxing."
I felt my stories were finally complete, now that he'd confirmed their existence. He handed me the magazines and asked me into his mother's house. We left the Winnebago. I unlocked my car and leaned across the front seat, carefully placing the magazines and manuscript on the passenger's side, not wanting to take a chance of damaging them or leaving them behind. Abruptly, there was a chirping, insect-sounding noise in my ear. I jumped back, swatted the air, turned around. It had been Ali's hand. He was standing right behind me, still the practical joker.
"How'd you do that?" I wanted to know. It was a question I'd find myself asking several times that day.
He didn't answer. He raised both fists to shoulder height and motioned me out into the yard. We walked about five paces, I put up my hands, and he tossed a slow jab at me. I blocked and countered with my own. Many fighters and ex-fighters throw punches at each other or at the air or at whatever happens to be around. It's the way we play. Ali must still toss a hundred lefts a day. He and I had both thrown our shots a full half-foot away from the other, but my adrenal gland was pumping at high gear from being around Ali, and my jab had come out fast—it had made the air sing. He slid back a half-step and took a serious look at me. I figured I was going to get it now. A couple of kids were riding past on bicycles; they recognized Ali and stopped.
"He doesn't understand I'm the greatest boxer of all times," he yelled to the kids. He pulled his watch from his arm, stuck it in his pants pocket. I slipped mine off, too. He'd get down to business now. He got up on his skates, danced to his left a little, loosening his legs. A couple of minutes before, climbing down the steps of his RV, he'd moved so awkwardly he'd almost lost his balance. I'd wanted to give him a hand, but knew not to. I'd remembered seeing old Joe Louis being "escorted" in that fashion by lesser mortals, and I couldn't do that to Muhammad Ali. But now that Ali was on his toes and boxing, he was moving fairly fluidly.
He flung another jab in my direction, a second, a third. He wasn't one-fourth as fast as he had been in 1975, when I'd sparred with him, but his eyes were alert, shining like black electric marbles, and he saw everything and was real relaxed. That's one reason old fighters keep making comebacks: We are more alive when boxing than at almost any other time. The grass around us was green and was getting high; it would soon need its first cutting. A blue-jay squawked from an oak to the left. Six robins roamed the yard. New leaves looked wet with the sun. I instinctively blocked and/or slid to the side of all three of Ali's punches, then immediately felt guilty about it, like being 14 years old and knowing for the first time that you can beat your dad at ping-pong. I wished I could've stopped myself from slipping Ali's jabs, but I couldn't. Reflexive training runs faster and deeper than thought. I zipped a jab to his nose, one to his body, vaulted a straight right to his chin, and was dead certain all three would have scored—and scored clean. A couple of cars stopped in front of the house. His mom's was on a corner lot. Three more were parked on the side.
"Check out the left," a young-sounding voice said from somewhere. The owner of the voice was talking about my jab, not Ali's.
"He's in with the triple greatest of all times," Ali was shouting. "Gowna let him tire himself out. He'll get tired soon."
I didn't, but pretended to, anyway. "You're right, Champ," I told him, dropping my hands. "I'm 35. Can't go like I used to."
I held my right hand to my chest, acting out of breath. I looked at Ali; his hand was in the exact same position. We were both smiling, but he was sizing me up.
"He got scared," Ali shouted, conclusively.
Onlookers laughed from their bicycles and car windows. Someone blew his horn and one yelled, "Hey, Champ."
"Come on in the house," Ali said softly in my ear.
We walked toward the door, Ali in the lead, moving woodenly through new grass, while all around us people rolled up car windows and started their engines.
"Gowna move back to Loovul, just part-time."
The deep Southern melody rolled sleepily in Ali's voice. His words came scarcely louder than whisper and were followed by a short fit of coughing.
Back to Loovul. Back to hazy orange sunsets and ancestors' unmarked graves; back to old, slow-walking family (real and acquired), empty sidewalks, nearly equatorial humidity, peach cobblers made by heavy, round-breasted aunts wearing flowered dresses; back to short, thin uncles with their straw hats, white open-collar shirts, black shiny pants, and spit-shined black Florsheims—back to a life that hadn't been Ali's since he was 18 years old.
We were standing in the "family room," a space so dark I could not imagine the drapes ever having been drawn, a room furnished with dented, gold-painted furniture, filled with smells of cooking meat, and infused with a light not dissimilar to that of a fireplace fire.
Ali had introduced me to his mother, Mrs. Odessa Clay, and to Rahaman, then suddenly he was gone.
Ali's family easily accepted me. They were not surprised to have a visitor and handled me with ritualistic charm and grace. Rahaman told me to make myself at home, offered a root beer, went to get it.
I took a seat on the sofa beside Ali's mother. Mrs. Clay was in her early 70s, yet her face had few wrinkles. Short, her hair nearly as orange as those Louisville sunsets, she was freckled, fragile-looking, and pretty. Ali's face is shaped much like his mother's. While he was fighting she was quite heavy, but she had lost what looked to be about 75 pounds over the past 10 years.
Mrs. Clay was watching Oprah Winfrey on an old wooden floor-model TV. I was wondering where Ali had gone. Rahaman brought the drink, a paper napkin, and a coaster. Mrs. Clay patted me on the hand. "Don't worry," she said. "Ali hasn't left you. I'm sure he's just gone upstairs to say his prayers."
I hadn't realized that my anxiety was showing. But Ali's mother had watched him bring home puppies many times during his 46 years. "He's always been a restless man, like his daddy," she said. "Can't ever sit still."
Mrs. Clay spoke carefully, with a mother's sweet sadness about her. The dignified clip to her voice must once have been affected, but after cometing all over the globe with Ali, it now sounded authentically British and old-money Virginian in its inflections.
"Have you met Lonnie, Ali's new wife?" she asked. "He's known her since she was a baby. I'm so happy for him. She's my best friend's daughter. We used to all travel to his fights together. She's a smart girl, has a master's degree in business. She's so good to him, doesn't use him. He told me, 'Mom, Lonnie's better to me than all the other three put together.' She treats him so good. He needs somebody to take care of him."
Just then, Ali came back to the room, carrying himself high and with stately dignity, though his footing was unsteady. He fell deep into a chair on the other side of the room.
"You tired, baby?" Mrs. Clay asked.
"Tired, I'm always tired," he said, rubbing his face a couple of times and closing his eyes.
He must have felt me watching or was simply conscious of someone other than family being in the room. His eyes weren't closed 10 seconds before he shook himself awake, balled his hands into fists, and started making typical Ali faces and noises at me—sticking his teeth out over his lower lip, looking fake-mean, growling, other playful cartoon kid stuff. After a few seconds he asked, "Y-y-you okay?" He was so difficult to understand that I didn't so much hear him as I conjectured what he must have been saying. "Y-y-you need anything? They takin care of you?" I assured him that I was fine.
He made a loud clucking noise by pressing his tongue across the roof of his mouth and popping it forward. Rahaman came quickly from the kitchen. Ali motioned him close and whispered in his ear. Rahaman went back to the kitchen. Ali turned to me. "Come sit beside me," he said, patting a bar stool to his right. He waited for me to take my place then said, "You had any dinner? Sit and eat with me."
