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Targeted Duke Professor ResignsBy Jack KerwickMay 12, 2017The Lies of Duke By Jenn Q. Public February 22, 2010 Duke's Jeremiah Wright By Mark D. Tooley December 9, 2009 WRAL: White Rapists and Lombard By Mike Adams December 7, 2009 Rape Declines, Duke Responds By Mike Adams September 8, 2009 Frank Lombard's Wish List By Mike Adams July 6, 2009 Duke's Homosexual Rape Case Elicits Silence By Pete Chagnon July 1, 2009 Duke Professors Condemn Gay Racism By Mike Adams July 1, 2009 Little Boy Blue Devil By Mike Adams June 28, 2009 Duke's Gaza 'Teach-in' a Platform for Misinformation By Winfield Myers February 28, 2009 America's "Best" Theologian By Mark D. Tooley September 2, 2008 Parents Join Duke Lacrosse Team in Lawsuit By Penny Starr February 22, 2008 The University Has No Clothes By Stuart Taylor Jr. February 11, 2008 Nancy DisGrace By Carey Roberts December 4, 2007 Feminist 'Justice' at Duke By Stephen Baskerville October 18, 2007 Until Proven Innocent By Thomas Sowell October 11, 2007 Columbia, Duke and the Media By Thomas Sowell October 2, 2007 A Perfect Storm of Disgrace By Stuart Taylor September 28, 2007 At Duke, the Massacre of Innocence By Abigail Thernstrom September 6, 2007 In the Heart of Freedom, in Chains By Myron Magnet July 26, 2007 Nappy-Headed Hoax By Ann Coulter July 12, 2007 Raping a Man's Name By Dennis Prager June 26, 2007 Duke and Marmaduke By Ann Coulter June 21, 2007 Nifong's Legacy, Feminism's Shame By Kathleen Parker June 20, 2007 Nifong Disbarred: Now How About Some REAL Justice in the Duke Lacrosse Case By Fulton Lewis June 20, 2007 Unfinished Business By Thomas Sowell June 19, 2007 Let's Not Minimize Nifong's Culpability By David Limbaugh June 19, 2007 Loose Ends By Peter W. Wood June 19, 2007 Nifong's Swan Song By La Shawn Barber June 18, 2007 Now What about Those Duke Professors By Dinesh D'Souza June 18, 2007 N.C. Panel Disbars Duke Prosecutor By Aaron Beard June 16, 2007 Regardless of the 'Truth' By The New Criterion May 2007 The Duke LaCrosse Scandal: Eight Lessons By Dennis Prager April 24, 2007 Nemesis By Victor Davis Hanson April 23, 2007 A Trail of Slime By Thomas Sowell April 19, 2007 A Gutless Lynch Mob By Thomas Sowell April 17, 2007 Victims and Virtues By Michael Barone April 16, 2007 How Long Will Democrats and the Media Continue to Enable Sharpton and Jackson By Lorie Byrd April 13, 2007 America's Pimp 'n' Ho Culture Gets Real By Kathleen Parker April 13, 2007 Prosecutors Drop Charges in Duke Case By Aaron Beard April 11, 2007 The Truth About Who Suffers By Jack Dunphy April 11, 2007 Report: All Charges Against Duke Lacrosse Players to Be Dropped Soon By Liza Porteus March 22, 2007 Sacrificing Others' Lives for Political Gain a Hallmark of the Left By Jeff Emanuel March 5, 2007 The Ultimate Duke Lacrosse Player By Mary Katharine Ham February 22, 2007 Liberalism Is Philosophically Un-American By Rabbi Aryeh Spero February 15, 2007 A Tale of Two Rapes in Durham By Mary Katharine Ham February 13, 2007 The Larger Tragedy By Thomas Sowell January 30, 2007 Sympathy for the Gang of 88 By Jon Sanders January 21, 2007 Duke's Tenured Vigilantes By Charlotte Allen January 20, 2007 The Stripper Has No Clothes by Ann Coulter January 17, 2007 Duke Case: How Did So Many Smart People Allow Things to Reach the Level of Hysteria We've Witnessed in the Past Several Months? By Kathleen Parker January 17, 2007 Senseless By John Podhoretz January 17, 2007 Nifong-ing Scooter? By Jack Kelly January 16, 2007 The Absolutely Definitive Account of the Incredible Disappearing Duke Rape Hoax By Nicholas Stix January 13, 2007 Let Me Tell You a Little Something About Law & Order By Fred Thompson January 12, 2007 Stripper Lied ... White Boys Fried By Ann Coulter January 11, 2007 Accuser Changes Story again in Duke Lacrosse 'Rape' Case By Joseph Neff January 11, 2007 The Michael Nifong Scandal By Dorothy Rabinowitz January 11, 2007 The Real Issue at Duke: Part II By Thomas Sowell January 3, 2007 The Real Issue at Duke By Thomas Sowell January 2, 2007 Some Good Things about Duke Lacrosse for a Change By Mary Katharine Ham December 29, 2006 Parody at Duke By Kathleen Parker December 27, 2006 Nifong's Folly By Jamie Glazov December 26, 2006 Where's the ACLU to Defend the Duke Lacrosse Players? By Rabbi Aryeh Spero December 21, 2006 The Worst Worsens By Thomas Sowell December 19, 2006 Academia's Plague of Lame 'Leaders' By Abby Wisse Schachter November 29, 2006 Duke's Rush to Judgement By Jamie Glazov November 16, 2006 The Rape of Justice By Thomas Sowell November 7, 2006 Remembering 9/11 By Stephen Miller September 26, 2006 Duke's Reichstag Fire By William L. Anderson September 14, 2006 The NYT's New Duke LaCrosse Team Assault By Stuart Taylor Jr. August 31, 2006 Tawana Brawley II By William Anderson July 7, 2006 From Duke Rape Case to Duke Rape Hoax By Michael Gaynor June 28, 2006 Why the Duke Case Matters By William Anderson June 21, 2006 Media Eat Up Absurd Rape Story By La Shawn Barber June 14, 2006 Duke Lacrosse: A 'Meaning' in Search of a Scandal By William Anderson June 13, 2006 Forget the Facts By Michael Rubin June 6, 2006 Missing the Point By K. C. Johnson June 6, 2006 The Earl of Dook, or the Continuing State of State Justice in North Carolina By William Anderson June 1, 2006 In Need of Moral Clarity By Mary Katharine Ham May 24, 2006 Duke's Party Line By Robert KC Johnson May 24, 2006 Duke Women to Show Their Support By FoxSports.com May 24, 2006 In Duke Case, A Rogues' Gallery By Stuart Taylor, Jr. May 22, 2006 The Biggest Scandal By Thomas Sowell May 17, 2006 Breathing While White By Kathleen Parker May 17, 2006 Justice Delayed? By Thomas Sowell May 16, 2006 A Tale of Two "Rapes" By Debbie Schlussel May 5, 2006 The Meaning of the Scandal at Duke Is Meaninglessness By Star Parker May 1, 2006 Unequal Justice: Duke Lacrosse Team vs. Three(!) Minority Football Heroes By Steve Sailer April 30, 2006 She Coulda Been a Celebrity By Kathleen Parker April 26, 2006 Law or Lynch Law? By Thomas Sowell April 25, 2006 Legal Process 'Won't Tell Us Anything' About Duke Players' Guilt, Advocate Says By Nathan Burchfiel April 20, 2006 Fact and Myth Duke it Out By Kathleen Parker April 19, 2006 Winning at Duke By Steve Miller April 19, 2006 Rush to Judgment at Duke By Kathleen Parker April 17, 2006 Duke, DNA, and the Law: Politics Over Principle By William Anderson April 15, 2006 Black and White at Duke By Suzanne Fields April 13, 2006 List of 'Gang of 88' Duke Professors By Duke University African and African-American Studies April 6, 2006 Aftermath of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case By Roger Kimball November 24, 2013 Guilty 'Til Proven Innocent By David Yeagley April 4, 2006 Red-Faced at Duke By Ben Johnson March 9, 2006 Horowitz Stands Up For Academic Freedom By Paul Bonner March 9, 2006 Duke's Dangerous Duo By DukeChronicle.com February 28, 2006 Commemorating King at Duke By Steve Miller January 16, 2006 Banana Boat Hate Tour Comes to Duke By Jason Mattera January 16, 2006 Harry Belafonte's Day-O at Duke By Students for Academic Freedom January 13, 2006 The ISM at Duke: The Saga Continues By Jack Langer December 2, 2005 The Intifada Comes to Duke By Eric Adler and Jack Langer January 5, 2005 Duke's Weekend of Terror By Stephen Miller November 2004 Duke Rally vs. Terror Precedes Conference By Michael Petrocelli October 14, 2004 Embracing Terror By Michael Petrocelli October 7, 2004 Chesler's Duke Battle Round II By FrontPage Magazine October 5, 2004 The Chesler Wars Come to Duke By Phyllis Chesler September 28, 2004 Duke Feminist Gives Thumbs Up To Taliban By Cinnamon Stillwell September 27, 2004 Speaking Truth to Duke's Academic Terror By Rabbi Steven Ballaban September 24, 2004 Duke's Terror Odyssey By Nathan Carleton September 21, 2004 Duke's Platform for Terror By Lee Kaplan September 15, 2004
Durham, We Have a Problem By Jack Langer March 8, 2004
