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Third wave of over 35,000 Zionist immigrants increases Jewish population in Palestine to 12% of total. Registered Jewish landownership (1923) totals 3% of area of country.
1919, 27 January-10 February
First Palestinian National Congress in Jerusalem sends memoranda to Paris Peace Conference rejecting Balfour Declaration and demanding independence.
28 August
Paris Peace Conference sends Commission of Inquiry to Near East, led by U.S. commission members Henry C. King and Charles Crane. England and France decline to participate. Commission recommends "serious modification" of idea of "making Palestine distinctly a Jewish Commonwealth."
1920, April
Disturbances in Palestine; 5 Jews killed, 200 wounded. British appoint Palin Commission of Inquiry .Commission report attributes troubles to not fulfilling the promises of Arab independence and fear of political and economic consequences of Zionism.
25 April
Palestine Mandate assigned to Britain by Supreme Council of San Remo Peace Conference.
British prevent Second Palestinian National Congress from convening.
1 July
High Commissioner, Sir Herbert Samuel, an Anglo-Jewish politician, inaugurates British civilian administration.
Third Palestinian National Congress, meeting in Haifa, elects Executive Committee, which remains in control of Palestinian political movement from 1920 to 1935.
1921, March
Founding of the Haganah, the Zionists' terrorist organization organization.
1 May
Disturbances in Jaffa protesting large-scale Zionist immigration; 46 Jews killed, 146 wounded. British Haycraft Commission of Inquiry (October) attributes disturbances to fears of Zionist mass immigration.
8 May
Haj Amin al-Husayni appointed Mufti of Jerusalem.
Fourth Palestinian National Congress, convening in Jerusalem, decides to send a Palestinian delegation to London to explain the Palestinian case against the Balfour Declaration.
1922, 3 June
British colonial secretary Winston Churchill issues White Paper excluding Transjordan from scope of Balfour Declaration. Ignoring political criteria, White Paper authorizes Jewish immigration according to "economic absorptive capacity" of the country.
24 July
League of Nations Council approves Mandate for Palestine.
Fifth Palestinian National Congress, meeting in Nablus, agrees to economic boycott of Zionists (see 1901 entry on JNF).
October – First British census of Palestine shows population of 757,182 -78% Muslim Arab, 11% Jewish, 9.6% Christian Arab. It is often claimed that Palestine was empty until Zionist Jews made the Palestinian desert bloom.
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subset: commoncrawl


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Star Trek: The Original Series – Arena
"Arena" is another episode from Star Trek: The Original Series that I have a love/hate relationship with. It contained a lot more action than the normal Trek episode but on the flip side it didn't age very well.
It begins with a phony call from Cestus III inviting an away team down to the remote colony the Federation had established there. Upon beaming down, Kirk and company find out that the colony has been decimated and they get ambushed by unseen forces.
Guess which one didn't make it?
After a quote unquote tense battle and rolling and somersaulting through mortar blasts, Kirk is able to find a way to fight back and the enemy retreats. The enemy ship beams up their crew and heads out and Kirk does the same. After a chasing the enemy ship into unknown territory, a third-party that is immensely more powerful than either of them stop both ships and beam both Captains to a remote planet for them to duke it out. Kirk finally discovers that the enemy they were chasing are called the Gorn and that they were strong enough to break Arnold Schwarzenegger in half.
This may have been slightly taken out of context.
The battle itself was a bit cringeworthy. Kirk hopped (you would too after being forcibly smurfed by a giant lizard) from rock to rock trying to outwit the Gorn by building a makeshift cannon from various chemicals lying around on the planet surface. It's the sort of chemistry lesson every school would tell kids not to try at home.
MacGyver could have built a rocket by now, just sayin'.
Without giving away the ending I enjoyed the message that the episode managed to convey to the viewer. Suffice it to say that mankind has to take steps it normally wouldn't take to advance as a race. The Metrons, the third-party who stopped them both initially, is surprised and pleased by Kirk's final decision and tells him that in a thousand years or so, mankind will be advanced enough to speak to them again.
If evolving means wearing a toga and sparkling like the vampires in Twilight, then I'll stick to being a normal semi-educated biped.
Overall the episode wasn't bad…Star Trek has done far worse. If you've already watched the others I blogged about, give this one a look.
Note: I read a Star Trek: The Next Generation book called Requiem that is related to this episode. Picard ends up accidentally going back in time to the colony before it was obliterated, knows what is going to happen, and has to prevent changing the timeline even though he wants to warn the colonists of their pending doom. If you enjoy reading Star Trek books, give this read.
Excellent book.


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GraphicRiver The Spring Emotions 10416056
Category: Print Template | Comment: ( 0 )
GraphicRiver The Spring Emotions 10416056
Print Template \ Flyers \ Events
Spring \ Special \ Nature \ Music \ March \ Break \ Woman \ Vacation \ Summer \ Ladies
Print Template - The Spring Emotions 10416056 by Ycz @ GraphicRiver
Print Template \ Flyers \ Events
Layered: Yes; Graphics Files Included: Photoshop PSD; Minimum Adobe CS Version: CS; Print Dimensions: 4x6.
The Spring Emotion – Flyer
The best party in town is at your location !
Special designed flyer for your ocasion and holiday
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Special Guest - Flyer; The Wine Cocktail; The Cocktail Bundle; The Glass of Beer; The Love Bundle; The Vodka Cocktail; The Red Cocktail;
Keywords: beach, birds, cocktail, drink, earth, emotion, feeling, flowers, flyer, holiday, ladies, march, music, nature, special, spring, spring break, summer, vacation, woman.


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Ten years on, is Sex and the City still relevant?
On a long-haul flight a couple of months ago, I was scrolling through the TV shows on offer when I came across the Holy Grail: every series of Sex and the City. Ever.
I proceeded to spend the next 12 hours in a haze of Manolo Blahniks, Cosmopolitans and never-ending brunches. It was the best flight I've had in a long time, even though I was seated next to someone's cranky baby and a snoring man. I didn't care – I had Carrie, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte.
But even though I still laughed at the girls' antics (and still questioned Carrie's bizarre outfit choices), some of the plot lines just didn't ring true for me anymore. In fact, ten years on from the show's finale, it all seemed a little dated.
No longer is it the height of indecency to discuss sex with your friends, or to go for exactly what you want in the bedroom or at work. Many of the things that made Sex and the City so risqué are now just a part of every woman's normal life.
HBO has since moved on to a more current viewpoint with Girls, which is certainly a more relevant show for any Millennial. There's no high fashion, Vogue, or power suits – the Girls girl has a realistic body shape, reads Jezebel and Gawker, and drinks beer, not cocktails. It might not be a glamorous outlook on life, but it's certainly closer to what most twenty-somethings go through every day.
Despite all of this, there is still something that draws me back to Sex and the City every time.
One thing that SATC has in spades is strong female friendships. The SATC girls were there for each other through it all – bad one-night stands, breakups, fertility problems and even cancer. Sure, there was the odd tense moment, but what female friendship doesn't have those?
In contrast, Hannah, Marnie, Shoshanna and Jessa are always slightly detached and distant from each other, never really bothering to fight one another's corner. I know I'd much rather subscribe to the SATC model of friendship than to say, as Hannah Hobart does, "I'm not interested in anything [my friends] have to say. That's not the point of friendship." Ouch.
Girls might portray life as it is lived by most 18 – 25 year olds these days, but perhaps it's a little too close to home? I love the sharp wit and relatable role models, but when I need a pick-me-up, I'll still turn to Carrie and co.


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Description of the accommodation:
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On this Mother's Day, I'm doing something very brave for me. I am sharing OUT LOUD a very painful time in my life. How my sister mothered my children when I couldn't. How is that brave? Because I find it SO hard to cry in front of people, to let down my guard and bare my … [Read more...] about How My Sister Mothered My Children When I Couldn't
Crohn's Disease
My Late Husband's Legacy
I learned a rather insightful thing the other day. I finally figured out my late husband's legacy. It was his gift to me of the ability to cope. As I've shared before, our son was 16 months-old and our daughter had just celebrated her third birthday when my husband passed … [Read more...] about My Late Husband's Legacy
How My Sister Nurtured My Kids
I rarely write about my late husband and his illness. John passed away from complications of Crohn's Disease in 1997 when our son was just 16 months old and our daughter was three. It's not that I don't remember. I do. It's just that I have spent the past 18 years fiercely … [Read more...] about How My Sister Nurtured My Kids


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Paying Non-Resident Alien
Paying a Nonresident Alien: A Guide for Payroll Coordinators
The Internal Revenue Service (IRS) sets regulations with respect to tax withholding and reporting for payments to persons who are neither citizens nor resident aliens of the US. If you have any questions about helping your new international employee apply for tax exemption please refer to the below information. If you still have questions, please contact the Payroll Office at 617-353-2270.
If your international employee would like to be exempt from taxes please have them submit the following forms to the Payroll Office:
- Clear copy of their Passport Picture
- Clear copy of their Visa
- Copy of their I-94 Form (front and back), this a green or white card stapled into their passport near their visa – NOTE: beginning August 26th 2013, copies can be obtained at http://www.cbp.gov/I94. This can only be obtained by the visitor.
- Copy of their entry stamp
- Copy of their immigration documentation; I-20 for F-1 visa holders, DS-2019 for J-1 visa holders, and form 797A for H1B visa holders
- If the employee is on an F-1 visa and is doing their Optional Practical Training (OPT) they need to provide a copy of the Employment Authorization Document (EAD)
- If your employee is on a J-2 visa they must provide their DS-2019 and their EAD
If your employee changes their visa status or receives an extension and you update their I-9, please forward a copy of that information to the Payroll Office at 25 Buick Street.