"Can I use the phone? I need to call home and let my wife know."
"You got kids?" he asked. I told him I had two. He asked how old. I told him the ages.
"They know me?" he asked.
"Even the 3-year-old. He throws punches at the TV whenever I play your fights."
He nodded, satisfied. "Bring 'em over Sunday," he said, matter-of-factly. "I'll do my magic for 'em. Here's my mother's number. Be sure to phone first."
I called Lyn and told her where I was and what I was doing. She didn't seem surprised. She asked me to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home. I knew she was excited for me but we had a lot of history, some of it rough, and she wouldn't show emotion in her voice simply because I was hanging out with my childhood idol. In September 1977, when Lyn and I were in college, we skipped class, took all of the money out of our bank accounts, drove from North Carolina all the way to New York, and attended the Ali-Earnie Shavers bout at Madison Square Garden.
As we were arriving in Manhattan the morning of the bout, we ran into Ali on the street in front of the Waldorf-Astoria. Traffic stopped in all directions. Thousands of us followed him as he walked to Madison Square Garden for the weigh-in. Although several people near Ali were taller and weighed more than he, he looked bigger than anyone I had seen in my life. There was a silence around him. As if his very skin were listening. There was pushing and shoving near the outside of the circle of people around Ali. Lyn and I stood on a concrete wall above and away from the clamor and looked down on him. There was a softness, a quietude, near the center of the circle; those closest to Ali were gentle and respectful.
That night in the Garden was the first time I'd seen 20,000 people move as one organism. The air was alive with smells of pretzels and hot dogs, beer and marijuana. It was Ali's last good fight. He was regularly hurt by Shavers and would later say that Shavers had hit him harder than anyone ever. So resounding were the blows with which Shavers tagged Ali that Lyn and I heard them, the sound arriving what seemed a full second after we saw the punches connect, as we sat a quarter of a mile from the ring up in the cheap-seat stratosphere. In the 15th round, we were all standing and not realizing that we had stood. I was trembling and Lyn was holding my hand and thousands of us were chanting, "Ahh-lee, Ahh-lee," his name our mantra, as his gloves melded into vermilion lines of tracers and the leering jack-o'-lantern opponent finally bowed before him.
We had spent all but $40 of our money on fight tickets. We could barely buy enough gas to make it back to North Carolina. For the rest of the year we had to live off of what little money I was able to make modeling for art classes at the university. Every weekend, to pay our electric bills, we filled a laundry bag (the same one I'd used as a boxing bag) with returnable soda bottles we picked up beside highways. But, all these years later, I think we'd both do it the same way to see Ali in one of his last fights.
Now Rahaman brought two large bowls of chili and two enormous slices of white bread from the kitchen. Ali and I sat at our chairs, took spoons in our hands. He put his face down close to the bowl and the food was gone. Three minutes tops. As I continued to eat, he spoke easily to me. "I remember what it was like to meet Joe Louis and Rocky Marciano for the first time," he said. "They were my idols. I'd seen their fights and faces so many times I felt I knew them. Want to treat you right, don't want to disappoint you.
"Do you know how many people in the world would like to have the opportunity you're getting, how many would like to come into my house and spend the day with me?" he said. "Haven't fought in seven years and still get over 400 letters a week."
I asked how people got his address.
He looked puzzled. "I don't know," he answered, shaking his head. "Sometimes they come addressed 'Muhammad Ali, Los Angeles, California, USA.' Don't have a house in L.A. no more, but the letters still get to me.
"I want to get me a place, a coffee shop, where I can give away free coffee and doughnuts and people can just sit around and talk, people of all races, and I can go and talk to people. Have some of my old robes and trunks and gloves around, show old fight films, call it 'Ali's Place.'"
"I'd call it 'Ali's,'" I said, not believing there would or ever could be such a place but enjoying sharing his dream with him. "Just 'Ali's,' that's enough."
"'Ali's'?" he repeated, and his eyes focused inward, visualizing the dream. "People would know what it was," I said.
I asked if he had videotapes of his fights. He shook his head no.
"Well, look," I said, "why don't I go to a video place and see if I can rent some and we can watch them tonight. Would you like that? You want to ride with me?"
"I'll drive," he said.
There was a rubber monster mask in the Winnebago and I wore it on my hand on the way to the video store, pressing it against the window at stoplights. A couple of times people in cars saw the mask, then recognized Ali. Ali wears glasses when he reads and when he drives. When he saw someone looking at him, he carefully removed his glasses, placed them in his lap, made his hands into fists, and put them up beside his head.
Ali was the worst driver I'd ever ridden with—other than my alcoholic grandfather near the end of his life. Ali careened from lane to lane, sometimes riding down the middle of the highway, and he regularly switched lanes without looking or giving turn signals. I balled my fists in my lap and pretended to be relaxed. A group of teenage boys became infuriated when he pulled in front of their old, beat-up Firebird and cut them off. Three of them leaned out the windows, shooting him the finger. Ali shot it back.
At the movie store, we rented an old Godzilla movie Ali wanted to see and a tape of his fights and interviews called Ali: Skill, Brains and Guts that was written and directed by Jimmy Jacobs, the international handball champion and fight historian. Jacobs had recently died of a degenerative illness. Ali hadn't known of Jacobs's death until I told him.
"He was a good man," Ali said. His voice had that same quality that an older person's takes on who daily reads obituaries. "Did you know Bundini died?" he asked, speaking in the same tone he'd use with a friend of many years. I felt honored by his intimacy and told him that I've heard.
In the Winnebago on the way back to his mom's, he said, "You're sincere. After 30 years, I can tell. I feel it rumblin' up from inside people."
"I know a lot of people have tried to use you," I said.
"They have used me. But it don't matter. I don't let it change me."
I stopped by my car again on the way into Mrs. Clay's house. There was one more picture I hoped Ali would sign, but earlier I'd felt I might be imposing on him. It was a classic head-shot in a beautiful out-of-print biography by Wilfrid Sheed that featured hundreds of wonderfully reproduced color plates.* I grabbed the book from the car and followed Ali into the house.
When we were seated, I handed him the book and he signed the picture on the title page. "To Davis Miller, From Muhammad Ali, King of Boxing," he wrote, "3-31-88."
I was about to ask if he'd mind autographing the photo I especially wanted, but he turned to Page 2, signed that picture, then the next page and the next. He continued to sign for probably 45 minutes, writing comments about opponents ("Get up Chump," he wrote beside a classic photo of the fallen Sonny Liston), parents, Elijah Muhammad ("The man who named me"), Howard Cosell, spouses ("She gave me Hell," he scrawled across his first wife's picture), then passed the book to his mother and brother to autograph a family portrait. He even signed "Cassius Clay" on several photos from the early '60s. He flipped twice through the book, autographing nearly every photo, pointing out annotations as he wrote.*
"Never done this before," he said. "Usually sign one or two pictures."