[Duke] Officials Weigh in on Academic Rights By Cindy Yee February 17, 2004
Political Debate Sweeps [Duke] Campus By Hunter Lewis February 12, 2004
Duke University Professor Declares Conservatives Are Stupid By Students for Academic Freedom February 11, 2004 Duke's Sham Diversity By Duke Conservative Union February 10, 2004 Univ. Library Website 'Anti-Israel,' Says Duke Student Group By Jim Brown January 9, 2004 Orwell in Durham? By Jack Langer December 2003
Duke's Dizzy Dean By Steve Miller September 9, 2003 Duke University By Chris Arabia and Jean Pearce May 7, 2003 Heated Arguments Arise at Duke's Israeli Divestment Forum By Charles Lin February 3, 2003
Book: Until Proven Innocent: Political Correctness and the Shameful Injustices of the Duke Lacrosse Rape Case By Stuart Taylor and KC Johnson Link: Durham-in-Wonderland (blog) By K.C. Johnson
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Does Gov. Jerry Brown understand what's wrong with California?
It may seem a strange question to ask of a man who has been in public service in California longer than your blogger has been alive.
And Brown just got a nice burst of attention for taking on a clueless Washington Times reporter who seemed to think the state is in bankruptcy. But Brown's appearance on NBC's "Meet the Press" Sunday begged that question.
At the end of Brown's joint appearance with Republican Gov. Jan Brewer, host David Gregory asked if California was ungovernable compared to what it had been his first time as governor more than 30 years ago.
To that, Brown gave an answer so wrongheaded, so divorced from reality that was it breathtaking. Here it is:
"No, It's different. But I think it actually will be more governable, and one thing we have in California that you don't have in the United States government, we can appeal to the people through the initiative process. So when we have a breakdown of the two parties, we can go directly to the people as the tie-breaker, and I think that's the way we're going to break the logjam."
Ok, this may sound like a boilerplate, and politically timely boilerplate at that; Brown is pushing a ballot initiative to provide funds for his realignment plans and the budget. But it's demonstrably not true.
The state is less governable by almost any standard than it was three decades ago.
There are simply more rules, more complexity, more diversity. The constitution is longer and full of more contradictions. There are so many more budget rules that it may be impossible to balance the budget.
The initiative process hasn't saved anything.
The process has been a major cause (though hardly the only cause) of what makes California so hard to govern. Much of the complexity and contradictory rules and budget formulas were put in place by voters (though legislators, governors and the courts must bear a big share of the blame too).
California's initiative process has made this nearly impossible to change because the only way to change an initiative in California is via another vote of the people.
But what's really outlandish is the notion is that the initiative offers a way to break the logjam. The initiative process, as we've seen again and again, merely adds to the logjam, even when the measure is unintended.
Initiatives can't solve a complex governing system because initiaitves must be limited to one subject. California needs redesign of its system, and redesign is too complicated to be done by initiative.
Hopefully, this was a thoughtless, throwaway line. If Brown really believes what he said, he's beyond stuck. He's looking to a form of solution that can't provide solution. Initiatives are part of the disease. They're not a cure.
Let us know what you think. Comment below, send us your thoughts via Twitter @PropZero or add your comment to our Facebook page.

subset: commoncrawl


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The IUCN community is deeply saddened by the sudden loss of our colleague and friend Professor Emmanuel Asuquo Obot who died tragically on Sunday 3 June 2012 in the plane crash in Lagos, Nigeria. Professor Obot was the Executive Director of the Nigerian Conservation Foundation, an IUCN Member organization, a Steering Committee member of the Commission on Environmental Economic and Social Policy (CEESP) and Chair of the CEESP Theme on Social and Environmental Accountability of the Private Sector (SEAPRISE).
With a doctorate in botany and a passion for orchids, Professor Obot was one of Nigeria's most respected scientists. He worked for thirty years on the design and implementation of environmentally sustainable community-based development projects with the objective of providing access rights and secure land tenure to local people(s). He sought to develop and apply the concept of participatory management of renewable natural resources with local people living around protected areas in Nigeria. He developed and tested "governance" structures that allow communities living in close proximity to National Parks to "have a voice" and contribute to the management of the Parks. The establishment of the Cross River National Park is one of his greatest legacies.
For many years, Professor Obot also worked to raise awareness about the impacts of oil exploration and oil spills on the environment and people of the Niger Delta, his homeland. This was a cause close to his heart. Most recently, he was invited by the Director General of IUCN to set up and Chair an Independent Advisory Panel to advise Shell in Nigeria on the remediation and rehabilitation of oil spill sites in the Niger Delta. He took on the role despite the differences with Shell "in order to give something, however small, back to the people of the Delta" and because this work was in the "best interests of the people who live in the Niger Delta and depend upon biodiversity for their livelihoods".
The Panel held its inaugural meeting from 11th to 13th April 2012 at the IUCN Headquarters. The first day of that meeting was in fact Professor Obot's birthday which was celebrated by sharing a special birthday cake with all the Panel members. In his words of thanks, Professor Obot expressed gratitude by stating that he was glad to be serving his people, even on his birthday and so far from his home and family. This was clearly indicative of how he put the interest of others ahead of himself.
A wonderful man - authentic, kind and humble. A respected scientist and an inspiration to many. Professor Obot will be greatly missed. He leaves behind his wife Emma, an educationist, and four children.
If you would like to add some words of condolence for the family or share your memories of Professor Obot, please post your text below.


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"Well, there's that if you'd want it," the crippled man said. "It's a long time waiting for attention. You'd need tend the mortar."
The two men who had come to the farmhouse consulted one another, not saying anything, only nodding and gesturing. Then they gave a price for painting the outside walls of the house and the crippled man said it was too much. He quoted a lesser figure, saying that had been the cost the last time. The men who had come looking for work said nothing. The tall one hitched up his trousers.
"We'll split the difference if that's the way of it," the crippled man said.
Still not speaking, the two men shook their heads.
"Be off with you in that case," the crippled man said.
They didn't go, as if they hadn't understood. It was a ploy of theirs to pretend not to understand, to frown and simulate confusion because, in any conversation, it was convenient sometimes to appear to be at a loss.
"Two coats we're talking about?" the crippled man inquired.
The tall man said they were. He was older than his companion, gray coming into his hair, but that was premature: both were still young, in their twenties.
"Will we split the difference?" the crippled man suggested again. "Two coats and we'll split it?"
