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Yesterday, a major study published in the New England Journal of Medicine put a spotlight on how making dietary changes can have a major affect on health. The study focused on the Mediterranean Diet and heart disease, finding that consuming a plant-based diet, along with plenty of nuts and healthy oils, linked to a reduced risk of stroke, cardiovascular death and heart attacks compared to those following a low-fat diet.
Here's the study.
Briefly, researchers split almost 7,500 Spaniards at risk of heart disease – but showing no signs of any – into three dietary groups. One group consumed more extra-virgin olive oil, about four cups per week; a second group added about one ounce of nuts to their day; the third group was assigned to a low-fat diet. Along with nuts and healthy oils, the two Mediterranean-diet groups also ate more fish and legumes compared to the low-fat group.
After five years, those following the two Mediterranean Diet patterns showed primarily a reduced risk of stroke.
The Mediterranean Diet shares many qualities to the evidence-based diet shown to reduce cancer risk. Here, we asked AICR Nutrition Advisor Karen Collins, MS, RD, CDN, to talk about the diet and how it relates to cancer prevention.
Q: Can you describe a Mediterranean Diet?
A: It's a plant-based diet that uses a large and abundant variety of vegetables and fruits. It makes vegetables and fruits the centerpiece of the meal, not just in the proportion but in the way they are seen as a way to enjoy and savor. The diet also has healthy fats and uses legumes abundantly. Meats, especially red meat but even poultry, are eaten in limited amounts.
Q: What does the Mediterranean Diet share with AICR's cancer-protective diet?
A: They are both plant-based diets, with a wide variety of vegetables and beans, and they both limit red meats. The Mediterranean diet does generally involve some red wine but it's not required – it's not an essential part of the diet and for those who do drink, its only in moderation and generally only at meals.
Q: What does the research show on the Mediterranean Diet and cancer risk? The research seems to be much clearer for heart disease.
A: There are just more studies looking at heart disease and the Mediterranean Diet than with cancer. It's not that the Mediterranean Diet doesn't link to cancer prevention, its just not as well studied. So far, it looks like the Mediterranean diet can prevent certain cancers. Some research has suggested that following a Mediterranean Diet can reduce cancer mortality and incidence.
Cancer develops over many years, which makes intervention-type trials a challenge. Research does link the Mediterranean diet with reductions in markers of inflammation, and combined with the abundance of antioxidant, cancer-fighting phytochemicals in the Mediterranean diet, this is an eating pattern that fits well in the overall model of a diet to lower cancer risk that we see in the New American Plate.
Q: For people concerned with both heart health and cancer prevention, what can we take away from this?
A: This study compared Mediterranean to a low-fat diet, which other studies have also done, and this shows that a singular focus in defining low-fat as being healthy is misplaced. It depends on what your eating when you reduce your fat.
By eating a healthy diet and embracing the real principals of a varied and plant-based diet, its showing that it's not just what you don't eat, its what you do eat that counts. Eating healthy fats and a plant-based diet together can lower the risk of both heart disease and cancer.


text: This question is very basic which is making it hard to find an answer. I have a few pro mini freeduino's (http://dx.com/p/new-version-pro-mini-atmega328p-microcontroller-board-white-173878)Chip Schematic (I believe): http://elecfreaks.com/store/download/Arduino-Pro-Mini-v12.pdfI'd like to power with 9v battery. Is there any reason not to just solder straight to the board a 9v wire with the caps to connect direct to the battery?No, not if you wire the +9vdc to the "raw" pin and a wire from the negative terminal of the battery to a ground pin on the pro-mini board.I've seen these cables connected to the barrels for the uno. Does the uno have some type of protection on the receiving barrel? Is this less of a concern with a 9v battery? The uno has an internal series polarity protection diode to prevent damage in case one plugs in a DC voltage source having the wrong voltage polarity, the pro mini has no such protection diode, so be sure to verify correct voltage polarity before you solder to the 'raw' voltage input pin.Lefty

subset: commoncrawl


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Saturday, July 17, 2010
frogtastic bento lunch *ribbit!*
"The better to see you with", said Froggie.
"Froggie, what a long tongue you have", said Fly.
"The better to eat you with!", said Froggie.
Tee hee! This was a fun lunch to make. :)
I've been completely and totally inspired by Susan Yuen's bento blog lately. She has a knack for making the most darling creatures come to life with these cute sugar icing eyes!
Froggie here is cheddar cheese and he's detailed with sugar icing eyes and fruit leather tongue. He's about to snack on a fly made out of a raisin with cheese wings. :) Froggie and Fly are chillin' on top of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Reusable silicone barran separates the fly assassination scene from some SunChips in the back.
The other sections of the EasyLunchboxes container hold cucumber & a carrot with hummus, and orange slices & blackberries.
The sandwich was sealed using my sandwich press from JList.
16 comments:
That frog is SUPER cute! LOL, I love how he's just about to get that fly! Those icing eyes are so awesome, my kids love the little treat. :) Thanks for the mention too! :)
- July 17, 2010 at 4:01 PM
so cool!
- July 17, 2010 at 4:06 PM
- Stef plus 3 said... [Reply to comment]
susan has some awsome ideas on her site!!!
- July 17, 2010 at 4:35 PM
- Mommyof2girlz said... [Reply to comment]
The best frog ever...such a charmer...lol I've seen Susan using these lately, now I defiantly have to buy some ;)
- July 17, 2010 at 5:06 PM
- Mrs. Ed said... [Reply to comment]
Very very cute. As of Thursday we have had a pet frog in the house. My five year old named him "Toad Floater" (because whenever we get a down pour my husband calls it a "turd floater" and Gordon thinks this is hysterical).
I will have to get one of these cookie cutters!!!
- July 17, 2010 at 8:15 PM
- Jenn @ BentoForKidlet said... [Reply to comment]
SO cute!! I have got to get some of those icing eyes!
- July 17, 2010 at 9:05 PM
- Kelly Polizzi said... [Reply to comment]
This is such an adorable kid-friendly lunch. Love the froggy.
- July 17, 2010 at 11:13 PM
- ☺lani☺ said... [Reply to comment]
So cute....
- July 18, 2010 at 12:37 AM
- Simply Life said... [Reply to comment]
that lunch is adorable!
- July 18, 2010 at 6:24 AM
- Cameron said... [Reply to comment]
Oh my gosh this is amazing! I've seen these bento box lunches several places - how did you get into this?
I love it!!
- July 18, 2010 at 3:35 PM
- JDaniel4's Mom said... [Reply to comment]
The frog with the fly is so cute.!
- July 19, 2010 at 12:43 PM
- BigBearswife said... [Reply to comment]
I love the froggie!! super cute!
- July 19, 2010 at 2:47 PM
- Tifani said... [Reply to comment]
I like the artsy turn you are taking here. Very, very fun! And thanks for the link. You know I'm loving it.
- July 19, 2010 at 8:18 PM
- Jenny said... [Reply to comment]
Ah Melissa! I happen to make froggie bento , too this week. But yours is so much cuter with the fly... hee hee... The frog looked so happy, catching the fly.
- July 20, 2010 at 8:12 AM
- Michelle said... [Reply to comment]
Seriously, cutest lunch ever.
- July 24, 2010 at 12:11 AM
- adriel, from the mommyhood memos said... [Reply to comment]
Hey there. I just wanted to let you know that I gave you a "shout out" on my blog yesterday cause I love this post! I hope you get some new readers because of it:
"shout outs" on the mommyhood memos
adriel :)
- July 24, 2010 at 9:30 PM


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BEIJING, July 2 (UPI) -- Internal North Korean government documents say the late Kim Jong Il ordered the development of nuclear weapons during his reign, a Japanese newspaper reported.
The Mainichi Shimbun said Workers' Party of Korea documents obtained by the newspaper show North Korea's intention to enrich uranium for military purposes.
The North Korean government has maintained enrichment activities were for peaceful purposes.
Nineteen pages of WPK documents, produced in February, are believed to have been developed as an educational tool for the party's mid-level career officers, the newspaper said Monday.
The documents, which refer to the North's decision to permit U.S. nuclear experts to visit a uranium enrichment facility in November 2010, say the late North Korean leader gave specific instructions to mass-produce nuclear weapons by enriching uranium using a lightweight centrifuge.
Kim died in December and was succeeded by his son, Kim Jong Un.


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In classical mechanics with 3 space dimension the angular momentum is defined as
$\mathbf{L} = \mathbf{r} \times \mathbf{p}$
In relativistic mechanics we have the 4-vectors $x^{\mu}$ and $p^{\mu}$, but the cross product in only defined for 3 dimensions. So how to define angular momentum e.g. in special relativity in terms of 4-vectors?