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June 15, 2004
The Book of Days was designed to consist of—1. Matters connected with the Church Kalendar, including the Popular Festivals, Saints' Days, and other Holidays, with illustrations of Christian Antiquities in general ; 2. Phænomena connected with the Seasonal Changes ; 3. Folk-Lore of the United Kingdom—namely, Popular Notions and Observances connected with Times and Seasons ; 4. Notable Events, Biographies, and Anecdotes connected with the Days of the Year ; 5. Articles of Popular Archæology, of an entertaining character, tending to illustrate the progress of Civilization, Manners, Literature, and Ideas in these kingdoms ; 6. Curious, Fugitive, and Inedited Pieces. It was stated to be the desire of the Editor—while not discouraging the progressive spirit of the age, to temper it with affectionate feelings towards what is poetical and elevated, honest and of good report, in the old national life ; while in no way discountenancing great material interests, to evoke an equal activity in those feelings beyond self, on which depend remoter but infinitely greater interests ; to kindle and sustain a spirit of patriotism, tending to unity, peace, and prosperity in our own state, while not exclusive of feelings of benevolence, as well as justice, towards others. It was desired that these volumes should be a repertory of old fireside ideas in general, as well as a means of improving the fireside wisdom of the present day. The day of profession has now merged into the day of performance, the half of the work being completed. It is given to few to feel assured that every particular of a favourite object has been duly accomplished ; and the individual who has super-intended the birth of these pages is certainly not of that happy minority. He would say, nevertheless, that he has done his best, with the means and opportunities at his disposal, to produce a work answering to his plan, and calculated to improve, while it entertains, and mingling the agreeable with the instructive. It will also be his hope to produce a second volume, if possible to him, excelling the first ; and in this he meanwhile rests, THE GENTLE READER'S HUMBLE SERVANT.
))) And many more bananas as well. This is fantastic, goetter! Thanks!
I shudder to think what this place would be without such learned, erudite monkeys as goetter and languagehat (to name just two, and get some good sucking-up done in the process). It'd probably be one big mishmash of poo jokes and sarcasm. Not that that's a bad thing.
Very very very very nice. Nice nice. Thank you!
I can't stop reading. I will get nothing at all done this afternoon. Scaltheen and City Of London Pie for all!
Fascinating link... am lost in a world of ducking stools and scold's bridles. Cheers.
From the 1879 version: Shakespeare (including pictures). I love this! Thanks, goetter.
Oh, this is great stuff, goetter! A place to get happily lost in, as I did here.
Thanks goetter! I've been saving this post for the end of the day, and it was worth the wait. Wonderful stuff.
*clap clap clap clap clap!* Vurrah vurrah good, goetter.


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Frankie Scarborough
Frankie Scarborough was born February 9, 1959 in Modesto, California, the youngest in a large family.
At age 2 he experienced a traumatic brain injury from which he lost the use of his left arm and was blinded in his right eye. With permanent mental disabilities as well, Frankie attended a local school for children with special needs and in 1968 enrolled in the Alan Short Center in Stockton, California. There he began making paintings and sculpture and realizing the talent within himself. With a warm and loving personality his paintings and drawings exhibit a love of color, an innate design ability and his joy at creating them. Frankie's work has been included in a number of group and solo exhibitions.


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Ok this is a lazy gourmet geek post, I must admit. Our grand plans this weekend was to recreate the "cake is a lie" cake from portal, but other things happened to pop up unexpectedly.
For those who do not get the above reference, eggy in a basket, also known as one-eyed Egyptian, frog in a hole, sunshine toast and egg in a blanket, was the meal that V cooks for Evie in the film. And as i have my own V, what better thing to make for him for a lazy Sunday breakfast.
Eggy in a Basket
You will need (depending on the number of people you are making this for):
salt and pepper
tomato sauce
cookie cutters or egg cups
1) Using the egg cup or cookie cutter, cut a circle out of the middle of the bread.
2) Melt some butter in a fry pan. Put the bread in the fry pan. Crack the eggs carefully into the holes in the bread.
3) Fry them a little while then turn it over. When the egg is cooked to your liking remove from pan and gobble it while it's hot! serve with sauce if you wish
4) Enjoy!!