The younger of the men, who had a round, moon face and wire-rimmed glasses, offered another figure. He stared down at the gray, badly cracked flags of the kitchen floor, waiting for a response. The tall man, whose arms hung loosely and were lanky, like his body, sucked at his teeth, which was a way he had. If it was nineteen years since the house had been painted, he said, the price would have been less than would be worthwhile for them now. Nineteen years was what they had been told.
"Are ye Polish?" the crippled man asked.
They said they were. Sometimes they said that, sometimes they didn't, depending on what they had previously ascertained about the presence of other Polish people in a locality. They were brothers, although they didn't look like brothers. They were not Polish.
A black cat crept about the kitchen, looking for insects or mice. Occasionally it would pounce on a piece of bark that had fallen off the firewood, or a shadow. Fourteen days the painting would take, the young man said, and they'd work on a Sunday; then the cost of the work surfaced again. A price was agreed.
"Notes," the tall man said, rubbing a thumb and forefinger together. "Cash."
And that was agreed also.
Martina drove slowly, as she always did driving back from Carragh. More than once on this journey, the old Dodge had stopped and she had had to walk to Kirpatrick's Garage to get assistance. Each time the same mechanic told her the car belonged to the antique brigade and should have been off the road for the last thirty years at the very least. But the ancient Dodge was part of Martina's circumstances, to be tolerated because it was necessary. And, driven slowly, more often than not it got you there.
Costigan had slipped in a couple of streaky instead of back rashers, making up the half pound, he'd said, although he'd charged for back. She hadn't said anything; she never did with Costigan. "Come out to the shed till we'll see," he used to say, and she'd go with him to pick out a frozen pork steak or drumsticks she liked the look of in the shed where the deep freeze was, his hands all over her. He no longer invited her to accompany him to the deep freeze, but the days when he used to were always there between them and she never ate pork steak or chicken legs without being reminded of how afterward he used to push the money back to her when she paid and how in the farmhouse she hid it in the Gold Flake tin.
She drove past the tinkers at the Cross, the children in their rags running about, feet bare, heads cropped. The woman whom the noise of the Dodge always brought out stared stonily, continuing to stand there when the car went on, a still image in the rearview mirror. "We'd do it for four and a half," the man in Finnally's had offered when she'd asked the price of the electric cooker that was still in the window. Not a chance, she'd thought.
About to be fifty and putting on more weight than pleased her, Martina had once known what she wanted, but she wasn't so sure about that anymore. Earlier in her life, a careless marriage had fallen apart, leaving her homeless. There had been no children, although she had wanted them, and often since had thought that in spite of having to support them she might have done better if children had been there to make a center for her life.
She drove through the turf bogs, a Bord na Móna machine drawn up at the cuttings, an uncoupled trailer clamped so that it would stay where it was. Nothing was going on, nothing had changed at the cuttings for maybe as long as nine months. The lack of activity was lowering, she considered every time she saw, yet again, the place as it had been the last time.
She turned at Laughil, the road darkened by the trees that overhung it. She couldn't remember when it was that she'd last met another car on this journey. She didn't try to. It didn't matter.
The two men drove away, pleased that they'd found work, talking about the man who'd called out and said come in when they'd knocked on the door. All the time they were there he had remained in his chair by the fire of the range, and when the price was agreed he'd said go to the scullery and get the whiskey bottle. He had gestured impatiently when they didn't understand, lifting his fist to his mouth, tossing back his head, the fist going with it, until they knew he meant drinking. He was convivial then; and they were quick, he said, to see the glasses on the dresser and put three on the table. They were uncertain only for a moment, then unscrewed the cap on the bottle.
"We know about Poland," he'd said. "A Catholic people, like ourselves. We'll drink to the work, will we?"
They poured more whiskey for him when he held out the glass. They had more themselves before they left.
"Who was here?"
She put the groceries on the table as she spoke. The whiskey bottle was there, out of his reach, two empty glasses beside it, his own, empty now also, in his hand. He held it out, his way of asking her to pour him more. He wouldn't stop now, she thought; he'd go on until that bottle was empty and then he'd ask if there was one unopened, and she'd say no, although there was.
"A blue van," she said, giving him more drink, since there was no point in not.
"I wouldn't know what color it was."
"A blue van was in the boreen."
"Did you get the listful?"
"I did."
He'd had visitors, he said as if this subject were a new one. "Good boys, Martina."
"Who?" she asked again.
He wanted the list back, and the receipt. With his stub of a pencil, kept specially for the purpose, he crossed off the items she took from the bags they were in. In the days when Costigan was more lively she had enjoyed these moments of deception, the exact change put down on the table, what she had saved still secreted in her clothes until she could get upstairs to the Gold Flake tin.
"Polish lads," he said. "They'll paint the outside for us." Two coats, he said, a fortnight it would take.
"Are you mad?"
"Good Catholic boys. We had a drink."
She asked where the money was coming from and he asked, in turn, what money was she talking about. That was a way he had, and a way of hers to question the money's source, although she knew there was enough; the subject, once raised, had a tendency to linger.
"What'd they take off you?"
With feigned patience, he explained he'd paid for the materials only. If the work was satisfactory he would pay what was owing when the job was finished. Martina didn't comment on that. Angrily, she pulled open one of the dresser's two drawers, felt at the back of it, and brought out a bundle of euro notes, fives and tens in separate rubber bands, twenties, fifties, a single hundred. She knew at once how much he had paid. She knew he would have had to ask the painters to reach in for the money, since he couldn't himself. She knew they would have seen the amount that was left there.
"Why would they paint a house when all they have to do is walk in and help themselves?"
He shook his head. He said again the painters were fine Catholic boys. With patience still emphatic in his tone, he repeated that the work would be completed within a fortnight. It was the talk of the country, he said, the skills young Polish boys brought to Ireland. An act of God, he said. She wouldn't notice them about the place.
They bought the paint in Carragh, asking what would be best for the walls of a house.
"Masonry," the man said, pointing at the word on a tin. "Outside work, go for the Masonry."
They understood. They explained that they'd been given money in advance for materials and they paid the sum that was written down for them.
"Polish, are you?" the man asked.
Their history was unusual. Born into a community of stateless survivors in the mountains of what had once been Carinthia, their natural language a dialect enlivened by words from a dozen others, they were regarded often now as Gypsies. They remembered a wandering childhood of nameless places, an existence in tents and silent nighttime crossing of borders, the unceasing search for somewhere better. They had separated from their family without regret when they were, they thought, thirteen and fourteen. Since then their lives were what they had become: knowing what to do, how best to do it, acquiring what had to be acquired, managing. Wherever they were, they circumvented what they did not call the system, for it was not a word they knew; but they knew what it meant and knew that straying into it, or their acceptance of it, however temporarily, would deprive them of their freedom. Survival as they were was their immediate purpose, their hope that there might somewhere be a life that was more than they yet knew.
They bought brushes as well as the paint, and white spirit because the man said they'd need it, and a filler because they'd been told the mortar required attention: they had never painted a house before, they didn't know what mortar was.
Their van was battered, the blue patched up a bit with a darker shade, without tax or insurance although there was the usual evidence of both on the windscreen. They slept in it, among contents that they kept tidy, knowing that they must: tools of one kind or another they had come by, their mugs, their plates, a basin, saucepan, frying pan, food.
In the dialect that was their language the older brother asked if they would spare the petrol to go to the ruins where they were engaged in making themselves a dwelling. The younger brother, driving, nodded and they went there.
In her bedroom Martina closed the lid of the Gold Flake tin and secured it with its rubber band. She stood back from the wardrobe looking glass and critically surveyed herself, ashamed of how she'd let herself go, her bulk not quite obese but almost now, her pale-blue eyes—once her most telling feature—half lost in folds of flesh. She had been still in her thirties when she'd come to the farmhouse, still particular about how she looked and dressed. She wiped away the lipstick that had been smudged by Costigan's rough embracing when for a few minutes they had been alone in the shop. She settled her underclothes where he had disturbed them. The smell of the shop—a medley of rashers and fly spray and the chickens Costigan roasted on a spit—had passed from his clothes to hers, as it always did. "Oh, just the shop," she used to say when she was asked about it in the kitchen, but she wasn't anymore.