As he turned from page to page, he studied, then chose not to autograph, a youthful picture of himself with the Louisville Sponsoring Group, the collective of rich white businessmen who owned his contract (and reportedly those of several race horses) until he became Muslim. He also hesitated over a famous posed shot taken for Life magazine in 1963, in a bank vault. In this photo a wide-eyed and beaming Cassius Clay sits atop one million one-dollar bills. Ali turned to me and said, "Money don't mean nothin," and leafed to a picture with Malcolm X, which he signed, then posed his pen above the signature, as if prepared to make another annotation. Suddenly, though, he closed the book, looked at me dead level, and held it out at arms' length with both hands. "I'm giving you somethin' very valuable," he said, handing me the biography as if deeding me the book of life.
I stared at the book in my open palms and felt I should say something, should thank him in some way. I carefully placed it on a table, shook my head slightly, and cleared my throat, but found no words.
I excused myself to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. A pair of Ali's huge, shiny black dress shoes was beside the toilet. The toe of one had been crushed, the other shoe was lying on its side. When I unlocked the door to leave, it wouldn't budge. I couldn't even turn the handle. After trying several times, I tentatively knocked. There was laughter from the other room. I distinctly heard Mrs. Clay's and Rahaman's voices. I yanked fairly hard on the door a few times. Nothing. Just when I was beginning to think I was stuck in Odessa Clay's bathroom for the millennium, the door easily opened. I caught a glimpse of Ali bounding into a side room to the right, laughing and high-stepping like some oversized, out-of-shape Nubian leprechaun.
I peeked around the corner. He was standing with his back flat against the wall. He saw me, jumped from the room, and tickled me, a guilty-little-kid smile splashed across his features. Next thing I knew, he had me on the floor, balled up in a fetal position, tears flowing down both sides of my face, laughing. Then he stopped tickling me and helped me to my feet. Everybody kept laughing. Mrs. Clay's face was round and wide with laughter. She looked like the mom of a Celtic imp.
"What'd you think happened to the door?" Rahaman asked. I told him I'd figured it was Ali. "Then why you turnin red?" he wanted to know.
"It's not every day," I said, "that I go to Muhammad Ali's, he locks me in the bathroom, then tickles me into submission."
Everyone laughed again. "Ali, you crazy," Rahaman said.
Suddenly I recognized the obvious, that I'd been acting like a teenage admirer again. And that Muhammad Ali had not lost perhaps his most significant talent—the ability to transport people past thoughts and words to a world of feeling and play. Being around Ali, or watching him perform on TV, has always made me feel genuinely childlike. I looked at his family: They were beaming: Ali still flipped their switches, too.
After helping me up, he trudged off to the bathroom. Rahaman crept over from his seat on the sofa and held the door, trying to keep Ali in. The brothers pushed and tugged on the door and, when Ali got out, laughed and wrestled around the room. Then Ali threw several feathery punches at Rahaman and a few at me.
We finally slipped the Ali tape into the VCR.* Rahaman brought everyone another root beer and we settled back to watch, he to my left, Ali beside me on the right, and Mrs. Clay beside Ali. The family's reactions to the tape were not unlike those you or I would have looking at old home movies or high-school yearbooks. Everyone sighed and their mouths arced at tender angles. "Oh, look at Bundini," Mrs. Clay said. "Hey, there's Otis," Rahaman offered.
When there was footage of Ali reciting verse, everyone recited with him. "Those were the days," Rahaman said several times, to which Mrs. Clay responded, "Yes, yes, they were," in a lamenting lilt.
After a half-hour or so, she left the room. Rahaman continued to watch the tape for a while, pointing out people and events, but then said he was going to bed. He brought a pen and piece of paper. "Give your name and number," he said, smiling. "We'll look you up."
Then it was just Ali and me. On the TV, it was early 1964 and he was framed on the left by Jim Jacobs and on the right by Drew "Bundini" Brown. "They both dead now," he said, an acute awareness of his own mortality in his tone.
For a time, he continued to stare at the old Ali on the screen, but eventually he lost interest in peering at distant mountains of his youth. "Did my mom go upstairs? Do you know?" he asked, his voice carrying no further than mine would if I had my hand over my mouth.
"Yeah, I think she's probably asleep."
He nodded, stood, and left the room, presumably to check on her. When he came back he was moving heavily. His shoulder hit the frame of the door to the kitchen. He went in and came out with two fistfuls of cookies, crumbs all over his mouth. He sat beside me on the sofa. Our knees were touching. Usually, when a man gets this close, I pull away. He offered a couple cookies, yawned a giant's yawn, closed his eyes, and seemed to go dead asleep.
"Champ, you want me to leave?" I said. "Am I keeping you up?"
He slowly opened his eyes and was back to our side of The Great Mystery. The pores on his face looked huge, his features elongated, distorted, like someone's in an El Greco. He rubbed his face the way I rub mine when I haven't shaved in a week.
"No, stay," he said. His tone was very gentle.
"You'd let me know if I was staying too late?"
He hesitated slightly before he answered. "I go to bed at 11," he said.
With the volume turned this low on the TV, you could hear the videotape's steady whir. "Can I ask a serious question?" I said. He nodded OK.
"You're still a great man, Champ, I see that. But a lot of people think your mind is fried. Does that bother you?"
He didn't hesitate before answering. "No, there are ignorant people everywhere," he said. "Even educated people can be ignorant."
"Does it bother you that you're a great man not being allowed to be great?"
"Wh-wh-whatcha you mean, 'not allowed to be great?'" he said, his voice hardly finding its way out of his body.
"I mean ... let me think about what I mean ... I mean the things you seem to care most about, the things you enjoy doing best, the things the rest of us think of as being Muhammad Ali, those are precisely the things that have been taken from you. It just doesn't seem fair."
"You don't question God," he said, his voice rattling in his throat.
"OK, I respect that, but ... aw, man, I don't have any business talking to you about this."
"No, no, go on," he said.
"It just bothers me," I told him. I was thinking about the obvious ironies, thinking about Ali continuing to invent, and be invented by, his own mythology. About how he used to talk easier, maybe better, than anybody in the world (has anyone in history so enjoyed the sweet and spiky melodies of his own voice?); about how he sometimes still thought with speed and dazzle, but it took serious effort for him to communicate even with people close to him. About how he may have been the world's best athlete—when walking, he used to move with the grace of a leopard turning a corner; now, at night, he stumbled around the house. About how it was his left hand, the same hand from which once slid that great Ali snake-lick of a jab—the most visible phenomenon of his boxing greatness—the very hand with which he won more than 150 sanctioned fights and countless sparring sessions, it's his left hand, not his right, that shook almost continuously. And I was thinking how his major source of pride, his "prettiness," remained more or less intact. If Ali lost 40 pounds, in the right kind of light he'd still look classically Greek. The seeming precision with which things have been excised from Ali's life (as well as the gifts that have been left him) sort of spooked me.
"I know why this has happened," Ali said. "God is showing me, and showing you"—he pointed his shaking index finger at me and widened his eyes—"that I'm just a man, just like everybody else."
We sat a long, quiet time then, and watched his flickering image on the television screen. It was now 1971 and there was footage of him training for the first Frazier fight. Our Most Public Figure was then The World's Most Beautiful Man and The Greatest Athlete of All Times, his copper skin glowing under the fluorescents, secret rhythms springing in loose firmness from his fingertips.
