text:
Audio: T. Coraghessan Boyle reads.
They told him he had to wear a mask in public. Which was ridiculous. It made him feel like he had a target painted on his back—or his face, actually, right in the middle of his face. But if he wanted to walk out the door of the clinic he was going to walk out with that mask on—either that or go to jail. Outside, it was raining, which made everything that much harder, because what were you going to do with a wet mask? How could you even breathe? Here, inside the office, with the doctor and his caseworker from Health Services, there was no sound of the rain, or if there was he couldn't hear it—all he could hear was the rasp and wheeze of his own compromised breathing as he sucked air through the fibres of the mask.
The doctor was saying something to him now, and Marciano watched him frame the words with his hands before they both looked to the caseworker, a short slim woman with a big bust and liquid eyes, whom he would have liked to fuck if he weren't so sick. She was named Rosa Hinojosa, and he kept saying her name in his head, because of the way it rhymed, which somehow made him feel better.
"You understand what the doctor is telling you?" she asked in her clipped north-of-the-border Spanish, which he could have listened to all day under other circumstances. But these were the circumstances, and until he got better he would have to play their game, Dr. Rosen's game and Rosa Hinojosa's, too.
He nodded.
"No more lapses, you understand that? You will report here at eight each morning, when the clinic opens, for your intravenous medication, and"—she held up two plastic pill containers—"you will take your oral medication, without fail, every night at dinner. And you must wear your mask at all times."
"Even when I'm alone?"
She looked to the doctor, said something to him in English, nodded, then turned back to Marciano, her breasts straining at the fabric of her blouse, a pink blouse that made her look even younger than she was, which, he guessed, was maybe twenty-four or five. "You have your own room in this house"—she glanced down at the clipboard in her lap—"at 519 West Haley Street? Is that right?"
"There are other roomers there?"
"All right. When you're alone in your room, you can remove the mask, but only then, and never if you're in the common area. You're highly contagious, and if you were to cough without the mask on, the bacteria could get into the air and infect your roommates, and you wouldn't want that, would you?"
No, he agreed, he wouldn't, but now the doctor was saying something more, his tone harsh and hectoring, and though Marciano didn't register what he was saying, or not exactly, he got the gist of it: this was his warning, his final warning, and now there could be no appeal. He watched the doctor's eyes, which looked at him as if he were less than human, something to step on in the street and crush, angry eyes, hateful, and what had he done to deserve this? He'd got sick, that was all—and couldn't anybody get sick?
Rosa Hinojosa (her lips were fascinating—plump and adhesive—and he wanted desperately in that moment to get well, if for no other reason than to maybe be able to kiss them) told him what she'd already told him, that because he'd stopped taking his medication a year ago, his case of tuberculosis had mutated into the multi-drug-resistant form, and his life was at risk, because after this there were no more drugs. That was it. They didn't exist. But there was more, and worse: if he did not comply fully—no lapses—Dr. Rosen would get a court order and incarcerate him to be sure he got the full round of treatment. And why? Not out of charity, entertain no illusions about that, but to protect society, and at a cost—did he even have any idea of the cost?—of as much as two hundred thousand dollars for him alone. She paused. Compressed her lips. Looked to the doctor. Then, as if she were tracking the drift of the very microbes hanging invisibly in the air, she brought her eyes back to him. "You agree?" she demanded.
He wanted to say yes, of course he did—he wanted to be cured—but he honestly didn't know if he could go through with it, and wasn't that the problem last time? He'd taken the medicine, which was no easy thing, because it made him sick to his stomach and made him itch, as if there were something under his skin clawing its way out. They'd told him he'd have to stay on the regimen anywhere from six to thirty months, but within three months he'd felt fine, his cough nearly gone and his arms and chest filling out again, so he'd started selling the pills, because he didn't need them anymore, and then he'd stopped coming to the clinic altogether, until the disease returned to shake him like a rat in a cage and he spat up blood and came back here to their contempt and their antiseptic smells and their masks and their dictates and their ultimatums. He wanted to say yes, and he tried to, but at that moment the cough came up on him, the long dredging cough that was like the sea drawing back over the stones at low tide, and the inside of the mask was suddenly crimson and he couldn't seem to stop coughing.
When finally he looked up, both the doctor and Rosa Hinojosa were wearing masks of their own, and Rosa Hinojosa was pushing a box of disposable surgical masks across the desk to him. He couldn't see her lips now, only her eyes, and her eyes—as rich and brown as two chocolates in the dark wrappers of her lashes—didn't have an ounce of sympathy left in them.
Before he got sick the second time, he'd been working as part of a crew that did landscaping and gardening for the big estates strung out along the beach and carved out of the hills, a good job, steady, and with a patrón who didn't try to cheat you. One of his tasks was to trap and dispose of the animals that infested these places—rats, gophers, possums, raccoons, and whatever else tore up the lawns or raided the orchards. His patrón wouldn't allow the use of poison of any kind—the owners didn't like it, and it worked its way up the food chain and killed everything out there, which Marciano didn't think was such a bad proposition, but it wasn't his job to think. His job was to do as he was told. The gophers weren't a problem—they died underground, transfixed on the spikes of the Macabee traps he set in the dark cool dirt of their runs—but the possums and the raccoons and even the rats had to be captured alive in Havahart traps of varying sizes, depending on the species. Which raised the question of what to do with them once you'd caught them.
The first time he did actually catch something—a raccoon—it was on a big thirty-acre estate with its own avocado grove and a fishpond stocked with Japanese koi that cost a thousand dollars each. It was early, misty yet, and when he went to check the cage he'd baited with a dab of peanut butter and half a sardine it was a shock to find the robber itself, with its black mask and tense fingers grasping the mesh as if it were a monkey and not a mapache at all. In the next moment, he was running down the slope to where the patrón was assembling a sprinkler system for a new flower bed, crying out, "I got one, I got one!"
The patrón, big-bellied but tough, a man who must have been as old as Marciano's father yet could work alongside his men on the hottest day without even breathing hard, glanced up from what he was doing. "One what?"
"A raccoon."
"O.K., good. Is it a female?"
A female? What was he talking about? It was a raccoon. What did he expect him to do? Flip it over and inspect its equipment?
"Because if it's a female there'll be more. Get rid of it and reset the trap."
Breathless, excited, the microbes working in him, though he didn't yet know it, Marciano just stood there, puzzled. "Get rid of it how?"
A steady look. A sigh. "O.K., listen, because I'm only going to tell you once. Take one of those plastic trash cans lined up there behind the garage and fill it with water, right to the top, you understand? Then just drop the cage in, and it'll be over in three minutes."
"You mean drown it, just like that?"
"What are you going to do, take it home and train it to walk on a leash?" The patrón was grinning now, pleased with his own joke, but there was work to do, and already he was turning back to it. "And do me a favor," he added, glancing over his shoulder. "Bury it out in the weeds, where Mrs. Lewis won't have to see it."
Why he was thinking of that he couldn't say, except that he missed the job—and the money—and as he walked to the bus in the rain, the box of face masks tucked under one arm, he wanted to be back there again, under the sun, working, just that, working. They'd scared him at the clinic, they always scared him, and he was feeling light-headed on top of it. The blood was bad, he knew that—he could see it in their eyes. But he was twenty-three years old, and thirty months was like a lifetime sentence, and even then there were no guarantees—Rosa Hinojosa had made that clear. He was sick from the intravenous. His arm was sore. His throat ached. Even his feet didn't seem to want to coöperate, zigging and zagging, so that he was walking like a drunk.
The sidewalk before him was strewn with the worms that were coming up out of the earth because if they stayed down there they'd drown, whereas up here, in the rain, they'd have a chance at life before somebody stepped on them or the birds got to them. He liked worms, nature's recyclers, and he was playing a little game with himself, trying to avoid them and hold in the next cough at the same time, watching his feet and the pattern the worms made on the pavement, and when he looked up he was right in front of the bar—Herlihy's—he'd seen from the bus stop but had never been inside of. It was just past ten in the morning and he wasn't working today—his new job, strictly gardening, was with an old white-haired campesino, Rudy, who booked the clients and then sat in his beater truck and read spy novels while Marciano did all the work—so he really had nothing to do but sit in front of the television in his room all day. That had something to do with it. That and the fact that Rudy had just paid him the day before.
He didn't go directly in, but walked by the place as if he were on an errand elsewhere, then stripped off the mask and stuffed it in his pocket, doubled back, and pushed open the door. Inside were all the usual things, neon signs for Budweiser and Coors, a jukebox that might once have worked, honey-colored bottles lined up behind the bar, and the head of a deer—or, no, an elk—jammed into one wall as if this were Alaska and somebody had just shot it. There were three customers, all white, strung together on three adjoining barstools, and the bartender, also white, and fat, with big buttery arms in a short-sleeved shirt. They all turned to look at him as he came in, and that made him nervous, so he chose a stool at the far end of the bar, rehearsing in his head the phrase he was going to give the bartender—"Please, a beer"— which made use of his favorite word in English, and the word wasn't "please."
The bartender heaved himself up off his own stool and came down the bar to him, put two thick white hands on the counter, and asked him something, which must have been "What do you want?," and Marciano uttered his phrase. There was a moment of ambiguity, the man poised there still, instead of bending to the cooler, and then there was a further question, which he didn't grasp until the man began rattling off the names of the beers he stocked, pointing as he did so to a line of bottles on the top row, ten or twelve different brands. "Corona," Marciano said, unfolding a five-dollar bill on the bar, and all at once he was coughing and he put his hand up to cover his mouth, but he couldn't seem to stop until he had the bottle to his lips, draining it in three swallows, as if he were a nomad who'd just come in off the desert.
One of the men at the end of the bar said something then, and the other two looked at Marciano and broke out laughing, and whether it was good-natured or not, a little joke at his expense, it made him feel tight in his chest and the cough came up again, so severe this time he thought he was going to pass out. But here was the bartender, saying something more, and what it was he couldn't imagine, because it wasn't illegal to cough, was it? But, no, that wasn't it. The bartender was pointing at the empty bottle, and so Marciano repeated his phrase, "Please, a beer," and the heavy man bent to the cooler, extracted a fresh Corona, snapped off the cap, and set it before him.
He sipped the second beer and watched the rain spatter the dirty windows and run off in streaks. At some point, he saw his bus pull up at the stop across the street, a vivid panel of color that made him think of what was waiting for him at home—nothing, zero, exactly zero—and he watched it pull away again as he tried to fight down the scratch in his throat. He was scared. He was angry. And he sat there, staring out into the gloom, drinking one beer after another, and when he coughed, really coughed, they all looked at him and at the wet cardboard box of face masks, then looked away again. Nobody said another word to him, which was all right with him—he just focussed on the television behind the bar, some news channel, and tried to interpret the words the people were saying there while the backdrop shifted from warplanes and explosions to some sort of pageant with models on a runway, looking raccoon-eyed and haughty and not half as good as Rosa Hinojosa. The bloody mask remained in his pocket, and the box of masks, the new ones, stayed right where it was, on the stool beside him.
All that week, he went into the clinic at eight, as instructed, and all that week he felt nauseated and skipped breakfast and went to work with Rudy anyway, and the only good thing there was that Rudy didn't like to start early—and he didn't ask questions, either. Still, Marciano was lagging and he knew it, and knew that it was only a matter of time before Rudy said something. Which he did, that Friday, T.G.I.F., end of the week, the first week with this new cocktail of antibiotics running through his veins, one week down and how many more to go? He did a quick calculation in his head: fifty-two weeks in a year, double that and then add twenty-six more. It was like climbing a mountain backward—no matter how many steps you took you never got to see the peak.
They were on their third or fourth house of the day, everything gray and wet with the fog off the ocean and the sun nowhere in sight. His chest felt sore. He was hungry, but the idea of food—of a taco or a burger or anything—made his stomach turn. "Jesus," Rudy said, startling him out of a daydream, "you're like one of the walking dead. I mean, at that last place I couldn't tell whether you were pushing the mower or the mower was pushing you." The best Marciano could do was give him a tired grin. "What?" Rudy said, staring now. "Late night last night?"
Rudy was helping him lift the mower down from the back of the truck, so he couldn't avoid his eyes. He just nodded.
"Youth," Rudy said, shaking his head as they set the mower down in the driveway of a little mustard-colored house with a patch of lawn in front and back and a towering hedge all the way around that had to be clipped every other week, and this was that week, which meant hauling out the ladder, too. "I used to be like that, burn the candle at both ends, drink till they closed the bars and get up for work three hours later." Rudy sighed. "But no more. Now I'm in bed before the ten-o'clock news—and Norma's already snoring."
Marciano had heard all this before, twenty times already, and he didn't say anything, just leaned into the mower to push it up the driveway, but the mower didn't seem to want to budge, and he felt weak all of a sudden, weak and sick, and here came the cough, right on cue. He really hacked this time, hacked till he doubled over and tears came to his eyes. When he straightened up, Rudy was watching him, and his smile was gone.
"That doesn't sound too good," he said. "You ever go to the clinic like I told you?"
"Yes," he said. "Or, no, not really—"
"What do you mean, not really? You sound like your lungs are shot."
He paused to catch his breath, because he couldn't really cough and talk at the same time, could he? He lifted one hand and let it drop. "It's just a cold," he said, then turned and pushed the mower up the drive.
They were waiting for him when he got home, a cop in uniform and Rosa Hinojosa, who looked so fierce and grim she might have been wearing somebody else's face. He'd run into her at the clinic the day before, and she'd asked him if he was sticking to the regimen, and he told her he was, and she flashed a smile so luminous it made him feel unmoored. "Good," she said. "Good. Do it for me, O.K.?" But now here she was. He saw her before he saw the cop, the crisp line her skirt cut just above her knees, her pretty legs, the heels she wore to work, and for the briefest flash of a second he wondered what she was doing there, and then he saw the cop and he knew. Rudy had just dropped him off, was already pulling away from the curb, and Marciano wanted desperately to climb back into the pickup and go wherever Rudy would take him, but everything was in slow motion now, like in the outer-space movies where the astronauts are just floating there on their tethers and the ship slides away from them in a long smear of light and shadow.