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RUBalletFIT - A New fitness program week 1
Watch me lose weight with a new ballet fitness program RUBalletFit - week 2 RUBalletFit workout requires controlled movements. Tightening the muscles in use as well as maintaining proper posture during ballet moves helps tone and strengthen muscles and improve posture and stature. This type of workout is great for individuals who simply want a workout that will help tone what is already there but are tired of the typical weight training workouts. RUBalletFit as Ballet is also the only workout that will help improve grace and improve fluidity in movements. info: firstname.lastname@example.com You can take classes at : 33 E. Orange Grove ave #102 Burbank, CA


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All the employees of the furniture shop had gathered in a semicircle around Mr. Ganesh Pai's table. It was a special day: Mrs. Engineer had come to the shop in person.
She had seen her TV table, and now she was approaching Mr. Pai's desk to finalize the deal.
His face was smeared with sandalwood, and he wore a loose-fitting silk shirt through which a dark triangle of chest hair stuck out. On the wall behind his chair he had hung gold foil images of Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, and the fat elephant god, Ganapati. An incense stick smoked below the images.
Mrs. Engineer sat down slowly at the desk. Mr. Pai reached into his drawer, then held out four red cards to her. Mrs. Engineer paused, bit her lip, and snatched at one of the cards.
"A set of stainless-steel glasses!" Mr. Pai said, showing her the bonus card she had picked. "A truly wonderful gift, Madam. Something you'll treasure for years and years."
Mrs. Engineer beamed. She counted off four hundred-rupee notes, which she put down on the desk before Mr. Pai.
Mr. Pai, moistening the tip of his finger in a small bowl filled with water which he kept on his desk just for this purpose, counted the notes afresh. Then he looked at Mrs. Engineer and smiled, as if expecting something more.
"The rest after delivery," she said, getting up from her chair. "And don't forget to send the bonus gift."
"She may be the wife of the richest man in town, but she's still a stingy old cunt," Mr. Pai said, after seeing her out of the store, and an assistant laughed behind him. He turned and glared at the assistant, a small, dark Tamilian boy.
"Get one of the coolies to deliver it, fast," Mr. Pai said.
The Tamilian boy ran out of the shop. The cycle-cart pullers were in their usual position—lying on their carts, staring into space, smoking beedis. Some of them were gazing with dull avarice at the store on the other side of the road, the Ideal Traders Ice Cream Parlor, where fat kids in T-shirts were licking vanilla cones.
The boy stuck out his index finger and motioned to one of the men.
"Chenayya—your number is up!"
Chenayya pedalled hard. He had been told to take the quick route to Rose Lane, so he had to go over Lighthouse Hill. He struggled to move the cart with the TV table, which was attached to his cycle. Once he was over the hump of the hill, he let the cycle glide. He slowed down on Rose Lane, found the house number, which he had memorized, and rang the bell.
A plump, fair-skinned woman opened the door: Mrs. Engineer herself.
Chenayya brought the TV table into the house and put it down in the spot she indicated.
He went out, and returned with a saw. Mrs. Engineer watched him draw the instrument out at arm's length, and suddenly it seemed enormous: a foot and a half long, with a serrated edge, rusty, but with patches of the original metal-gray color still showing through, like a sculpture of a shark made by a tribal artist.
Chenayya saw the woman's eyes grow large with anxiety. To dispel her fear, he grinned ingratiatingly at her—it was the exaggerated death-mask grin of a person not used to grovelling—then he looked around to figure out where he had left the table.
The legs were not all even. Chenayya closed an eye and examined them one by one; then he began moving the saw over each of the legs, creating a fine dust on the floor. He examined them again, to make sure they were level, and then dropped the saw. He searched his dirty white sarong, which was the only garment on his body, for a relatively clean corner, and wiped the table off.
Mrs. Engineer had not been watching; she had retreated into an inner room. She returned and counted off seven hundred and forty-two rupees.
Hesitating a moment, she added three one-rupee notes to it.
"Give me something more, Madam?" Chenayya blurted. "Give me three more rupees?"
"Six rupees? Nothing doing," she said.
"It's a long way, Madam." He picked up his saw and pointed to his neck. "I had to haul it all that way, Madam, on my cycle-cart. It hurts my neck very much."
"Nothing doing. Get out, or I'll call the police, you thug. Get out, and take your big knife!"
As he left the house, grumbling and sulking, he folded the money into a wad, then tied it into a knot on his sarong. He threw the saw into the cart.
He picked up a rotting banana skin and hung it on the leaves of a neem tree that grew near the gate of the house, so that it would startle the owners when they came out.
He was so pleased with himself for this that he smiled.
About ten minutes later, he was on his bike again, heading back to Umbrella Street. He was cycling, as always, with his butt elevated off the seat, his spine inclined at sixty degrees. Only at traffic intersections did he straighten himself, relax, and ease back into his seat. The road, as he drew near Umbrella Street, was jammed once again; pushing his front wheel into the car ahead of him, Chenayya yelled, "Son of a bitch, move!"
At last, he saw to his right the sign for Ganesh Pai Fan and Furniture Store, and stopped his cycle.
Chenayya wiped his palm against his sarong, pushed the door open, went into the store, and crouched by a corner of Mr. Pai's table. Neither Mr. Pai nor the Tamilian assistant took any notice of him.
His neck was hurting again; he moved it from side to side to relieve the pain.
"Stop doing that."
Mr. Pai motioned for him to hand over the cash.
He moved slowly to the boss man's desk and handed over the notes to Mr. Ganesh Pai, who moistened his finger in the water bowl and counted off seven hundred and forty-two rupees. Chenayya stared at the water bowl; he noticed how its sides were lobed to make them look like lotus petals, and how the artisan had even traced the pattern of a trellis around the bottom of the bowl.
Mr. Pai snapped his fingers. He had tied a rubber band around the notes, and was holding out a palm in Chenayya's direction.
"Two rupees short."
Chenayya undid the knot in the side of his sarong and handed over two one-rupee notes.
That was the sum he was expected to give Mr. Pai at the end of every trip: one rupee for the dinner he would be given at around nine o'clock, one rupee for the privilege of having been picked to work for Mr. Ganesh Pai.
It would be some time before Chenayya's number was called again, so he walked down the road to a spot where a man was sitting at a desk on the pavement, selling bundles of small rectangular tickets that were as colorful as pieces of candy. He smiled at Chenayya; his fingers began flipping through one of the bundles.
"First tell me if my number won last time," Chenayya said. He brought out a dirty piece of paper from the knot on his sarong. The seller took out a newspaper and glanced down at the bottom-right-hand corner.
He read aloud, "Winning Lottery Numbers: 17, 8, 9, 9, 643, 455."
Chenayya had learned enough about English numerals to recognize his own ticket number; he squinted for several moments, and then let the ticket float to the ground.
"People buy for fifteen, sixteen years before they win, Chenayya," the lottery seller said, by way of consolation. "But in the end those who believe always win. That is the way the world works."
"I can't go on this way forever," Chenayya said. "My neck hurts. I can't go on like this."
The lottery seller nodded. "Another yellow ticket?"
Tying the ticket into his bundle, Chenayya staggered back and collapsed on his cart. For a while, he lay like that, feeling not refreshed from the rest but only numb.
Then a finger tapped on his head.
"Number's up, Chenayya."
It was the Tamilian boy from the store.
To be delivered to 54 Rose Lane. He repeated it aloud: "54 Rose Lane."
The route took him over Lighthouse Hill again. Halfway up the hill, he alighted and began dragging the cart. The sinews bulged out of his neck like webbing, and, as he inhaled, the air burned through his chest and lungs. You can't go on, his tired limbs and burning chest told him. You can't go on. This was when the sense of resistance to his fate waxed greatest within him, and, as he pushed, the restlessness and anger that had been inside him all day became articulate at last:
You will not break me, motherfuckers! You will never break me!
If the thing to be delivered was something light, like a mattress, he was not allowed to take a cycle-cart; it had to be carried on his head. Repeating the address to the Tamilian boy from the shop, he set off with a slow, light step, like a fat man jogging. In a short while, the weight of the mattress seemed unbearable; it compressed his neck and spine and sent a shaft of pain down his back. He was virtually in a trance.
This morning, he was taking a mattress to the train station. The client turned out to be a North Indian family that was leaving Kittur; the owner, as he had guessed beforehand (from his demeanor—you can tell which of these rich people have a sense of decency and which don't), refused to tip him.
Chenayya stood his ground. "You motherfucker! Give me my money!"
It was a triumph for him: the man relented.
The odors and the noise of the train station made him sick. Outside, he squatted down by the tracks, pulled his sarong up, and held his breath. As he was squatting there, the train roared by. He turned around; he wanted to shit into the faces of the people on the train. Yes, that would be good. As the train thundered by, he forced out the turds into the faces of the passengers.
Next to him, a pig was doing the same thing.
He thought, God, what am I declining into? He crawled behind a bush and finished defecating there.
He closed his eyes.
He looked up and took a deep breath. The sky is clean, he thought. There is purity up there. He tore off a few leaves, wiped his arse with them, then rubbed his left hand against the earth in a bid to neutralize the smell.
At two o'clock, he got his next number: the delivery of a giant stack of boxes to an address in Valencia.
"There's a lot of work today, Chenayya," the Tamilian boy said. "Make sure you go the quick way—over Lighthouse Hill."
He grunted, rose up off his seat, shifted his weight onto the pedals, and was on his way. The rusty iron chain that double-locked the cart to the front wheels of the cycle began to squeal as he rode.
Down the main road, he got stuck in a traffic jam. When he didn't have the cart, he could do something—wiggle into the spaces between cars, climb onto the pavement—but now he could only curse from behind. His neck hurt. The sun seared his back.
Why are some mornings hard, some mornings simple? The other pullers never had "good" or "bad" days; they did their work like machines. Only he had his moods. He looked down, to relieve his neck, and stared at the rusty chain at his feet, coiled around the metal rod that connected the cycle to the cart. Time to oil the chain, he told himself. Must remember.
Uphill again. Leaning forward from his seat, Chenayya was straining hard; the breath went into his lungs like a hot poker. Halfway up the hill, he saw an elephant coming down, with a small bundle of leaves on its back and a mahout poking its ear with an iron rod.
He stopped; he could not believe his eyes. He began to shout at the elephant: "Hey, you, what are you doing with a bundle of twigs? Take this load from me! It's more fitted to your size, you motherfucker!"
Cars honked behind him. The mahout turned and gesticulated at him with his iron rod. A passerby yelled at him not to block traffic.
"What is wrong with this world," he asked the driver of the car behind him, who, irate on the other side of his windshield, was jabbing his horn with the fleshy part of his palm again and again, "when an elephant gets to lounge down the road, doing no work, and a human being has to pull a cart with so much weight on it?"
The drivers behind him honked, and the cacophony grew louder.
"Don't you see something is wrong here?" he shouted. They honked back. The world was furious at his fury. It wanted him to move out of its path, but he was enjoying being exactly where he was, blocking all these rich and important people.
That evening, there were great streaks of pink in the sky. After the shop closed, the cart pullers moved to the alley behind the store; they took turns buying small bottles of country liquor, which they shared amongst themselves, getting giddy quickly and belting out Kannada film songs off key.
Chenayya never joined them. "You're wasting your money, you idiots!" he sometimes shouted; they jeered back at him.
He would not drink; he would not squander the hard-earned fruits of his labor on alcohol, he had promised himself. Yet the smell of liquor made his mouth water; the good humor and bonhomie of the other pullers made him lonely. He closed his eyes. A tinkling noise made him open them.
Nearby, on the steps of a vacant building, a fat prostitute had come out to ply her trade. She clapped her hands and made music by striking two coins together. A customer came up; they began haggling over the price. The deal was not consummated, and the man left, cursing.
Chenayya, lying in his cart with his feet sticking out, watched the action with a dull grin.
"Hey, Kamala!" he shouted at the prostitute. "Why not give me a chance tonight?"
She looked away and went on clinking the coins together. He stared at her plump breasts, at the dark tip of her cleavage that showed through her blouse, at her garishly painted lips.
