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While You Were Out: Pope Francis Arrives in the U.S., Barbie Gets Smart, Lady Gaga's New Video About Rape, and More
"While You Were Out" is a Friday feature of short notes and commentary from the week. Whether it's something you'd discuss at the watercooler or at happy hour, you'll find it on our grid, together with our opinion as to if it's praiseworthy or cringeworthy. We're pleased to bring you the Verily editors' quick takes on the happenings of this week.
U.S. Welcomes the Pope
On Tuesday, the Obama clan rolled out the welcome mat for Pope Francis on his first visit to the United States since his installation as the head of the Catholic Church. POTUS recognized the pope's efforts to bring help to those in need and commended the pontiff for his efforts in advocating greater care for the environment. —Blanca Therese Morales
Speaking of Francis . . .
Because His Holiness is known to have a keen sense of humor, there's a nationwide contest calling all comedians to "donate" a joke, which will be rewarded with a monetary donation to one of three charitable causes. Think you have what it takes to make this world leader chuckle? All you need to submit is a video- or text-based entry telling your best punch line. The contest has already attracted some big names, such as Bill Murray, whose entry can be viewed on the website, jokewiththepope.org. The winner will be named the pope's comedic adviser and will get to choose which cause to support. May the best punch line win. —BTM
Over the past few seasons, there's been growing criticism of the quality of questions that interviewers ask women in the entertainment industry as compared to their male counterparts. You know, like on the red carpet of major award shows, where women are often asked about their clothing and grooming process as opposed to their professional or charitable work.
In time for this week's Emmys, Amy Poehler's organization, Smart Girls, launched a campaign called #SmartGirlsAsk, following in the footsteps of last year's #AskHerMore campaign. Smart Girls asked Twitter users to submit questions they'd love to hear answered by actresses on the red carpet. Among the questions that debuted at the Emmys were, "What's your favorite charity to support?" and "How did you start believing in your own work and talent?" Much more interesting conversation fodder, if you ask me. —Hannah Allen White
Plus-Size Women Grow a Presence at NYFW
New York Fashion Week has come to a close after scores of high-fashion and up-and-coming designers showcased their 2016 spring and summer collections. Among the amazing garments was a noticeable plus-size presence. Project Runway, which kept a tight lid on its finalist results during its event, brought a bit of speculation when an entire collection was modeled exclusively by plus-size models. Because there is a plus-size designer appearing on the current season who generally designs for plus-size women, many guessed this would be her collection. In a fantastically inclusive move, Chromat's Momentum show featured models Sabina Karlsson and Denise Bidot walking alongside their straight-size counterparts, which makes sense because Chromat designer Becca McCharen regularly designs for women of many sizes. This is the kind of show we'd like to see more of in the future. —HAW
Lady Gaga Raises Awareness of Campus Rape
Lady Gaga's new song and video, "'Til It Happens to You," is a powerful and distressing reminder of the reality and prevalence of campus rape. Following the stories of four women raped under different circumstances, the video opens with the statistic that an estimated one in five women are raped every year on college campuses around America. The singer collaborated with the documentary makers of The Hunting Ground to create the music video, hoping to raise awareness and support for people who have lived through "painful life experiences," as the singer tweeted last Friday. It's so important that we acknowledge the complexity of reporting rape, as well as how messed up college hookup culture really is. While the video is pretty graphic and hard to watch, it packs a powerful punch; it's great to see a major celebrity raising awareness about this important issue. —Sophie Caldecott
Turn Yourself Into a Peanuts Character
Have you ever wondered what you would look like as a Peanuts character? Well, probably not, but now you can find out. In celebration of the new Peanuts movie out in November, this website lets you "Peanutize" yourself, and it's a lot of fun. It's definitely getting me in the mood for some more Charlie Brown adventures, even if they will be in shiny CGI rather than the old lovable shaky animation. —SC
Sweden Discovers That Six-Hour Workday Increases Productivity
It seems kind of counterintuitive that the answer to a crisis in care work would be to decrease the number of hours your staff members work (for the same pay), but this is, in fact, what a care home in Sweden has been finding after testing the six-hour workday since February, The Guardian reported last week. In what is one of the first reported controlled trials of the measurable impact of shorter working hours, nurses changed from eight-hour shifts to six-hour shifts, and they report a marked improvement in the quality of care, among other benefits. Other companies have also been trying the shorter workday and claim that despite the fact that more staff members have to be hired to cover different shifts in areas such as care work, for example, it is easier to attract (and keep) staff, as well as improve their overall efficiency and performance.
It remains to be seen whether this way of doing things will be financially viable for most businesses. Nonetheless, it's exciting that a meaningful debate about the role of work in our lives is continuing. After all, as Meghan Barylak recently wrote for Verily, "living with leisure can help you stop careening from one crisis to the next and instead live your life with joy and purpose." —SC
105-Year-Old Sprinter Breaks New Record
Hidekichi Miyazaki, who celebrated his 105th birthday on September 22, re-broke his record as the world's oldest competitive sprinter after running in the 100-meter dash at the Kyoto Masters Athletics Autumn Competition in Kyoto, Japan, this week. Although he finished the race in an impressive 42.22 seconds, Miyazaki says that he was disappointed with his time. "I am not satisfied with today's time," he said. "But I am satisfied that I could cross the finish line." Fondly referred to as "The Golden Bolt," the centenarian first set the record in 2013 at the age of 103, after finishing the 100-meter dash in 34.10 seconds.
Arguably the most amazing part of his story is that Miyazaki started running in the 1990s—in his mid-eighties—after many of his friends passed away, and he needed a new hobby. I think the lesson here is that it's never too late to try new things. If you think you are too old to try fill-in-the-blank, The Golden Bolt says you're wrong. —Baleigh Scott
Volkswagen in Scandal
Volkswagen has come under fire this week after it revealed it deceived the public about emission test results. The German car manufacturer apparently rigged more than eleven million cars to pass emission tests. The CEO Martin Winterkorn has since resigned, saying he was "stunned that misconduct on such a scale was possible" in his company and that he's "doing this in the interests of the company even though I am not aware of any wrongdoing on my part. . . . Volkswagen needs a fresh start—also in terms of personnel. I am clearing the way for this fresh start with my resignation." —Mary Rose Somarriba
FDA-Approved Contraception Gets Backlash
This week dozens of women urged the Food and Drug Administration to reconsider its approval for the female contraception drug called Essure, saying that its potential risks to users have not been given sufficient attention. A group of women describe experiencing pain and complications following the implantation of the permanent contraceptive device, as well as challenges when it comes to getting the medical attention needed to resolve them. —MRS
Stampede Kills Hundreds in Saudi Arabia
More than 700 have died and at least 800 were injured as a result of a stampede in Mina, Saudi Arabia, on Thursday. Victims were participating in the Hajj, an annual pilgrimage to Mecca, which all Muslims are obligated to make at least once in their lives if they are physically and financially able. The Hajj regularly draws more than two million pilgrims to the city each year. A witness says that the stampede began when a group of pilgrims went against the flow of traffic. "People were climbing over one another just to breathe." Unfortunately, this is not the first time this tragedy has struck the annual pilgrimage. Earlier this month, a crane collapsed at Mecca's Grand Mosque and killed 111 people. In 2006, a stampede led to 360 deaths, but the worst stampede occurred in 1990, when more than 1,000 pilgrims died. —BS
Ali Landry's Family Tragedy
This week news broke of a tragedy affecting actress Ali Landry's family. The former Miss USA's brother-in-law and father-in-law were killed after being kidnapped in Mexico. Landry's husband is filmmaker Alejandro Gómez Monteverde, known for his films Bella and, most recently, Little Boy. Our thoughts go to the Landry and Monteverde families during this sad time. —MRS
Barbie's NYT Magazine Cover Story
This week the New York Times Magazine published a cover story on Hello Barbie, a high-tech doll utilizing artificial intelligence to have full conversations with your children, which Mattel is bringing to a shelf near you in November. There is much conversation to be had about the implications of the doll. Barbie's new conversational abilities happen by recording the question or statement being asked and transmitting it via Wi-Fi to computer servers that then convert the information to be analyzed and replied to based on thousands of pre-scripted sound bytes—all in less than a second.
Barbie's not getting out of this news bit without some talk about the body that's made her so famous. In a line buried deep within the New York Times Magazine article, it was revealed that one of the major roadblocks to bringing Hello Barbie to market was the ability to fit the necessary technology inside her svelte frame. Her necklace will house a microphone, a mini USB charging port will be tucked into the small of her back, and—wait for it—her thighs have been thickened to make room for two rechargeable batteries that will power all this newfound talent. Essentially, Barbie's getting thicker so that she can be smarter. Irony, much?
(I'll be back soon with a full article about my thoughts regarding how toys such as Hello Barbie impact children's relational development. Stay tuned.) —Anna Quinlan