He pulled a mask from his pocket—a dirty one, to show it had been used—looped it over his ears, and snapped it in place, as if that would make him look better in Rosa Hinojosa's eyes, but her face showed only disappointment and something else, too: anger. He'd let her down. He'd had his warning, his final warning, and he'd been caught out, but how had she known? Had somebody informed on him? Some enemy he didn't even know he had?
The cop, he could see at a glance, wasn't a real cop, more some sort of Health Services mule, and he was old and slow and his head was like a big calabaza propped up on his shoulders, and Rosa Hinojosa, for all her youth, was no runner, not in those shoes. So he ran. Not like in the track meets at school when he was a boy, because his lungs were like wet clay, but still he put one foot in front of the other, hustling down the alley between his house and the one next door, to where the fence out back opened onto the dry streambed and the path through the weeds he sometimes used as a shortcut to the corner store. He got as far as the fence before he gave out, and, he had to admit, both Rosa Hinojosa and the calabaza head were quicker than he would have thought. He was just lying there, pathetic, humiliated in front of this woman he wanted to prove himself to, and he watched them pause to snap on their own masks before the cop bent to him and encircled his wrists with the handcuffs.
The next thing he saw was the hospital, a big clean white stucco box of a building that had secondary boxes attached to it, a succession of them lined up like children's blocks all the way out into the parking lot in back. He'd been here once before, to the emergency room, when he'd nearly severed the little finger of his left hand with the blade of the hedge trimmer, and they'd spoken Spanish to him, sewed and bandaged the wound and sent him on his way. That wasn't how it was this time. This time he was wearing a mask, and so was Rosa Hinojosa and so was the mule, who kept guiding him down the corridors with a stiff forefinger till they went through a door and briefly out into the sunlight before entering an outbuilding that looked like one of the temporary classrooms you saw when you went by the high school. What was funny about it, or not so funny, was the way people made room for them in the corridors, shrinking into the walls as they passed by in their masks.
When he'd had a chance to take in the barred windows and the heavy steel door that pulled shut behind them with a whoosh of compression, Rosa Hinojosa, cold as a fish, explained to him that he was being remanded to custody as a threat to public safety under the provisions of the statutory code of the State of California, and that he would be confined here temporarily before he could be moved to the Men's Colony, in the next county, which was equipped with a special ward for prisoners with medical conditions. He felt sick, sicker than ever, and what made it worse was that there was no smell to that room, which might as well have been on the moon. He saw a sterile white counter and a man in thick-framed glasses and some sort of hospital scrubs stationed behind it. Rosa Hinojosa was doing all the talking. She had a sheaf of papers in one hand and she turned away from him to lay them on the counter. There was a U.S. flag in the corner. A drinking fountain. Black and white tiles on the floor. "I didn't do anything," Marciano protested.
Rosa Hinojosa, who was conferring with the man behind the counter, gave him a sharp glance. "You were warned."
"What do you mean? I took my medicine. You saw me—"
"Don't even give me that. We have you on the feed from the security camera at the 7-Eleven making a purchase without your mask on—and there was testimony from the bartender at Herlihy's that you were in there without a mask, drinking, on the very first day you walked out of the clinic."
"I'm an American citizen."
She shrugged.
"Look it up." This was true. He'd been born in San Diego, two years old when his parents were deported, so he'd never had a chance to learn English or go to school here or anything else, but he had his rights, he knew that—they couldn't just lock him up. That was against the Constitution.
Rosa Hinojosa had turned back to the counter, riffling through the stack of forms, but now she swung angrily around to him, a crease of irritation between her eyes. She wasn't pretty anymore, not even remotely, and all he felt for her was hate, because, no matter what she said, when it came down to it she was part of the system, and the system was against him. "I don't care if you're the President," she snapped. "We bent over backward, and now you've left us no choice. Don't you understand? The order's been signed."
"I want a lawyer."
He saw that she had a little dollop of flesh under her chin—she was already going to fat—and he realized that she was nothing to him, and, worse, that he was nothing to her but one more charity case, and what he did next was born of the sadness of that realization. He wasn't a violent person, just the opposite—he was shy and he went out of his way to avoid confrontation. But they were the ones confronting him—Rosa Hinojosa and the whole Health Services Department, the big stupid-looking mule who'd clamped the handcuffs on him and made the mistake of removing them after they stepped through the door, and the man behind the desk, too. Marciano took as deep a breath as he could manage and felt the mucus rattling in his throat, the bad stuff he kept dredging up all day and spitting into a handkerchief until the handkerchief was stiff with it. What he was about to do was wrong, he knew that, and he regretted it the instant he saw it before him, but he wasn't going to any prison, no way. That just wasn't in the cards.
So now he was running again, only this time they weren't chasing him, or not yet, because, mask or no mask, they were all three of them frantically trying to wipe his living death off their faces—and good, good, see how they like it, see how they like being condemned and ostracized and locked up without a trial or a lawyer or anything—and he didn't stop spitting till he had the door open and was back out in the sunlight, dodging around the cars in the lot and heading for the street and the cover of the trees there. His heart was pounding and his lungs felt as if they'd been turned inside out, but he kept going, slowing to a stiff-kneed walk now, down one street, then another, the windshields of the parked cars pooling in the light like puddles after a storm, birds chattering in the trees, the smell of the earth and the grass so intense it was intoxicating. He patted down his pockets: wallet, house key, the little vial of pills. And where was he going? What was he doing? He didn't have any money—no more than maybe ten or fifteen dollars in his wallet—and there was nobody he could turn to, not really. There was Sergio, the only one of his housemates he was close to, and Sergio would loan him money, he was sure of it, but Sergio probably didn't have much more than he did. The only thing for certain was that he couldn't stay here anymore.
He hadn't seen his mother in two years, hadn't really given her a thought, but he thought of her now, saw her face as vividly as if she were that woman right there slipping into the front seat of her car. She'd nursed him through the measles, whooping cough, the flu, and whatever else had come along to disrupt his childhood, and why couldn't she nurse him through this, too? She could, if he was careful and took his pills and wore the mask every single minute of every day, because he wouldn't want to infect her—that would be the worst thing a son could do. No matter what the doctors said, his mother would save him, protect him, do anything for him. But how was he going to get to her? They'd be watching for him at the bus station and at the train depot and at the airport, too, even if he could scrape up enough for a ticket, which he couldn't. . . . But what about Rudy? Maybe he could get Rudy to drive him as far as Tijuana—or, no, he'd tell Rudy he needed to borrow the truck to help one of his roommates move a refrigerator or a couch, and then he'd do the driving himself and get somebody to bring the truck back, pay somebody, make promises, whatever it took. That was a plan, wasn't it? He had to have a plan. Without a plan he was lost.
He kept moving, breathing hard now, the sidewalk like a treadmill rolling under him, but he had to fight it, had to be quick because they'd have the cops after him in their patrol cars, an all-points bulletin like on TV, and they weren't going to be gentle with him, either. Up ahead, at the end of the street, was a park he'd gone to once or twice with Sergio to drink beer and throw horseshoes, and there were bushes there, weren't there, along the streambed. Pushing through the park gate—kids, mothers, swings, a couple of bums laid out on the grass as if they'd been installed there along with the green wooden benches—he tried to look casual, even as the sirens began to scream in the distance and he told himself it was only just ambulances bringing people to the emergency room. He went straight across the lawn, looking at nobody, and then he was in the bushes and out of sight and he dropped to the ground and just lay there until his heart stopped hammering and the burning in his lungs began to subside. It would be dark soon, and then he could make his way back to the house, borrow somebody's phone, call Rudy, pack a few things, and be gone before anybody could do anything about it.
Paranoia was when you felt that everybody was after you even if they weren't, but what would you call this? Common sense? They'd come to his house and handcuffed him and put him in that white room, and he hadn't done anything. Now they'd charge him with escaping or resisting arrest or whatever they wanted to call it—and assault, too, assault with the deadly weapon that was his own spit. It didn't matter. The result would be the same—thirty months in a sterile room with the fans sucking in and the warders wearing masks and gloves and pushing a tray of what passed for food through a slot in the door and coming in twice a day to stick the intravenous in him. He'd rather be dead. Rather be in Mexico. Rather take his chances with his mother and the clinic in Ensenada, where at least they spoke his language and wouldn't look at him like he was a cockroach.
He was thirsty, crazy thirsty, but he forced himself to stay where he was till it was dark, then slipped back into the park to get a drink at the faucet in the rest room. Only problem was the door was locked. He stood there a long moment, rattling the doorknob, feeling disoriented. There was the steady hiss of cars from the freeway that was somewhere behind him in the intermediate distance. The trees were shrouds. The sky was black overhead and painted with stars, and it had never seemed so close. He could almost feel the weight of it, all the weight of the sky that went on and on to infinity, outer space, the planets, the stars, pressing down on him till he could barely breathe. Desperate, he knelt in the grass and felt around till he located a sprinkler head. At first it wouldn't budge, but he kept at it till the seal gave and he was able to unscrew it and put his mouth to the warm gurgling flow there, and that made him feel better and pushed the vagueness into another corner of his mind. After a while, he got to his feet, eased himself down into the streambed, and began working his way back in the direction of the house.
It wasn't easy. What would have taken him ten minutes out on the street took an hour at least, his feet unsteady in a slurry of mud and trash, stiff dead reeds knifing at him, dogs barking, the drift of people's voices freezing him in place. He was sweating, and shivering, too, and his shirt was torn at the right elbow, where he'd snagged it on something in the strange half-light of the gully.
He didn't really know how far he'd gone or where he was when he emerged, scrambling up a steep incline and into the yard of a house that was mercifully dark. There were lights on in the houses on both sides of it, though, and the black humped shape of an automobile parked in the driveway. He moved toward the car and then past it, and if he was startled by a voice calling out behind him, a single syllable he would have recognized in any language—Hey!—he didn't hesitate or turn around or even look over his shoulder but just kept going, down the driveway and straight across the street to the sidewalk on the far side, where he was only another pedestrian out for a stroll on a cool night in a quiet city.
When he got to his own street, he made himself slow down and scan the cars parked on both sides of the road, looking for anything suspicious, the police or the Health Services, Rosa Hinojosa, though that was being paranoid—Rosa Hinojosa would be at home with her parents at this hour, or her husband, if she had one, absorbed in her own life, not his. He took his time, though he was feeling worse by the minute, shivering so hard he had to wrap his arms around himself, his shirt soaked and too thin against the night and the temperature, which must have dropped into the mid-fifties by now. And then, steeling himself, he slipped across the street and into the dark yard of the rooming house, where they'd come for him once and would come for him again.
He ducked in the back door, tentative, all the blood in his brain now, screaming at him, but there was nobody in the hall, and in the next moment he was in his room, the familiar scent of his things—unwashed laundry, soap, shampoo, the foil-wrapped burrito he'd set aside to microwave for dinner—rising to his nostrils in the ordinary way, as if nothing had happened. The cough was right there waiting to erupt, but he fought it down, afraid even to make the slightest sound, and though he was tempted to turn the light on, he knew better—if anyone was out there, this was what they'd be watching for. He found his jacket thrown over the back of the chair where he'd left it that morning and wrapped himself in it, then went to the window and opened the blinds, so that six thin stripes of illumination fell across the bed. That was when he remembered his pills—he had to take his pills no matter where he was or what happened, that was the truth of his life, whether he ever saw Rosa Hinojosa again or not.
He went to the sink for a glass of water, shook out two of the little white pills and swallowed them. Then—and he couldn't help himself—he lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, just for a minute.
The knock startled him out of a dreamless sleep, the knock at the front door that thundered through the house as if the wrecking ball had come to reduce it all to splinters. But who would knock? Everybody who lived here had a key, so there was no need for knocking, not unless you were immigration or the police. Or Health Services. For one fluttering instant, he pictured Rosa Hinojosa in police blues with a cap cocked over her eye, a nightstick in one hand and a can of Mace in the other, and then he was pulling his door softly shut and fastening the latch, as if that would save him—but what was he going to do, hide under the bed? He didn't know much, but he knew they'd be at the back door, too, just like in the movies when they nailed the gangsters and the pimps and the drug lords and the whole audience stood up and cheered.
No time for his backpack, no time for clothes, his toothbrush, for the change he kept in a pickle jar in the top drawer, no time for anything but to jerk up the window in its creaking frame while the knocking at the front door rose to a relentless pounding and the voices started up, Sergio's and somebody else's and a dog barking, and then he was down in the grass and scrambling, hunched over, for the next yard and then the next one after that. It took everything he had. Twice, he tripped in the dark, going down hard on somebody's patio, all the little sounds of the neighborhood amplified now, every TV turned up full blast, motorcycles blaring like gunfire out on the street, even the crickets shrieking at him, and that dog, the ratcheting bark of that dog back at the house, a police dog, the kind of dog that never gave up, that could sniff you out even if you sprouted wings and flew up into the sky.
Where was he? Some dark place. Some citizen's back yard with its jade plants and flower bed and patch of lawn. A cold hand was inside him, yanking at his lungs, squeezing and bunching and pulling the meat there up into his throat, so that he couldn't breathe. He went down on his hands and knees, and there was no plan now but to find the darkest corner of the yard, the place where nobody had bothered to cut the grass or trim the shrubs, where the earth was real and present and he could let the blood come up and forget about the pills and Rosa Hinojosa and his mother and Rudy and everybody else.
Time leaped ahead. He was stretched out in the dirt. What was on his shirt was hot and secret and wet. He closed his eyes. And when he opened them again all he could see was the glint of a metal trap, bubbles rising in the clear cold water, and the hands of the animal fighting to get out. ♦