They were distantly related, had been together in the farmhouse since his mother died, twelve years ago, and his father the following winter. Another distant relative had suggested the union, since Martina was on her own and only occasionally employed. Her cousin—for they had agreed that they were cousins of a kind—would have otherwise had to be taken into a home; and she herself had little to lose by coming to the farm. The grazing was parcelled out, rent received annually and now and again another field sold. Her crippled cousin, who since birth had been confined as he was now, had for Martina the attraction of a legal stipulation: in time she would inherit what was left.
Often people assumed that he had died, never saying a word, but you could tell. In Carragh they did, and people from round about who never came to the farmhouse did; talking to them, you could feel it. She didn't mention him herself except when the subject was brought up: there was nothing to say because there was nothing that was different, nothing she could remark on.
He was asleep after the whiskey when she went downstairs and he slept until he was roused by the clatter of dishes and the frying of their six-o'clock meal. She liked to keep to time, to do what it told her to do. She kept the alarm clock on the dresser wound, and accurate to the minute by the wireless morning and evening. She collected, first thing every morning, what eggs had been laid in the night. She got him to the kitchen from the back room as soon as she'd set the breakfast table. She made the two beds when he had his breakfast in him and she had washed up the dishes. On a day she went to Carragh she left the house at a quarter past two; she'd got into the way of that. Usually he was asleep by the range then, as most of the time he was unless he'd begun to argue. If he had, that could go on all day.
"They'll be a nuisance about the place." She had to raise her voice because the liver on the pan was spitting. The slightest sound—of dishes or cooking, the lid of the kettle rattling—and he said he couldn't hear her when she spoke. But she knew he could.
He said he couldn't now and she ignored him. He said he'd have another drink and she ignored that, too.
"They're never a nuisance," he said. "Lads like that."
He said they were clean, you'd look at them and know. He said they'd be company for her.
"One month to the next you hardly see another face, Martina. Sure, I'm aware of that, girl. Don't I know it the whole time."
She cracked the first egg into the pool of fat she made by tilting the pan. She could crack open an egg and empty it with one hand. Two each they had.
"It needs the paint," he said.
She didn't comment on that. She didn't say he couldn't know; how could he, since she didn't manage to get him out to the yard anymore? She hadn't managed to for years.
"It does me good," he said. "The old drop of whiskey."
She turned the wireless on and there was old-time music playing.
"That's terrible stuff," he said.
Martina didn't comment on that, either. When the slices of liver were black she scooped them off the pan and put them on their plates with the eggs. She got him to the table. He'd had whiskey enough, she said when he asked for more, and nothing further was said in the kitchen.
When they had eaten she got him to his bed, but an hour later he was shouting and she went to him. She thought it was a dream, but he said it was his legs. She gave him aspirins, and whiskey, because when he had both the pains would go. "Come in and keep me warm," he whispered, and she said no. She often wondered if the pains had maddened him, if his brain had been attacked, as so much else in his body was.
"Why'd they call you Martina?" he asked, still whispering. A man's name, he said; why would they?
"I told you."
"You'd tell me many a thing."
"Go to sleep now."
"Are the grass rents in?"
"Go back to sleep."
The painting commenced on a Tuesday because on the Monday there was ceaseless rain. The Tuesday was fine, full of sunshine, with a soft, drying breeze. The painters hired two ladders in Carragh and spent that day filling in the stucco surface where it had broken away.
The woman of the house, whom they assumed to be the crippled man's wife, brought out soda scones and tea in the middle of the morning, and when she asked them what time was best for this—morning and afternoon—they pointed at eleven o'clock and half past three on the older brother's watch. She brought them biscuits with the tea at exactly half past three. She stayed talking to them, telling them where they could buy what they wanted in Carragh, asking them about themselves. Her smile was tired but she was patient with them when they didn't understand. She watched them while they worked and when they asked her what she thought she said they were as good as anyone. By the evening the repairs to the stucco had been completed.
Heavy rain was forecast for the Wednesday, and it came in the middle of the afternoon, blown in from the west by an intimidating storm. The work could not be continued, and the painters sat in their van, hoping for an improvement. Earlier, while they were working, there had been raised voices in the house, an altercation that occasionally gave way to silence before beginning again. The older painter, whose English was better than his brother's, reported that it had to do with money and the condition of the land. "The pension is what I'm good for," the crippled man repeatedly insisted. "Amn't I here for the few bob I bring in?" The pension became the heart of what was so crossly talked about, how it was spent in ways it shouldn't be, how the crippled man didn't have it for himself. The painters lost interest, but the voices went on and could still be heard when one or other of them left the van to look at the sky.
Late in the afternoon they gave up waiting and drove into Carragh. They asked in the paint shop how long the bad weather would last and were advised that the outlook for several days was not good. They returned the ladders, reluctant to pay for their hire while they were unable to make use of them. It was a setback, but they were used to setbacks and, inquiring again in the paint shop, they learned that a builder who'd been let down was taking on replacement labor at the conversion of a disused mill—an indoor site a few miles away. He agreed to employ them on a day-to-day basis.
The rain affected him. When it rained he wouldn't stop, since she was confined herself, and when they had worn out the subject of the pension he would begin again about the saint she was named after. "Tell me," he would repeat his most regular request and if it was the evening and he was fuddled with drink she wouldn't answer, but in the daytime he would wheedle and every minute would drag more sluggishly than minutes had before.
He did so on the morning the painters took down their ladders and went away. She was shaking the clinker out of the range so that the fire would glow. She was kneeling down in front of him and she could feel him examining her the way he often did. You'd be the better for it, he said, when she'd tell about her saint, you'd feel the consolation of a holiness. "Tell me," he said.
She took the ash pan out to the yard, not saying anything before she went. The rain soaked her shoulders and dribbled over her face and neck, drenched the gray-black material of her dress, her arms, ran down between her breasts. When she returned to the kitchen she did as he wished, telling him what he knew: that holy milk, not blood, had flowed in the body of St. Martina of Rome, that Pope Urban had built a church in her honor and had composed the hymns used in her office in the Roman Breviary, that she perished by the sword.
He complimented her when she finished speaking, while she still stood behind him, not wanting to look at him. The rain she had brought in with her dripped through her clothes onto the broken flags of the floor.
The painters worked at the mill conversion for longer than they might have, even though the finer weather had come. The money was better and there was talk of more employment in the future: in all, nine days passed before they returned to the farmhouse.
They arrived early, keeping their voices down and working quickly to make up for lost time, nervous in case there was a complaint about their not returning sooner. By eight o'clock the undercoat was on most of the front wall.
The place was quiet and remained so, but wisps of smoke were coming from one of the chimneys, which the painters remembered from the day and a half they'd spent here before. The car was there, its length too much for the shed it was in, its rear protruding, and they remembered that, too. Still working at the front of the house, they listened for footsteps in the yard, expecting the tea that had come before in the morning, but no tea came. In the afternoon, when the older brother went to the van for a change of brushes, the tea tray was on the bonnet and he carried it to where the ladders were.
In the days that followed this became a pattern. The stillness the place had acquired was not broken by the sound of a radio playing or voices. The tea came without additions and at varying times, as if the arrangement about eleven o'clock and half past three had been forgotten. When the ladders were moved into the yard the tray was left on the step of a door at the side of the house.
Sometimes, not often, glancing into the house, the painters caught a glimpse of the woman whom they assumed to be the wife of the crippled man they had drunk whiskey with, who had shaken hands with both of them when the agreement about the painting was made. At first they wondered if the woman they saw was someone else, even though she was similarly dressed. They talked about that, bewildered by the strangeness they had returned to, wondering if in this country so abrupt a transformation was ordinary and usual and was often to be found.