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Open Letter to Jack White, Day 2
I do not know what to write tonight. The world is burning around me; what does it matter if I excavate my wounds or not? It feels hard to make a case for the personal when a sexual predator is president and we have a Congress going on their ninth year of rulemaking (or the lack thereof) based on their racism, their greed, their fear that—much like Tolkien's Elves—their time has passed and they need to board that magical boat with Bilbo and head into wherever the Elves were going to. When you read a story about a mother and her five-year-old deported to a near-certain death sentence somewhere in Latin America, it feels ridiculous to still be grieving because before he died my father never apologized for treating me like a piece of the furniture, or because I can't seem to keep the weight off, or because I'm never ever going to have a child and I acknowledged far too late that was something I wanted. It is hard to make room, or feel like I should make room for my own suffering when there are so many voices crying out. It feels ridiculous even to write this, bemoaning having a space to moan, when the world is drowning in—to borrow from Lorca—its enormous sobbing. And yet, if we don't tend to our own wounds, how will we have the stamina to tend to the wounds of the world? It is ridiculous also, to think, that the quotidian struggles don't continue in the face of the monumental ones. The other, the one I write for, the one who perhaps feels what I'm feeling but cannot articulate it, I imagine, still needs me to get on with the business of bleeding on to the page because she needs those words to tend to her own broken heart in between her calls to her members of Congress (who seem to have misplaced their own hearts permanently). That is what I tell myself as I numbly push key after key on my laptop to spill out these words. I confess I don't really believe it today, that it matters, but I'll be back tomorrow and another tomorrow. I'll persist until I believe again and keep persisting even on those days where the world makes it too damned hard to believe in anything. Promise?
Open Letter to Jack White, Day 1*
This is what I scribbled on my phone today: "I keep expecting that I'll meet a fellow artist who will fall in love with me. Aren't we–after all–the ones gifted with second sight? Aren't we the ones who can see beyond? I want a man who can see me and not see me."
It is too painful to continue. I am too lonely. I am weary of my secrets. I am weary of slitting my wrists with a pen because I think there is some way to solve me. There is some way to unknot me. I am weary of being full of surprises. How many fucking wounds can I possibly have to articulate and categorize and spelunk through in hopes of finding their source and then a cure?
I am weary of my obsessions: this body, my father (my mother's off the hook for right now, but she'll be back, another hectoring ghost). I am weary of having to divine what is truth, what is melodrama, when I am parenting myself well, when the whole thing's just gone off the rails.
I am weary of having that feeling that there's something to be said well up inside me like salvation. I am weary of setting myself this penance. I am weary of wanting to be known. I am weary of being so aware that, for me, trust is a dirty word.
I am weary of want. I am weary of desire. I am weary of need.
I am weary of the same questions: But, do I even want a partner? How can anyone even fall for me if I look like this? How do I explain that I've only ever had one boyfriend in 47 years and when I told him "I love you," it was just to hear how it sounds? When will I be past it, over it, through it, beyond it? When will I let go? When will I stop haunting myself with the old wounds?
I am weary of accepting your comfort. I am weary of wanting your comfort. I am weary of doing all the wrong things to soothe myself.
I am weary of persisting. I am weary of starting again. I am weary of looking on the bright side. I am weary of the effort of naming myself: intelligent, pretty, funny, loyal, sensitive, wise, thoughtful, accomplished. Why is it so uncomfortable to write that list, to read that list, to believe that list? Why does it feel like holding my breath underwater till my lungs are flopping around inside my chest like marooned fish every time I need to remember who I am? Why is it easier to name the wounds, the scars, than to name their absence, their healing?
Look, I don't really want to start this. This unraveling. This searching. This discovery. This panning for gold. I don't want to perform for myself: But, look we're making progress.
I'm weary. But still…
*I know Jack White is probably not a very nice man but I'd still like to make out with him. And sing some blues with him. And then make out some more.
Open Letter to Patti Smith, Day 22 (#GNF)
Many mornings I send a long text to my sister to let her know I'm thinking of her. I usually end those texts with #GNF ("Give No Fucks" for those of you who don't speak acronym or hipster slang.)
At the venerable age of 46, you'd think I'd be a world champion #GNF-er. I mean, I'm an artist, for goodness' sake. Aren't we all rule-breaking free spirits who wouldn't know a boundary or a stricture if it slapped us in the face? And isn't part of being a woman of a certain age being so confident and wise that the little things like what others think of one's appearance just don't matter?
And it's true that today I've been wandering around—outside of the apartment even!—wearing paint-covered shorts and a black tank top, which is not scandalous at all until I disclose that I'm also braless and my armpits haven't seen a razor in at least a year. I mean I'm all about the #GNF today, at least sartorially. And mortified at the way I'm dressed the whole time.
I had a friend once who said she admired me greatly for my impulsiveness, my free spiritedness. We're no longer close friends, probably cause she never knew me well enough to see how deeply structured and rule-bound my life actually is. That it's taken me years to be able to accept a change of plans gracefully. That though I was excited to have two weeks vacation, I felt too unmoored to enjoy it for the first few days because I didn't have the regularity of getting up every day to go to work. That it took me years to feel comfortable wearing bright red lipstick and to wear tank tops without a sweater over them—even on the hottest days—to cover up my arm flab because of that rule of people whose sizes run to the double digits not drawing attention to themselves.
Being a #GNF person requires a certain lack of insecurity, which I sometimes lack. I'm certainly more confident about the way I look and who I am now as I inch toward 50 than I was when I couldn't imagine all the way to 50, but my #GNFness can be pretty hard to come by as I sit at a party with my younger cousins—who are all thinner, taller, and prettier than I am—trying not to feel like the fat frumpy spinster cousin who doesn't actually need cats to be a crazy cat lady. My red lipstick and vintage yellow earrings and all-black ensemble looked #GNF af* but my inner monologue was something like, "Why are you so fat right now? No, you look fine. You look pretty. It's not your fault you didn't get the tall genes. OMG–you're one of the old people now! Why don't you have any cool shoes?" In other words I was racking up fucks like they were the only things between me and POTUS Trump.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to see Sonny my barber to get a trim. Somehow while I was sitting there waiting for him to get through the five other customers who were waiting for him (seriously, though, ladies first should be a thing in the barber shop!), I decided he should cut my ponytail off. Which he did. And I walked out of said barbershop happy to have a curly-ish mohawk-ish chop that didn't require much combing of hair, always a win in my book.
I loved my new look! Until the euphoria wore off. And I looked in the mirror. And realized how butch I looked. How unfeminine. Which spiraled into a long litany of, "Oh, if only I could wear heels, I could make this work! If only I were thinner! If only I had perkier boobs! I can't leave the house without eyeshadow and blush and lipstick until this grows out!" In other words, again, I was giving A LOT of fucks.
Which seems ridiculous to me now as I sit here in my favorite chair, with the fan sending the perfect breeze my way, and the sun shining, and enough money in my bank account to pay for a steak tonight, and the realization that I can probably afford to buy myself a pair of light pink Converse especially as I have a DSW coupon, and the deep contentment that comes from GNF-ing about the laundry you haven't done and the poems you haven't edited and the list of things you were supposed to do over vacation that you haven't consulted once because you decided it was more important to just "be" and not worry about "do. "
Practicing #GNF-ing is exactly why I've taken out the trash and handed in my pool pass application braless today. And why I made myself a martini at 2:30 instead of waiting for dinner. And why I've been writing ridiculous things on Facebook all day and reading romance novels. I'm practicing my #GNF-ness because I've figured out that it's not something that magically shows up with age (though the wisdom that can come with age can show us how important it is). GNF-ness is a habit. GNF-ness is a choice. GNF-ness is something I need to do a lot more of.
* as fuck: another thing the kids say to mean—as we would have said in the 80s—"to the max!"
Open Letter to Patti Smith, Day 21 (on shame and progress)
I've written several times about the "monster" that I thought lived somewhere deep inside me who made me unloveable. I was looking at a blog post from last year about that pesky monster, and as I read my writing about finally getting some therapy (and some lovely pills) when I was in my mid-30s, I was surprised to find myself feeling shame. Not shame about the depression itself, not shame about initially needing pharmaceutical help to deal with it, but shame about the fact that it took me so long to figure out just how fucked up I was.
No, that's not quite accurate either. The shame is really about how long it took me to figure out that I needed help. That I wasn't actually "high-maintenance." That I didn't react to the slightest change of plans like it was a betrayal because I was needlessly rigid. It turns out that a lot of what could be perceived as neediness, clinginess, coldness, meanness, flightiness and a whole hodgepodge of sometimes contradictory behaviors was the result of never being parented by my parents. Like most kids of narcissists (and other types of parents who abdicate the emotional part of their parenting duties) I parented myself by telling myself a whopper of a lie—that inner monster of mine—so I had a reason for why they hadn't parented me.
It's not surprising that given that that lie was my survival mechanism, one that had become enshrined in me, practically hardwired into my DNA before I even really had language or knew that language could both help you tell and untell stories, or understood that all stories we are told about ourselves aren't true even if they're told by the people we're all supposed to agree are the most trustworthy. Given all of that, it's somewhat surprising that I did eventually stumble on the truth that I was spending my life reacting to one hell of a whopper.
I mean, honestly, I thought it was completely normal to sit in the corner of my room, rest my head on the radiator, and sob till I felt sick. I thought it was completely normal to let myself ghost out of myself when I felt anything but numbness. And really, if you're funny and smart and like to throw tea parties and can hold your drink fairly well (even though you do have an alarming tendency to ask men to sleep with you when you're wasted but that's another blog post) and you can find at least a few friends who will put up with your tendency to pee in parking lots on your way to the T or the El for the trip home, you can keep that lie safe for decades.
Until the summer you turn 31 and you work in a building in downtown DC with a beautiful flight of wooden stairs, and every time you walk down those stairs you have to fight the urge to throw yourself down those stairs cause you know you'll feel so much better if you can just get the pain that's on the inside to manifest itself on the outside. Until you make friends with writers who are in therapy and start talking about things like depression and anxiety disorder, writer friends who point out time and again how much longing is in your poems, how much grief. Until you are riding home on the Metro one day and you think, "Well, I could just kill myself," which terrifies you because you've always prided yourself on not being one of those people who would commit suicide cause really things are never quite that bad. And that terror sends you to campus one day to the student mental health office and you talk with your first psychiatrist who is younger than you are and diagnoses you with "depressive disorder unspecified" and prescribes a baby daily dose of Zoloft. And you don't know what to talk about so you tell her you procrastinate writing projects all the time because surely that signifies everything that's wrong with you–your laziness, your lack of preparation, your general wrongness. And this baby psychiatrist asks one question: "Have you ever missed a deadline?" And when you answer, "No," she wonders—then why are you worried about it?
Even though it will take another year or two for me to figure out that what I call "procrastination" is actually the way my brain works, processing all the information I need for the project, finding the story long before I actually scratch things out on a sheet of paper, that moment, when she asks that simple question, and I am forced to consider all the wrong words I have been using to describe myself for decades, is the first time I start to wonder what else I have told myself about myself and others have told me about myself is wrong, too.
So the moral of the story is that all of these things had to happen for me to finally catch a glimpse of the lie and that's what matters, right? But shouldn't I have somehow seen it sooner? I'm a smart woman. I read a lot of books. I write poetry for goodness' sake. Doesn't that give me some sort of insight into human existence and shouldn't that insight of mine have detected the "Help Me!" sign that had been flashing above my head for decades?
But that's the wrong story, too. That we are all-seeing when it comes to who we are. That there's such a thing as "too long." That self-awareness, self-knowledge is some kind of race with check boxes and status reports and ETAs. That when it happens trumps everything else.
Here's what shame is: it's believing the wrong story about yourself.
Here's what I need to remember: The right story about me is that I don't know why it took the time it did to realize I was wrong about the monster and so many other things about myself. The right story about me is that it doesn't matter how long it took to get there. The right story about me is that penalizing or feeling bad about myself cause it took a certain amount of time is just a silly attempt to give myself another monster and really, who needs that? The right story about me is that I will sometimes forget that. The right story about me is that there will be so many other times when I'll feel that shame and instead of letting it send me down into a spiral of self-doubt, I'll remind myself that it doesn't matter how long it took for me to get to that place of un-telling. The right story about me is that—despite the safety and comfort of that old story—I did, in fact, get there.
Open Letter to Patti Smith, Day 20 (on rage)
I read this blog post by my friend Jonno and I started to respond by writing this:
"We are told to let it go, whatever it is. Childhood abuse, a broken marriage, a friend's betrayal. We are never told to go at our own pace. Or that letting go is a process. Or that letting go is a convoluted kind of thing that happens only in pieces. That it's a dance where you never quite learn the steps."
Jonno had found himself still enraged by abuse that happened decades ago, and was struggling with the idea that that rage was still roiling inside of him though he thought he had worked through all of it. I was angry on his behalf at that idea that our processing of trauma had some kind of time limit on it. At least I thought that's what I was angry about.
My blog post petered out after 16 sentences. I told myself it was because I'd been doing so much writing and editing—as I was on the verge of being out of the office for two weeks—that I just didn't have any mojo left. I was out of words. I was out of space to think. And maybe, to be kind to myself, I should say that that was partly true.
But what was more true was that I recognized in Jonno's post a similar anger in myself. He wrote:
"I see it all the time in my work. I teach actors I try to prompt them, try to get them to lose their fear of that rage I see in so many of them. I tell them it's okay to give in to it, that the fire they are so afraid of will not, cannot, shall not consume them.
"But I'm lying. My own chest contains a bomb. I am terrified of its power."
I am terrified of my own bomb ticking, my possible detonation. I am terrified that the engine of these poems about my father is not a need to understand nor a need to forgive but sheer rage. I know that without the poems, I would ignite and each time I run out of words, the ticking asserts itself, its volume undiminished by the years, by the poems. My rage is rarely heard by the outside world, yet it never decrescendos.
I do not want anyone to see my anger. If they do, I might learn that the story it took me so long to untell myself—that I carried deep inside a monster, a feral creature of black and pitch that made it impossible for anyone, particularly my parents, to emotionally care for me—may be true after all.
I tell myself it's better that I stay alone. Sure I can exist in civilization for short bursts. Sure I can have friends and I can love and be loved. But I'm not sure I can let anyone close enough to hear the ticking. I am not sure I want to let anyone close enough to hear the ticking. I do not want to indelibly bruise anyone with my anger because I've been indelibly bruised. Sure, I'll show you my bruises, but I'm not sure I can let you close enough that you might accidentally graze them. I cannot let you touch me with your accidental trigger finger.
One last thought from Jonno:
"I have finally had to admit that I contain so much anger, so much atomic fury, that I fear if I let it out I'll never come back to myself."
Without that rage-built metronome, what will I write about? If I run out of that anger, how will I know that I've survived and I've not been broken entirely? When that trip wire finally snaps, who will I be? What if I can't find the words to put myself back together? What if even all of the hands of every single person in this whole world who loves me even a little just isn't enough to heal me? And if the detonator is pushed and nothing at all happens, who am I then?
Open Letter to Patti Smith, Day 19 (things to stop doing)
I need to stop apologizing for my enthusiasms; I need to stop seeing myself as "over the top" when I fall down a rabbit hole of person, place, or thing; I need to stop apologizing for my crushes—t0 myself, to friends, to the crush in question; I need to stop feeling guilty that I enjoy the trip down each particular rabbit hole; I need to stop judging myself by the standards of people who rejected me a lifetime ago; I need to stop making their rejection my fault; I need to stop believing the chorus of "too much too much too much" that rises up every time I don't hold myself back; I need to stop holding myself back; I need to stop apologizing to myself for being myself; I need to stop thinking I need to put myself in context for other people; I need to stop thinking that if I don't hold myself back, I will lose people; I need to stop letting that chorus of "too much too much too much" that rises up every time I don't hold myself back make me feel ashamed; I need to stop believing that if someone doesn't understand the depth of what I'm feeling that I am wrong for having that feeling; I need to stop seeing everyone else's reactions to me through the lens of my own idiosyncratic issues; I need to stop believing idiosyncrasy is a bad thing; I need to stop being scared by the power of my imagination; I need to stop seeing hunger as a burden I place on other people; I need to stop apologizing for my many hungers; I need to stop believing I am safe for other people only at a distance; I need to stop believing I am an IED of need; I need to stop automatically reading censure in other people's eyes; I need to stop being terrified when I care too much too soon; I need to stop believing my admiration has no value; I need to stop hearing every silence as a rejection; I need to forgive the silences when people just don't know what to say; I need to stop measuring myself with words like surfeit or excessive or zealous;I need to stop wanting to be less; I need to stop being afraid of myself.
Open Letter to Patti Smith, Day 18 (on refusing to write a short story)
Here is a section from an epistolary short story I'm not writing:*
Dear Vi–
I haven't been able to stop crying. No, let me be accurate about this. I have only been able to stop crying for short periods of time. I cry when I make my morning coffee. I cry while I unpack another box of books. I even cry when I'm sitting on the toilet and of course I pee so much these days.
Everything here is green. Which is beautiful and too much all at the same time. Sometimes I look at M, at those eyes I trust with my everything and think yes, his eyes are also too green.
I didn't think that at home. I mean at my home.
I look like no one and nothing here, but I knew that going in. I said yes anyway. Loudly. Publicly. Enthusiastically.
I feel I need to be as accurate as possible now. So I don't misname things. So I don't get confused. So I don't think "grief" when this is probably only homesickness.
You remember those poems about a lover being a home? Everyone liked them, including me. Do you think I was wrong? And who was I lying to? And why?
Who cries at the beginning of things? Who cries at wonderful and perfect for me? Who cries when it's taken so long to happen? Why can't I stop crying?
(Oh, about the pee-ing thing. I'm not pregnant, just middle-aged. Remember that time we talked about everything that disappears after a woman turns 40—why didn't we include bladder control?)
I hate the phrase "ugly cry." I told my sister about the weeping—not how often just that I was doing it—and she said," I hope you're not ugly crying. You and M haven't been together that long." (I also hate that she said "together" not married. I mean I know it was just a clerk's office but she was there, wasn't she?)
I should go now. I'm about to start up again. I can feel the waterworks rumbling just underneath my skin. I'll write more tomorrow.
I'll write about how beautifully green it is here. I'll write about my plans. I'll figure out how to tell you how damned happy I am.
*Reasons not to write this story: I have an adversarial relationship with commas, sentences and I don't get along, James Franco, I am much lazier than I appear in the mirror, I don't know where it starts, having a short story roaming around in me is more painful than the usual giants, the poems will get jealous and lustful for revenge, if the story refuses to have a happy ending, oh, how that will break my heart.
Open Letter to Patti Smith, Day 17 (on motherhood…)
I will never know if I am fertile. I will never know what kind of mother I am. I will never know how long it took me to get pregnant and if I was able to successfully breastfeed. I will never know how many miscarriages I had and what my mother told me after the first one. I will never know what I named my daughter. I will never know what I named my son. I will never know what my favorite present at the baby shower was. Or if we played those silly baby shower games after all. I will never know what day of the week it was when I first felt the baby kick. Or what time it was and what the weather was like outside when I felt the quickening. I will never know if I knew immediately that I was pregnant or if it took me far too long to catch on. I will never know if my oldest has her father's eyes or mine, and if she smiles like me or somehow manages to smile like my sister. I will never know how old my son was when we decided to make his crib into a "big boy's bed." Or what year we took our youngest to their first baseball game. Or how we explained Grandpa Alban's death. I will never forget to put money under a pillow for the tooth fairy. I will never decide if and when to spill the beans about Santa Claus. Or worry that my youngest thinks Jesus is Santa Claus. I will never have to remind myself that we decided never to spank the children. I will never have to feel bad the one time I forget and slap a little hand after the 52nd time I've said, "Please don't touch that" or "Please put that down." I will never wonder who thinks I'm a bad mother. I will never wonder which mistakes are inevitable and if my daughter really will need therapy because of me. I will never run out of ideas for birthday parties. Or worry that we're not saving enough for college. Or hope she didn't hear me when I said "Fuck!" out loud that one time I burned my hand while making dinner. I will never have to fit myself around a small body who insists on climbing into my bed—and sleeping sideways. I will never think of the dear weight of him in my lap when I am at work and he is at nursery school. I will never understand what loss, what ache my mother felt when she caught a glimpse of me sleeping and thought, "Oh, she'll never be my little girl again" and then burst into tears. I will mourn or I will not. I will press these losses to my chest or I will not. I will let myself be haunted by what I didn't catch hold of, or I will press my lips to what it is that has come instead to fill these hands, this body, this life.
Open Letter to Patti Smith, Day 16 (some things I should write about)
Here's what I should be writing about: how a friend's insistence that I could not take care of a baby was an unexpected wound upon wound, quick as a papercut, deep as being gut-shot, hidden as an aneurysm. I also should write about how sometimes I allow my mother to seduce me, and how other times I cannot bear to let her "I love yous" and her insinuation that there is something deep and fertile between us touch me even at a distance. I should write too about how lonely I was last night because it was Friday and I imagined every one was out and in love though if it had been a regular Friday night and not one when I was home sick, and I had come in late from work, I would have been so grateful to be home, to be alone, to keep company with no one but the blue couch and the television. Then too for writing there's how scared I was on Thursday morning as I felt the most intense dizziness I'd ever felt and the horror at having to be taken care of and at making everyone worry. I could write about how I'm scared there won't be enough poems to make the new book I see in my head, and that if I do write enough poems to make the new book I see in my head, if I read them out loud, there are some secrets that will become told forever. I could write that a cost of keeping myself levered open is that the foul-mouthed editor who lives in my head grows more insistent that I'm doing it wrong, "it" being living and being a friend and being myself. Or I could write about those people I support with my likes or my comments who never read my blog posts or even my status updates in return or send an encouraging word and how petty it makes me feel that I notice that and how petty it makes me feel to think of not supporting them because of that. I could tell you about the woman who made me miserable in grad school because I wasn't the type of black woman she wanted me to be and she even questioned one day in class to our professor, in front of the whole workshop of poets, why what I wrote was even poetry and still I continued to give encouraging feedback on her work because it was beautiful. I could also confess that there have been people I haven't wanted to be friends with because I didn't think the quality of their work was very high and I didn't know how to lie very well, or rather I should say I didn't know how to be kind very well. And when I remember myself as I was 25 years ago, I remember myself unkindly and I remember myself being unkind even though someone who knew me then insists that wasn't how it was at all. I could write about how I see myself as never pushing through the hard things even though the evidence that I do at least try is all around me but yet I think I don't try enough because I worry I'm too much like my father. And I worry I'm too much like my mother and not the parts of her that are good at flirting with men (which I don't have at all) or charming people into doing her favors (I always use bribes not any charm I might possibly have) but the part where you only matter to me if you are useful, or our world views can buttonhook into each other without any snagging or pulling. And I should confess too that when I go to the library I get too many books even though there are books I own that I haven't read yet and I will go to the used books store in my neighborhood and buy more books because I feel responsible for keeping it alive, and then I'll go to the library and again get too many books and of course there's the thing where I like dangerous men, though I don't actually know any dangerous men, and anyway, by now you've figured out that I think all men are dangerous.