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Nell Hodgson Woodruff School of Nursing faculty Dr. Carolyn Clevenger has been appointed associate dean for clinical and community partnerships, effective June 2017. In this role, Dr. Clevenger will oversee strategic collaborations with clinical agencies, community-based health resources, health systems and other academic institutions. In addition, she will develop continuing education and non-degree certificate programs to enhance professional development opportunities for working adults. Clevenger previously served as assistant dean for MSN Education at the School of Nursing.
"Dr. Clevenger's vision and leadership as assistant dean has elevated the School of Nursing's MSN program and curricula to new heights in quality, visibility, and rankings," said Linda McCauley, PhD, RN, dean of the Nell Hodgson Woodruff School of Nursing. "Her forward-thinking approach to nursing education and outstanding record as a teacher, colleague, and scholar, make her an excellent choice to expand the School of Nursing's interdisciplinary focus and commitment to life-long learning and collaborative partnerships."
Since joining the faculty in 2003, Dr. Clevenger has held numerous leadership positions in nursing education and practice at the School of Nursing and its clinical affiliate, the Atlanta VA Medical Center. In addition to her role as assistant dean, where she leads the MSN program and implementation and evaluation of the APRN curriculum, she is the director of the Fuld Palliative Care Fellowship program and the nurse faculty lead on inter-professional education collaboratives such as the Inter-professional Team Training Day(s) and Emory's Senior Mentor program. At the Atlanta VA Medical Center, she is the senior nurse scholar of the Atlanta VA Quality Scholars Advanced Fellowship program.
In addition, Dr. Clevenger conceived and launched the Integrated Memory Care Clinic, Emory's first nurse-led medical home. The clinic is the nation's only practice specializing in primary care for people living with dementia.
Dr. Clevenger is immediate past president of the Georgia chapter of the Gerontological Advanced Practice Nurses Association (GAPNA), and a fellow of the American Association of Nurse Practitioners.