Once, through the grimy panes of an upstairs window, the younger brother, from his ladder, saw the woman crouched over a dressing table, her head on her arms as if she slept, or wept. She looked up while he still watched, his curiosity beyond restraint, and her eyes stared back at him, but she did not avert her gaze.
That same day, just before the painters finished for the day, while they were scraping the last of the old paint from the kitchen window frames, they saw that the crippled man was not in his chair by the range and realized that since they had returned after the rain they had not heard his voice.
She washed up their two cups and saucers, teaspoons with a residue of sugar on them because they'd been dipped into the bowl when they were wet with tea. She wiped the tray and dried it, and hung the damp tea towel on the line in the scullery. She didn't want to think, even to know that they were there, that they had come. She didn't want to see them, as all day yesterday she had managed not to. She hung the cups up and put the saucers with the others, the sugar bowl in the cupboard under the sink.
The ladders clattered in the yard, pulled out of sight for the night in case they'd be a temptation for the tinkers. She couldn't hear talking and doubted that there was any. A few evenings ago when they were leaving they had knocked on the back door and she hadn't answered.
She listened for footsteps coming to the door again but none came. She heard the van being driven off. She heard the geese flying over, coming from the water at Dole: this was their time. Once the van had returned when something had been left behind, and she'd been collecting the evening eggs and had gone into the fields until it was driven off again. In the kitchen she waited for another quarter of an hour, watching the hands of the dresser clock. Then she let the air into the house, the front door and the back door open, the kitchen windows.
The dwelling they had made for themselves at the ruins was complete. They had used the fallen stones and the few timber beams that were in good condition, a doorframe that had survived. They'd bought sheets of old galvanized iron for the roof, and found girders on a tip. It wasn't bad, they said to one another; in other places they'd known worse.
In the dark of the evening they talked about the crippled man, concerned—and worried as their conversation advanced—since the understanding about payment for the painting had been made with him and it could easily be that when the work was finished the woman would say she knew nothing about what had been agreed, that the sum they claimed as due to them was excessive. They wondered if the crippled man had been taken from the house, if he was in a home. They wondered why the woman still wasn't as she'd been at first.
She backed the Dodge into the middle of the yard, opened the right-hand back door, and left the engine running while she carried out the egg trays from the house and settled them one on top of another on the floor, all this as it always was on a Thursday. Hurrying because she wanted to leave before the men came, she locked the house and banged the car door she'd left open. But the engine, idling nicely, stopped before she got into the driver's seat. And then the blue van was there.
They came toward her at once, the one with glasses making gestures she didn't understand at first and then saw what he was on about. A rear tire had lost some air; he appeared to be saying he would pump it up for her. She knew, she said; it would be all right. She dreaded what would happen now: the Dodge would let her down. But when she turned off the ignition and turned it on again, and tried the starter with the choke out, the engine fired at once.
"Good morning." The older man had to bend at the car window, being so tall. "Good morning," he said again when she wound the window down although she hadn't wanted to. She could hear the ladders going up. "Excuse me," the man who was delaying her said, and she let the car creep on, even though he was leaning on it.
"He's in another room," she said. "A room that's better for him."
She didn't say she had eggs to deliver because they wouldn't understand. She didn't say when you got this old car going you didn't take chances with it because they wouldn't understand that, either.
"He's quiet there," she said.
She drove slowly out of the yard and stalled the engine again.
The painters waited until they could no longer hear the car. Then they moved the ladders, from one upstairs window to the next, until they'd gone all the way round the house. They didn't speak, only glancing at one another now and again, conversing in that way. When they had finished they lit cigarettes. Almost three-quarters of the work was done: they talked about that, and calculated how much paint was left unused and how much they would receive back on it. They did no work yet.
The younger brother left the yard, passing through a gateway in which a gate was propped open by its own weight where a hinge had given way. The older man remained, looking about, opening shed doors and closing them again, listening in case the Dodge returned. He leaned against one of the ladders, finishing his cigarette.
Cloudy to begin with, the sky had cleared. Bright sunlight caught the younger brother's spectacles as he came round the side of the house, causing him to take them off and wipe them clean as he passed back through the gateway. His reconnoitre had led him, through a vegetable patch given up to weeds, into what had been a garden, its single remaining flower bed marked with seed packets that told what its several rows contained. Returning to the yard, he had kept as close to the walls of the house as he could, pressing himself against the stucco surface each time he came to a window, more cautious than he guessed he had to be. The downstairs rooms revealed no more than those above them had and when he listened he heard nothing. No dogs were kept. Cats watched him without interest.
In the yard he shook his head, dismissing his fruitless efforts. There was a paddock with sun on it, he said, and they sat there munching their stale sandwiches and drinking a tin of Pepsi-Cola each.
"The crippled man is dead." The older brother spoke softly and in English, nodding an affirmation of each word, as if to make his meaning clear in case it was not.
"The woman is frightened." He nodded that into place also.
These conjectures were neither contradicted nor commented upon. In silence the two remained in the sun and then they walked through the fields that neglect had impoverished, and in the garden. They looked down at the solitary flower bed, at the bright-colored seed packets marking the empty rows, each packet pierced with a stick. They did not say this was a grave, or remark on how the rank grass, in a wide straight path from the gate, had been crushed and had recovered. They did not draw a finger through the earth in search of seeds where seeds should be, where flowers were promised.
"She wears no ring." The older brother shrugged away that detail, depriving it of any interest it might have had, irrelevant now.
Again they listened for the chug of the car's unreliable engine but it did not come. Since the painting had made it necessary for the windows to be eased in their sashes, the house could now be entered. But when the woman returned she would see it had been in safe hands while she'd been away, its rooms as she had left them, the money untouched. The painting began again and, undisturbed, the men worked until the light went. "She will be here tomorrow," the older brother said. "She will have found the courage, and know we are no threat."
In the van on the way back to their dwelling they talked again about the woman who was not as she had been, and the man who was not there. They guessed and wondered, supposed, surmised. They cooked their food and ate it in uncomfortable confinement, the shreds and crumbs of unreality giving the evening shape. At last impatient, anger had not allowed a woman who had waited too long to wait, again, until she was alone: they sensed enough of truth in that. They smoked slow cigarettes, instinct directing thought. The woman's history was not theirs to know, even though they now were part of it themselves. Their circumstances made them that, as hers made her what she'd become. She would see to it that still the pension came. No one would miss the crippled man, no one went to a lonely place. Tomorrow she would pay for the painting of the house. Tomorrow they would travel on. ♦


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Former Gov. Rod Blagojevich's federal corruption trial will feature prosecutors feeding voters a steady reminder of the worst elements of Illinois' political culture — allegations that money, insider influence and personal interest drive public policy in this state.
From charges of trying to shake down a children's hospital for campaign cash to trying to peddle President Barack Obama's vacant Senate seat for profit, the case will once again put Illinois politics on trial.
For Democrats, the trial represents a long-feared day of reckoning after 18 months of a Blagojevich-fueled circus. The challenge is to weather months of testimony involving pay-to-play charges as the party tries to maintain its control of state government, led by Gov. Pat Quinn, who replaced Blagojevich as governor after twice serving as his running mate.
"It's not a plus. It's not a plus," acknowledged House Speaker Michael Madigan, the veteran Southwest Side lawmaker who is chairman of the Illinois Democratic Party.
For Republicans, it's the down-and-out party's best chance in a decade to convince voters they deserve another shot at running Illinois. The GOP is trying to regain relevancy that evaporated after a federal corruption investigation that ended with the imprisonment of former Republican Gov. George Ryan.
Watch for Republicans to run TV ads that link Blagojevich and any damaging trial testimony to their Democratic opponents. It's the same approach that Blagojevich used in winning two statewide elections, tarring both his opponents with the taint of the Ryan scandal. And some GOP campaigns already are exploring the possibility.
Democrats know they will be forced to play defense, and some will try to point out ties between Blagojevich and longtime Republicans to contend that corruption was not unique to one political party.