text:
Escape to sunny Naples with a stay at this charming second-story condo right on the Gordon River. Nestled between the marina and the Naples Sailing & Yacht Club, this sunny condo has a partial view of the river from its balcony, and boasts a shared pool and hot tub for your enjoyment!
Conveniently located in the heart of old Naples, this retreat puts you within walking distance of the city's most popular shopping districts. Grab an ice cream cone and browse Fifth Avenue South's boutiques, delicatessens, and art galleries, or explore the farmers markets and historic homes on Third Avenue. Naples' famous sandy beach is a little over a mile away, and the sparkling waters of Naples Bay lie just steps from your front door.
Tastefully furnished and flooded with warm natural light, this lovely rental is the perfect size for a solo traveler or a romantic retreat for two. Sip your morning coffee out on the private balcony as you enjoy the wafting sea breezes, then use the free WiFi to plan the day's adventures or chat with friends back home. The cozy kitchen is fully equipped with appliances and dishware, and the shared pool lets you cool off from the Florida sun in comfort and style.
The best of Naples awaits at this lovely waterfront condo. Book your reservation today!

subset: commoncrawl


text:
What is The National Cuisine of Canada?
- By Canada
- 0 Comments
- 1513 views
Canadian cuisine varies widely depending on the regions of the nation. It is mostly derived from British, Scottish and French cuisines. Canadian food has been shaped and impacted by continual waves of immigration. Poutine is a Canadian dish, originating in the province of Quebec, made with french fries and cheese curds topped with a light...


text:
Career OpportunitiesUpdated Wednesday February 15, 2017 by St Tammany Parish Recreation District 6.
Developmental Umpire Program
Lee Road sports is looking for individuals ages 14 and up to enter in our Developmental Umpire Program. The Developmental Umpire Program is designed to help individuals become a certified umpire. In the fall, we will focus on TBall and possibly soccer. Below is the job description for the Developmental Umpire Program. Anyone interested in this position, please contact Billy Frosch at (985)773-2198 or email@example.com.