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NEW YORK, Mar 30, 2007 -- Lexington Insurance Company, a member company of American International Group, Inc. (AIG), today announced it has expanded its Violence Guard(R) suite of services, available to Lexington's employment practice liability (EPL) insureds to provide additional complimentary services designed to help employers prevent, respond to, and mitigate consequences of violent acts at the workplace.
"Many American workers fall victim to violence in the workplace each year. Workplace violence presents a significant liability exposure for employers, and such incidents can be extremely expensive and disruptive to an employer's business," said Mark Ogilvie, EPL Product Line Manager, Lexington Insurance Company. "It is critical for employers to engage in a wide array of strategies to help prevent such events and manage their exposure. We enhanced our EPL offerings to help address this exposure. It is a natural step in our ongoing effort to provide state-of-the-market coverage and support for employment-related risks."
The Violence Guard(R) suite includes:
The Violence Guard services are part of a suite of complimentary risk management resources and training tools Lexington offers to all EPL policyholders. The suite also includes online management training tutorials on discrimination, harassment, evaluations, employee discipline and termination and HR tools, such as best workplace practices manuals, management guidelines, policies, forms, employee handbooks, and FAQs on common employee relations issues.
To learn more about workplace violence risks, view Taming Workplace Hostility, a Webcast accessible at www.lexcasts.com/twhepl, which is the latest in the LexCast Audio and Webcast series. The Webcast features commentary from experts on workplace crises and legal liabilities related to workplace violence discussing best practices in preventing and mitigating risk, the evolving regulatory environment, and the specialized HR and employment issues that arise in hostile or potentially hostile work environments.
For more information on Violence Guard or EPL insurance, contact Mark Ogilvie, Product Line Manager, at 617.443.4644 or email@example.com.
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American International Group, Inc.