He turned his eyes to the sky: he had to stop thinking about sex. Streaks of pink amid the clouds. Isn't there a god, or someone there, Chenayya wondered, watching down on this earth? One evening, at the train station to deliver a parcel, he had noticed a wild Muslim dervish talking to himself in a corner about how the Mahdi, the last of the Imams, would come for this earth, and the evil would face their due. "Allah is the maker of all men," the dervish had mumbled as Chenayya edged closer to listen. "And He observes our hurt, and when we suffer He suffers with us. And He will send, at the end of the days, the Mahdi, on a white horse with a sword of fire, to put the rich in their place and correct all that is wrong with the world."
Chenayya had never forgotten about the Mahdi; whenever he saw a streak of pink in the sky at the end of the day, he thought he could detect some god of fairness watching over the earth and glowering with anger.
Chenayya closed his eyes and heard again the tinkling of coins. He tossed about restlessly, and then covered his face with a rag, so the sun wouldn't sting him awake, and went to sleep. Half an hour later, he woke up with a sharp pain in his ribs. A policeman was jabbing his lathis into the bodies of the pullers. A truck was entering this part of the market. All you cycle-cart pullers! Get up and move your carts!
Chenayya spat, and walked a few feet away to urinate against a wall.
Behind him he heard jeers. The other pullers were urinating right where they had slept.
He said nothing to them. Chenayya rarely talked to his fellow cart pullers. He could barely stand the sight of them—the way they bent and grovelled to Mr. Ganesh Pai. Yes, he might do the same, but he was furious, he was angry inside. These fellows who pulled their carts with such big grins seemed incapable of even thinking badly of their employer.
When the Tamilian boy brought out the tea, Chenayya reluctantly rejoined the pullers. He heard them talking, as they did every morning, about the autorickshaws they were going to buy once they got out of here, or the small tea shops they were going to open.
"Think about it," he wanted to say to them. "Just think about it."
Mr. Ganesh Pai allowed them two rupees for each trip, meaning that, at the rate of three trips a day, they were making six rupees. Once you deducted for lotteries, and liquor, you were lucky to save two rupees. Sundays were off, as were Hindu holidays, so by the month's end you had saved only forty or forty-five rupees. A trip to the village, an evening with a whore, an extra-long drinking binge, and your whole month's savings would be dust. Assuming you saved everything you could, you'd be lucky to earn four hundred a year. An autorickshaw would cost twelve, fourteen thousand to buy, a small tea shop four times as much. That meant thirty, thirty-five years of such work before they could do anything else. Did they think their bodies would last that long? Was there a single cart puller over the age of forty around them?
Don't you ever think about such things, you baboons?
Yet, when he had tried once to get them to understand this, they had refused to demand more collectively. They thought they were lucky: thousands would take their jobs at a moment's notice. He knew they were right, too.
Nevertheless, despite the logic, despite their valid fears, their sheer spinelessness grated on him. That is why, he thought, Mr. Ganesh Pai could be confident that a customer could hand over thousands of rupees in cash and it would all come to him, every last rupee, without the cart puller taking any of it.
Naturally, Chenayya had long planned on stealing the money that a customer gave him. He would take the money and leave town. This much he was certain he would do—someday very soon.
Chenayya felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the Tamilian boy from Mr. Ganesh Pai's shop.
As he went up Lighthouse Hill, as he forced his cart over the hump, his usual sense of exultation was gone entirely.
At every turn of his cycle, the thought intruded itself, undid him, and slowed him down: You are unmaking yourself—destroying your guts and fibre and being! As he was cycling, he was working the wheel of life backward, crushing his muscle and fibre into the pulp from which they were formed in his mother's womb; he was unmaking himself.
All at once, in the middle of traffic, he stopped and got off his cycle, with the simple and clear thought: I can't go on like this.
That evening, the men were huddled around. A man in a blue safari suit, an important, educated man, was asking them questions; he had a small notepad in his hand. He said he had come from Madras.
He asked one of the cart pullers for his age. No one was sure. When he said, "Can you make a rough guess?" they simply nodded. When he said, "Are you eighteen, or twenty, or thirty—you must have some idea," they simply nodded again.
"Tell me, who are you?" Chenayya, who had kept his distance, asked. "Why are you asking us all these questions?"
He said that he was a journalist, and the cart pullers were impressed. He worked for an English-language newspaper in Madras, and that impressed them even more. Then he wanted to know what they were eating. While they waited expectantly, he made a list of everything they ate every day. At the end, with a wide, almost triumphant grin, he declared, "The work you are doing exceeds the amount of calories you take in. Every day, every trip you take—you are slowly killing yourselves."
He held out his notepad, with its squiggles and zigzags and numbers, as proof of his claim.
"Why don't you do something else, like work in a factory? Anything else? Why don't you learn to read and write?"
Chenayya jumped off his cart.
"Don't patronize us, you son of a bitch!" he shouted. "Those who are born poor in this country are fated to die poor. There is no hope for us, and no need of pity—certainly not from you, who never lift a hand to help us. I spit on you. I spit on your newspaper. Nothing ever changes. Look at me." He held his palms out. "I am twenty-nine years old. I am already bent and black and twisted like this. If I live to forty, what is my fate? To be a twisted black rod of a man. You think I need your notepad and your English to tell me this? You keep us like this, you people from the cities, you rich fucks. It is in your interest to treat us like cattle! You English-speaking fuck!"
The man put his notepad away. He looked at the ground, and seemed to be groping for a response.
Chenayya felt a tap on his shoulder. It was the Tamilian boy.
"Stop talking so much! Your number has come up!"
Some of the other cart pullers began chuckling, as if to say, Serves you right.
Strangely, the man from Madras was not grinning; he had turned his face away, as if he were ashamed at what Chenayya had said.
Why don't you do something, work in a factory, anything, to improve yourself? After all, for years you have taken things to the gates of factories—it is just a question of getting inside. The next day, he went to the factory. He saw thousands of men going in for work, and he thought, What a fool I have been, never even to have tried to get work here.
He sat down, and none of the guards asked any questions, thinking he was waiting to pick up some goods.
He waited till noon, and then a man came out. From the number of people following him, Chenayya thought, he must be the big man. He went running past the guard and got down on his knees: "Sir. I want to work."
The man stared at him. The guards came running up to drag Chenayya back, but the big man said, "I have two thousand workers, and not one of them wants to work, and here this man is, down on his knees, begging for work. That's the attitude we need to move this country forward."
He pointed a finger at Chenayya.
"You won't get offered any contract. Understand. Day by day."
"Anything, anything you want."
"What kind of work can you do?"
"Anything, anything you want."
"All right, come back tomorrow. We don't need a coolie right now."
"O.K., sir."
The big man took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one.
"Hear what this man has to say," he said, when a group of other men, who were also smoking, gathered around.
And Chenayya repeated that he would do anything, under any conditions, for any sort of pay.
"Say it again!" the big man ordered, and another group of men came and listened to Chenayya.
That evening, he went back to Mr. Ganesh Pai's shop and shouted at the other workers, "I've found a real job, you motherfuckers. I'm out of here."
The Tamilian boy alone cautioned him. "Chenayya, why don't you wait a day and make sure the other job is good? Then you can quit here."
"Nothing doing, I quit!" he yelled, and walked away.
The next day at dawn, he was back at the front gate of the factory. "I want to see the manager," he said, shaking the bars of the gate for attention. "He told me to come today."
The guard, who was reading the newspaper, looked up fiercely.
"Get out!"
"Don't you remember me? I came—"
"Get out!"
He waited near the gate. After an hour, it opened, and a car with tinted windows pulled out. Running alongside the car, he banged on the window. "Sir! Sir! Sir!" A dozen hands seized him from behind; he was shoved to the ground and kicked.
When he wandered back to Mr. Pai's shop in the evening, the Tamilian boy was waiting for him. He said, "I never told the boss you quit. I knew you'd come back."
The other pullers did not tease Chenayya that night. One of them left him a bottle of liquor, still half full.
The rain fell down without stop. Chenayya rode his cycle through the rain, splashing down the road. He wore a long white plastic sheet over his body, like a shroud.
When it rained, the road turned into mud; the mud turned into wet clay. This was the most dangerous time for a puller. Wherever the road had broken up into a pothole, he had to slow down to avoid tipping his cycle-cart over.
The pain in his neck began biting again. I can't go on like this, he thought.
From across the road, one of the other pullers, a young one, drove up side by side with Chenayya. "Have to deliver this fast and get back," he said. "Boss man said he's depending on me to get back within an hour." He grinned, and Chenayya wanted to ram his fist into the grin. God, how full of suckers the world is, he thought, counting to ten to calm himself down. How happy this idiot seems to be, to destroy himself with overwork. You baboon! he wanted to shout. You and all the others! Baboons!
He put his head down, and suddenly it seemed a great strain to move the cart.
"You've got no air in one tire!" the baboon shouted. "You'll have to stop!" He grinned one of his baboon grins, and rode on.
Stop? Chenayya thought. No, that is what a baboon would do: not me. Putting his head down, he pedalled on, forcing his flat tire along: Move, motherfucker!
And the cart, slowly and noisily, its old wheels and its unoiled chains rattling, moved.
It is raining now, Chenayya thought, lying in his cart that night, with the plastic sheet over his head. That means we are through half of this year. It must be June or July. I must be nearly thirty now.
He pulled the sheet down and lifted his head to relieve the pain in his neck. He could not believe his eyes: even in this rain, some motherfucker was flying a kite! As if taunting the heavens, the lightning, to strike them.
In the morning, he went to the lottery seller. A boy, a total stranger, was sitting at the desk, kicking his legs merrily.
"What happened to the old fellow?"
"Gone where?"
"Gone into politics."
The boy described what had happened to the old seller. He had joined the campaign of a B.J.P. candidate for the corporation elections. His candidate had won. Now he sat on the veranda of the politician's house. If you wanted to see the politician, you paid him fifty rupees first.
"That's the politician's life—it's the fastest way to get rich these days," the boy said. He flipped through his pieces of colored paper. "What'll you have, uncle? A yellow? Or a green?"
Chenayya turned around without buying any of the colored papers.
Why, he thought at night, can't that be me—the fellow who goes into politics to get rich? He did not want to forget what he had just heard, so he pinched himself sharply around the joint of his foot.
It was Sunday again. The free day. Chenayya woke up when it got too hot, then brushed his teeth lazily, looking up to see if kites were flying in the sky. The other pullers were going to see the new Hoyka temple that the Member of Parliament had opened, just for Hoykas, with their own Hoyka deity and Hoyka priests.
"Aren't you coming, Chenayya?" the others shouted at him.
"What has any god ever done for me?" he shouted back. They giggled at his recklessness.
Baboons, he thought, as he lay down in his cart again. Going to worship some idol in a temple, thinking it'll make them rich.
He lay with an arm over his face. Then he heard the tinkling of two coins.
"Come over, Kamala!" he called out to the prostitute, who was in her usual spot, playing with coins. When he taunted her for the sixth time, she snapped, "Get lost, or I'll call Brother."
At this reference to the don who controlled the hookers in this part of town, Chenayya sighed, and turned over in his cart.
He thought, Perhaps it is time for me to get married.
He had lost contact with all his relatives. Plus, he did not want to get married. Bring children—into what future? That was the most baboonlike thing the other pullers did, he thought: to procreate, as if to say they were satisfied with their fate, they were happy to replenish the world that had consigned them to this task.
There was nothing in him but anger, and if he married he thought he would lose his anger.
As he turned around in his cart, he noticed the welt on his foot. He frowned, trying hard to remember how he had got it.
The next morning, on the way back from a delivery, he took a by-route and went to the office of the Congress Party on Umbrella Street. He crouched on the veranda of the office and waited for someone important-looking to come out.
There was a sign outside, with an image of Indira Gandhi raising her hand, and the slogan "Mother Indira will protect the poor." He smirked.
Were they completely nuts? Did they really think that anyone would expect a politician to protect the poor?