text:
National Signing Day 2018: Where top 10 recruits committed
National Signing Day has come and gone, leaving the top uncommitted recruits, well, no longer uncommitted.
Several of the top recruits for the 2018 class finished their recruitment with the early signing period, but a few five-star players waited until the traditional date to make their college decisions.
MORE: National Signing Day tracker
Here's where the top 10 uncommitted prospects ended their college football recruitment (all players reflect 247Sports' Composite rankings):
Patrick Surtain Jr., CB
School: American Heritage (Fort Lauderdale, Fla.)
Overall ranking: 6 (No. 1 CB)
Committed to: Alabama
Nicholas Petit-Frere, OT
School: Berkeley Prep (Tampa, Fla.)
Overall ranking: 8 (No. 1 OT)
Committed to: Ohio State
MORE: Biggest early signings
Tyson Campbell, CB
School: American Heritage (Fort Lauderdale, Fla.)
Overall ranking: 11 (No. 2 CB)
Committed to: Georgia
Olaijah Griffin, CB
School: Mission Viejo (Mission Viejo, Calif.)
Overall ranking: 25 (No. 3 CB)
Committed to: USC
MORE: Georgia, Clemson big winners on early Signing Day
Devon Williams, WR
School: Antelope Valley (Lancaster, Calif.)
Overall ranking: 34 (No. 5 WR)
Committed to: USC
Isaac Taylor-Stuart, CB
School: Helix (San Diego)
Overall ranking: 35 (No. 4 CB)
Committed to: USC
MORE: Georgia claims top class in nation
Tanner McKee, Pro-style QB
School: Centennial (Corona, Calif.)
Overall ranking: 36 (No. 3 Pro-style QB)
Committed to: Stanford
Jaylen Waddle, WR
School: Episcopal (Bellaire, Texas)
Overall ranking: 38 (No. 6 WR)
Committed to: Alabama
Justyn Ross, WR
School: Central (Phenix City, Ala.)
Overall ranking: 45 (No. 7 WR)
Committed to: Clemson
William Barnes, OT
School: Apopka (Apopka, Fla.)
Overall ranking: 52 (No. 5 OT)
Committed to: North Carolina


text:
The mission of the Rutherford Education Foundation is to enrich the academic, athletic and extracurricular experiences of students in the Borough of Rutherford. It seeks to develop a reliable source of privately raised funds that will enable it to sponsor programs in cooperation with the schools, the recreation department and the community at large.
Who We Are
The Rutherford Education Foundation is a N.J. non-profit Corporation comprised of parents, educators, alumni, and residents who are devoted to the enrichment and continuing excellence of the Rutherford Public schools and the community they serve. We welcome volunteers interested in assisting the Foundation to fulfill its mission.
The Rutherford Education Foundation provides funding for programs through donations. Your tax-deductible donation will assist in funding academic, athletic and extra- curricular activities to benefit every resident of the Borough of Rutherford. The REF is a non-profit organization and our tax ID is 65-1160605.
The Rutherford Education Foundation has provided in excess of $500,000 to fund projects that have benefited the students of Rutherford and their educational experience.
Rutherford Education Foundation
P.O. Box 246
Rutherford NJ, 07070
Rutherford Education Foundation can be followed on Facebook by becoming a Fan.


text:
Within days of her murder, everyone had heard of Bubbles Schroeder.
But why did her death attract such unprecedented public interest?
For one thing, she was young and desirable. She was also what
was euphemistically called a 'good-time girl'. And,
of course, She was dead. But was there something else? Something
less tangible? Perhaps it was that, to many people, she typified
the new, post-war age: a world of fast cars, fast living and easy
Jacoba 'Bubbles' Schroeder was born in Lichtenburg on 8 June
1931. She was educated at Benoni and Vereeniging. When she was
four years old, her mother had to go out to work, and she was
cared for by a cousin in Vereeniging until she was 13. For the
next four years she lived with her mother in Johannesburg.
Then, in March 1948, she returned to Vereeniging to work for
a coal agency but, unbeknown to her relatives, she moved back
to Johannesburg two months later. Soon after her return to the
city, she moved into the apartment of a fifty-two-year-old bookmaker
named Philip Stein, whom she had met at a dance in Orange Grove.
Although Stein liked having Bubbles around, he soon realized
that his new guest could sometimes be a lot more trouble than
he had bargained for. Bubbles was in the habit of throwing a tantrum
when she couldn't get her own way.
"She was a young woman, a little loose in her morals,"
Stein said. "But she was very sweet-except when she was
drunk. Then she became unmanageable." Matters finally came
to a head early in June 1949. Bubbles had come home drunk once
too often and Stein asked her to leave. Shortly after this, she
moved to Dorchester Mansions in Rissik Street, where she shared
an apartment with a girlfriend named Mrs Griffin, who was a 'hostess'.
Although Bubbles never held down a regular job in all the time
she was living in Johannesburg, she was never short of money.
Nor was there a dearth of men willing to pay for the pleasure
of her company.
"Bubbles was a glamour girl," Mrs Griffin
would say. "She'd spend her day at the beauty parlour and
her nights at night clubs. And she could be most chaining. Until
she had a few drinks in her, of course. Then she became obstinate
and difficult."
On Thursday, 11 August 1949, Morris Bilchik visited
Dorchester Mansions. He made a date with Bubbles for the following
Saturday night, and the two duly went out together. At the end of
the evening, they went back to Bilchik's home and spent the night
On the following Monday morning, Bilchik boasted
of his conquest to his friend, David Polliack (21). At lunchtime,
the two men visited Bubbles at her apartment. The plan was that
she would get hold of her girlfriend, Penny, and the four of them
could go out together that night. Unfortunately, Penny was nowhere
to be found. In the end, they decided simply to make up a threesome.
After Bilchik and Polliack had left, Bubbles went to visit Philip
Stein. She spent the afternoon at his apartment, where she had a
few glasses of brandy, and then returned home at 6 p.m. When she
reached Dorchester Mansions, Bilchik and Polliack were already waiting
for her. She apologized for keeping them waiting and invited them
inside while she changed into a green dress and put on some make-up.
Around 7.30 p.m. they set out for Polliack's house, Hlatikulu, in
the plush suburb of Illovo. (Poiliack's mother was in Durban at
the time, so the three of them had the house virtually to themselves.)
Bubbles travelled with David Polliack, while Bilchik
took his own car. They reached the house at about eight o'clock,
just as Polliack's cousin, Hyman Balfour Liebman (20), was leaving
for Houghton to pick up his girlfriend. Polliack and Bilchik invited
Liebman to bring his girlfriend back to the house to join the party,
but Liebman declined. They had already arranged to go to the cinema
for the evening.
After Liebman had driven off, the other three went
into the house. Polliack asked Irene, the cook, to prepare some
food, and at about 9.30 p.m. they sat down to eat a meal of tinned
asparagus soup, followed by chops with chips. For dessert they had
a can of tinned peaches. Afterwards, they went into the living room.
Bubbles drank a few glasses of brandy and snacked from a tin of
At about 11.15 p.m. Bilchik left for home. It seemed
obvious to him that Bubbles and Polliack wanted to be left alone.
After Bilchik had left, Bubbles and Polliack cleared
up in the living-room, then went upstairs to listen to records in
Polliack's bedroom. Not long afterwards, Bilchik phoned. Jealousy,
it seemed, had finally got the better of him. First he spoke to
Bubbles, then he apologized to Polliack for disturbing them. After
about fifteen minutes, he rang off.
Around midnight Hyman Liebman returned from his
cinema date. (Although he lived in the Brits district, he often
stayed at Hlatikulu when Mrs Polliack was away.) Polliack met him
in the hallway and told him that Bubbles was in his room. The trouble
was that she'd had too much to drink and he wanted to get her home
before she passed out.
Liebman went upstairs to see for himself. It was
clear to him, he later said, that Bubbles had been drinking, but
she was far from drunk. She insisted on having another drink. Eventually,
Liebman got her a glass of weak brandy. At about 12.30 a.m., Bubbles
suddenly wanted to go home. Her mother was staying with her, she
said, and expected her back by 1.00 a.m. Eventually, at about 1.30
a.m., the three of them walked out onto the driveway, where the
cars were parked. Polliack wanted to take her home, but she got
into Liebman's car and wouldn't get out. In the end, Liebman offered
to drive her home and, with Bubbles complaining that she wanted
to drive, they set out for Dorchester Mansions. Fifteen to twenty
minutes later, Liebman pulled back into the driveway. This time,
he was alone.
"That girls a lunatic," he told his
friend. "She wanted to drive and when I wouldn't let
her she made me stop and got out. I told her to be sensible but
she wouldn't listen."
Polliack was angry. "You mean you let her
walk? Where did you let her out?" he asked.
"At the Dunkeld bus terminus." "And
did she say anything?"
Lieberman nodded. "Yes," she said,
"which way to town?"
"I told her to follow the bus wires along
Oxford Road. The last thing she said to me was, "You will be
surprised to read about my corpse in the morning papers."
"Don't you realize what can happen to the
girl?" shouted Polliack.
"Yes, of course I do," his friend snapped,
"but at this time of night I didn't think she'd come to any
Lieberman was tired and fed up. "I'm going
to bed," he added, and went into the house.
Polliack was worried about Bubbles. Although it
was nearly 2.00 a.m., he set off in his own car to try to find her.
About an hour later, he returned home. Bubbles Schroeder had vanished.
The two young men assumed that Bubbles had managed
to get a lift with a passing motorist. Neither of them dreamt anything
was wrong until Morris Bilchik phoned Polliack at work the next
day. That morning, Bilchik had called at Dorchester Mansions to
see Bubbles, but had learnt from her mother that she hadn't returned
home from her night out. Soon after he had heard this news, Polliack
went to see Mrs Schroeder himself. Later Bilchik, Polliack and Mrs
Schroeder drove down to Rosebank Police Station to report that Bubbles
was missing. Polliack also telephoned the general hospital to see
if she had been admitted there.
Bubbles Schroeder's body was discovered, thirty
hours after her death, at Birdhaven plantation by Samuel Ngibisa
Mobela. The plantation was less than a kilometre from the spot where
Liebman claimed to have dropped her off. She was lying on her back
among burnt-out grass about 30 metres from the road. Her face was
turned to the right, and her left leg was laid over her right. Her
left arm was pressed against the side of her body, while her right
was flung out at an angle of about 75 degrees. She was hatless,
shoeless, and her coat was missing. Although there were scratch
marks and some bruising on her neck, there were no footprints around
the body, nor any signs of violent struggle.
The first thing that struck Dr J. Friedman, the
Johhannesburg District Surgeon when he arrived on the scene of the
crime was the position of the body. From the way Bubbles was lying,
it appeared that she had been placed carefully on the ground, which
suggested that she had been murdered nearby and then carried (probably
over the shoulder) into the plantation. This assumption was substantiated
by the fact that, although both of the victim's shoes were missing,
there was neither grass nor soil on the soles of her feet. She certainly
had not walked to the spot where her body was discovered.
The bodice of the green dress she wore was slightly
ripped and one button was missing. The lower right leg of her stocking
was also snagged in a number of places. Her panties were torn on
the right side, but her black petticoat and black brassiere were
The post-mortem revealed that she had not been
sexually assaulted. In her mouth were some pieces of a hard, clay-like
material. Although some of the bits lay deep in her throat, there
were no particles in her lungs, proving that the clay had been forced
into her mouth after death. Dr Friedman examined the contents of
Bubbles' stomach. The extent of digestion of the various foods particles
he found was to entirely substantiate Polliack and Bilchik's subsequent
account of events on the night of her death. A highly significant
fact that emerged during the post-mortem was that Miss Schroeder
was suffering from a condition of the thymus gland which would have
caused her to fall unconscious very quickly from only slight pressure
around the neck. The bruising on her neck indicated that she had
been strangled from behind, probably by a scarf or something similar,
and had scratched herself in an effort to tear the ligature from
her throat.
Dr Friedman concluded that cause of death was asphyxia
and inhibition due to the pressure on her throat and the impaction
of a hard clay-like substance (similar to that in a heap of builder's
lime a couple of metres away) in her hypopharynx. He estimated the
time of death as around two o'clock on the morning of Tuesday, 16
The police launched a large-scale search in the
area around Birdhaven Plantation, but without success. However,
on 13 October, almost two months after the murder, Hyman Liebman
and David Polliack were arrested 'in connection with the murder
of Bubbles Schroeder'. They appeared in court the following day
and were remanded in custody. Later, they were granted bail of £5
000 and £500 respectively. Their trial began a few days later
at the Johannesburg Magistrates' Court.
The evidence, which the police presented to the
court was almost entirely circumstantial. The prosecution based
its case upon the fact that Liebman and Polliack had been with Miss
Schroeder late on the night of her death. There was no direct evidence
to suggest that either of the two men were connected in any way
to her murder, however, and eventually they were acquitted.
So who did kill Bubbles Schroeder? The police contended
that Liebman had strangled her in his car using a scarf. This was
after he had driven her to Birdhaven Plantation and attempted to
have sex with her. When she fell unconscious, he had carried her
body away from the road. But there was not a shred of evidence -
apart from the fact that Liebman did give her a lift in his car
- to support this claim.
A second theory was that Bubbles was robbed and
killed by a passing African. This hypothesis is supported by the
fact that her mouth was stuffed with lime. (Among certain African
peoples it is customary to place something in the mouth of a victim
who has suffered a violent death, to prevent him or her from speaking
ill of the killer in the after world.) But this theory has a number
of obvious weaknesses. For example, if the motive for the crime
was robbery, why was Bubbles killed? And why was the body so neatly
laid out?
A third, and possibly the most plausible answer
was advanced by the late Benjamin Bennett, who was crime writer
for The Argus at the time. Bennett suggested that Bubbles probably
tried to hitch a lift home and was picked up by a passing motorist.
(If there had been two men in the car, the passenger would have
moved into the back so that Bubbles could have the front seat.)
She was assaulted - the man in the back was in a perfect position
to put a scarf around her neck to restrain her - and she was 'accidentally'
asphyxiated. Afterwards, her body was carried into the nearby plantation
and dumped. Lime was put into her mouth simply to confuse the police
into thinking the crime had been perpetrated by an African. All
this is mere conjecture, however, and we are still left with the
question of who killed Bubbles Schroeder? It seems unlikely that
the truth will ever be known.
Design & Artwork 2009