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Where The Piecelock Ends is a collection of beats recorded straight
from the stereo output of Thes One's Akai MPC3000 in December
2014. It was first presented as a free gift to lovers of sample based
production via the artist's soundcloud (google it and you'll find that it's
still available for free download!). Now available on Vinyl & Cassette
for the first time via Thes One's Piecelock70 & Redefinition Recs.
1. Hard Times
2. Be Strong
3. Brincidofovir
4. Kids
5. The Music Is News
6. Everybody Must Get Stoned Once
7. High Tide
8. Numbers Station Theme Song
9. Dark Days
10. Raindrops At Midnight
11. For Seasons
12. Dead In The Water
13. Hear And Now
14. Drummond For Love
15. The Dusty Trail Home Available from 25.11.2016


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PRN: 888 Charity Weekend is Back
08/dic/2011 08.00.23 PR Newswire Turismo Contatta l'autore
888 Charity Weekend is Back
GIBRALTAR, December 8, 2011 /PRNewswire/ --
888.com is excited to be hosting the 888 Charity Weekend this weekend, 9-12 December 2011. For the fifth consecutive year, 888.com will donate 8% of the house profits for the entire weekend in Casino, Poker, Bingo & Sports brands. Launched in 2006, the event has proved increasingly popular year-on-year with 888.com members, culminating in a record breaking donation of $70K last year. This year, in addition to the 888 Charity Weekend, individual brands will be enabling players to contribute even more through promotions like 888casino's Santastic video slot, 888poker's Charity Challenge & 888ladies £200 Good Cause. A further donation from these three promotions will be added to the final 888 Charity Weekend figures.
For more information about 888.com's community & charity activities contact Yahav Levy, Director of CSR and Responsible Gaming at firstname.lastname@example.com.
For more information about this release or 888.com and its house of brands, please contact Head of Media and Public Relations, Jennifer Huxley at firstname.lastname@example.com, t: +44(0)207-487-8694.


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Camino Real
By Tennessee Williams
December 4, 2011, 1pm
Camino Real is Tennessee Williams' dream play that borrows heavily from Strindberg's A Dream Play and The Great Highway. Peopled with characters from literature and pop culture, including Casanova, Camille, Don Quixote, and Kilroy, Camino Real, one of William's most imaginative and touching plays, takes place in a bizarre afterworld where the royal road of the unconscious empties out onto a real road littered with life's misfits.
Cutting Ball's Hidden Classics series this season is devoted to celebrating the work of Strindberg – his plays and plays his work has inspired – in preparation for our production of Strindberg Cycle: The Chamber Plays in Rep in the 2012-2013 season.
Camino Real is directed by M. Graham Smith and features Lauren Bloom, Brian Herndon, Lori Holt, Louis Parnell, Kevin Rolston, Steven Hess.
The reading is free and open to the public. A talkback with the director, cast, and Cutting Ball's Literary Manager Bennett Fisher will follow the play.


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"Who got the BPM of this track??"
Most of the time when I'm with my friends or even alone listening to music many questions about the tracks start raising…
But. For some people finding the music tempo may seem too hard. But don't worry, if you are like that person today we have a nice tool that can help you with that while engaging you.
BPM by Ben Brook
Over GitHub Ben Brook, the developer, released this new and interesting tool, "BPM". BPM is a simple and easy to use tool for Mac users only. The tool consists of a button on your Mac's status bar, the button contains the BPM. To get your tracks tempo you just have to click on time with the track on the button. The idea here is the same as Ableton's "tap to tempo" thing, where you just need to click on the tempo to change it. The tool can do only this but it's a fast and reliable way to find your tracks tempo very quickly.
Free to use
You can download BPM directly from GitHub! It's completely free to download and to use!
So that's it enjoy it and thank you for everyone reading these words!