But then he thought, Maybe this woman, Indira Gandhi, was someone special; maybe they were right. In the end, she was shot dead, wasn't she? That seemed evidence to him that she had wanted to help the world. Suddenly, it seemed that the world did have some good-hearted people who wanted to help the poor. He felt he had cut himself off from all of that with his excessive bitterness.
He saw a man in loose white clothes coming in, followed by two or three hangers-on. Chenayya rushed up to him and got down on his knees, his palms pressed together.
For the next week, whenever he knew his number was not going to be called for a while, he went around on his cycle, sticking up posters of the Congress candidates in all the Muslim-dominated streets of the town, shouting, "Vote for Congress—the party of Muslims! Defeat the B.J.P.!"
The week passed. The elections were over, the results were declared. Chenayya rode his cycle to the Congress Party office, parked it outside, went to the door-keeper, and asked to see the candidate.
"He's a busy man now—just wait out here a moment," the doorkeeper said. He put a hand on Chenayya's back. "We would never have won except for your work, Chenayya. The B.J.P. defeated us everywhere else, but you got the Muslims to vote!"
Chenayya beamed. He waited outside the Party headquarters and watched the cars drive up and disgorge rich and important men, who hurried in to see the candidate. He saw them and thought, This is where I will wait to collect money from the rich. Not much. Just five rupees from everyone who comes to see the candidate. That should do.
His heart beat with excitement. An hour passed.
Chenayya decided to go into the waiting room, to make sure that he, too, got to see the man when he finally came out. There were benches and stools in the room; a dozen other men were waiting. Chenayya saw an empty spot and wondered if he should sit down. Why not? He had worked, too. He was about to sit down on a bench when the doorkeeper said, "Use the floor, Chenayya."
Another hour passed. Finally, the doorkeeper came to him with a box full of round yellow sweets. "Take one."
Chenayya took a sweet, almost put it in his mouth, and then put it back. "I don't want a sweet." His voice rose quickly. "I put up posters all over this town! Now I want to see the big man! I want to get a job with—"
The doorkeeper slapped him.
I am the biggest fool here, Chenayya thought, back in his alley. The other pullers were lying in their carts, snoring hard. It was late at night, and he was the only one who could not sleep. I am the biggest fool. I am the biggest baboon here.
On the way to his first assignment the next morning, there was another traffic jam on Umbrella Street—the biggest one he had ever seen.
When he finally got to his destination, he found that the owner of the house was a European. He insisted on helping to unload the furniture, which confused Chenayya terribly. The whole time, he spoke in English, as if he expected everyone in Kittur to be familiar with the language.
He held his hand out at the end, shook Chenayya's, and gave him a fifty-rupee note.
Chenayya was in a panic—where was he expected to get change? He tried to explain, but the European just grinned and closed the door.
Then he understood. He bowed deeply to the closed door.
Buying four lottery tickets, he broke the note into forty-six one-rupee notes; stuffing forty of them near his groin, he gave the six to the shopkeeper.
He came back with a bottle of liquor, and he saw the other cart pullers staring at him.
"Where did you get money for that, Chenayya?"
"None of your business."
He drank the bottle dry, then went over to the liquor shop and bought another bottle. When he woke the next morning, he realized he had spent his money on liquor.
All of it.
He put his face in his hands and began to cry.
He went to drink water from a faucet.
He could not switch off his mind. Like the faucet, it dripped. Think, think, think. He passed a statue of Gandhi, and he began thinking again. Gandhi dressed like a poor man—he dressed as Chenayya did. But what did Gandhi do for the poor?
Did Gandhi even exist? he wondered. These things—India, the River Ganga, the world beyond India—were they even real?
How would he ever know?
Only one level of society was lower than him: the beggars. Just one slide, and he would be down with them, he thought. One accident. And that would be him. How did the others deal with this? They did not. They preferred not to think.
When he stopped at an intersection that night, an old beggar put his hands in front of Chenayya. He turned his face away and cycled down the road to Mr. Ganesh Pai's shop.
The next morning, he was going over the hill again, with five cardboard boxes piled up one above the other in his cart, thinking, Because we acquiesce. Because we do not dare leave with that wad of fifty thousand rupees—because we know other poor people will catch us and drag us before the rich man. Because we dare not kill the rich, out of fear of their police. We poor have built the prison around ourselves.
In the evening, he lay down exhausted. The others had built a fire. Someone would come and give him some rice. He was the hardest worker, so the boss man had let it be known that he ought to be fed regularly.
He saw two dogs humping. Life is so simple for them, he thought. It was a kind of release. There was no passion in them at all. That is all I want to do right now. Hump something. Instead of humping, I have to lie here, thinking.
The prostitute sat on the steps. "Let me come up," he said. She did not look at him; she shook her head.
"Just one time. I'll pay you next time."
"Get out of here, or I'll call Brother," she said. He gave in; he bought a small bottle of liquor, and he began drinking.
Why do I think so much? My thoughts are like thorns inside my head; I want them out. And even when I drink they're there. I wake up in the night, my throat burning, and I find all the thoughts still in my head.
He was awake, lying in his cart. He was sure he had been hounded by the rich even in his dreams, because he woke up furious and sweating. Then he heard the noise of coitus close to him. He saw another cart puller humping the prostitute. Right next to him, it went on. He wondered: Why not me? Why not me? He knew the fellow had no money—so she was doing it out of charity. Why not me?
Every sigh, every groan of the coupling pair was like a chastisement. Chenayya got off his cart, looked around till he found a puddle of cow dung on the ground, and scooped up a handful. He flung the shit at the lovers. There was a cry; he rushed up to them, and dabbed the whore's face with shit. He put his shit-smeared fingers into her mouth, and kept them there, even though she bit them; the harder she bit the more he enjoyed it, and he kept his fingers there until the other pullers descended on him and dragged him away.
One day, he got an assignment that took him out of the city limits, into Bajpe; he was delivering a doorframe to a construction site.
"There used to be a big coconut grove here," one of the construction workers told him. "But now that's all that's left." He pointed to a distant clump of green.
Chenayya looked at the man, and asked, "Is there any work here for me?"
On his way back, he took a detour off the road and went out to the patch of green. When he got there, he left his bike and walked around; seeing a high rock, he climbed up and looked at the trees around him. Yes, he could live out here. If only he had a little food, what more would he want? His aching muscles could be rested. He put his head down on the rock and looked at the sky.
It was nighttime when he cycled back. To get to the shop faster, he took the route down over Lighthouse Hill.
As he was descending, he saw a red light and then a green light attached to the back of a large black cloud moving down the road.
It was the elephant he had seen earlier, only now there were red and green traffic lights tied with string to its rump.
"What's the meaning of this?" he shouted to the mahout.
He shouted back, "Well, I have to make sure no one bumps into us from behind at night—there are no lights anywhere!"
Chenayya threw his head back and laughed—it was the funniest thing he had ever seen, an elephant with traffic lights on its rump.
"They didn't pay me," the mahout said. He had tied the beast to the side of the road and was chatting to Chenayya. He had some peanuts with him, and he didn't want to eat them alone, so he was glad to split a few with Chenayya.
"They made me take their kid on a ride, and they didn't pay me. You should have seen them drink and drink. And they wouldn't pay me fifty rupees, which was all I asked."
The mahout slapped the side of his elephant. "After all that Rani did for them—"
"That's the way of the world," Chenayya said.
"Then it's a rotten world." The mahout chewed a few more peanuts. "A rotten world." He slapped the side of his elephant again. Chenayya looked at the beast.
The behemoth's eyes were gazing sidelong at him; they glistened darkly, almost as if they were tearing. The beast also seemed to be saying, "Things should not be this way."
The mahout pissed against the wall, turning his head up, arching his back, and exhaling in relief, as if it were the best thing he had done all day.
Chenayya kept looking at the elephant, its sad wet eyes. "I am sorry I ever cursed you, brother," he said aloud as he rubbed its trunk.
The mahout stood near the wall he had just pissed on, watching Chenayya talking to the elephant, a sense of apprehension growing within him.
Outside the ice-cream shop, two kids were licking ice creams and staring right at Chenayya. He was sprawled on his cart, dead tired after another day's work.
"Don't you see me?" Chenayya wanted to shout out over the traffic. His stomach was grumbling; he was tired and hungry, and there was still an hour before the Tamilian boy from Mr. Ganesh Pai's shop would bring out dinner.
One of the kids across the street turned away, as if the fury in the cart puller's eyes had become obvious. But the other one, a fat light-skinned fellow, stayed put, sliding his tongue up and down his ice cream, staring nonchalantly at Chenayya.
Don't you have any shame, any sense of decency, you fat fuck?
He thought he would black out in anger, and turned around in his cart and began talking aloud to calm his nerves.
"Maker of all men, why have you . . ."
His gaze fell on the rusty saw lying in his cart. "What stops me now," he said aloud, "from crossing the street and slashing that rich motherfucker into shreds?"
Just saying it made him feel more powerful.
A finger began tapping on his shoulder. If that's the fat motherfucker with his ice cream, I will pick up that saw and slice him in two, I swear to God.
It was the Tamilian assistant from the store.
"Your number has come up, Chenayya."
He took his cart to the door of the store, where the boy handed him a small package wrapped in newspaper and tied with white string.
"It's to the same place you went a while back to deliver the TV table. Mrs. Engineer's house. We forgot to send the bonus gift, and she's been complaining."
"Oh, no," he groaned. "She doesn't tip at all. She's a complete cunt."
"You have to go, Chenayya. Your number came up."
He cycled there slowly. At every intersection and traffic light, he looked at the saw in his cart.
Mrs. Engineer opened the door herself. She said she was on the phone, and told him to wait outside.
"The food at the Lions Club is so fattening," he heard her saying. "I've put on ten kilos in the past year."
He grabbed the saw and went in. She had her back to him; he saw the whiteness of her flesh peeping out in the space between her blouse and her skirt. He went closer.
She turned around, then covered the receiver with her hand. "Not in here, you idiot! Just put the bonus gift on the floor and get out!"
He stood confused for a moment.
"On the floor!" she screamed at him. "Then get out!"
He nodded, and dropped the saw on the floor and ran out.
"Hey! Don't leave the saw in here!"
He ran back, picked up the saw, and left the house, ducking low to avoid the neem-tree leaves. He tossed the saw into the cart: a loud crash. The bonus gift . . . where was it? He grabbed it, ran into the house, left it somewhere, and slammed the door.
There was a startled meow. A cat was sitting up on a branch of the tree, watching him closely. How beautiful its eyes were, he thought. This wonderful creature was part of that world, like a small jewel that had fallen off the throne, a hint of a world of beauty beyond his knowledge and reach.
He stretched out his arms for it, and it came to him.
"Kitty, kitty," he said, stroking its fur slowly. It wriggled about in his arms, restless already.
Somewhere, I hope, a poor man will strike a blow against the world, Chenayya thought. Because there is no god watching over the world. There is no one coming to release us from the jail in which we have locked ourselves.
He wanted to tell all this to the cat; maybe it could tell it to another cart puller, the one who would be brave enough to strike the blow.
He sat down by the wall slowly, still holding on to the cat and stroking its fur. Maybe I can take you along, kitty. How would he feed it? It had found some way to survive here, this cat; it was better off for being left on its own, so he released it again. He sat with his back to the wall and watched the cat move around, padding cautiously up to a car and then slinking under it. He was craning his neck to see what it was doing down there when he heard a shout from high above. It was Mrs. Engineer, yelling at him from the top of her mansion: "I know what you're up to, thug—I can read your mind! You won't get another rupee from me! Get moving!"
He was not even angry; he knew she was right. He had to go back to the store. His number would come up again soon. He got on his cart and pedalled.
There was a traffic jam in the city center, and Chenayya had to go over Lighthouse Hill again. Traffic was bad here, too. It moved a few inches at a time, and then Chenayya had to stop mid-hill and clamp his foot down on the road to hold his cart in place. When the horns began to sound, he rose from his seat and pedalled; behind him, a long line of cars and buses moved, as if he were pulling the traffic along with an invisible chain. ♦