"Champ, I think it's time for me to go," I said again and made an effort to stand.
"No, stay. You my man," he says, and pats my leg. He has always been this way, always wanted to be around people. I take his accolade as one of the greatest compliments of my life.
"I'll tell you a secret," he says, and leans close. "I'm gowna make a comeback."
"What?" I say. I think he's joking, hope he is, but something in his tone makes me uncertain. "You're not serious?" I ask.
And suddenly there is power in his voice. "I'm gowna make a comeback," he repeats louder, more firmly.
"Are you serious?"
"The timing is perfect. They'd think it was a miracle, wouldn't they?" He's speaking in a distinct, familiar tone; he's easy to understand. It's almost the voice I remember from when I met him in 1975, the one that seemed to come roiling up from down in his belly. In short, Ali sounds like Ali.
"Wouldn't they?" he asks again.
"It would be a miracle," I say.
"Nobody'll take me serious at first. But then I'll get my weight down to 215 and have an exhibition at Yankee Stadium or someplace, then they'll believe. I'll fight for the title. It'll be bigger than the Resurrection." He stands and walks to the center of the room.
"It'd be good to get your weight down," I say.
"Watch this," he says and dances to his left, studying himself in the mirror above the TV. His clean white shoes bound around the carpet; I marvel at how easily he moves. His white clothing accentuates his movements in the dark room; the white appears to make him glow. He starts throwing punches, not the kind he'd tossed at me earlier, but now really letting them go. I'd thought what he'd thrown in the yard was indicative of what he had left. But what he'd done was allow me to play; he'd wanted me to enjoy myself.
"Look at the TV. That's 1971 and I'm just as fast now." One second, two seconds, 12 punches flash in the night. This can't be real. Yet it is. The old man can still do it: He can still make fire appear in the air. He looks faster standing in front of me than do the ghostlike Ali images on the screen. God, I wish I had a video camera to tape this. Nobody would believe me.
"And I'll be even faster when I get my weight down," he tells me.
"You know more now, too," I find myself admitting. Jesus, what am I saying? And why am I saying this? This is a sick man.
"Do you believe?" he asks.
"Well ..." I say. God, the Parkinson's is affecting his sanity. Look at the gray shining in his hair. The guy can hardly walk, for Christ's sake. Just because he was my boyhood idol doesn't mean I'm blinded to what his life is now like.
And Ali throws another three dozen blows at the gods of mortality. He springs a triple hook off of a jab, each punch so quick it trails lines of light. He drops straight right leads faster than (most fighters') jabs, erupts into a storm of uppercuts, and the air pops, and his fists and feet whir. This is his best work. His highest art. The very combinations no one has ever thrown quite like Muhammad Ali. When he was fighting, he typically held back some; this is the stuff he seldom had to use.
"Do you believe?" he asks, breathing hard.
"They wouldn't let you, even if you could do it," I say, thinking, There's so much concern everywhere for your health. Everybody thinks they see old Mr. Thanatos waiting for you.
"Do you believe?" he asks again.
"I believe," I hear myself say.
He stops dancing and points a magician's finger at me. Then I get the look, the smile, the one that has closed 100,000 interviews.
"April Fools'," he says, and sits down hard beside me again. His mouth is hanging open and his breath sounds raw. The smell of sweat comes from his skin.
We sit in silence for several minutes. I look at my watch. It's 11:18. I hadn't realized it was that late. I'd told Lyn I'd be in by 8.
"Champ, I better go home. I have a wife and kids waiting."
"OK," he says almost inaudibly, looking into the distance, not thinking about me anymore, yawning the kind of long uncovered yawn people usually do among family.
He's bone-tired, I'm tired, too, but I want to leave by saying something that will mean something to him, something that will set me apart from the two billion other people he's met, that will imprint me indelibly in his memory and make the kind of impact on his life he has made on mine. I want to say the words that will cure his Parkinson's.
Instead I say, "See you Easter, Champ."*
He coughs and gives me his hand. "Be cool and look out for the ladies." His words are so volumeless and full of fluid that I don't realize what he's said until I'm halfway out the door.
I don't recall picking up the book he signed, but I must have: It's beside my typewriter now. I can't remember walking across his mom's yard and don't remember starting the Volvo. But I recall what was playing on the tape deck. It was "The Promise of Living" from the orchestral suite to Aaron Copland's The Tender Land.
I don't forget Lyn's gallon of milk. Doors to the grocery store whoosh closed behind me. For this time of night, there are quite a few customers in the store. They seem to move more as floating shadows than as people.
An old feeling comes across me I almost immediately recognize. The sensation is much like going out into the day-to-day world after making love for the first time. It's that same sense of having landed in a lesser reality. And of having a secret that the rest of the world can't see. I'll have to wake Lyn and share the memory of this feeling with her.
I reach to grab a milk jug and catch a reflection of myself in the chrome at the dairy counter. There's a half-smile on my face and I hadn't realized it.*
Glenn Stout, author, series editor for the Best American Sports Writing, and contributing editor at SB Nation Longform: I first read Davis Miller's "My Dinner with Ali" in Sport magazine, where it was published in 1989. I loved everything about it; guy drives by Ali's mother's house in Louisville, sees Ali's RV in front of his house, stops in … and is transformed. From the first word, it came off as a very genuine, uncontrived piece. A couple years later, when I was approached to put together a sampler for a proposed new Best American title featuring writing about sports, I immediately recalled Miller's story, and it was one of 12 or 15 stories I submitted as examples of the kind of story I would be looking for. Nearly a decade later, when Houghton Mifflin decided to do a Best American Sports Writing of the Century, I again remembered Miller's story, sent it forward to guest editor David Halberstam, and he liked it as much as I did. Halberstam was a huge Ali fan, thought the writing about him was particularly important, and chose the story as one of six in the volume that focused on Ali (the others were by Murray Kempton, Dick Schaap, Norman Mailer, Mark Kram, and Jim Murray—pretty good company. Miller's story is the last in the entire collection). It was then, while securing rights, that I got to know Miller a bit. I learned that the story first appeared in the Louisville Courier-Journal's Sunday magazine, and before landing at Sport it had also been re-printed in a number of other Sunday magazines. More remarkably, it was the author's first published story. Miller, whose life was changed by his embrace of martial arts and boxing as a child, went on to write books about both Ali and Bruce Lee, deftly merging his personal stories with theirs. In our interactions he was as genuine and unassuming as the character who knocked on Ali's door. Every year or two, I re-read it and still like it as much as the first time.
Davis Miller is the author of The Tao of Muhammad Ali, which has been developed into the opera Approaching Ali, premiering this weekend at the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington D.C. Miller is at work on two books, a memoir titled High Old Love Way and a collection titled Approaching Ali: The Muhammad Ali Stories.
The Stacks is Deadspin's living archive of great journalism, curated by Bronx Banter's Alex Belth. Read his introduction here.
Color photo via Getty Premium.


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LAUREL, Md. (WUSA9) -- A 19-year-old was found dead on train tracks in Maryland on Tuesday, police said.
The body of Dontay Lamont Owensby, 19, was found by two teenagers who passed the CSX train tracks near the 800 block of Lafayette Street around 7:30 p.m. The injuries appear to show that he was hit by a train, officials said.