text:
Iran has recognized the significance of nanotechnology like other pioneering countries and started its activity in harmony with her 5th national economic development plan. In this regard as the first step, a nanotechnology study committee started its activities in 2001 leading to establishment of Iran Nanotechnology Innovation Council (INIC) in 2003. Further, INIC developed the first 10 year national nanotechnology initiative plan which was approved by the government in 2005. The INIC is tasked with determining the general policies for the development of nanotechnology in the country and pursuing the case with implementation of the policies. Iran's success in achieving a proper place among 15 advanced countries in nanotechnology and making attempt to promote the position in a bid to develop Iran's economy are the main missions of the INIC. Iran Nanotechnology Innovation Council is seeking to pave the road for activity of the private sector and generation of wealth within the society through providing facilities, crating market and removing the impending obstacles.
In summery INIC tasks include:
The current structure of INIC is shown below.


text:
Our Molds are not in the Etsy Store at this moment, if you are interested in any of the molds please send us a message to firstname.lastname@example.com with the mold name and I will send you back the info and pricing.
All our molds are in %100 food safe silicone hand made in our studio in Boston, USA
Our molds have multiple textures, like metal, wood, stone to name some. All of them are extracted from real objects. All of them are modified specifically for the sugar and pastry arts.
• The mold is in blue silicone and due to the manual process you will see bubbles or unevenness in the non-molding areas , but the figures that you can mold are guaranteed. After the mold is done, I make proofs of the figures to ensure that your mold is 100% accurate.
• My molds are great for fondant, gum paste, cookie dough, melted chocolate .
Food save, bake safe to up to 300F.


text:
$19.00 – $168.00
Our Competition Spray Tan formula was created for ABC's Dancing with the Stars for Spray Tan Sundays. It is designed to create the ideal set color for the professional dancers and celebrities. It can also be used for the demanding fitness models and body builders. The judges across the globe say it's the perfect stage color! Can be used in any airbrush or HVLP tanning system.
Recommended for: All skin types, fitness and/or bodybuilding competitions.
Directions: Apply 1-2 oz. (50mL) of Tahitian Tan Solution the day/night before the event. Let the product develop for 8 hours and have the client shower. The next morning, apply 3-4 oz. (100mL) of Victory Competition Solution prior to the event. Shower after the event and moisturize daily thereafter.
Aloe in de-mineralized water, Eco Cert Dihydroxyacetone (DHA), SD 40-2, Erythrulose, Alpha-Hydroxy Acid, Pro-Vitamin B-5, Cranberry Seed Extract, Ordenone, Propylene Glycol, Citric Acid, Copper, Caffeine, Phenoxyethanol, Potassium Sorbate, Fragrance, FD&C Red #33, Red #40, FD&C Yellow #2, Yellow #5, FD&C Blue #5, Blue #1.
6 oz., 16 oz., 1 Liter, 4 Liter


text:
Many of us work in a regulated environment. We may work on the manufacturing floor of a pharmaceutical company or we may work in a clinical laboratory in a hospital. Many of us may work in a government laboratory or in an academic laboratory in a university. There is a common thread impacting all these settings which is known as cGXP. cGXP is a set of regulations which impact an organization to stay within compliance so as not to harm the public and result in closure of the institution. Within cGXP there are three categories which impact most workplaces and they are; cGMP, cGCP and cGLP. I will explain how these categories differ and the consequences that occur by not following these regulations. I am hoping that after this presentation, if you see something that is incorrect at your work place you will be able to cleverly point it out to your QA/compliance manager.
Whether it is in the laboratory, manufacturing floor or in the clinic there are regulatory requirements to be met. cGXP for the most part are the guiding regulations and there is confusion how these regulations differ. Please attend this meeting to find out.
Continue reading Section Meeting: What Does cGXP Mean And What Are The Differences Between cGLP, CGMP and cGCP?


text:
+44 330 808 2232
Mon - Fri: 7:00 ─ 20:00
metalshop / Fashion acc. / Baseball caps / cap Jack Daniels - Black Vintage - TC622004JDS
shipping in 24h
Approx. delivery date:
|Show more of brand:
|Approx. delivery date:
|shipping in 24h
Everyone who uploads a picture, receives a classic2€ voucher for their next order.
*By uploading the photo you are giving the permission with processing your personal data "photo"
What are your thoughts on this product?
Just let us know!


text:
1. Which part of the country is best for me?
Options are (literally) all over the map. To narrow down your choices, decide what amenities you most value, says Mitch Barry, 53, a retired software developer from Phoenix, who, with his wife, Christy, visited more than a dozen golf communities in the west before buying a home at Pronghorn in Bend, Ore. For the Barrys, climate and course quality were key factors. Pronghorn offered year-round play on two revered layouts, a private Tom Fazio track and a Jack Nicklaus resort course. "We're both golf junkies," Barry says. "And with all those great holes, we figured we could play all we want and never get bored." The accessible location—25 minutes from the Redmond, Ore., airport and a three-hour drive from Portland—was also appealing.
2. How much golf home can I afford?
A good way to crunch the numbers is to look at how mortgage lenders do the math. In assessing how much home they think you can afford, they weigh your annual income and your assets against your liabilities and obligations (auto loans, credit card debt, child-support payments) as well as your overall credit rating. Looking to keep up with your neighbors? Consider this: American homeowners spend an average of 15 percent of their monthly income on their mortgage, according to Amy Bohutinsky, chief operating officer of Zillow. Since the size of that mortgage depends on your interest rate, it's worth shopping around for a loan. "Many people spend all that time looking at pictures, finding just the right place, then going into drawn-out negotiations that, at best, may save them, say, $5,000 on the sale price," Bohutinsky says. "But actually, the terms of your loan will have a much greater impact on how much you wind up spending on your home."
3. How do I know I'm buying into a community that's trending up?
To start, research who's behind the project; learn about their track record and reputation. Do they have a history of success, or have they left behind a trail of failed projects? Look for a developer who continues to add amenities without waiting for real estate sales to fund them—that's a sign of financial health. And don't just speak with sales reps. Talk with homeowners and golf club members and ask them for their unvarnished feedback.
NEWSLETTERS: Sign up for latest golf news, tips and insider analysis
4. Will living on a course with a brand-name architect up my home value?
Yes, but not as much as it once did. Before the Great Recession, the Golden Bear was a golden goose. Golf communities with Jack Nicklaus-designed layouts frequently commanded 12 to 20 percent premiums on their homes, says Dan Collins of IMI Living, a luxury real estate marketing firm. Other A-list architects, like Tom Fazio and Robert Trent Jones Jr., also provided a healthy boost. Today, the designer's name still matters, but priorities have shifted. "Conditioning of the course and the service and amenities around it have become as important as anything," Collins says.
5. Is a golf membership included with the purchase of my home?
"That's the exception rather than the norm," says Jim Matoska of Red Earth Corporation. In many communities, the golf club is run separately from the surrounding real estate. Further complicating matters, some communities have been turned over to the property owners, which means that the club and the real estate are owned by separate entities, too. If you expect a golf membership to be bundled into your home purchase, you may be disappointed.
6. Are different kinds of memberships offered?
Yes. Many clubs have an assortment of membership options that go by different names depending on the club (resident-members vs. owner-members; full-time members vs. part-time members). But they're not as commonly advertised as they once were, says Red Earth's Jim Matoska. "Clubs only have so much inventory, or memberships, that they can sell, and there is a number that it takes to operate the club at the level to meet member expectations," Matoska says. "So discounting memberships for those who are not there as much may be a great thing for the individual buyer, but not a great business plan for the overall health of the club."
7. What fees can I expect to pay in a community?
Along with your membership dues and food and beverage minimums, plan to pay a homeowner's association (HOA) fee, which can vary wildly. A community that offers private roads, security and well-maintained public areas generally commands a higher HOA. Assessments may come as a community ages, and because certain climates accelerate wear and tear, location matters. Ideally, an HOA should mitigate such costs by factoring repair and maintenance into the annual budget, so lump-sum assessments should not be the norm. Other fees include charges for guests, carts and caddies.