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What We Do
Unlike most business brokers, medical practice sales are our specialty. We do not sell a medical practice today, then a restaurant or a print shop or a house tomorrow. We use a proven systematic approach to practice sales and valuation. We strive for Win-Win practice sales.
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Selling or buying a medical practice is a complex task with numerous financial, legal, tax, and career ramifications. You need and deserve professional help. Selling a practice is a full time job: packaging information, analyzing the practice and setting price, marketing, finding and screening buyers, arranging financing, communicatinos with attorneys, accountants, lenders, real estate appraisers, etc. For a matter this important, you want a specialist.
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Moruya & District Historical Society Inc
- 85 Campbell Street Moruya PO Box 259 Moruya. NSW 2537
- Moruya & District Historical Society Inc
Research Costs
- $20 for non-members
Open Hours
- The Genealogy Library is open Monday, Wednesday, Friday and the first Thursday in the month from 10am to 2pm; 1st Saturday in the Month from 10am to 1pm.
Membership Cost
- $22 to $30 per annum
- quarterly magazine available to all members free of charge
The Society has a Museum, a local history research facility and a Genealogy Library.
The Society is an Agent for the hiring of LDS films.
More details can be found on our web site.
- Location:


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TNA Wrestling celebrates its 10th anniversary this weekend with the Slammiversary pay-per-view.
Through the years, many stars have come and gone through the TNA system, but there have been a core group of TNA "originals" who have remained loyal to the product through the good times and the bad.
One of them, a "founding father" of the company, was "The Fallen Angel" Christopher Daniels.
Today, Daniels is one-half of the TNA World Tag Team Champions with Frankie Kazarian and the self-proclaimed "new face of Impact Wrestling."
My "From the Rafters Radio" co-host Chris Hagstrom and I had the opportunity to chat with Daniels about his tag title defense at Sunday's Slammiversary against A.J. Styles and Kurt Angle, as well as other topics.
Here is an excerpt of what Daniels had to say:
On Impact going live for the summer: Honestly speaking, we're live every month when we go on pay-per-view, so as far as the wrestlers, we're not feeling that pressure any different than when we do pay-per-view. Although the one big difference that I noticed last week was just the commercial breaks. It's something you have to keep in mind as you're in the ring, understanding when the cameras are on and when they're off, but that's a small adjustment. I made it; I'm sure all the rest of the roster got it in their heads quickly. I think all of us are happy this is going on right now. This is a great opportunity to show the world that we can do live, and I hope that this turns from an experiment into the way we do business from now on.
On facing Styles and Angle for the tag titles at Slammiversary: AJ and I have probably fought in every country, in every state on this planet. Going into Slammiversary, you get a team made up of two world champions, two world-class athletes like Kurt and AJ, it's a big test for Frankie and myself. But right now, I feel that Frankie and myself are the best tag team in professional wrestling today. I feel that we're going to have a title run that rivals the ones that Beer Money had when they were in charge, the type of title reigns that America's Most Wanted had when they were the top team. I think one of the things about Impact Wrestling is that once you get a tag team that has a good chemistry together, a good sets of talents like myself and Frankie, we're going to run with the ball. I think we're going to have one of those record-setting tag title reigns like those two teams I mentioned earlier.
On the TNA Wrestling tag team division: I feel like right now we're sort of in flux. That situation sort of comes and goes. There were times that we had a good number of tag teams that were up at the top. Right now, with Alex Shelley leaving TNA, with the Motor City Machineguns being gone, other than ourselves, I feel that the top established tag team right now is Samoa Joe and Magnus. Those guys came around in January of this year and they quickly became World Tag Team Champions. I still think they're one of the best tag teams out there, despite the fact they've only been around out there for a couple of months. So once we get through Kurt and AJ, and we will because as good as those two are they're not the established tag team like Frankie and myself, I'm sure we'll have to defend the tag team titles again against Joe and Magnus. Then whatever tag teams come through TNA, of course Frankie and I will have the situation well in hand.
On celebrating the 10th anniversary of TNA: When you talk about TNA from the past 10 years, people didn't expect us to last this long. I remember when we were in Nashville, we had the first-year anniversary and people asked, "How does it feel to be a year old?" Five years ago, when we had our fifth anniversary, it was the same thing. It's always that "How does it feel to grow?" The best thing TNA has been doing, every step we take has been a step forward. It may not be a big step or a great step, but it's always been a step forward, and I feel right now we've got a lot of momentum on our side - the fact we're going live, the fact that we changed our time slot, and the fact that we're doing better right now than we have been in recent months. I feel this is a big step forward for us. I know that the entire talent roster is going to step up and show the world why we've been around for 10 years and why we're going to be around a lot longer.
On his two iconic matches, vs. Samoa Joe and AJ Styles in TNA and vs. Low Ki and Bryan Danielson in Ring of Honor: I feel like at that point in wrestling, the triple threat hadn't been done to death. Some of the things we did at those times were sort of groundbreaking in terms of how we would get three guys involved. Usually, at the time, it was two guys wrestle and one guy rests for a period of time and then switch guys out and rinse, repeat. I feel those two matches were put together in a way that allowed for everybody to be involved at the same time, innovative ways to keep three guys involved, innovative ways to keep the action moving and innovative ways to keep all three of us moving at the same time. It's a testament to those guys - Danielson and Low-Ki, and Joe and AJ - that we put those matches together and they still stand the test of time. It says a lot that people still look back and say how good those matches were a decade later, seven years later.
On criticisms of the company not making new stars: I would say right now is the worst time to make those sorts of claims. You look at what's happening on television right now and the highest-rated storyline is between three homegrown TNA talents - myself, AJ Styles and Frankie Kazarian. Right now I feel like I've got a better rapport with the creative team, a better rapport with guys like Eric Bischoff and Hulk Hogan than I've ever had. I feel like I've proven myself to those guys as someone who is you have to hand him the ball, he will go forward and make something good out of it. I've felt that A.J. Styles has always proven that he's a great in-ring competitor and on the television show. I understand the point. There have been times that guys who have made their name have been given opportunities, but at the same time, you've always seen guys like Bobby Roode, James Storm, the Motor City Machineguns, A.J. Styles rise to the top. Talent is going to rise to the top, whether they come from TNA or from outside.
On the ongoing storyline with Dixie Carter: It's new ground. I feel like that's one of the reasons people are tuning into it. There's enough of a shadow of a doubt where people are watching, still trying to decide if they buy my side or A.J.'s side of the story. We've still got parts of the story to tell. Right now it's not even the beginning of the end. We're still in the middle of the beginning; there's still a lot of story to tell. So all I can tell the fans who have been watching and trying to make a decision is just stay tuned.
Daniels discussed a number of other topics, including his history with Ring of Honor, his thoughts on the new TNA Hall of Fame, opinions on taking Impact on the road and which knockouts have the best beards, among others. The full interview is available online at in the episode archives.
From the Rafters Radio airs every Thursday from 8-10 p.m. EST on Monster Radio 1150 AM in Southern Illinois and worldwide at wggh.net and aapwrestling.com. To learn more about the show, visit facebook.com/raftersradio or twitter.com/raftersradio.