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April 2013
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Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 2:56 PM EDT
That was so weird...When I was hitting post...the computer was calling me Pingo...Welcome Pingo it said..
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 3:15 PM EDT
Well, house smells good, but it's an odd combination I had going at once - pot of cabbage soup on top of stove, and a batch of peanut butter cookies in the oven. Yummy. Will save a dozen of the cookies separate for youngest birthday son, next time he stops by. They always used to be his favorite.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 3:44 PM EDT
Oh cookies. :)
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 3:53 PM EDT
If it's any consolation tomorrow is supposed to be warm. I will be teaching outside so that will be nice, must remember to dress in layers.
I had a chicken and cranberry sandwich on a croissant which I picked up from the 1/2 price rack at MB for lunch.
TT I am now addicted to the MahJongg tiles game on my new computer. Going to make a cup of tea now.
Pingo welcome home, I wish we had a better day for you.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 3:57 PM EDT
I've had 3, a different recipe, used the Jiff peanut butter one, and they're good. Then I sat down on the couch to watch Dr. Phil. Dozed off, and when I woke up the cat was sitting on the floor staring at me - must have been snoring!
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 4:01 PM EDT
In response to Ihavemyhats' comment:
If it's any consolation tomorrow is supposed to be warm. I will be teaching outside so that will be nice, must remember to dress in layers.
I had a chicken and cranberry sandwich on a croissant which I picked up from the 1/2 price rack at MB for lunch.
TT I am now addicted to the MahJongg tiles game on my new computer. Going to make a cup of tea now.
Pingo welcome home, I wish we had a better day for you.
Sandwich sounds delicious. I think this next week I will head up to MB in Middleton and do my shopping - have a lot of basic stuff, Crisco, brown sugar, canned tomatoes, stuff like that to get, and want to see if I save any money. Don't seem to be able to get my total bill below $80 any week, and to me it doesn't look at tho I have much of anything in the carriage.
Glad you're enjoying MahJong, I love it, but can only play so many games and then it comes up with a big grey eye and kicks me out. It wasn't on this computer when I bought it, I copied address from my old one and get in that way.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 4:02 PM EDT
Icer, I was briefly welcomed by BDC as Ariel. ??
House smells good here, too - made brownies that are coming out in a few minutes. Not sure how it would smell with cabbage soup cooking...lol.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 6:00 PM EDT
Taste tested a brownie...so much for dinner! YUM!!
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 8:04 PM EDT
now i am just posting to see who i am
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 9:45 PM EDT
This is what I seen on Winters post.
- Winter2011Bride
- Posts: 4148
- First: 2/8/2010
- Last: 4/23/2013
Amber dont think that matters to us, he's adorable. We've had some gorgeous babies in our chat family.
Picker, how's Zach? Tt, how is pumpkin and his mom doing? Hats how your latest baby in the family doing.
Watching the suspect 2 ordeal here. imagine that's your boat.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 9:53 PM EDT
Winter, please know my heart is with you.... ♥ So now we have hackers?? WTH??? I copied and pasted the post and hope you all see it. I don't think I told anyone with all the craziness going on the past week, but I was approached a month ago from a job I applied to back in December. I did the phone interview figuring nothing to lose. Told her the only way I would leave a job I just started would be for more money and she told me no problem! I ended up having a face to face interview with 4 people and 2 phone interviews. They offered me they job at $10,000 more a year with incredible benefits. I gave my 2 week notice last week, so my last day at this job is Friday and I start my new job on Monday. Sad to leave this job as I really like iit, but not willing to match my new offer. So nice to get back in the salary and more that I was making 5 years ago : ) So Murphy's Law... spend 9 months unemployed and get a job with another job offer 2 months later! Super happy ♥ For all of you that loved my Joey's picture, I thank you : )
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 9:54 PM EDT
Oh shoot! Welcome home Pingo!!
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 9:59 PM EDT
tt, LOVE cream cheese spread on celery! Have you done cream cheese with green olive spread on celery? Yum! And I love tuna salad spread on cream cheese too!
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 10:05 PM EDT
Going through past posts and seen your ps. Thank you Robin : ) He is my heart : )
In response to Robin39's comment:
The only reason I thought electrical, is that if a mouse gets in the house, they like to burrow in the insulation in the walls. They gnaw on the wiring to sharpen their teeth.
Sometimes you'll hear scratching noises, and eventually crackling sounds when they disrupt the electrical connections.
But if that was it, I think your dog would notice it and alert you.
Ps: @Amber, your grandson is adorable!
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 10:12 PM EDT
Aww..... thanks November!! I am slow at getting on here, but so appreciate the love me and my grandson got!!
In response to Novembride's comment:
How was dinner with Joey yesterday? That latest picture is just too much! FWIW he could be half alien and I doubt any one of us would care. He's stinkin cute!! Just LOVE squishy babies! Glad you are back, too!!
Kar, "meatmuffins" is making me laugh. I usually call them mini meatloafs, and they are on the dinner schedule for this week. I have also toyed with the idea of mini shepherds pies, but haven't ventured to cook them yet.
Also thinking of the Campbells today. I really hope that the Westboro church doesn't show up. Her family and friends need peace.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 10:14 PM EDT
So funny Princess as I thought so too until I realized my DD was 6lbs 8 oz and Joey was 7lbs 14oz! lol!
In response to princess-cal's comment:
Good morning everyone. Amber, Joey is just adorable! His is so tiny!!!
Not much going on around here, just plugging away.
Trying to get everyone to make some decisions on what we will do for our Mom's (my mom and MIL) for Mother's Day. It's so hard, DH has 2 brothers and I have one and none of them think this far ahead and make it difficult to organize things! I like to plan. DH mentioned having a cook out at our house for everyone, but the weather always makes it iffy. Oh well. I'll see if I can prod them some more!
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 10:16 PM EDT
Thinking Winter was going through a lot at the time and meant you Icer, now that I think about it.
In response to icer's comment:
In response to Winter2011Bride's comment:
Amber dont think that matters to us, he's adorable. We've had some gorgeous babies in our chat family.
Picker, how's Zach? Tt, how is pumpkin and his mom doing? Hats how your latest baby in the family doing.
Watching the suspect 2 ordeal here. imagine that's your boat.
Did you mean Icer? Zach is fine
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 10:19 PM EDT
tt, I cancelled mine a year ago and have no problems. Boston.com FORUMS is seperate from Boston.com that you have to buy. Hope this helps.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/23/2013 10:45 PM EDT
Amber, congratulations on getting another job. It just goes to show, it's easier to get one when you have one! And you have a grandson too, it's wonderful to think of the difference between where you are now and where you were just 4 -5 months ago, isn't it?
Our little one is doing well with all the grandmas and aunties he's got. I wish I could see him...oh well. As long as everyone is fine....
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/24/2013 7:17 AM EDT
Good morning,
Forecast says sunny and high 60's this afternoon, so I'm counting on it. Furnace is still purring away this morning.