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A Road Trip with Millie and SvenApril 20, 2014 | Millie Noe 14
It's a shame that I did not write when I was young. That way I could have recounted that canoe trip ending with nothing left to eat but deep fried potato chips while dressed in very stylish, extra large garbage bags. Or the time we hitch hiked back to the car and were picked up by an Indian driving a station wagon so crammed full of his family that a little girl had to be placed on my lap and then he drove straight to a bar, cashed a check and bought us shots of whiskey. Or that time that a sudden onset of the munchies put Sven and I in a very precarious situation as we came upon a set of number two rapids with our little gas camp stove teetering between us in the canoe, sloshing around a boiling pan of Ramon Noodles. Or that time we set up camp in complete exhaustion after paddling for hours through Holcum Flowage on a fourth of July weekend where jet boats with matching 250 horse motors, towing water skiers, could not seem to see us. And then later realizing that our hammock, the one that I was lying in, was strewn across a public hiking trail. So we had to tear the entire place apart, pack up the canoe once again and go back out onto that same lake where people had been trying to kill us all day long. And then there was the time when Sven tried to kiss me inside an outhouse that reeked of outhouse, but just so happened to be the only dry place our shriveled bodies had been for two super soaker rainy days and nights and I said, "I don't even like you."
That was then. This is now.
Today I'm going to tell you about our road trip to sunny, sunny Florida where spring breakers and old people go to have sex on the beach, to party like it will never end and to watch the weather channel.
And it all started because of Sven's ONE AND ONLY FACEBOOK FRIEND.
See: Must Be Strong and Must Be Strong II right here on www.millienoe.com for further explanation as to how someone has just ONE Facebook friend.
To this point in time, Fred, the one and only Facebook friend and his wife Grace live peacefully in Slidell Louisiana.
Sven and Fred became acquainted in the Coast Guard Academy when they were kids and were reunited a year ago, forty years later at a Coast Guard Academy Golf Tournament. Since that get together Sven has a new found interest in staying in contact with this poor unsuspecting man, Fred and now his innocent bystander of a wife, Grace.
Sven and I have been vacationing in really cool, faraway places in recent years.
Here is a picture from Jamaica two years ago. Doesn't this look like fun?
In order to save money and to take care of much needed house renovations we did not travel anywhere last year. (The house renovations NEVER took place.)
When Sven mentioned something about going on a trip somewhere near Slidell Louisiana, I, me, Millie Noe, did not take kindly to the idea.
"What about Puerto Rico or The Dominican or Curacao? What about those all-inclusive resorts that are right on those blue-green Caribbean waters?" I screamed.
After a couple months of heated debates, spinning of the globe, one of us stomping around the house, a phone call to Fred, searching online for a place to stay, our trip was set. Destination: Six nights, Panama City Beach, Florida, one night, Slidell Louisiana.
That is called compromise. Congress should give it a try.
At this very moment I am sitting on the beach in front of the Sunbird where we have rented a sweet one bedroom apartment right on the water.
I cannot believe that tomorrow we will already be leaving these white sands and these blue waters and we will be making our way to Louisiana. Where did the time go? What did we do?
Well, I'll tell you.
Our first night on the road I was a bobble head. I was excited before my alarm went off that morning and all through the hectic work day. I gobbled down a sandwich at my desk trying to tie up all loose ends which were unraveling as fast as I could tie them, because that is the way it is just before you go on a vacation. It's a state law or something. One must suffer when one shows any sign of life outside of the gray walls and the fluorescent lights. But I made it through work. I raced home. Hunter and I sprinted around the trail. I zipped through the living room with the vacuum. I swooshed the mop around the kitchen. I gave last minute instructions to our house sitting grandson. I kissed him goodbye. I kissed Hunter goodbye. I yelled goodbye to Mai Mai, we jumped into the car and we sped away. Fifteen minutes later I was having trouble holding my head up. I do remember a guy in Illinois making some wild and undetected by Sven, gestures at Sven and then I woke up in Effingham, Illinois.
When in Effingham it is impossible not to call everything, effing. And everybody effing knows this.
We got the last effing room at a Best Western Hotel.
The next thing I knew it was Friday, it was cold, it was dark and it was gray, but no matter, we were headed to sunny, sunny Florida to have sex on the beach, to party like it will never end and to watch the weather channel.
As we were cruising along in our little KIA, I heard them say something on the radio about it being the 125th anniversary of the Eiffel Tower.
Me: Doesn't it seem like the Eiffel Tower should be older than 125 years?
Sven: That seems like an Eiffel long time to me.
Me: Oh my God. It sounds like you've been in Eiffing-ham. You should have your own comedy show on the radio.
Sven: There would be a lot of dead air.
Me: But when you are funny, you are hilarious.
Sven: I could call my show, The Monk .
Sven was referring to my favorite joke ever. In case you haven't heard it, here goes. For those of you who know me and this stupid joke you might as well read it. You know you want to.
"You see, at the monastery the monks had taken a vow of silence. But every year one monk gets to say one sentence. The first year goes by in complete and utter silence, just working and praying and working and praying and then the day finally arrives where one monk gets to talk. He stands up at the breakfast table and booms out the words, "This oatmeal is too hot." The other monks look at each other and all nod in agreement. Another year goes by and a second monk finally gets to break the silence. He stands up after breakfast and he declares, "This oatmeal is too cold." The other monks look at each other and all nod in agreement. A year later another very lucky monk stands up to speak. He clears his throat and he says, "I am sick and tired of all the bitching about the oatmeal."
It gets me every effing time.
Anyway, road trips can be tough. It's hard to keep from going crazy while riding shot gun, God forbid the back seat, through gray, brown, flat terrain, not even a bud on a tree. So to keep from ending up in a straight jacket, I began to text, looking at Facebook and emailing on my cell phone.
My sister sent me a text that said, CALL ME. So I tried to call her, but she was already on the phone.
"What?" I said.
"You called me."
"No I didn't."
"I've been listening to you two for a long time. I've been yelling at you because you called me and I've been trying to get your attention. Couldn' t you hear me yelling?"
"No," I said. "And I didn't call you."
"Yes, you did."
This is when we tried to text each other during our phone call. "Okay," I said. "Wait, I'm sending it right now. Did you get it?"
It's too bad that we couldn't make it work because who wouldn't want to be talking to someone on the phone and have them say, "Wait a minute, I'm going to text you the next sentence. Did you get it?"
After our failed experiment I began to take a series of vacation photos from my view and I sending them to Louisa.
Do you by any chance remember where this story began?
In case you have forgotten, I was sitting in front of the Sunbird, on the beach, soaking up the sun, living the dream and writing this story. Well, just now, as in this moment, I looked up past my sunburned knees and saw two dolphins playfully swim past. They dove under the water and resurfaced twice. Nobody else around me seems to have noticed. This totally makes up for the time that I was on the air boat to the Keys with Sven and my parents and as we made our way slowly through a channel before switching to warp speed, everybody on board AND on shore were oohhing and aahhing at a bunch of dolphins, except me. No matter how hard all of the people pointed, I could not see them. By the way if you have ever fantasized about riding on the wing of an airplane instead inside in your crammed seat, I highly suggest you take an air boat to the Keys.
Fred, you one and only Facebook friend, you'd better be FUCKING awesome, because tomorrow we are leaving this beautiful place and by no fault of your own, to visit you and your poor, innocent wife.
But where was I with the road trip?
Oh yeah, Sven and I spent the second night in Dothan Georgia after all day driving and texting and we ordered Mexican takeout and we pretended the food was good.
We popped out of bed Saturday morning with less than one hundred miles to Panama City Beach. After having breakfast with a woman who was on her way to Milwaukee driving a van load of teenagers who'd invented a contraption to open a zipper in fifty eight steps, we got in the car and drove to our destination without a hitch. And even though all the forecasts on all the weather channels were calling for doom and gloom and rain for Saturday, Sunday, Monday and part of effing Tuesday, the sun was trying to come out when we pulled in.
We weren't supposed to be able to get in to our apartment until 3:00 P.M., but damn it to hell, the very congenial owner called to let us know that we could get in early, just as we'd settled ourselves on the beach where the sun was making a CAMEO appearance.
We had to get moving. We had friends from Pensacola coming to stay with us on our first night there and they were in route. We had unpacking to do and supplies to pick up, quick.
So, we dropped off our stuff in the cute fourth floor apartment and made our way to the invisible Super Walmart that was on the other side of the million story hotel across the street.
The woman in the office of the condo said, "You can buy your groceries and walk back here with the cart. They come over and pick them up every day."
Sven: I think we should just drive over there. I don't want to push a cart back.
Me: No,we should walk. It's too nice to drive and we won't need a cart.
So, two beach chairs, a couple beach towels, chips, pretzels, salsa, salt, pepper, bacon, eggs, OJ, milk, bread, butter, yogurt, lunch meat, mustard, mayo, and shitload of beer later, we were pushing our worldly possessions along in front of us on the bumpy sidewalk that you wouldn't know otherwise, slanted toward the road.
Along with our friends from Pensacola came the rain. But no worries, we spent the afternoon getting caught up over cocktails and snacks. Then we drove through windshield wipers for dinner. Karen pointed at a Saloon and said, "Look there's Coyote Ugly. I wonder if that's the place where they made that movie."
I said, "What movie?"
She said, "Coyote Ugly."
I said, "Never heard of it."
Dressed in Red, we watched the Wisconsin Badgers get knocked out of the final four in the last seconds, by one effing point on T.V. that night.
The next morning after drinking enough coffee to make our teeth float and to pee every ten minutes, we drove to Pier Park where we shopped and then ate seafood at an outside café under an umbrella that kept three out of four of us dry, before Thom who'd picked the wrong chair, and Karen got ready to head back to Pensacola.
After that Sven and I then set out barefoot on the beach on that cool, overcast, breezy afternoon where we watched spring breakers drink out of funnels and stagger around in teeny, tiny swimsuits and beads.
A few hours later, we rinsed the salt off our skin, changed into street clothes and went to check things out. And there it was, Coyote Ugly.
It is very likely that Sven and I are the only two people in the world who did not know what was about to happen. I mean, how were we supposed to know that those two cute girls tending bar, dressed in cowboy boots, and very minuscule amounts of clothes that were ripped into shreds in very strategic places, exposing lots of cleavage and tons of skin would one minute be talking to us and then mid-sentence, on cue, look at each other, climb up on the bar and dance P-R-O-V-A-C-A-T-I-V-E-L-Y, in step with each other and then on their knees right over the top of and right in front of my poor Sven?
And remember, always practice safe sex.
It also caused the very cool and very effing sunny Tuesday not to be all that enjoyable. Sven went golfing in the morning while Millie went to the beach in a sweatshirt. And then we watched the weather channel and then we walked to a restaurant through gale force winds for dinner and then we went to bed to listen to the waves come crashing in. We were lights out before the middle aged dancing neighbor guy who lived on the bottom floor, always in shorts, an open shirt, a string of beads, a glass of bourbon in his hand and a sparkle in his eye, was even finished with some kind of a drunken, screaming, rampage. In the morning we weren't sure if the yelling ended so suddenly because our eyes slammed shut or if someone just shot him. But I spotted him two days later. Same outfit. Same drink. No friends. I felt bad for him. That's just the way I am.
Wednesday morning was beautiful. Even the flag that had been nothing but red warnings and sticking straight out in the wind since we'd arrived was yellow and it flapped gently in the breeze.
Oh yeah baby, that's what I'm talking about. Sven went golfing and I immediately ran out and got myself a good old fashioned sun burn.
Our plan that night was to make a Red Snapper fillet and baked potatoes. But it was also time for a bit of responsibility. We had laundry to do. So, like any self-respecting baby boomers, we did it. And the only way to do your laundry while on vacation, is with a little help from your friends. Don't look at me like that.
Anyway, I'm not sure if this is really that great of an idea, no matter how old of an idea it is. After throwing our clothes into the washer it turned the seemingly simple chore into something that was quite complicated. I ended up writing a note and sticking it on the refrigerator door since I knew we'd be in and out of there.
I also very cleverly hung my purse on the door knob so that we couldn't possibly forget to take the the condo key with us even though we weren't planning to lock the door. What we really could have used was a blinking, neon sign inside the elevator. Do you know that no matter how many trips you take up and down those four floors, someone has to push a button or you ain't going to go anywhere? I'm serious. The counting out of the quarters is something I cannot possibly recount. But somehow we got our clothes all dried and back up to the room. Life was good and then Sven sat down right on top of the pile that I'd just folded.
The Red Snapper and the baked potatoes were out of this world, done to perfection. Unfortunately we do not remember how we made it.
We woke up with another beautiful, warm and sunny day in front of us. That is today. I will finish the rest of this story once I know what happens.
It was a rinse and repeat of the day before excluding the laundry but including another red snapper and baked potato which we tried to, but could not duplicate in taste. We fell asleep one last time to the sound of the ocean and the weather channel. And then it was time to pack up and go to see Sven's one and only Facebook friend.
We arrived in Slidell close to 3:00 and were greeted with open arms and cold beers. As far as first impressions go, you can't beat that.
Grace and I sized each other up while Fred showed Sven his back yard which is on the golf course. All of the really cool works of art in their seriously beautiful home are originals, by their extremely talented son. We learned a little bit at a time about each other as we made our way to the effing French Quarters! Now if you want to make an even better first impression on me than open arms and a cold beer, taking me to the French Quarters will earn you points that cannot be surpassed. Holy shit. What a fun afternoon that turned one out to be.
There is so much electricity in the air, urine in the streets and just plain old fucking awesomeness in New Orleans that my heart skips a beat just thinking about it now. We saw Captain America, a transvestite who was getting a little pissy because Grace couldn't make my camera work for a picture of us together, a kid standing on the corner belting out the blues, a woman wearing nothing more than paint, two guys playing chess on the sidewalk, people selling shit, people walking around with instruments, people drinking, people dining at little tables half in and half out of restaurants spilling on to the sidewalks, the music, the jazz festival, the balconies, the flowers, a tap dancer, signs, signs and more signs and then, THE VOODOO STORE.
Now, I'm guessing that in order not to make a weird impression when you barely know somebody you probably should not jump up and down and say, "Oh, A Voodoo Store. Can we go in there?" Maybe it would be all right if you were into Voodoo and you wanted the other person to know that you were into Voodoo and if perhaps the other person was into Voodoo too. But if someone doesn't know you from Adam, doesn't even know how you effing landed at their house in the first place and then you blurt out Voodoo shit, I think it could freak them out.
But Grace, gracefully ventured in there with me and I scored some excellent research material for my project titled, Johnson Toast, Private Eye. That is, it's excellent as long as I don't get too scared reading it. Chapter One, so far is going well.
And then it was Oysters on the half shell, a ride back to Slidell and out for dinner where we shared lots of laughs and great food.
In the morning Fred and Sven were in a golf tournament. Sven doesn't like to talk about it because apparently he hit the ball a lot of times. Well, how else are you going to show your stuff if not by demonstrating it over and over? Guess he hasn't heard that more is better.
And then it was goodbye.
Sven and I found ourselves back on the road with a daunting trip in front of us that I was sure would take for-ucking-ever. But obviously it did not. Otherwise I wouldn't be sitting here and writing this.
By the way, did you know that if you drive 70 mph through Memphis where the posted speed is 70 mph, it is much like the parting of the seas?
BS Club Minutes March 26, 2014April 1, 2014 | Millie Noe 4
I gotta clean. I gotta pack.
I gotta pack. I gotta clean.
Time is short and short is time.
Non time por to translate les minutes ento Francais.
Porquoi vous ask? Porquoi non time por to translate?
Parce que it is time for a Millie and Sven road trip to sunny, sunny Florida, where white sands and blue waters are waiting. Where Millie and Sven will have have sex on the beach every day. Okay, so I'm a figment with an imagination.
Regardless, I'm outta time.
BS Club Minutes March 26, 2014, in a nut shell.
What went on at that last meeting?
Well………………we, as in the present members had assorted hors d'oeuvres and cocktails.
We called the Guiness book of Records and Maxwelle Smarte is officially under review by the Guiness Board at this moment for, the most trips up and down stairs by a cat, while carrying a cube in one's teeth and then sitting inside it and posing for pictures and just basically showing off.'