"I don't think it's going to be good for Democrats," said Christopher Mooney, a political science professor at the University of Illinois at Springfield. "Quinn inoculated himself pretty well from Blagojevich. But Blagojevich, himself, wrote the book on this. He's taught us how to take a person not associated in any way with taint and link them at the hip."
Amid the attempts at political opportunism, the Blagojevich trial also threatens to drag into the spotlight prominent national Democrats, from former Chicago congressman and current White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel to Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev., and his top deputy, Illinois' senior senator, Dick Durbin.
The Blagojevich defense team contends those leaders can show that the former governor's conversations about the Senate seat were political horse trading and not a crime. Though Emanuel, Reid and Durbin are not accused of any wrongdoing, any association with Blagojevich carries its own political baggage. If nothing else, the trial will resurrect the controversy over Democratic leaders' ineffective efforts to prevent Blagojevich's choice, Sen. Roland Burris, from being seated.
"It's just an embarrassment that the state has to go through this. It's certainly something that will be politically good for us, but it's not good for the state," said Pat Brady, the state's Republican chairman. "I don't want Rahm Emanuel and other people from the White House coming to testify. It doesn't help the country."
Yet Republicans are working to use the trial to resuscitate a political organization that was eviscerated by voters following Ryan's tenure.
Just days before the trial was set to begin, the state GOP compiled an assemblage of photos of current political candidates buddying up to the disgraced former Democratic governor. There's Quinn, a former running mate, standing with Blagojevich at a political rally; Treasurer Alexi Giannoulias, the Democratic U.S. Senate nominee, posing with Blagojevich in tuxedos at an event; and other photos with Blagojevich and Attorney General Lisa Madigan and her father, Michael Madigan.
"The Blagojevich Trial. Starting June 3rd. Check Your Local Listings for Details," the state GOP noted in an e-mail to supporters that included the photos.
A strategist with one Republican statewide campaign said they expect the trial will provide "opportunities" to tag the current crop of Democratic candidates with problems that go back to the Blagojevich administration, from the state's mountain of unpaid bills to Blagojevich hires still on the public payroll.
"It may not be a focal point of the trial, but it does shine a spotlight on the problems of the Democratic Party and the excesses of one-party rule with Blagojevich at the top of it," said the GOP strategist, who was not authorized to speak publicly about the campaigns.
During the February primary for governor, challenger Dan Hynes looked to take advantage of Quinn's former status as a Blagojevich running mate to raise questions in the minds of voters. But Hynes' campaign discovered, and a Tribune poll showed, that Democratic primary voters did not view Quinn negatively over his ties to the former governor.
Though such linkage didn't have any traction for Democratic voters, it is independent voters who decide statewide elections in Illinois, and they will be the target for Republican attempts to tie Blagojevich to Democratic opponents.
A Democratic consultant to one statewide campaign noted that Democrats running at the top of the ticket were not particularly close to Blagojevich but said it would be difficult to explain that to voters.
"The biggest wild card is Rod, himself," said the consultant, who asked not to be identified because he was not authorized to discuss strategy. "Will he try to take others down with him?"
As is often the case in Illinois' political environment, there is a bipartisan flavor to the Blagojevich scandal.
Blagojevich had dealings with prominent Republican Bob Kjellander, a former member of the GOP National Committee. Prosecutors say he also cultivated a relationship with Stuart Levine, a major fundraiser for Blagojevich and for Republicans who pleaded guilty to trying to use his position on state boards to extract kickbacks from contractors. Antoin "Tony" Rezko, a top Blagojevich fundraiser and adviser who also was convicted of corruption in 2008, was a donor to GOP candidates as well.
To that extent, the trial may serve to remind voters that they share some responsibility for electing him twice.
"Blagojevich is just a public buffoon, but he's all of ours," the Democratic consultant said. "He's not just an issue for Illinois Democrats. Everyone shares ownership."
Former Gov. Rod Blagojevich's federal corruption trial will feature prosecutors feeding voters a steady reminder of the worst elements of Illinois' political culture — allegations that money, insider influence and personal interest drive public policy in this state.


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An MRI performed on Raiders quarterback Bruce Gradkowski on Monday revealed a third-degree separation of his right (throwing) shoulder, according to a source familiar with the situation.
Coach Tom Cable hadn't received word of the results of the MRI by the time he met with the media for his weekly news conference, so he wasn't able to comment on the bad news he expected.
Gradkowski reinjured the shoulder Sunday against the Miami Dolphins in a 33-17 loss at the Oakland Coliseum. He was making his first start since Oct. 10, when a sack by San Diego Chargers linebacker Shaun Phillips aggravated the injury he first suffered Sept. 26 against the Arizona Cardinals.
Gradkowski missed the remainder of the Chargers game and the next four games while recovering from the third-degree separation, the most severe kind. He said after the Miami game that he felt comparable to the way he did after the San Diego game.
Sure enough, the results confirmed Gradkowski's fear that he had undone the progress from the previous seven weeks. The MRI also revealed other damage, though nothing as severe as the separation.
A third-degree separation typically involves the tearing of all the ligaments in the shoulder that hold down the clavicle, according to several medical websites, and takes weeks to months to heal completely.
Cable said earlier Monday that it's conceivable Gradkowski won't play again this season.
"If that is true, yes," Cable said of the prospect of not having Gradkowski again this season. "But we'll know more as soon as we kind of get this thing evaluated and see how serious it is this time, see if there's any more damage."
For now, Cable said, the Raiders are moving forward as if Jason Campbell is going to start against the Chargers on Sunday. Cable ruled out the possibility of giving No. 3 quarterback Kyle Boller a shot.
Schilens hasn't played this season while recovering from surgery on his left knee midway through training camp.
He also aggravated a foot injury in practice Nov. 19. The left foot injury required surgery before last season — he had a second surgery on the foot after the season ended — began sidelined Schilens for eight games.
The Raiders' five opponents are a combined 28-27 (.509 percentage), the first-place Kansas City Chiefs face teams that are 24-31 (.436), and the Chargers play teams that are 21-34 (.382).
On Sunday, they said Seymour's punishment would have been far greater had the openhanded blow been to the face of Indianapolis Colts quarterback Peyton Manning or New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady.
"They would have probably thrown him out of the league," Marino said on CBS's pregame show, of which he is a member. "Seriously. Richard Seymour has been a Super Bowl player. If he'd known that that was Roethlisberger behind him, he probably wouldn't have done it. He thought it was a lineman. But at the same time, I'm sure the fine would be higher if it was Brady or Manning."
Sharpe said: "I totally agree with you, Dan. They completely changed the rules when a guy did a legal hit and put Tom Brady out for the entire season. If you go up and hit this guy knowing Tom Brady or Peyton Manning, they are the face of the National Football League, that's going to cost you a quarter million (dollars), and you're out of the league. You're going to have to apply for reinstatement."
Raiders (5-6) at San Diego (6-5), 1:05 p.m., CBS


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Yasuo Takamatsu, 57, grunts with the effort of hoisting a scuba diving tank onto his back, as he prepares to step into the cold waters off Japan's tsunami-ravaged coast to look for the body of his wife, one of thousands still missing three years on.
A swell lifts the wooden boat as he tugs on an over-sized rubber dry-suit that will protect him from the chill when he sinks into the murky, March-gray Pacific Ocean, just days before the anniversary of the disaster.
"She was a gentle and kind person," Takamatsu said. "She would always be next to me, physically and mentally. I miss her, I miss the big part of me that was her."
Takamatsu, a bus driver by trade, was never a natural candidate for learning to scuba dive and was worried he would not be able to do it.
Yet he feels driven to the water when he thinks about the last time he heard from his wife, Yuko, before the nearly 20m wave engulfed her.
In a text message sent at 3:21pm, half an hour after a huge undersea earthquake shook Japan on Friday, March 11, 2011, and unleashed a towering tsunami that traveled with the speed of a jet plane towards the Japanese coast, Yuko said simply: "I want to go home."
"That was the last message from her," he said.