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Events Calendar Events Calendar
The Namibian Government has embarked on a Public Service Reform Initiative (PSRI) which is intended to transform Public Service into a performance driven organisation at all levels - Central and Sub-national levels.
The reform initiative is aimed at improving service delivery to the Public and fosters operational
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Major Services Rendered by the Directorate of Resettlement
1. Allocation of Resettlement Farms (Resettlement Process)
Resettlement takes place in terms of the Agricultural (Commercial) Land Reform Act, Act No.6 of 1995 and Resettlement Policy of 2001. The allocation of resettlement farms from the date of acquisition (transfer date) takes about five (5) months to complete. The process is as follows:
1.1. Demarcation of acquired farms (approval of allotment plans):
The Agricultural (Commercial) Land Reform Act requires that farms be demarcated into farming units. The demarcations are however carried out at the time of farm assessment before the farm is acquired. Once the farm is acquired and transferred, the demarcation plans are submitted to the Minister for approval. The process takes a minimum of two (2) weeks to be completed.
1.2. Government Notice
In terms of Section 39 of the Agricultural (Commercial) Land Reform Act, Act No. 6 of 1995, the Minister of Land Reform must make known that copies of the approved allotment plans are available for public inspection at the places and during the periods indicated in the schedule. As such, the Ministry prepares a Government Notice which must be scrutinized by the Ministry of Justice (Legal Drafters) before it is approved / signed by the Minister responsible for land reform for gazetting by the Ministry of Justice. Gazetting of notices with the Ministry of Justice only takes place two (2) times in a month. The process takes a minimum of four (4) weeks to be completed.
1.3. Advertisement of Farms
From the date of Government Notice, farming units are advertised in three (3) newspapers for the period of one (1) month, i.e. four (4) weeks.
1.4. Selection of Beneficiaries:
The Land Reform Advisory Commission (LRAC) is established and sits once every month to nominate candidates and recommends to the Minister for allocation, among many other issues. The Commission is assisted by Regional Resettlement Committees (RRCs) which are established in all the thirteen (13) Regions. RRCs sit within two (2) weeks after the closing date of the adverts. The process takes a minimum of six (6) weeks to be completed.
1.5. Allotment Letters and Physical Allocation:
The Ministry undertakes secretarial activities of preparing the LRAC minutes and allotment letters which takes two (2) weeks after the LRAC meeting. Original allocation letters are forwarded to regional offices for physical allocation of the beneficiaries. Normally beneficiaries of one (1) farm are given the same dates of physical allocation to ensure that they are shown their boundaries and water points at the same time. The process takes a minimum of four (4) weeks to be completed.
2. Resettlement Rental Fees and Lease Agreements
The Ministry of Land Reform implements a comprehensive Resettlement Programme, whereby agricultural land is distributed on a lease basis to selected beneficiaries. The land is rented for a 99 year duration period. Beneficiaries have to sign an agreement of Lease and are obliged to pay after an initial grace period has expired, an annual rental fee for the lease.
The legal framework is well in place, but the administrative systems for the collection of rental fees still need to be developed. The main legal instruments that are employed in the collection of rentals are the Agricultural (Commercial) Land Reform Act, Act No 6 of 1995 and the Land Valuation and Taxation Regulations of 2001. The Directorate of Resettlement, the Regional Offices and the Directorate of Valuation and Estate Management play a reinforcing and crucial role in the administration of freehold land that has now been resettled. The Division of Resettlement is the intended beneficiary of rental fees and the Directorate of Valuation and Estate Management is responsible for the valuation of government properties.
Objectives of resettlement rental fees are as follows:
- Encourage the efficient utilization of commercial agricultural land,
- Raise revenue for the Land Acquisition and Development Fund (LADF) to facilitate and accelerate the process of land acquisition, distribution and development.
In general, rental fees on leased land can be placed in the category of taxation of land, which has been advocated on both efficiency and equity grounds.
3. Post Settlement Support
3.1. Rehabilitation of Water Infrastructure
The Ministry of Land Reform is currently implementing a major Water Infrastructure development / Rehabilitation Programme on resettlement farms. Currently the Ministry of Agriculture, Water and Forestry is providing assistance to the Ministry of Land Reform with the tendering process and monitoring of actual work done by Contractors.
The Ministry of Agriculture, Water and Forestry expect farmers in communal and commercial areas to contribute towards the rehabilitation of their water infrastructure. However, the Ministry of Land Reform has a duty to ensure that the water infrastructure on resettlement farms is functional prior to conclusion of lease agreements. Thereafter, beneficiaries are expected to maintain infrastructure at their own costs.
The Ministry is determined to carry out this challenging and complex exercise as conveniently as possible in order to ensure productivity on resettlement farms and projects. However, the Ministry appeals to the beneficiaries with the means at their disposal to maintain and upgrade their water infrastructure at own cost in order to meet Government halfway.
3.2. Post Settlement Financing Support Programme
The resettlement programme is implemented in line with Agricultural (Commercial) Land Reform Act and National Resettlement Policy. The Government categorizes settlers into three (3) groups. These are:
- People who have neither land, income nor livestock.
- People who have neither land nor income, but a few livestock.
- People who have no land, but have an income or are livestock owners, but need land to be resettled on with their families and to graze their livestock.
The Government of the Republic of Namibia through the Ministry of Land Reform has established a Resettlement Programme with the aim:
- To enhance the welfare of the people through improvement of productivity.
- To develop destination areas where they are supposed to earn a decent living.
To answer to this and for the beneficiaries to be able to manage and productively utilize their Farming Units upon allocation, the Ministry in conjunction with other stakeholders has established a Post Settlement Support Programme (PSSR). One of the components of a Programme is to provide a soft loan to the resettled beneficiaries. The Ministry of Land Reform entered into an Agreement in a form of a Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) with Agribank regarding post settlement support to resettled farmers that led to the establishment of the Post Settlement Support Fund. The two institutions commit to contribute to the fund annually. Agribank administers the funds as well as disburse these funds to the designated categories of persons as mentioned above.
There is a committee established known as Joint Technical Committee (JTC) with members from MLR, Agribank, Ministry of Finance, Ministry of Agriculture, Water and Forestry, and a representative of emerging farmers associations. The committee is responsible amongst others to evaluate and recommend for approval of loan applications by Agribank which would use its own discretion to grant such loans. Agribank will only consider loan applications from resettlement beneficiaries who have valid allotment letters and valid lease agreements with the Ministry.
3.3. Farmers (Training) Support Programme
The Ministry of Land Reform has, since independence in 1990 been organizing training programmes for beneficiaries on resettlement farms and projects.
A Farmers Support Project (FSP) started in May 2007 which focuses on previously disadvantaged farmers and resettled farmers on commercial farmlands (Emerging Commercial Farmers Support Programme). This project was financially supported by the European Union (EU) and implemented by the Joint Presidency Commission (JPC) of the Namibia Agricultural Union (NAU) and the Namibia National Farmers Union (NNFU). The objectives and activities of the programme are as follows:
- Conduct pre-settlement orientation courses
- Conduct topic related short agricultural courses
- Conduct farmers and information days
- Conduct agricultural excursions
- Implement mentoring programmes
Since September 2009, the German Government continued to support the initiative. The FSP is now a Project of the Ministry of Land Reform implemented by AgriBank of Namibia, in partnership with the three (3) farmers unions in the Country.
4. Resolution of Disputes
As the custodian of state land in Namibia, the Ministry is responsible for the resolution of disputes on resettlement farms. Regional Resettlement Committees, Land Reform Advisory Commission and the Lands Tribunal may also be involved in the resolution of disputes. The most common disputes are as follows:
- Boundary disputes: In most cases demarcation plans prepared by Land Use Planners are not accurate and may differ with survey diagrams once the unit is surveyed. This causes disputes between beneficiaries of the two or more farming units.
- Illegal settlers: Before independence, resettlement farms were administered by the Ministry of Agriculture, Water and Forestry. The farms were transferred to the Ministry of Lands and Resettlement after independence for management and administration. People who were living on the farms without allotment letters issued to them were also transferred together with the farms. This caused more disputes as other people who were not beneficiaries of the farms also moved in illegally.
- Sub-leasing of resettlement farms: The Agricultural (Commercial) Land Reform Act prohibits subleasing of resettlement farms. Permission is required from the Minister, on recommendation of the LRAC, for sub-leasing (valid reasons required). No animal of any description which is not the property of the Lessee may be allowed to graze on the property without the consent of the Lessor
5. Group Resettlement Projects
(Under construction)