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Template >> Flyer - Valentine s day flyer template 163896 by Tzochko @ CreativeMarket
File Size: 87.99 MB; Requirements: Adobe CS3+; Layered: Yes; DPI: 300 DPI; Dimensions: 8.25 x 11.75 px.
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Keywords: flyer, poster, a4, valentines day, valentine, love, couple, promotion, event, love event, multipurpose, advertising, advertisement, modern, elegant, stylish, clean, hearts, roses.


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In the morning my alarm goes off at 6:11AM. I don't have to be in work until around 10 or 11AM. So there are 5 hours. 5 glorious hours that many would kill for and that I could use to work, get active, make a breakfast that isn't just a banana and 4 cups of coffee… I could do all of these things instead of rolling over and saying "Meh, I'll get up when I'm ready."
Here's something I learned and have accepted recently:
I'm never going to be ready to get up in the morning…
or to get into the shower.
or to take a jump into something unknown.
or to let go of someone or something.
or to do my laundry.
or to make that phone call.
or to say what I'm feeling.
or to say no.
or to say yes.
I'm never ready for anything. Except, of course to make the excuse "I'll do it when I'm ready." For that, I'm always ready.
In my mind I'm always preparing for something bigger. Whether it's putting that big idea out into the world. Or to book that plane ticket. Or to tell someone how I feel. Or to leave a client. Or to ask for more money. The desire to do big things is always cooking, but it's never ready (or so I tell myself) When asked, I'm always 'working on it'. But I've found that I'm working toward a goal that I'm never going to get because it's that last jump, that last action, that last corner to turn that I never take…
So, I've got a very hungry 'wants-so-much-more' soul inside of me. And if you know me, you know how hangry I get.
No wonder I'm so pissed that I feel like I'm doing all of the work, but nothing seems to be changing. I'm putting in all of the emotional preparations, taking the required steps, doing what's needed, but not doing any of the actual ballsy action work.
Everything is just kinda chilling on the launch pad, waiting to be ready. And of course everything I do or am working on reaches a point where all of the preparation work has been done and the next logical step is to take action… … and I stay in some kind of holding pattern.
For me, the preparation of everything is always the easy part. There's a certain safety net in "I'm getting ready to…" or "I'm working on…" or "It's my intent to…" To everyone else, it sounds like I'm actively doing something, and hell, I may be. But usually in my case, I'm prolonging the hard part of whatever it is I'm working on. You know, I'm 'waiting until I'm ready."
So much can go wrong.
But I forget that so much can go right, and I'll never know which way it'll go until I do something.
So, self: do more stuff, okay?
I wish it were that damn easy.
How in the hell to I break this deep-set-almost 30-year old habit? I'm seriously pouting right now, because the answer is so clear, but I'm admittedly someone who really wishes shit would just happen and I didn't have to make it happen. Like, can't lasagna cook itself? Cant groceries buy themselves? Can't tests grade themselves?
The more I think about it, the more I've been surrounding myself with people who don't challenge me. Don't get me wrong, I know I'm responsible for my own actions, but it's always helpful to hang with people who inspire you and push you to the next level. Sometimes I need that accountability; someone to keep me and my goals in check. So many of my kick-ass friends are making shit happen. Why am I not doing co-working sessions with them?
I just got three emails from three different people asking me to edit their papers / articles / idea maps. So, it's not like I don't have places to bounce ideas off of. I'm just… waiting until I'm ready. Again.
I'm very introvert-y, and I like to talk to myself. So, I've found that sometimes I have to have an actual conversation between me and my inner-don't-wanna-do-it-chick in order to get things done. It goes something like,
"Katie, I know you don't want to get up right now. Yes, you could sleep for another few hours. But you kind of need to be an adult, get up, do some housework, and take a walk. Do SOMEthing. Staying here just isn't an option today."
Or more simply: "Katie, you don't have to like it, but you're going to get up and do it."
This shorter approach is something I use very often. Especially since if I don't do whatever it is in the moment I'm thinking about it, there's a good chance it will get put off until another day. (See also: until forever and never gets done) (See also: Until I'm ready.)
The truth is, if I wait until I'm ready, I'm never going to accomplish anything.
And I want to do stuff. And love people. And go places. And make money.
And get out of bed at 6AM and go on a 2 mile run. I'm always going to want to sleep. Let's be real.
So, Katie, I know you don't like it, but stop writing this blog post now, and fold your laundry. And send that email. And make that phone call.


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Posh trial City keeper
By Patrick Goss
Last Updated: 01/01/70 1:00am
PETERBOROUGH have handed a trial to Brian Murphy.
The Posh used their reserve team fixture against Northampton to take a look at Murphy, who is owned by Manchester City.
The young goalkeeper will be hoping to impress at the club, with Barry Fry (pictured) admitting the Republic of Ireland Under-21 international is desperate for first team football.
"He has been on the bench for Manchester City," Fry told the club's official website.
"Kevin Keegan has offered him a contract but I think he is looking to move on.
"We have been watching him for the last few weeks."


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This is not a basketball overreaction because the Golden State Warriors lost to the Los Angeles Clippers. Apparently it's a real thing that the Warriors might become "extinct." Sort of.
They're considering changing their name. But only if fans are on board.
Shelburne states the team "will be seeking input from fans on whether they should change their name" when they make their move across the bay to San Francisco in the coming years. Though their initial stadium plans fell through, the Dubs recently announced an agreement to set up shop in the city's Mission Bay neighborhood, per Warriors.com.
The Warriors team name will survive the transition, for now, but the organization is considering going back to being the San Francisco Warriors—the name it played under from 1962-71.
It's probably a smart move, branding-wise. I would assume that most non-Californians don't know where the hell Golden State even plays, besides the vast scope of the "Golden State." But in a rare, awesome turn of events… a sports franchise is actually going to listen to its fans. Or so they claim. Which do you like better? Let us know.