text:
Knights, nuns and sisters on the run: an evening of historic fiction in tribute to...
Beverley Hughesdon
... was a best selling historic novelist who lived in Prestwich. She wrote four novels, including the acclaimed Song of Songs a sweeping epic of love and loss set in early twentieth century Lancashire and Cheshire. She was working on a fifth novel, Eve, when she died in 2012. She attended St Hilda's Church and this evening has been organised in tribute to her.
with Deborah Swift
... used to work as a set and costume designer in theatre and at the BBC. Her debut novel The Lady's Slipper - about a rare orchid, the Quaker movement and prejudice - was shortlisted for the Impress Prize, and since then she has published a second set in the 17th century, The Gilded Lily. Deborah lives in the glorious countryside of North Lancashire close to the Lake District National Park. Her third novel, A Divided Inheritance will be out in the autumn.
and E.M.Powell
... lives in Prestwich with her husband and daughter. She was born and raised in Cork City and is the great-grand niece of Irish revolutionary leader Michael Collins. Her debut novel The Fifth Knight is a medieval thriller based on the infamous murder of Thomas Becket in Canterbury in 1170. It was published in the UK in March by Thomas & Mercer and is a #1 bestseller in Action & Adventure and Historical Fiction on Amazon.com.
St Hilda's Church
Tuesday 28 May, 7.30pm
Tickets £6 in advance from our Eventbrite online shop
Tuesday 28 May, 7.30pm
Tickets £6 in advance from our Eventbrite online shop


text:
"Kingdom Come" adapted by John Whitman based on a story by Mark Waid and Alex Ross and the novelization by Elliot S. Maggin.
"Kingdom Come"
adapted by John Whitman
based on a story by Mark Waid and Alex Ross and the novelization by Elliot S. Maggin.
Multi-cast performance
Published 1998 byTime Warner AudioBooks
approx. 3 hours
I have only recently become a fan of DC comics. Throughout most of my life I was mostly a Marvel comics fan, especially Spider-Man, because Marvel seemed to me to be more of an Everyman becoming a hero, and DC heroes were rich or from other planets. Sure, I crossed over once in a while for The Flash, and Batman, but that was pretty much it. I'm not sure if it is because I got older or DC comics decided to become more Everyman but I've recently been dipping into the DC pool. A lot of this influence is because of my experience with some great DC comics audiobooks. This storyline I ran across accidentally while looking for more comic/novel based audiobooks. This one was originally done as an audio drama with full sound effects and actors voicing each character. This seemed up my alley so, I gave it a listen and was treated to some fun superhero action.
I mentioned Everyman aspects of comics that I prefer because this book actually looks at the Heroes as gods aspect that I didn't like. It seems that many people of the Earth in this DC comics creation didn't like it either. Before I go into that further, a neat aspect of this story is the combination of the Book of Revelations from the Holy Bible with the possible end of the world that could happen thanks to the battles between super heroes and super villains. Pastor Norman McKay is receiving visions of the end of times, the mysterious hero The Spectre, takes Pastor McKay on a trip through time and space to the various heroes and what has brought about this end of times.
The Earth has a sudden influx of MetaHumans, these are humans that have developed super hero type abilities. When one metahuman, known as Magog, kills the Joker, it seems this would be a good thing, but a hospital full of patients and one Lois Lane, wife of Superman, is collateral damage, does not seem to bother this new breed of metahumans. Superman retires to his Fortress of Solitude and leaves mankind to fend for itself. Jump ahead a few years and the metahumans have gotten rid of all the super villains and now they are bored. So instead of just sitting back and enjoying they peace they begin to battle each other, every time taking out large chunks of various cities. When Magog and a group of metahumans destroy Kansas, Wonder Woman seeks out Superman so they can put a stop to all the metahumans, kind of like the band is getting back together for the Justice League, but, it's not all that easy, it seems Lex Luthor has survived and is getting the villains remaining back together for one final battle.
Can the Justice Leage reform and put aside years of apathy and ill-feelings? This story has some great battles and some great action with an ending only a comic book could put together.
This audio drama packs a pretty good superhero punch with some great voice acting and some excellent sound effects to keep you in the moment. My only beef is with that of the actor portraying Pastor McKay. He is shown all the destruction and despair and on top of that is receiving vision of a Revelations scale, yet he's extremely chipper and happy throughout his dialogue. He just didn't seem believable. Everything else was excellent.


text:
We recently found out about Oyster Bar Brooklyn's custom gift baskets. You fill out the online order form stating the type of fish you want, choose the quantity and the fish market team will contact you to arrange pick up.
Happy Hour
Tuesdays to Fridays, 5pm - 7pm. Oysters $1-$1.50 and $7 drink specials.
Valentine's Menu
Start your dinner off with oysters and then move to dishes with mood enhancing ingredients such as Basil (said to boost fertility), Pomegranates (filled with antioxidants which promote blood flow) and Asparagus and Avocado (both high in Vitamin E which can increase hormone production).
Accompany dinner with a special cupid cocktail and you have the perfect evening!
BLEEDING HEART - Mezcal, Blood Orange Liquor, Simple Syrup, Lime, Jalapeño
LA PETITE MORT - Absolut Citron, Pineapple, Sour Mix, Soda, Chambord
LOVE on the ROCKS - Hendricks Gin, St. Germain, Grapefruit, Orange Slice, Pomegranate seeds
THE KISS OFF - Bacardi Rum, Founders Port, Grand Marnier, Lime Juice
Of course check out Oyster Bar Brooklyn's website for information, detailed menus, the fish market and reservations.


text:
Freak Show 101 at Coney Island
September 24, 2012 at 2:53 pm
Coney Island has seen many changes since it opened its first sideshow in 1880. Theme parks have been developed, bulldozed and redeveloped; newer vendors have replaced old businesses; real estate has been bought and sold—the list goes on. But there are some places, and people, in Coney Island that are determined to keep the old traditions alive. The Coney Island Sideshow School, and Adam Rinn, are among them.
Watch Video:
Rinn, who grew up in Coney Island, teaches eager—and brave—students how to eat fire, walk on broken glass and carry a charge in an electric chair. The school usually teaches two four-day sessions per year. Students pay an $800 tuition—a cost that, Rinn explains, will deter curiosity seekers, but not discourage those who are truly hungry to perform sideshow acts—after "graduating," they'll make up the tuition costs in a gig or two, he says.
Continue reading at narrative.ly…


text:
Friday, 31 July 2015
NSW Rural Fire Brigades, Support Brigades and Districts across the state will receive a boost in equipment thanks to the NSW Rural Fire Service Association's (RFSA) 2015 Grant Scheme.
Rural Firefighters from as far west as Coonamble, to south in the Bega Valley, East in the Gosford District and far north to the Tweed, will share in over to $1.72 million in grants to support them in their service to their community.
RFSA President, Tim Arnott said the NSW RFSA Grant Scheme was a highly valued support service offered by the Association.
"Brigades are often in need of items that are not covered by Direct Government and Council Funding so the Grant Scheme offers financial assistance to purchase items and equipment that make performing their duties just that little bit easier," said Mr Arnott.
Funding from the scheme is not directed toward fire fighting vehicles or fire fighting equipment that is supplied by the NSW RFS and/or local Councils.
"The funding capacity of individual brigades in NSW, particularly smaller brigades in remote locations can be difficult," Mr Arnott explained.
"The scheme offers these brigades the ability to purchase items they may, otherwise, be unable to afford."
Popular items in the 2015 Grant Scheme included GPS units, portable fridges, hose reels, spanner sets and sun shades to protect fire fighters from the heat.
Mr Arnott thanked the community of NSW for their generous support through purchasing tickets in the NSW RFSA raffles.
"It is a direct result of their contribution that the RFSA can fund support services, such as the Grant Scheme, to the benefit of the men and women of the NSW Rural Fire Service," said Mr Arnott.
Suite 11, 69 York Road
South Penrith
PO Box 845
Penrith BC


text:
Rarely does the U.S. Senate reject a treaty. But on December 4, 2012, it did just that, blocking ratification of the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons With Disabilities. President Barack Obama had argued that by joining, the United States would "reaffirm America's position as the global leader on disability rights" and help inspire other countries to improve their treatment of the disabled. Skeptics asked why ratification would prove more inspirational than the U.S. domestic laws already on the books. When skeptics also warned of the effect on U.S. sovereignty, supporters stressed that the treaty imposed no burdensome requirements. That was a peculiar argument, for if the treaty lacks substance, then there is no point in ratifying it, and if it makes substantive demands on the parties, then the concerns about sovereignty are well founded.
What little news coverage the Senate vote did garner tended to describe the treaty's supporters as sympathetic to the disabled and its opponents as insensitive. Little light was shed on why any senator would appear to subordinate the interests of the disabled to an ideological abstraction such as sovereignty. But what sank the treaty was not heartlessness, nor was it any abstract quibble. Rather, opponents were worried about something practical and fundamental: whether U.S. laws should be made by politicians held accountable to Americans through the ballot box or by unaccountable officials in multinational organizations. If the treaty has a practical effect, it will be due in large part to interpretations made by foreign government officials and judges and by nongovernmental organizations, none answerable to American voters.
This is not to say that international agreements should never become part of domestic law. After all, the U.S. Constitution specifies that treaties, together with the Constitution itself and federal statutes, are "the supreme law of the land." But in some areas, the United States has no compelling interest in involving itself in other countries' debates, nor would it welcome interference in its
Loading, please wait...