subset: commoncrawl


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Wake the Giant Draws Thousands to Warrenpoint
Monday, August 26th, 2019
Thousands of visitors flocked to Warrenpoint in County Down over the weekend for the Wake the Giant Festival by Newry, Mourne and Down District Council.
The 32-foot giant Finn, is fabled to lie asleep in the nearby Cooley Mountains.
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The Festival brings the local fairy tale to life, telling of the mystical hag witch of Mourne, the Calliagh Berra, who has put a sleeping spell on Finn and nothing can waken him.
Each year the townspeople and an ever-growing number of visitors join forces in their hilarious and energetic attempts to wake the sleeping giant as he travels through Warrenpoint.
This year's efforts included a giant glass of wine, a specially baked enormous loaf of bread and a secret-recipe anti-sleeping injection concocted by the local pharmacist.
Saturday's efforts to wake Finn were unsuccessful, however, Sunday visitors to Clonallen Park in the town were rewarded with a theatrical show retelling the fairy tale, produced by actor and writer, Dan Gordon.
The 32-foot giant was woken with the help of the audience as he rose to his feet to the crowd's delight and astonishment.
Cllr Charlie Casey, Chair of Newry Mourne and Down District Council said, "This is a brilliant, entertaining, light-hearted event to end the summer season of Giant Adventures, in one of our most beautiful spots."
Dan Gordon said, "This is the best craic of the summer.
He added, "He's a big lad at 32 foot tall and this is a spectacle not to be missed!"


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NOTICE: A new more powerful API & developer portal is coming. Stay Tuned! Let us know if you would like updates and a notification when you can access the new portal.
Contact Us!
IVA makes it easy for developers to work with us. If you have not already, start with our Getting Started page to see which path will fit your needs or take a look at the documentation on the left and you'll see that we are thorough but concise. Our FAQ has short answers to a variety of common questions. Your free developer account gives you limited access to the IVA OData API and a single application key for Entertainment Express Standard. For test account access to a paid subscription, contact sales.