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Kent West wrote:
Kent West wrote:<sound used to work; now it doesn't>Okay, so as no one has provided any hints as to where to go, the only thing left is to try alsaconf.But from what I've been able to ascertain, alsaconf is considered poorly-written and poorly-maintained by the Debian developers, and hence it has been dropped from the Debian distribution (at least in Sid).Can anyone verify that alsaconf has been deprecated in Debian? If not, in which package will I find it?
I did find alsactl:
westk@canuhold:~$ sudo alsactl init Unknown hardware: "ICH4" "Analog Devices AD1981A" "AC97a:41445372" "" "" Hardware is initialized using a guess method
Ah, so now I'm getting an "Unknown hardware" message. Any clues? -- Kent West <")))>< http://kentwest.blogspot.com


text:
- Please select a date to see the proper prices!
Description of the Accommodation
Rooms, services Travelling to Japan and looking for accommodation? Take a look at what Numazu Grand Hotel Numazu has to offer! The hotel is offering 150 nicely furnished rooms to stay in to those seeking accommodation in Numazu. The exact scope of services offered by Numazu Grand Hotel Numazu (including those for an extra fee) is available on the information sheet below.
Payment In order to finalize the reservation you may be required to provide credit card guarantee or advance payment by credit card, depending on the chosen room, date and price.
Arrival, opening hours The earliest time to check in at the hotel is 15:00, the latest time to check out is 10:00. The personnel is at your service in Japanese and English languages.
Numazu Grand Hotel Numazu rooms Rooms
- Please select a date to see the proper prices!
Accommodation services
Hairdryer, Fridge, Desk in the room


text:
Genome-wide association studies (GWAS) have mapped thousands of common trait-influencing variants yet the overwhelming majority of trait loci have yet to be discovered. The goal of this proposal is to develop and apply statistical approaches that move beyond the standard GWAS paradigm to map additional trait-influencing variation within the human genome. Most of our proposed tools are based on a flexible high-dimensional framework called kernel machine regression, which we have had past success employing for powerful gene mapping of complex traits in GWAS and next-generation sequencing (NGS) studies. We believe the inherent flexibility of the kernel framework makes it ideal for exploring new paradigms in gene mapping of complex human traits.
Aim 1 proposes novel kernel methods for integrated analysis of both single-nucleotide variation data (derived from GWAS and/or NGS) and genomic data (such as gene-expression and methylation patterns) that we believe will provide improved power for trait mapping.
Aim 2 proposes novel kernel methods for large scale gene-gene interaction analysis across the genome, as well as a computational approach that enables efficient adjustment for multiple testing when applying such exhaustive testing procedures.
Aim 3 establishes novel kernel methods for association mapping of SNVs on the X chromosome. The flexible nature of kernel machines makes it ideal for modeling potential sex-specific effects on this chromosome and the methods further can accommodate random X inactivation.
Aim 4 proposes novel kernel approach for robust analysis of rare trait-influencing variation within families;such family-based designs are generally not considered in current rare-variant procedures. We will evaluate these methods on large-scale datasets that we are actively involved in and will implement the methods in user-friendly software for public distribution (Aim 5).
The goal of this project is to develop novel and powerful statistical tools for identifying genetic loci acting independently or in conjunction with other genetic/environmental factors to influence complex human diseases or disease-related quantitative traits. Application of the proposed methods to applied datasets should improve our understanding of the genetic origins of complex traits and enhance existing risk-prediction models of complex disease.
|Zhan, Xiang; Girirajan, Santhosh; Zhao, Ni et al. (2016) A novel copy number variants kernel association test with application to autism spectrum disorders studies. Bioinformatics 32:3603-3610
|Broadaway, K Alaine; Cutler, David J; Duncan, Richard et al. (2016) A Statistical Approach for Testing Cross-Phenotype Effects of Rare Variants. Am J Hum Genet 98:525-40
|He, Qianchuan; Cai, Tianxi; Liu, Yang et al. (2016) Prioritizing individual genetic variants after kernel machine testing using variable selection. Genet Epidemiol 40:722-731
|Broadaway, K Alaine; Duncan, Richard; Conneely, Karen N et al. (2015) Kernel Approach for Modeling Interaction Effects in Genetic Association Studies of Complex Quantitative Traits. Genet Epidemiol 39:366-75
|Urrutia, Eugene; Lee, Seunggeun; Maity, Arnab et al. (2015) Rare variant testing across methods and thresholds using the multi-kernel sequence kernel association test (MK-SKAT). Stat Interface 8:495-505
|Epstein, Michael P; Duncan, Richard; Ware, Erin B et al. (2015) A statistical approach for rare-variant association testing in affected sibships. Am J Hum Genet 96:543-54
|Zhao, Ni; Chen, Jun; Carroll, Ian M et al. (2015) Testing in Microbiome-Profiling Studies with MiRKAT, the Microbiome Regression-Based Kernel Association Test. Am J Hum Genet 96:797-807
|Jiang, Yu; Satten, Glen A; Han, Yujun et al. (2014) Utilizing population controls in rare-variant case-parent association tests. Am J Hum Genet 94:845-53
|Wang, Xin; Epstein, Michael P; Tzeng, Jung-Ying (2014) Analysis of gene-gene interactions using gene-trait similarity regression. Hum Hered 78:17-26
|Jiang, Yunxuan; Conneely, Karen N; Epstein, Michael P (2014) Flexible and robust methods for rare-variant testing of quantitative traits in trios and nuclear families. Genet Epidemiol 38:542-51
Showing the most recent 10 out of 12 publications


text:
Dr. Amos Bulus Cirfat is the new substantive Provost of the Federal College of Education Pankshin. His appointment letter which was signed by the Honourable Minister of Education Mallam Adamu Adamu is with effect from 28th December, 2016 for a period of four (4) years in the first instance.
He is the first substantive Provost to be appointed from within the system who has served as Dean, School of Sciences and Students' Affairs as well as Chairman of the SERVICOM Unit of the institution.
Dr. Amos Bulus Cirfat is a former Deputy Provost of the College, National President of the Science Teachers' Association of Nigeria, STAN, and a Chief Lecturer in the Biology Department of the school of Sciences of the institution.
He is a teacher to the core, scholar, distinguished administrator, unionist, loving and committed husband, caring father, loving friend, youth mentor, people and grassroot mobiliser, God fearing, humble, respectful, reasonable, and a responsible Nigerian.
Born on 6th June, 1958 to the family of Baba Bulus Cirfat of Kwanpe, Bwarat District of Langtang North Local Government Area of Plateau state, Dr. Amos B. Cirfat holds a Bachelor of Education Degree in Biology Education (ABU, Zaria, 1990), a Master of Science Education Degree from the University of Jos in 1993 and a Doctor of Philosophy Education Degree from the Benue State University in 2014.
The new Provost has also served as a member of various accreditation teams to Colleges of Education across the Country as well as many other national responsibilities. Thus, he is blessed with a massive wealth of knowledge in education and leadership within and outside the College.
He is married to Mrs. Lohya A. Cirfat and blessed with four children.
Email: email@example.com
Phone number: +234-803-0483-930
Click here to access the full citation on the Provost
The current Registrar of the Federal College of Education, Pankshin is Chief Chetsan Diyelman Yakse. He is also the Garkuwan Panyam in Mangu Local Government Area of Plateau state.He is a seasoned and tested administrator who has had successful exploits in the tertiary institution especially in human Management and manpower development for over twenty years.The Registrar who has a humble background is from Panyam and started experiencing leadership challenges as Head-Boy from the famous Boys' Secondary School, Gindiri, which prepared him for the challenges ahead. He was appointed Registrar on 28th October, 2009 after a successful interview and was found worthy for the position as endorsed by the College Governing Council for a five year tenure in the first instance.The Registrar holds a National Diploma in Secretarial Administration and B.A. (Hons) Mass Communication from the Kaduna Polytechnic and Bayero University Kano respectively. Chief C.D. Yakse is the first Registrar to be appointed from within the system and before then he had served in various sections of the Registry Department and was also a member and secretary of different committees in the College, such as SERVICOM, Staff Development Committee, etc. He is a member of several professional bodies among which are the Nigerian Institute of Management, Nigerian Institute of Public Relations (AMNIPR), with a well researched work on "Crisis Management in Tertiary Institutions" to his credit. Chief C.D. Yakse, ANIM, AMNIPR, is happily married with children.
E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.com
The College Library Department is headed by a veteran Librarian who was tested and found worthy for appointment by Government. He is Mr. Bulus Caleb Damen (BLS, MLS), with over twenty years experience in that discipline.Mr Bulus Caleb Damen was first appointed to that position in August 2007 for a five year tenure in the first instance after a successful interview. The Librarian is a member of the Nigerian Library Association and currently the Vice Chairman of the Nigerian Library Association, Plateau State chapter. He is married with children.
The College Bursary is headed by Chrysanthus Dawam CNA, CPA. He is a member of the National Accountants of Nigeria and the Institute of Certified Public Administrators of Nigeria. He was first appointed to the position in August 2007 for a tenure of five years in the first instance after a fruitful interview. Chrysanthus Dawam is a seasoned accountant with over 30 years experience in higher institution of learning. He is married with children.
The Director of Works and services of the Federal College of Education is Arc. Gotep, Miri Dugu/, born 23rd August, 1960. He has spent most of his working years in different tertiary Institution and has vast Experience in the Management of assets, maintenance works and projects actualization:-He assumed the position of Director of Works of the College in January, 2001 from the Federal Polytechnic Idah where he served as Ag. Director of Works and Services for four (4) years.A graduate of B.Sc. and M.Sc. in Architecture of the Ahmadu Bello University Zaria. He is a registered member of the Nigerian Institute of Architects.He is a Community a leader and happily married with Five (5) children.
E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.com.
Phone N0.:
Qualification: B.Sc (Bus. Admin), PGDE, MBA
Rank: Chief Lecturer
Specialization: Business Admin. (Finance)
Email: email@example.com
Phone N0.: 08039152247