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TORRANCE, CA – July 17, 2013 – (Motor Sports Newswire) – The Red Bull U.S. Grand Prix at Laguna Seca will be happening in short order and all race fans in attendance are invited to come and view the big Honda display during the race weekend. The big red Honda tent will be located on the track infield, and a full array of new 2014 products will be on display including all three of the brand-new CB/CBR® 500cc street bikes, plus the amazing new Grom™ – a truly unique ride. The very cool Pioneer™ side-by-side will also be on hand – check out its multiple two-, three- and four-person configurations. The Honda tent will be open to visitors all weekend long. And you'll also have the opportunity to purchase great official Honda gear onsite as well.
So be sure to include a visit to the Honda display as you plan out your race weekend on July 19-21. Repsol Honda Team rookie Marc Márquez has just nabbed the points lead in the MotoGP championship chase, while teammate Dani Pedrosa holds down second, two points behind. All in all, it's a great time to be a Honda road racing fan!
Also, you still have an opportunity to score big on the Honda VIP package at Laguna Seca. This special Honda VIP USGP package includes:
- One (1) 3-Day General Admission Ticket
- One (1) 3-Day Paddock Pass
- One (1) 3-Day VIP Honda Motorcycle Parking Pass
- One (1) Turn 4 Grandstand Seat
- One (1) Friday morning Honda VIP Parade Lap
- A Honda-provided "Goodie Bag"*
*Available on a first come, first served basis due to limited quantities.
To take advantage of this special USGP VIP offer, go to this link: https://oss.ticketmaster.com/aps/laguna/EN/buy/details/13W3DAYH
About American Honda
American Honda Motor Co., Inc. was established in 1959 and is the sole distributor of Honda motorcycles, scooters, ATVs and side-by-sides in the U.S. The American Honda Motorcycle Division is responsible for the sales, marketing, and operational activities for these products through authorized Honda dealers. For more information on Honda products, go to www.powersports.honda.com.