text: Dallas Criminal Defense Blog 2013 March Firm Success in Recent Sex Crimes Case Previous Post | Next Post Firm Success in Recent Sex Crimes Case Posted By D'Amore Law Firm || 27-Mar-2013 Our firm recently handled a relatively complex case in which our client was facing three different cases of child pornography as well as a charge of sexual performance by a child. Originally, our client could have been facing extensive time in prison and harsh fines. However, we were able to have all three child pornography charges dismissed and the remaining sexual performance charged reduced to attempted sexual performance. Our client was sentenced to just two years deferred adjudication probation. According to Texas Penal Code § 46.21, sexual performance by a child is any offense where by a person knowingly hires or consents to a child younger than 18 years of age engaging in sexual conduct or sexual performance. This crime is a second degree felony unless the child is under 14 years of age, in which case the crime would be considered a 1st degree penalty. The term "performance" refers to a performance or part in a visual representation or performance shown before an audience where the child under 18 years of age was authorized to perform sexual conduct as a part of the exhibit. Such an offense, if convicted, can mean serious penalties for the adult who employed or consented to the child's participation in such acts and can include a maximum jail sentence of 20 years. Fortunately, our firm was able to show that the prosecution's case against our client on the charges stated above was not strong enough to warrant such a serious conviction. In the end, evidence of the possession of child pornography was insufficient as was the actual employment of a child to perform sexual acts. We were able to reach a plea deal which gave our client a sentence of probation in a time period of two years deferred adjudication. This means that the client pled guilty to the charges of attempted sexual performance by a child and was ordered by the court to meet a requirement of two years probation. Deferred adjudication allows for the possible avoidance of a formal conviction on our client's criminal record or all together dismissal if they complete their sentence fully. This case result is yet another testimony of our firm's dedication to defending the rights and interests of those being charged with crimes in Texas. If you are facing criminal charges of any kind, please do not hesitate to contact a Dallas criminal defense attorney at D'Amore Law Firm to discuss your case. Categories: Case Results, Criminal Law, Dallas Crime News, Defenses, Indecency With A Child, Sex Crimes, Texas Penal Code, Trial Share Post


text: Hi Although Im not new to TB, this is my first time actually doing anything on the DB side. I have only played upright basses a few times, and know little about them, but I know that it would be great to have one to learn to play on. My question is, what is a good inexpensive full scale upright bass that I should look into as a first, and how much should I expect to pay? I am not particular to acoustic vs. electric, and which everway I could get a decent bass for learning on I will go. Although there is the chance I may use it to perform, I am only concerned about a learners bass, so I dont need the best sounding bass. Thank you for your time. Peace Nick


text: I invite everyone to take a good look at Rachel Baron's blog, Handmade Chic. Rachel is a wonderful glass artist (Inferno Glass Beads) and a staunch supporter of handmade art. She graciously interviewed me for the blog--THANKS, RACHEL! So, stop by and visit with Rachel for a few moments when you can, and visit her website for lovely glass creations!


text: It's not every day that sépcialiste the shoe turns 15. For OG Status, Reebok plays the grandiose with the pack Kasina X Giants. So, the brand takes a lot anniversary with a bonus jacket. Find the sneaker light blue, a color perfect for AXT Pump. Flashy but classy, especially the inscriptions on the back of the heel.


text:
Your Blog title is the title that will appear at the top of your blog site in your viewer's tab in their browser window. This will also be the title that will appear in Google if your blog page is indexed separately from your main website.
You can set the title for your blog by going to the settings section of your blog control panel.
From the general tab you will see a blog title section near the top of the page, and you can type in what you want the title to be. By default it is your company name on your account, but you can change this to anything you'd like. It is best a good idea to enter your company name along with the area you serve and the specific type of business you are in. For example, "Example Photography Blog - New York City Wedding Photography."
After you update the title, click save changes.
0 comments


text:
Andrew Lloyd Webber has confirmed that Alex Brightman will star as Dewey Finn in School of Rock—The Musical when it starts performances on Broadway this fall. Previews are set to begin Monday, November 9, 2015, at the Winter Garden Theatre, with an opening night set for Sunday, December 6, 2015.
"I've come to consider the casting of an actor named 'Brightman' in a starring role something of a good luck charm for a long, healthy run on Broadway," said Mr. Lloyd Webber. "Alex, lucky for us, also happens to be a remarkable Dewey Finn. The wonderful thing about seeing him play this role is that you get the sense that he's having every bit as much fun performing as we are watching, and the result is positively infectious."
Mr. Brightman's previous Broadway credits include: Matilda, Big Fish, Wicked, and Glory Days. Off-Broadway credits include 35mm, Spidermusical, and The (M)orons Happy Hour: Live at The Slipper Room.
Based on the Paramount movie written by Mike White, School of Rock has a book by Julian Fellowes, lyrics by Glenn Slater, and new music by Andrew Lloyd Webber. School of Rock—The Musical will be directed by Laurence Connor (currently represented on Broadway by Les Miserables).
School of Rock—The Musical will feature Choreography by JoAnn M. Hunter, Scenic and Costume Design by Anna Louizos, Lighting Design by Natasha Katz, Sound Design by Mick Potter, and Music Supervision by Ethan Popp.
School of Rock is produced on Broadway by Andrew Lloyd Webber for The Really Useful Group, Warner Music Group & Access Industries, The Shubert Organization, and The Nederlander Organization. Nina Lannan and Madeleine Lloyd Webber serve as Executive Producers.
Tickets are available at www.SchoolOfRockTheMusical.com.
# # #
CONNECT with MUSICAL THEATRE MAGAZINE:


text:
How to become a CIO – Part 2 (or The business of IT is business)
Every time I meet a set of people aspiring to become a CIO, they are interested in the 101 of how to become a CIO. So a long time back, I wrote on my blog highlighting my viewpoint on how can one become a CIO. In recent times, the discussion has come back with renewed vigor, which includes various themes including succession planning, on which I commented last month. However, the moot point is about how one can indeed become a CIO in the new normal—when everyone is now discussing about whether the CIO role as it exists today will disappear in the next five years.
Almost all the CIOs I know understand business (process, results, metrics, and influencers) as well as other CXOs. They are no longer enamored by technology, but are always asking the business benefit and ROI questions to vendors as well as partners. Most of them are able to hold a conversation on broad business subjects with management, and challenge the CEOs on why they should be engaging the Board. Their soft skills are well honed, and the CIOs are taking on additional responsibilities within their enterprises. A few CIOs (based on their interests) are seeking lateral movement or even nudging the CEO chair.
Now, that's indeed a reflection of how the CIO's role has evolved, and continues to break new barriers. So what should aspirant CIOs be working on? Should they adopt a role model from amongst CIOs, or look up checklists that many paper and web publications offer? If only transformation to a CXO role was as easy as ticking off an objective question list!
There are no training programs for someone to become a CIO, nor any specific qualifications that are inherent to a CIO. Like any CXO, the CIO is an integral part of the decision makers who influence the business' direction. However, technology enablement of the business (process, results and metrics) is one of the key contributions expected from the CIO. To successfully execute this, I reiterate that the CIO's focus is on par with others; evidently, the key ingredient for an aspiring CIO is the understanding that the business of IT is business, and not technology. This is the key tenet on which the CIO role is evolving, and success will largely depend on the (aspirant) CIO's ability to further the business with, or without help from technology. The remaining traits can be developed with training, coaching and/or mentoring. Look around, and you will observe that the successful CIOs are indeed business leaders—not technologists.
So no 101s on how to become a CIO, or a checklist that you can use; did I not meet your expectations? I would rather do that, than give anyone a false sense of hope!


text:
It was a beautifully sunny, yet cold and frosty, morning on the canal today. We were here to visit MGM Boats in order to develop our plans. The boatyard looked lovely in the frosty sunshine. We have spent a lot of time over the past month planning out rooms, thinking about space, finding pictures of styles we like, and even coming up with a new name for the boat! We arrived armed with drawings. It was encouraging to discover that Martin at MGM had reached almost exactly the same decisions as ourselves. Planning a narrowboat is all about finding ways to save space. Our concept for the back study-bedroom did exactly that, saving roughly three feet when compared with our first attempt. This space will be put to good use further down the boat, particularly in the kitchen.
So, the boat will be 67′, which is close to the maximum length for a narrowboat. The stern will be done in a typical MGM style, with a large cruiser deck so that people can gather, and central steps down into the cabin. This will look something like one of their previous boats, called 'Snail's Pace'. The first three photographs here give a good idea.
Once inside, the first room will be Andrew's study bedroom, containing a music studio space and a double bed, along with a wardrobe and washing machine. From there you pass through a walk-through bathroom, in which the corridor switches sides so that boat is nicely balanced. The next room is a double bedroom with large wardrobe at the foot of the bed. After that comes the kitchen, with an external hatch opposite the sink, and wine and vegetable coolers sunk into the floor. Beyond that is the saloon, with the solid fuel stove to the left side of the doors out, and the TV stand to the right. This also has a hatch, a loose-leaf table, and a crafting cupboard for Louise. The front doors open into the 'conservatory' well deck area, which has banquette seating arranged around a removable table. This will be a wonderful space for sitting out, dining, admiring the view, etc. It has a solid steel roof and a transparent removable cover for maximum view all around. The water tank is cleverly built into the seating. Beyond that is the hatch containing the bow-thrusters. The roof will have solar panels, a TV antenna system (operated from inside the boat), a wifi antenna (also connected to a box inside the boat), the chimney for the stove and the usual plank, pole and mop (does anybody ever actually use the mop?). The colour scheme will be green (similar to Faustroll) and cream with some red. As these plans develop, we will start posting more detailed diagrams and photographs here. Andrew


text:
Click on an alumni listing from Sandy, OR to find more information about the person.
The listing of alumni from Sandy, OR includes graduates from 2 schools. To filter results, select a Sandy, OR high school using the links to the right. The Sandy alumni list on this page come from a variety of sources. Clicking one of your friends will give you locations that you can get back in touch with the fellow graduate. To view alumni that graduated in Sandy around your class year, enter your graduation year in the search box at the top of the page. You may also be able to find friends close to your home town. We also have listings for graduates from Boring, OR, Estacada, OR, or Corbett, OR.
Approximately 700 of residents in Sandy (8%) are the normal age for attending high school (15-19). Also, around 300 Sandy residents (3%) are the average age for high school seniors (18-19). Population stats are from the United States Census Bureau.
|Sign up for free to get in touch with high school friends
Sandy, OR 97055
|Sandy, OR 97055
|< 0
|over 85 >