"I feel terrible thinking she is still out there. I want to bring her home as soon as possible," he said.
Weeks later, while scouring the area, bank workers found Yuko's mobile phone and handed it back to Takamatsu.
He dried it off and fired it up to see that she had written a text message he had never received, at almost exactly the time the water was thought to have reached the roof of the bank.
"'Tsunami huge'. That was all she wrote in the very last one," he said.
Within minutes of the tsunami striking, communities were turned to matchwood, and whole families had drowned.
When the waves subsided and the water rushed back out to sea, it took homes, cars and the bodies of thousands of the people it had killed.
Officially, more than 15,800 are known to have died in the disaster, Japan's worst peacetime loss of life. Another 2,636 are listed as missing.
No one thinks they will ever turn up alive, but for the bereaved, it is important to be able to find their bodies and finally lay them to rest.
More than 800 people were lost in the small fishing town of Onagawa alone, of whom more than 250 are still missing, including Takamatsu's wife, then 47.
Takamatsu was with his mother-in-law at a hospital in the next town when the sea came ashore. He was not allowed to go back into the wrecked town, which was by then a seething, bobbing mass of buildings, fishing boats and cars, where pools of gasoline burned on the surface of the water.
When the barriers were lifted the next day, he rushed to Onagawa's hospital, which sits on a hilltop, as the designated evacuation site where hundreds had fled soon after the huge quake.
It was there that he learned the bank employees had been swept away.
"I felt my knees buckling. I felt nothing in my body," he said.
Three years after the disaster, Japan is not officially prepared to give up the search for its missing.
Japanese police, coastguard officers and volunteers have mobilized in their thousands to comb muddy areas around the mouths of rivers or to scour the seabed.
Search squads still recover some human remains.
Takamatsu knows that the chances of finding his wife are slim. In the three years since she died, swirling currents have carried all sorts of things across the Pacific; many others have sunk deep into the ocean.


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Top Photo Spots in San Antonio/
The best places to take photos in San Antonio!
Are you traveling to San Antonio, TX and looking for great spots to take some photos? Do you love history? Do you love Spanish Missions? Do you love architecture? Do you love modern art? Have you ever heard of the Riverwalk? Even touristy spots can be fun, so pack your camera and read on!
I spent part of my youth in San Antonio, and though I now live in Austin I am still pretty familiar with the town. I still get down there several times a year, and always bring the camera, just in case! It has a lot of culture and history and offers some excellent spots to take some great photos. If you love history, the Spanish Missions might be your thing. If you prefer tourist spots, the Riverwalk is for you. Heck they even have the Alamo (also a Spanish Mission) so let's just get into it!
By the way, if you want to see all my San Antonio shots, you can get to them on my blog by going here: http://nomadicpursuits.com/blog?category=San+Antonio
1) The Alamo
Remember the Alamo? OK, bad joke - but it's definitely a great place to visit when in San Antonio, so don't forget that! Here's the thing though - it gets incredibly crowded. My first "photo visit" there resulted in so-so shots with folks in them. There is nothing wrong with that sort of shot - I take a lot on my travels - but I wanted some HDR goodness with a clear scene. So the next time around, I went early on a Sunday morning and had it all to myself - well, I had the front. It was so early that it wasn't open yet! Anyways, make sure you check it out!
2) Mission Espada
Mission Espada is the smallest and most remote of the San Antonio missions, but it is my favorite by far. It just has so much charm. The nice thing about it being remote is that it is less crowded, which is obviously good if you are trying to take some photos. I went out there one day with my Mom (thanks Mom!) and we were the only ones there. Definitely pay this place a visit!
3) The Riverwalk
Ah, the Riverwalk - stores, restaurants, bars, drunk tourists - what's not to like? It's actually a pretty fun place, and is a good way to enjoy downtown San Antonio. If you are not familiar with it, it is a network of stores and bars/restaurants that line the San Antonio River as it winds its way through the downtown area. It has been there forever it seems, but it continues to get further development as the city extends the reach of it. Just ask anyone, and they can tell you where to find it!
4) The McNay Art Museum
I enjoy going to museums and the McNay Art Museum in San Antonio sits on a lovely campus that is camera-worthy! I got there early one morning (sounds familiar?) and was able to walk around gettting all sorts of HDR photos without a soul there to disturb me. It was awesome. I would highly recommend getting some shots of the main building there - it's just really beautiful.
5) The Arneson River Theatre
Ok, technically this is just another part of the Riverwalk, but I wanted to call it out specifically because it is both a popular and beautiful stretch of the river. They host musical and theatrical performances here and it is just a wonderful spot to take in some entertainment.
6) The San Antonio Zoo
I have fun at zoos, though I often feel bad for the animals. I bet they get tired of living like that. Anyways, San Antonio has a pretty nice zoo, and they expanded it a few years back and their African savannah area is pretty wide open. Check out the bears too - I caught the grizzly sleeping one day!
7) The San Antonio Skyline
There are probably a lot of places from which to take a nice shot of the San Antonio skyline. I took this shot from atop a parking garage that I happened to park in while there on a photo excursion. That large tower in the distance off to the right side is the Tower of Americas, which has a revolving restaurant at the top - another fun experience to have in San Antonio!
8) The Westin La Cantera
The Westin La Cantera is a nice family resort that sits out on the northern edge of town, just on the edge of the Texas hill country. We go there a couple of times a year, just to enjoy a little getaway without the hassle of lengthy travel. It still gives you convenient access to downtown if you need it (25 minutes or so away), but since it is a little remote it feels like you are "away from it all". I has a great big pool with a nice waterfall - and it gets really crowded with kids - but there is also an adult pool for those moments when you need a little quiet. Throw in a nice workout facility and a Starbucks in the lobby, and you're all set! There's also a great golf course, so you'll be busy. Don't forget the sunscreen!
9) San Fernando Cathedral
The San Fernando Cathedral is a beautiful and historic church that is just a stone's throw away from the Riverwalk, so it is very easy to get to if you are already downtown. I recommend getting there in the evening so that you can catch it all lit up - it's breathtaking! There are also these great little fountains in the front of it, so be sure and get those in the shot too!
10) Mission San Jose
I think of Mission San Jose as "the big Mission" as it is pretty large and seems to be the most popular. It has a wonderful entryway that is just amazingly beautiful. This is also known as "the Queen of the Missions" since it was largest and strategically important to the missionaries at the time.
11) Spanish Governor's Palace
This is a historic building downtown built of adobe in the 18th century Spanish colonial style. I must admit I have never been inside, but I do like the look of the entry quite a bit!
12) El Mercado / Market Square
This is the historic Mexican market downtown, and it's just a short stroll from the Spanish Governor's Palace and San Fernando Cathedral. I definitely recommend checking this place out. It's fun to shop here and of course you can get great Mexican food, and great photographs too!
Well that's it for now! I hope this list gives you some good ideas about where to shoot in San Antonio. The city is rich with culture and history, so definitely pack the camera! Thanks for looking!


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Director, Adjunct Faculty
Cathleen E. Kunkler MSN, RN, ONC, CNE, is an Associate Professor of Nurse Education. A graduate of the Robert Packer Hospital School of Nursing, Elmira College, and the University of Phoenix, Kunkler has practiced nursing in a variety of clinical and managerial healthcare settings. She holds membership in the National League for Nursing and Sigma Theta Tau. An active member of the National Association of Orthopaedic Nursing, Kunkler served as the editor of Orthopaedic Nursing Core Competencies: Across the Life Span 3rd edition (2013), and contributed a chapter on "Therapeutic Modalities" to the Core Curriculum for Orthopaedic Nursing, 7th edition (2013). For 25 years, she has maintained specialty certification as an ONC (Orthopaedic Nurse Certified), and has recently achieved the credentials of CNE (Certified Nurse Educator).


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Offshore Oil + Gas Production
Oil companies are exploiting harder-to-reach reservoirs and keeping existing assets operating much longer.