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In Blue Diamond Drama Academy we are looking for students with a passion and talent for drama and the performing arts. On the programme we will study Shakespeare, Improvisation, Voice, Physical Theatre, Acting for Camera and other modules. Students will work with text over the course of the 2 years, we will adapt tasks to the level of the student.
There will be a considerable amount of physical activity which will include dance and daily warm-ups. Over the course of the 2 year training the students will perform at the end of each year in a fully equipped theatre and will do practical projects which will include presentations and some research in their second year. The programme will support students develop their performance skills in addition to their confidence and communication skills.
If you would like further information contact firstname.lastname@example.com or firstname.lastname@example.com
Tel: 01-298-2000


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SUPER RARE Pittsburgh Punk Rock The Fingers 45 RPM 7 inch record 3 Track EP
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Do NOT pay for this auction until you hear from us. You must confirm your mailing address.
Ignore the $4 shipping fee ebay lists. This must be sent Priority mail with insurance!
We accept payment by M/O, check or paypal. M/O payments ship the day payment arrives. Checks MUST clear first! Payment must be received 1 week from auction end. If you have less than 5 feedbacks, contact us BEFORE bidding! Winner pays $12.00 priority shipping & mandatory insurance. Outside of U.S. will be more. There's no "handling" fee!
What you're looking at is an extremely rare punk 45 RPM by The Fingers, a Pittsburgh area band from the late '70s. This was issued on the Para Dox Record label and is a first press - NOT a reissue! Catalog # is 8072-20 in trail off groove. This is a 3 track, 7 inch with 'Isolation' on the A-side and 'Wanna Go' & 'Work It Out' on the B-side. The last time one of these was auctioned it reached a staggering $3,678! Please reference link to popsike website and enter 'The Fingers Isolation 45'. Ebay doesn't allow links in their listings.
We are starting this at a much lower price so everyone interested has a fighting chance.
Record is VG to VG+ with a few scuffs that should not affect play. Clean labels and no warping.
This is a consignment auction and there are no returns so please ask any questions prior to bidding. Thanks for looking.
As always, the pictures that you see are of the item that you will win.
We never use stock photos!
Selling quality music collectibles since 1986.
Online sales since 1998 - so bid with confidence.
Please see our other auctions and ask any questions before bidding. Will gladly combine items and reduce shipping costs to multiple bid winners. All items are from a smoke-free environment. Online sales since 1998 - by Walrus9. Thanks for looking.