Hats, is it because of health issues that you aren't traveling to see the new baby in your family, or work constraints? Pictures are great, but they do change from week to week in the first couple of years. Is it today that you have an outdoor class? Maybe by that time the skies will have cleared. Would like to stay in myself this morning, but have an appt. I have to keep. I'm an every-other-day kind of person, like to be able to stay home every other day. Doesn't work out that way very often. Friday's my only "off" day this week, but then that baby shower I hit BabiesRUs for, on Saturday. I am looking forward to that.
Congratulations, Amber, on your new job. Hope you will like it as much as your present one.
Time to get the feeder filled, and then my breakfast ready. Don't know yet what I'm wearing today, but at least the closet is filled with clean clothes from washes I caught up on. Are you taking a day or so off before heading back to the office, Pingo, or jumping right back in this morning?
I'll catch up on posts later today. Have a good one.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/24/2013 8:05 AM EDT
Good morning everyone. Congratulations on the new job Amber. Is it an easy train ride for you? Fence people are supposed to start today so DH took off. Hope they don't change their mind, since they should have mentioned that yesterday. I think it's supposed to clear up.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/24/2013 9:21 AM EDT
Congrats on the new job Amber! You certainly deserve it!
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/24/2013 10:01 AM EDT
Good morning,
I finally got through all the posts. I still don't know exactly, what happened in Winter's family, but reading btw. the lines and the news, I am putting 2 and 2 together, and I am almost certain, I know, what it is. How horrific and sad, Winter. My heart goes out to you and your family. Hugs!
Watching the news in TX, I was so hoping, no one I know would be affected by this heinous crime.
Baby Joey is adorable, Amber. He will be so handsome, when he grows up. And congratulations on your new job. I hope you will like it as much as you liked the one you have now.
I took yesterday off, but am ready to leave for the office today. I wanted to clear all the laundry and stock up my refrigerator, that was a pretty sad sight to come home to. Besides TX son will be visiting this weekend. His company is sending him to NY city for a conference, and he will take Amtrak and visit for the weekend, before he goes back to TX. How lucky can a mom be?
I did a lot of shopping, Kar. Tight rolled up jeans seems to be the fashion this summer. That and cut off tops - Ugh! Also the open shoulders and parted sleeves. All something, I would not wear. But I did find some cute tops and "normal" jeans and trousers. I am all set for the summer.
The hackers are worrying me. Seems the posts have been messed with. Picker and Rama are mentioned, but I don't see any posts from them.
PS. Saw my first pair of Goldfinches this morning.
Re: April 2013
posted at 4/24/2013 10:02 AM EDT
Good morning -
Ambergirl, CONGRATS!!! What a year for you, and you so deserve it after all the disappointments and struggle. YAY!!!!!
Worked in the last of the yarn I had for the baby blanket (it lasted longer than I thought it would) so need to go to Walmart today to get more. Glad I didn't go yesterday; I can scoop up on the sunshine and more pleasant temps. Yesterday I wanted to hibernate.
The brownies are elegant. I had one with my breakfast! Oh, that reminds me, I need to make my other cup o' coffee before I get a headache.
Yesterday the greenhouse stayed covered with the blankets and the heater went full blast all day. Today, it's 90 in there with the vents open - that's more like it.
Oh, there's Gracie at the door. Have a great day, ladies!


text:
By Christina Farr
SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters) – Apple Inc took the wraps off a mobile application that can collect and analyze users' health data, part of a suite of new features outlined for its computing and mobile software, at its annual developers' conference on Monday.
Called "Healthkit," it will pull together data such as blood pressure and weight, collected by a growing plethora of healthcare apps on the iPhone or iPad, Apple executives told developers.
The company will work in tandem with Nike Inc, a major player in fitness tracking, and the Mayo Clinic on the new feature, which will be included with the latest versions of Apple's mobile software.
"That information lives in silos," said Craig Federighi, Apple's senior vice president of software engineering. "You can't get a single comprehensive picture."
Chief Executive Tim Cook, opening the conference on Monday, said the iPhone maker has sold more than 800 million mobile devices. Some 130 million customers bought their first Apple mobile device in the past 12 months, he added.
Developers converged on the Moscone Center in downtown San Francisco to watch Cook and his lieutenants outline the latest tweaks and features new to its Macintosh computer and iOS mobile operating software.
Apple described how its latest "Yosemite" Mac software, which comes on the heels of its well-reviewed "Mavericks" release, will come with a new Internet storage application, and allow users to pick up calls and see text messages relayed to iPhones.
Computer users would also be able to call up maps, search for information or look up documents by typing directly onto their home screens.


text:
EP6 Earplugs - Black - Large - 1 pair
About this item
EP6 was designed to meet the demanding needs of military professionals and style demands of auto racing enthusiasts. Their unique design blocks potentially harmful sound levels while allowing safe levels to still be heard, so you can talk with those around you. Patented Hocks Noise Braker® filters prevent potentially harmful noises above 85 dB (like the scream of a high-performance engine) from entering your ear canal, while safe sound levels below 85 dB are allowed to pass through and be heard. And to block lower-level sounds and noise in quieter situations, such as in an airplane or while sleeping, the attached stoppers can be inserted for a Noise Reduction Rating of 24 dB. Multi-flanged, right/left color-coded EP6es are made from a soft, hypoallergenic polymer and ergonomically shaped to lock into your ear, providing all-day comfort and a secure fit. Their low-profile design means they can be worn under a helmet or hat even while using a phone.
- Made from soft, hypoallergenic, medical grade polymer
- Protects against loud harmful noises and allows normal conversations to be heard
Assembled Country
Assembled Size
4.5" x 3" x 1.5
Component Country


text: The reconyx and cuddeback are pretty pricey. My dad has owned numerous cuddeback, and had problems with all of them. I've got a primos truth35 (about 75$) and was blown away by the battery life. Over 2000 pics on one set of batteries, with 1200 of them in a 3 week period of a cold Minnesota winter. We're talking night temps from 0-20 below. That's with standard nicad batteries. An added bonus is they're easy to use.


text: I knew Al in the 70's too. I was on the Trap Shooting Tour then making some good money. Al used to have a trailer he pulled to all the shoots that was a complete machine shop. I was living in Redondo Beach then, and would go see All all the time. He was a good guy, and made a great trigger. He did all the work on my trap guns then. (triggers, chokes, and stock fit)


text:
Houston, TX (Sports Network) - James Harden shook off a flu bug to score 28
points, while the Houston Rockets orchestrated a strong late finish to pull
out a 93-89 win over the Chicago Bulls at the Toyota Center.
Two nights after being limited to six points and 17 1/2 minutes by his
sickness, Harden made good on 8-of-14 field goal attempts and added five
steals while being on the court for over 42 minutes.
His efforts, along with a critical 10-0 run down the stretch, enabled the
Rockets to put an end to a three-game losing skid.
Patrick Patterson chipped in 20 points and Chandler Parsons amassed 18 points
and a career-best 13 rebounds for Houston, while Toney Douglas had 11 points
and sank a clutch long-range jumper that gave Houston an 86-84 lead with
1:11 remaining.