As offshore oil and gas exploration moves to deeper waters, safety, reliability, environmental concerns, and cost play vital roles in the production, transmission, and refining of oil and gas products. We help to minimize the concerns of our offshore oil and gas clients by delivering safe, reliable, and efficient products such as DATUM® centrifugal compressors, reciprocating compressors, gas turbines, and world-class service and support solutions.
The Dresser-Rand business offers an extensive array of compression solutions to meet the wide range of duties and applications such as gas lift, CO2 injection, natural gas injection, export gas, CO2 recycle, and low-pressure / high-pressure separation.
DATUM® Centrifugal Compressors
- Cartridge concept – modular design minimizes downtime on-site to accommodate changing reservoir conditions and field duties
- Various drive options – electric motor or gas turbine drives
- For many applications, high-pressure back-to-back compression solutions can reduce the number of cases, weight and footprint
- Inherently stable rotordynamics ensure high availability and reliability
Reciprocating Compressors
Dresser-Rand has more than 60 years experience supplying reciprocating gas compressors for offshore applications including FPSO, TLP, SPARs, etc. These have primarily been electric motor-driven, horizontally-opposed, high-speed reciprocating compressors operating at medium speeds.
- Eight different frame sizes with 2-4-6 crank-throws, allowable rod loads from 15,400 lbs (68.5 kN) to 90,000 lbs (400 kN) and HP up to 11,000 (8,206 kW)
- Cylinders up to 28″ (711 mm) in diameter with pressures up 10,000 psig (689.5 bar)
- Slow-speed, longer stroke process reciprocating compressors are also available with up to 10 crank throws and 45,000 HP (33,570 kW)
We engineer and manufacture our own compressor valves and regulation devices as well as a full suite of capacity control solutions.


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Preparing for the HumanLight celebration December 23rd?
We like to use an Honor Net, a decorative net on which to hang ornaments, instead of an ornamented tree. Each person decides on a person, event, idea or place that's inspired him/her and decorates an ornament. We take turns placing the ornament on the net, sharing our story of inspiration.
A person who has inspired us. The gold ornament with red, along the bottom says "Carl Sagan", whose Cosmos series meant a lot to me.
An inspiring event. The gold ornament to the left of the HumanLight guy was added by James. As a boy he at a scout camp he participated in a huge procession, toward a bonfire event. As the procession passed into the special place everyone became completely silent. This spontaneous self discipline gave James hope for humanity.
A idea or place. The larger transparent ornament with red lettering near the top says, "Extraordinary Claims Require Extraordinary Evidence." The small gold one above the HumanLight guy celebrates nature.
What person, event, idea or place inspires you with hope and meaning?
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One ornament isn't enough for Carl Sagan... there have to be billions and billions....
Ha ha!
Annie Laurie Gaylor - Person
Co-President FFRF - organization
Since November 2004, serving with Dan Barker.
Freedom From Religion Foundation, Madison, Wisconsin, 1976, when she was a college student, with her mother Anne Nicol Gaylor. The Foundation incorporated as a national nonprofit educational organization with two purposes in 1978 under the leadership of Anne Nicol Gaylor and works to protect the constitutional principle of state/church separation and to educate about nontheism.
This is one for now -- I'll think about more to post here later
Here is her mother -- she inspires me too.
Delivered by Annie Laurie Gaylor, with music provided by Dan Barker, on Oct. 29, 2004, at the 27th annual national convention of the Freedom From Religion Foundation in Madison, Wisconsin.
Anne Gaylor, the founder and president of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, is stepping down from the presidency after this convention. She has been president 26 years officially, but 28 years in reality. She is not necessarily retiring -- she will be involved as an on-call consultant with the office, and is still deciding where she will direct her considerable energies in the future.
I was hoping she'd out-Reagan Reagan (not to put him in her company). Reagan was 78 when he left his presidency, Anne will be 78 on Nov. 25. She still works harder than the rest of us -- people one half to one third of her age.
She is stepping down only because her eyesight has diminished -- due to macular degeneration and glaucoma. She may be losing her eyesight, but she is not losing her vision.
Desperate women began to phone her, asking where they could go for safe abortions. She launched into activism, abortion rights, feminist groups and Zero Population Growth.
She founded the ZPG Abortion Referral Service in 1970. Between 1970 and 1975, she made more than than 20,000 referrals. She took calls at home day and night, especially after her number was published without her permission, in Playboy!
Anne and Annie Laurie, 1976, after founding the Freedom From Religion Foundation.
"Whenever I hear people suggest that if there were no 'religion,' and no fear of God's wrath, there would be no morality, I wish they could meet Anne Gaylor, her family, her many colleagues in this organization, and the countless other 'non-believers' who are working every day to repair the world." --Anne Treseder
(Anne Treseder's full tribute, "Anne Gaylor--Mentor and Friend," can be read here.)
There were those in the feminist movement Anne was heavily involved in, who told her that her atheist activism was "hurting the cause." Ironically, there were a few in the freethought movement who told her that her feminist activism was "hurting the cause"!
This year I honor Naomi Klein. I'm excited about her article Capitalism vs. the Climate in The Nation. There's so much insight, it's a long article, that I can't easily summarize all that's important to me in this space.
One point is that we of the left, who disdain climate change denial, are deeply in denial ourselves. We refuse to face the extent of economic change required for a sustainable future. The white guys holding those reins have a gut level grasp of profit driven economics as a root cause of climate change. Since relinquishing power and privilege is unthinkable, they put their money and identity into denying reality.
In my words, left and right are two camps, pointing fingers at one another, each willing to face only half of the problem. As long as we cling to our moral superiority, none of us has to confront the terror clawing at our groin. Echoing the plague-ridden Middle Ages, we all hide behind masks to participate in a macbre dance of global death.
The solution Naomi Klein offers is to embrace climate destabilization as the central organizing theme that will supercharge the left-green Occupy movement. She points the way!
The person who has inspired me is Anwar El-Sadat, for daring to go to Jerusalem so many years ago to make peace. He was not popular for this, and was assassinated, but to me he symbolizes what I wish all people understood: the need to live peacefully with those who are not the same as us with kindness and respect for our differences.
Event: the writing of the Bill of Rights, particularly the rights of freedom of speech, peaceable assembly, freedom of (and by implication, from) religion.
Place: the place inside myself when I find quiet, calm and contentment, along with the hope that other people can also find that place inside themselves.
I have always been inspired by Galileo. I wrote a blog about his courage a month or so ago.
I personally think Nietzsche might deserve some honor...
Life in the Universe is what inspires me and all those men and women who rationally have asked how, when, where it comes from and goes to, guide my own search and daily work. That's big enough to deserve my whole efforts every day of my own life. To study, to learn, to know, to teach what is life and to contribute to preserve it on Earth. The only place in the Universe we actually know life alreadey exists.
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I'm in the process of considering which programming languages I should devote the majority of my coding studies to. I'm a 2nd year CS student, majoring in IT security.
What I want to do/work with:
- Intelligence gathering
- Relational databases
- Virus design
- Snort network IPS
Current coding experience (what I'm going to keep):
- Java - intermediate
- HTML5 - intermediate
- SQL (MySQL, Oracle 11g) - basic
- BASH - basic
I'm going to need to learn (at least) one of the following languages in order to be successful in my field.
Languages to add (at least 1):
- Ruby (+Metasploit)
- C++ (virus design, low-level driver interaction, computationally intensive applications)
- Python (import ALL the things)
My dilemma: If I diversify too broadly, I won't be able to focus on, and improve in a specific niche. Does anyone have any advice as to how I should select a language?
What I'm considering + why
- I'm leaning towards Ruby because of Metasploit support, despite lower efficiency when compared to Python.
Any suggestions based on real-world experience? Should I focus on Ruby, Python, or C++? Both Ruby, and Python have been regarded as syntactically similar to Java which my degree is based around. I'm going to be studying C++ in two years as a component of my malicious code class.
Thanks, Tyler