text:
Written on the 18 May 2015 by Kevin Conolly
Kevin Conolly MP, Member for Riverstone welcomed the news that bus travellers in Sydney's North West will benefit from an extra 128 weekly services, giving residents greater frequency and more travel options.
The new services, which came into effect on 18 May, will give Hillsbus customers more frequent buses into the city as well as better links between local suburbs and the Macquarie Park employment centre," Mr Conolly said.
"The extra services are being introduced as part of the NSW Government's Growth Buses program which has seen more than 11,100 weekly bus trips introduced since March 2011, including more than 2,900 in the North West district.
Mr Conolly said "From now on, there will be 75 extra weekly bus services between the North West district and the CBD, catering for peak hour travellers and making it a little easier to get to work or appointments in town.
"There will also be 53 extra weekly trips between Rouse Hill, Castle Hill and Macquarie Park, which will really benefit many local residents who work there" he said.
"These extra Hillsbus services will make bus travel that little bit easier for local people and will better connect residents to their jobs and leisure activities."
The extra weekly services from May 18 include:
There will also be minor timetable changes to some existing trips on routes 616X and 619. Information on the new routes and timetable changes is available online at www.transportnsw.info
Author: Kevin Conolly
As your voice in the NSW Parliament, I will fight tirelessly for the local and state issues that affect you.
Through this website, I will keep you up to date with the latest news.
I am committed to working tirelessly to deliver the infrastructure and services needed in our local area.
You can also use this website to contact me if you have any questions, concerns or views that you might like to raise with me.


text:
These long earrings with three, 18mm woven balls are the centerpiece of Sissy Yates Designs' new and immensely popular Bonball Collection. Light, bright, and whimsical, these earrings add a pop of color to any everyday look.
Originally on ear wires, all bonballs are available on posts or clip-ons as well. Please specify when ordering.


text:
Master's programmes on offer at IMT Atlantique
MSc accredited by the Ministry of Higher Education & Research
MSc accredited by the Ministry of Higher Education & Research
The European Joint Master of Science in Nuclear Engineering, SARENA - SAfe and REliable Nuclear Applications aims to develop scientific, technical and management skills enabling engineers to work in all domains related to nuclear energy and applications with a strong international culture, thus allowing students from around the world to join the programme. It proposes two tracks, one on Radioactive Waste Managment and Decommissioning and one on Nuclear Reactor Operation and Safety.
Specializations in
The European joint Masters of Science in Management and Engineering of Environment and Energy (ME3) is an inter-disciplinary program which brings together : (1) Management and Engineering ; (2) Energy and Environment, and (3) European and outside Europe collaborations. All these aspects make the ME3 Masters course a unique program in European higher education, and constitute the "raison d'être" of the university consortium.
The MOST program proposed by the IMT Graduate School of Engineering in Nantes aims to give a competitive edge to students and young professionals interested in industrial engineering and engineering management with a high emphasis on quantitative methods for decision making in the field of supply chain and transport management and optimization.
The objective of the Master of Science is to form project leaders or supervisors capable of managing complex engineering projects in the domain of the environment and energy conversion systems within an international context. PM3E offers a balanced program of management skills and engineering techniques for environmental and energy projects.


text:
Chess is probably one of the oldest and most competitive turn based strategy games. Recently we decided to look for the best Chess application for our iDevice and we came up with this list. Not that any of us would be at the level of a Grandmaster, but we went searching for a Chess application with the toughest chess engine with a built in coach.
iTunes [link]
Price – Free
This application is by Chess.com and boasts 5 million players with unlimited real time games. The interface is really clean and nice as well. It also comes with a collection of 50,000 puzzles for you to choose from. For online play this is definitely the application we will go for.
Stockfish Chess
iTunes [link]
Price – Free
Another amazing free chess application. Players can choose different play styles such as Passive, Solid, Active, Aggressive or Suicidal. Stockfish is able to think during opponent\'s time for maximum playing strength. Stockfish is also open source under the GNU General Public License.
Shredder Chess
iTunes [link]
Price – $7.99
Shredder is an outstanding 12 times computer chess world champion but it is also able to mimic the play of a human chess player with any playing strength. With that said, Shredder deliberately makes typical human mistakes in those levels.
T Chess Pro
iTunes [link]
Price – $7.99
Unlike the rest, you get both the iPhone and iPad application for the price of one. T Chess Pro has stunning retina display graphics and links with Game Center for real-time or turn-based online games with friends.
HIARCS Chess
iTunes [link]
Price – $9.99
HIARCS stands for Higher Intelligence Auto Response Chess System and is almost similar to Shredder. While the user interface on HIARCS is not as clean as Shredder, HIARCS ran slightly smoother on our iPad 3 as compared to Shredder.
All the chess applications above are solid. We went for Shredder as the interface looked a bit nicer but felt a bit sluggish on the iPad as compared to the iPhone 5. In HIARCS you could have the coach recommend moves constantly which is great for training.
You could also enable a permanent brain on HIARCS so it\'s constantly calculating moves resulting in faster gameplay as compared to Shredder.
We just couldn\'t resist pitting both applications against each other. Shredder\'s Elo was set to a maximum of 2600 and HIARCS capped at 3000 Elo, making HIARCS the highest Elo on a portable device.
First game Shredder played black on the iPhone 5 and HIARCS played white on the iPad 3. Shredder came out on top.
Second game Shredder was on the iPad 3 playing white and HIARCS was playing black on the iPhone 5. The game was tied with both applications making 3 identical moves in succession.
And the results of the third match… well, we didn\'t do a third game. When you have 2 Grandmaster chess applications playing each other, you can expect the game to last quite a while.


text:
Promoter Jobs in all regions on Job Mail
There are currently no Promoter jobs in All Regions advertised under Promoter on Job Mail. Please view similar jobs advertised below
25 Similar results under Part Time and Temporary in all regions
General Workers Urgently Needed
Male General workers needed as Van Assistants / Warehousing Staff. Must have... read more
General Workers With Matric Certificate
Male General workers needed for Jobs in December 2019. Requirements : Updated... read more
General Workers Must Have Matric
Male General Workers needed with a Matric Certificate. Kindly make an application... read more
General Workers With Matric Certificates
General Workers needed with a matric certificate , No experience necessary but... read more
Au Pairs And Babysitters Needed
Au Pairs between the ages of 24-50 needed in Centurion and surrounding... read more
Sales & Marketing Assistant Part-time Position
Position: Sales & Marketing Assistant Three month, part-time, contract position Essential Requirements:... read more
Board Member (volunteer)
CALL FOR APPLICATION: BOARD MEMBERS (Volunteers) Closing date: 31/01/2020 The Board of... read more
Driver 4 Ton Truck(experienced)
Looking for a driver who has an experience of driving 4 Ton... read more
Au Pairs Urgently
Au Pair jobs available in Centurion and surrounding areas. Requirements: -Must have... read more
Rewinder 3 Phase Electric Motors
wanted re-winder for 3 phase electric motors on 6 month contract in... read more
Looking for primary and high school tutors around the Johannesburg area. Perfect... read more
Call Centre Agent Required
No experience required training will be provided for agents attending to inbound... read more
Undercover Operative
We require skilled undercover operatives to work in various sectors. Criteria: *... read more
Project Manager Urgently Needed
We urgently need 6 Experienced Project Managers for Cleaning Service position in... read more
Project Assistant
Duties & Responsibilities Research Topics . Number of Construction Companies in Cape... read more
New Summer Season Models And Actors
2020 SUMMER Season (New): Do U have a GREAT Look? We want... read more
Actors + Models -*summer Season 2020
Coming up to *SUMMER Season (New): Do U have a GREAT Look?... read more
New Season Models*
2020 Summer Season: Do U have a GREAT Look? We want GREAT... read more
*models –semi-skilled*
We need Semi-Skilled MODELS - some Experience This is our SUMMER 2020... read more
New Actors*
SUMMER 2020 Season: Do U have a GREAT Look? Are you a... read more
Get Free Alerts DAILY via email when new positions are placed for Part Time and Temporary under Promoter in All Regions


text:
This event has passed.
Learn to Kayak – C6: Thursday Evenings
June 20, 2019 @ 6:30 pm - July 25, 2019 @ 9:00 pm| €199
6 Week Adult Beginners Kayaking Course Details (Every Thursday Evening)
- Why sign up to do just a course when our Beginners package includes:
- FREE Membership to the club all year
- FREE Club Trips ran throughout the year
- FREE use of club equipment (boats, paddles, etc.,) for club events
- FREE additional training and rescue courses
- FREE access to equipment and training in the clubs other disciplines
Now only €169! (excluding CI membership)
Our Level 2 skills courses and assessments are fully certified by Canoeing Ireland. Membership price total 199 includes mandatory Canoeing Ireland membership €30)
**WWKC club will review your application before verifying acceptance onto the course and as a member of the club.**


text:
Delivery Methods
We offer two different course delivery options – Premium and Lite.
A complete and comprehensive distance learning package, incorporating:
All of the above, with the added benefit of face-to-face, tutor-led workshops where you will learn alongside other students.
For a full run-down of what's included, please see our Premium and Lite course comparison chart.
On top of the interactive learning resources available online, we'll supply you with a complete set of study materials, including study guides created by us and not available anywhere else. Resources include:


text: Continental Elite Poly-V Drive Belts by Hib Halverson Back in the '90s, Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company introduced a new type of serpentine or "Poly-V" drive belt. It was named "Gatorbackt" for the distinctive helical-cogged, or "helicog," pattern on the belt's backside and to associate the product with Goodyear's "Gatorback" high performance radial tires of the late-'80s and early-'90s. The ...Read More »


text:
About Us
VancoWrimo is a group of writers who participate in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and and meet during other times of the year as well.
On Social Networks
Our Facebook group, The Other Eleven Months, is used by our members to coordinate social and writing meetups.
Our Twitter account is @VancoWrimo, which we use for communicating new updates to the site, events and other relevant information for Writers. During NaNoWriMo, we also send out words of encouragement and inspiration.
Getting in Touch
If one of the above methods doesn't work for you, or you'd prefer an e-mail conversation, we have a Contact Form available for you to use. One of our MLs will respond to your query, usually within a couple days.