Chicago owned an 84-79 edge after Nate Robinson buried a 3-pointer with 4:42
left to play, but proceeded to miss its next 11 shots. The cold spell led to
the Bulls dropping their fourth consecutive contest, the franchise's longest
slide since a 10-game drought from Feb. 27 - Mar. 19, 2010.
Robinson paced Chicago with 21 points, 13 of which came in the final 10
minutes, with Luol Deng and Carlos Boozer each amassing double-doubles in a
losing cause.
Deng ended with 19 points and 10 boards, while Boozer pulled down 15 rebounds
to go along with 13 points.
The Sports Network


text:
Creativity in motion with Michael Moschen
(Page 2 of 3)
Moschen has gone on to develop entirely new forms of juggling, taking the skill to new heights. While most jugglers use three balls, he created a 10-foot triangle in which he stands to bounce the balls all around his body. He studied the fragility of crystal balls and through hours of exploration and practice, developed a method of rolling them over his hands so that they seem to float before him. He minimizes his own presence through blank expressions and dark clothing so as to highlight the unique motions of his props. He constantly finds new means of manipulations of his props, which has lead him into the study of architecture, to serve as a carpenter's assistant, and challenged him to learn dance, martial arts and
In a work beloved by Moschen aficionados, he also choreographed and performed with crystal balls as David Bowie's hands in the Jim Henson film "Labyrinth."
"I grew up as an athlete and translated that love and skill into what I do today," Moschen said. "I use the physical to pursue an artistic end."
He describes his performance as percussive and rhythmic. "I use balls as part of my body and feet and work in different size
circles, some large and some smaller."
Although Moschen has collaborated with many talented performers over the years, representing varied artistic mediums, he performs solo in this particular stage show. "I've been doing this show for the past four or five years or so," he said. "It's 70 minutes of nonstop action that shows all of the different kinds of things that I do."
Moschen, who has been hailed as "the Nijinsky of Juggling," merges original music with ethereal movements creating a spectacle that carries his audience away on a journey transcending time and imagination. He imbues his performance with concepts developed from his interests in mathematics and physics.
He starts out juggling three white balls. From there, he leads audiences on an adventure based on his investigations of the physical and mathematical principles that so fascinate him. It's almost like kinetic sculpture, according to Moschen.
KeywordsMichael Moschen, Molloy College, Madison Theatre
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text:
TIG Weld Like A ProWritten by on December 1, 2011 Welding tips to take you from zero to hero!
TIG welding—also known as gas-tungsten-arc welding (GTAW)—is the craftsman welding method of choice, and elevates simple fusion of metals to an art. Mastery earns a certain level of respect in the fabrication world. To some it's akin to a black art, others think you have to have the rhythm and precision of John Bonham on the drums to choreograph all the movements. That's all a little bit true. It's also true that with enough practice and some basic knowledge, you can learn to TIG like a pro.
So what's so cool about TIG? Firstly, it's the most versatile method of welding and can be used to weld just about any metal: steel, stainless steel, chromoly, aluminum, nickel alloys, magnesium, titanium, copper, brass, bronze, and even gold. It's also the cleanest form of welding with no sparks, spatter, flux, or slag produced. And assuming you properly cleaned the metals, you won't have any real smoke or fumes to speak of.
But we know why most people are interested: It's the look. You just can't beat the beauty of a well-laid TIG weld. That beauty happens because TIG welding offers the highest level of arc and weld puddle control since the heat input is controlled by the human welder, allowing the puddle to be heated up or cooled down as necessary. That's how that beautiful bead comes to be.
While working through our fabrication adventure, otherwise known as project Max Effort, we were always impressed with Ryan Kertz of Kertz Fabrication, and his ability to lay down perfect TIG beads every time, while ours are usually ... well, less perfect.
The biggest problem, Kertz explained, is that while it's true that the only way to learn is to just pick up a torch and do it, there are a handful of very basic tips and techniques he has observed often that keep the uninitiated from advancing quicker. If you've not had the benefit of a welding class, instruction from an experienced welder, or at least a good instruction book, these tips here may be some of the reasons you've been fighting to improve.
|Lincoln Electric Ready-Pak
|Precision TIG 275 welder
|Under-Cooler cart water cooler
|Foot amptrol
|Gas regulator/flowmeter and 10-foot hose kit
|PTW-20 Pro-Torch TIG torch (250 amp, 25 feet)
|Zippered torch cover
|Parts kit
|Water hose (two included)
|15-foot work cable and clamp
|Adapter for optional PTA-9 or 17 Torch (3/8 inch)
|Mode switch
|Minimum output preset control and display switch (also displays output voltage)
|Setup menu for D/C TIG start modes, pre-flow time, and start pulse for soft or forceful starts
|Digital amperage meter
|Local/remote current control switch
|Maximum output preset control
|Post-flow time
|Thermal shutdown light
|A/C balance control
More Photos From This Article View Slideshow
At the bottom of the unit we have the power switch and polarity switch. For steel we'll be welding DC negative; AC TIG is for aluminum and magnesium, for example. We'll be addressing mild steel here since it's the simplest and most common material to TIG weld.Welds like to happen in an inert environment, but we live in one full of reactive gases, so a shielding gas is employed to keep impurities out of the weld. Whereas MIG likes a compressed mixture of 75 percent argon and 25 percent carbon dioxide, TIG prefers 100 percent argon gas.Even without the advanced panel, high-end TIG machines have a lot of options that can intimidate beginners. Definitely review the operator's manual to familiarize yourself and discover baseline settings for your metal, but don't overthink it too much when you're learning, since many of these controls are designed for pros. It's much more than we can get into here, but clockwise around the panel we have:The rule of thumb with gas flow is to use as little as necessary. You don't want to waste expensive gas, and excessive gas can actually work against the weld. You do need decent ventilation, but try to avoid windy conditions and drafts since they'll just blow away your shielding gas and increase the odds of contamination and porosity.This is what a TIG weld attempted without shielding gas looks like; note the heavy pitting and porosity. Welding with too little shielding gas present will produce a less drastic version of this.It's a common misconception that the lens shade number corresponds to the amount of protection that is provided to the eyes, and hence the higher the number, the better the protection. In reality all quality welding lenses filter out 100 percent of the harmful ultraviolet (UV) and infrared (IR) wavelengths to protect eyes. The number just denotes the level of shade of the lens.The tungsten rod is the electrode that transfers all of the current to create the weld since its melting point (6,192 degrees) is far above anything else you'll be welding. There are several types available, but to keep things simple you can start with lanthanated. Consider it an all-purpose tungsten that will work on carbon steels, stainless steel, nickel alloys, aluminum, magnesium, titanium, cobalt, copper alloys, pot metal, and just about everything else. Size should be proportionate to the amount of current you need to use. Common 1/16, 3/32, and 1/8 sizes are good for 70-140A, 70-140A, 200- 310A, respectively.Here's another area where a gas lens helps dramatically: tight corners. To get this weld, Ryan Kertz extended the tungsten out a bit further than the standard 1⁄8 to � inch and turned up the gas flow a small amount. The lens will keep the column of argon directed where he needs it. Kertz used this method extensively during Max Effort's rollcage construction.There are two schools of thought on how to bench weld. One essentially says take a seat and make yourself as comfortable as possible. Kertz spends most of his time welding in cramped conditions on cars, so he prefers to not develop crutches. You'll typically find him standing at his welding table. That's not to say that you should use your surroundings to your advantage. For example, in any situation look for ways to stabilize your torch hand if possible. In a simple example, here Kertz used a piece of angle iron to rest his wrist on as he slides it across the table.