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So, here's the bad luck events poll. There are 61 choices. Only the top 42 will be used in our events video broadcast. You get 10 votes. You need to make all 10 votes before you hit the Submit button: example- if you only submit 4 now with the intention of picking another 6 later, it won't work.
Some events hurt you. Some events help others. Some events will knock you out of the race completely. And here's how the events will be handled. The racers will be lined up in order based on their points, from first place to last. First place will roll Watto's Chance Cube courtesy of Ryan, and have an event drawn. Blue sides of the cube will draw good luck events, red bad luck events. Each racer gets one roll to draw one event. As the event is drawn, all point modifications will resolve before the next event is drawn. If a podracer drops ranks, that podracer will still be affected by any point modifications but cannot roll again and will be skipped to the next podracer. In the case that racers are tied, any modifications to podracers in front or behind will not affect the podracer that is tied since they would neither be considered ahead of or behind the podracer drawing the event.
Example: My Buzz Lightyear podracer is in first place with 20 points followed by Ryan's Pink Barbie podracer in second with 15 points, and Don's Indiana Jones inspired podracer in third with 5 points. Since I'm in first, I draw first and draw an event that subtracts 10 points from my total. I immediately drop back to second place with 10 points and Ryan jumps to first with 15 points. Ryan draws an event that adds 5 points to his total and subtracts 5 from the racer directly behind him. He's still in first with 20 points. I tie for third with 5 points, but since I already drew an event, Don gets to draw an event. He draws an event that adds 20 points to his total, pushing him to first. Now the leader board has Don in first with 25, Ryan in second with 20, and I'm last with 5 points.
Poll results as usual will be hidden. Also, we will be moving this poll to the private staff forum before it ends so the results are truly hidden until race time.
Questions? Ask away.


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Battle's Daughter Reflects on Family Legacy
COLUMBIA - It's Black History Month and that means people are remembering those who have left a lasting impact on the Columbia community.
Less than a year ago, Eliot Battle sat at the dedication of the Muriel Williams Battle High School. Muriel Williams Battle passed away in 2003 and worked for Columbia Public Schools for 40 years.
One of Battle's daughters, Muriel Browder described that moment as meaningful and special to Battle.
"Nothing made my father more proud," Browder said. "My father was my mother's biggest cheerleader."
Eliot Battle died just nine days after the high school dedication.
Along with being educators, Muriel and Eliot Battle were pivotal figures in the desegregation of Columbia Public Schools. They worked toward integrating Columbia's residential areas as well.
"Those were also tumultuous times," Browder said. "There were neighborhoods where African Americans could not go to where our friends lived. I look at those heroes who went against their neighborhood covenants and had us come to their home. There are a lot of those heroes in this town black and white that made the transition for us as perfect as it could have been."
The Battle family's legacy continues to live on. Browder lives in the family's home. She says it's great way to keep her family's spirit alive.
"It is great to know that the grands and the greats will always be able to come back to grandaddy's house and see their names in the cement," Browder said.
Two weeks ago, the Columbia Board of Education voted to name the new northeast Columbia elementary school opening in 2015, Eliot Battle Elementary.
"The naming of the elementary school after him [Eliot] would have meant the world to my mother just as it means the world to us," Browder said. "I so relish in the fact that in Columbia, Missouri mom and dad will always be right next to each other as they were for a lifetime in the city."


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Thu 10 December 2015
6 mins
One of the most exciting things about celebrating Christmas with your young family is the chance to forge new traditions on your own terms. We chat to Marie Carr, mum of two and awesome blogger for Phoodie, about the best ways to tackle Christmas lunch and treats for a smaller table and how to make it special without sweating over the stove for hours.
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|Version 6 (modified by 13 years ago) (diff),
Maintaining an explicit call stack
There has been a vigorous thread on error attribution ("I get a
head [] error; but who called
head?"). This page summarises some half baked ideas that Simon and I have been discussing. Do by all means edit this page to add comments and further ideas or pointers. (As usual, discussion is best done by email; but this could be a place to record ideas, design alternatives, list pros and cons etc.)
See also
The basic idea
- GHC's 'assert' magically injects the current file location. One could imagine generalising this a bit so that you could say
...(f $currentLocation)...
to pass a string describing the current location to f.
- But that doesn't help with 'head'. We want to pass head's call site to head. That's what jhc does when you give 'head' the a magic SRCLOC_ANNOTATE pragma:
- every call to
headgets replaced with
head_check $currentLocation
- you get to write
head_checkyourself, with type
head_check :: String -> [a] -> a
- every call to
- But what about the caller of the function that calls head? Obviously we'd like to pass that on too!
foo :: [Int] -> Int {-# SRCLOC_ANNOTATE foo #-} foo xs = head (filter odd xs) ===> foo_check :: String -> [Int] -> Int foo_check s xs = head_check ("line 5 in Bar.hs" ++ s) xs
Now in effect, we build up a call stack.
- In fact, it's very similar to the "cost-centre stack" that GHC builds for profiling, except that it's explicit rather than implicit. (Which is good. Of course the stack should be a proper data type, not a String.)
However, unlike GHC's profiling stuff, it is *selective*. You can choose to annotate just one function, or 10, or all. If call an annotated function from an unannotated one, you get only the information that it was called from the unannotated one:
foo :: [Int] -> Int -- No SRCLOC_ANNOTATE foo xs = head (filter odd xs) ===> foo:: [Int] -> Int foo xs = head_check ("line 5 in Bar.hs") xs
This selectiveness makes it much less heavyweight than GHC's currrent "recompile everything" story.
Open questions
Lots of open questions
- It would be great to use the exact same stack value for profiling. Not so easy...for exmaple, time profiling uses sampling based on timer interrupts that expect to find the current cost centre stack in a particular register. But a big pay-off; instead of having magic rules in GHC to handle SCC annotations, we could throw the full might of the Simplifier at it.
- CAFs are a nightmare. Here's a nasty case:
foo :: Int -> Int -> Int foo = \x. if fac x > 111 then \y. stuff else \y. other-stuff bad :: Int -> Int bad = foo 77How would you like to transform this?


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