Tungsten doesn't come pre-ground, so you'll need to create your tip. The general rule of thumb is to make the point roughly two and a half times the diameter and always grind with the grain using a clean abrasive. If you want to get technical, for currents under 20 amps grind the tip to about 20 degrees. For over 20 amps, grind tips to about 20 degrees and add a small flat spot to the tip.Here's probably one of the most common mistakes for newbies: getting the working angles wrong. Ideally, you want the torch about 10 degrees from vertical away from the direction of travel The filler rod should be around 15-20 degrees from the surface. Of course tight real-life situations will create fudge factors, but for learning try to stick close to the optimum angles.So how close does the tungsten need to be to the surface? Tight. Ideally, the arc length should be roughly equivalent to the diameter of your tungsten and should stay fairly consistent without touching the tungsten to the molten metal. Definitely no more than 1⁄8 to 1⁄4 inch away from the weld puddle. Also, use the push technique since that ensures good shielding gas coverage and better visibility of the weld puddle.Get yourself a gas lens. Our Lincoln Precision TIG 275 came equipped with one, but most TIG machines will not. The one on the right is a traditional collet body; on the left is a gas lens. The gas lens uses a tiny screen to create a more laminar flow of shielding to the working area to create a cleaner (and stronger) weld. The main benefit for the newbie is that they help keep the welding surface more flushed clean and inert, letting you focusing on your technique.The second most common error is holding the filler rod improperly. Remember, the rod is consumable, so don't hold it like a pencil. There are a few variations on this, but Kertz recommends threading it between the pointer and middle finger with the thumb used to steady. This way the rod can easily be fed by extending your fingers and pulling it forward.With everything working in concert, this is how it should look. Note that the torch is controlling the puddle, and the filler rod is just being dabbed in a dime at a time. To keep the heat consistent, you'll actually be backing off the foot pedal that controls the amperage the tungsten delivers. Keep the speed consistent to maintain size and shape of the dimes.One newbie mistake here is not backing off on the amperage as you end to prevent cratering, and not allowing the proper amount of post flow. Post flow is the amount of shielding gas that continues to flow after you've finished welding. This flow prevents contamination and oxidation of the weld puddle as it solidifies. The amount of time depends upon the thickness of the metal as well as type, but around 5-7 seconds is a good starting point. This results in a structurally stronger weld that doesn't have a potential weak spot between two weld beads. For a corner joint like this, both edges of the adjoining pieces should be melted and the weld pool should be kept on the joint centerline. You'll also need a bit more filler rod to create a nice convex bead to suitably join the two.This results in a structurally stronger weld that doesn't have a potential weak spot between two weld beads. For a corner joint like this, both edges of the adjoining pieces should be melted and the weld pool should be kept on the joint centerline. You'll also need a bit more filler rod to create a nice convex bead to suitably join the two.
So what happens when you accidentally touch the tungsten to the metal? You get a nice glob of metal on the end of your tungsten that needs to be ground away. Note the blackish/ brown cloud around the weld and porosity; that's what it looks like if you try to weld with tainted tungsten. Also, though most welders skip it, it's good practice to clip off the end of a used filler rod (ours is 1/16-inch ER70S-2 for mild steel) to prevent contamination—just like in MIG welding.When a weld comes to an edge like shown, don't stop the bead there as it leaves a potential place for cracks to form.Remember what we said about controlling the amperage with the foot pedal? When working on a joint like this, start with the area that will require the least amps, i.e. the open side, and work your way around to the tight closed side.Here are three TIG welds to compare. The first is properly laid with the right amount of shielding gas and amperage. The second illustrates too much amperage (note the flat, molten look). The last shows too much amperage and too little shielding gas. Only the first weld would be considered strong. Also, when welding a T-joint like this the edge will melt faster, so angle the torch slightly away to direct more heat to the flat surface and dab the filler rod where the edge is melting.Instead, always try to wrap the weld around to the back of the material to create a stronger edge. This is an especially important practice on suspension and chassis components and something we employed throughout Max Effort.If you modulate the amperage correctly, the heat signature of the weld should have a nice consistent look all the way around. Again, don't stop where you started, lap over the beginning of the weld about � inch. One last tip: When welding a vertical piece, it is opposite of MIG welding where you weld going down. With TIG welding you start from the bottom and go up (when possible).Cleanliness is next to godliness when it comes to TIG quality, since TIG is particularly sensitive to contaminants like scale, rust, paint, grease, even fingerprints, all of which can severely compromise the weld's integrity. Right after that is tight fitment. While MIG can easily cheat and bridge large gaps with extra material, with TIG it pays to take time to make tight joints. This will not only make the weld easier and better looking, but also stronger.


text:
Life is complicated enough without choosing hard-to-use beauty care products. Fortunately, the line of Serious Skincare Cleansers offers simple ways to cleanse your skin. Each of the Serious Skincare Cleansers is part of a larger collection designed by model Jennifer Flavin-Stallone and esthetician Lesa Stock who understand the need to offer beauty care formulas that can be used with minimal effort and time. The formulas are blended with ingredients that have been scientifically proven to provide quality results no matter what type of complexion is being cleansed.
Offering gentle formulas that will help keep you looking fresh and healthy, Serious Skincare Cleansers can easily be used in conjunction with other products without worrying about adding too much stress into your daily routine. Whether you have normal, mature, or acne-prone skin, there's a product in this line designed to provide the results you want. Isn't it time you looked into this collection of Serious Skincare Cleansers?
Dermatological concerns should be addressed as soon as they arise. Choosing quality formulas to cleanse your skin can help keep it feeling and looking good. Select one or more of the existing Serious Skincare Cleansers and treat yourself to a refreshing experience.
Love the feeling of clean skin? Want to renew your skin's soft, supple nature? Indulge in the hydrating formula of Serious Skincare A Wash Cleanser, a product that is suitable for all complexion types. Offering the silkiness of a quality cleansing gel, this solution turns into a foam that works well to take away impurities. Its inclusion of natural botanicals as well as vitamin A leaves you freshly hydrated, soft, and clean.
If your skin is looking duller these days, it might be time to remove dead cell buildup with the exfoliating solution of Serious Skincare Retexturizing Glycolic Cleanser. Designed to deeply cleanse the pores of all complexion types, this gentle, oil-free formula can be used twice daily to restore the radiance of your skin. Its ingredients include natural Glycolic exfoliators that deeply penetrate your pores to help free up dead cell buildup, exfoliating at the same time that it cleanses.
If you want to remove your makeup effortlessly despite the fact that it stubbornly attempts to cling to your face, try the anti-aging formula of Serious Skincare C Clean Facial Cleanser. No matter what type of complexion you have, this cleansing solution is designed to help you remove makeup and grime easily and successfully. Plus, your skin becomes fully enriched with botanical ingredients delivered by a unique Colloidosome system.