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Over In Syria And More.
Khaled Abu Toameh has had some thoughts on Syria:
"Just as Colonel Muammar Gaddafi's son, Seif ul Islam, was once praised as the new, liberal and democratic hope of Libya, so Bashar was projected eleven years ago as representing a new generation of Arab leaders willing to break away from a dark and dictatorial past.
But the events of the last few days in Syria, which have seen unarmed demonstrators gunned down by government forces, prove conclusively that when push comes to shove, Bashar is actually not all that different from his late father. As some of his critic comment, "The apple does not fall far from the tree."
His handling of pro-democracy protests that have erupted in several Syrian cities since March 15 is a reminder that Bashar is a dictator who, like Colonel Gaddafi and Yemen's Ali Abdullah Saleh, will not surrender power gracefully.
In an interview with the Wall Street Journal several weeks ago, Bashar boasted that the Tunisian and Egyptian models did not apply to his country and that there was no fear for the survival of his regime. He was right in the first part of his analysis: both neither the Egyptian nor Tunisian presidents chose to fight their people to the last drop of their blood.
But the second part of his analysis is faulty: Syria is far from immune from the political tsunami of popular uprisings currently sweeping through the Arab world.
Syrian human rights organizations have expressed deep concern over the Syrian authorities' ruthless and brutal crackdown. They note how in many instances children under the ages of 15 were arrested by the notorious "mukhabarat" secret service for allegedly painting anti-government graffiti on city walls.
In another incident that took place in the southern Syrian city of Daraa, Bashar unleashed his commandos against peaceful worshippers who were staging a sit-in strike in a mosque; he killed dozens and wounded many others.
Syrians are asking: Will the son go as far as his father in stamping down on all protests? The public has not forgotten the terrible events of 20 years ago in the city of Hama, when government forces using artillery and air power killed an estimated 20,000 civilians. "
Reuters' live coverage on the Middle East is useful.
Meanwhile in Jordon, at least one person is killed, Al Arabiya News reports:
"One bystander was killed and 130 people were injured on Friday as pro-reform protesters and government supporters clashed in Amman, prompting police to use water cannons to disperse them.
Government loyalists hurled large stones at demonstrators, injuring more than 100 protesters, Al Arabiya correspondent in Amman said.
Amer Khairy Saad told Reuters his father, Khairy, 57, died in hospital after police beat him as they were trying to disperse the opposing crowds who had gathered near the Interior Ministry in the Jordanian capital.
"My father left the house to make sure my brother was okay. And then he found police beating him, he was taken to hospital and he died there," the son, Amer, told Reuters.
About 200 people attacked the sit-in, in which around 2,000 youths from different movements, including the powerful Islamist opposition, took part to call for reforms to the current regime and more efforts to fight corruption.
Despite the attack, the second of its kind in as many days, students remained at the demonstration next to the Interior Circle, or Gamal Abdul Nasser Square, in the capital. "
This is a good discussion with Hussein Ibish on Myth of The Arab Street:
Over in Gaza Hamas have been attacking journalists:
"New York, March 16, 2011–Hamas security forces attacked local journalists covering a peaceful demonstration calling for Palestinian national unity on Tuesday. At least one journalist was taken to the hospital after being beaten, according to CPJ research. The Committee to Protect Journalists condemns the violence used against the press and calls on the authorities in Gaza to allow journalists to report freely. "


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Make an Impact.
Here to provide financial assistance for under-privileged youth in sports.
Support West Michigan Youth
The MSA Foundations has two Focuses:
1. Raise money to help athletes who otherwise could not afford to play
2. Support athletes through the player assistance application process
This year, make your donation count! All 2022 Giving Tuesday donations will be 100% MATCHED by an anonymous donor. Check out the video below to learn more about why your donation matters.
In 2018 we focused on spreading the knowledge of our goals to local communities, businesses and sports minded people and our financial goal was to raise $100,000 to give to youth through our annual tailgate as the primary fundraiser. We raised over $123,000 in 2018 and $120,000 in 2019. In 2020 the tailgate raised over $156,000 to support the growing need for West Michigan youth.
We continue to spread the message and celebrate those that use sports to make a positive impact on today's youth.
We believe in addition to simply playing the game, children will understand:
1. How to follow rules and instructions | 2. The keys to sportsmanship | 3. The basics of discipline | 4. The foundations of self-confidence | 5. The motivation for making healthy choices
There are also social skills that are developed when you're part of a team and need to communicate on the field or court.
Currently we have given all funds raised directly to the youth of West Michigan by finding a presenting sponsor for our Tailgate event. This goal continues through 2020 and we are now adding on recognizing local coaches who understand and embody the concepts that you can teach life skills to kids through sport!
2018 to Today
Our Board
Katie VanderWeide
Board President and Director
Jordan Richtsmeier
Board Director
Angela Cassiday
Board Director
Jeff Boyd
Board Director
Marcus Jones
Secretary and Board Director
Chris Caswell
Treasurer and Board Director
Cheri DeVos
Board President Emeritus


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The A Walk in the mountains series
Once more, my father brought me to a walk in the mountains. My only demand? Being back home on time to see the final mountain stage of the Tour de France, with the climb to l'Alpe d'Huez. We decided to visit Lac de Crop ("Crop Lake"), a small mountain lake lost in a rocky desert, surrounded by steep summits.
A huge thunderstorm had struck Grenoble the evening before, and the atmosphere had seriously cooled down compared to previous days. As a consequence, the weather promised to be a bit cloudy, but we still hoped to see the light of sun. The clouds were not far above us when we started the steep ascent, but some blue patches were visible there and then. Anyway, we enjoyed the coolness.
The first part of the walk was in the forest, but we soon reached a pasture field. The last part was also in a forest, but the trees were much lower than downhill. The clouds were pushing us upwards, hidding the valley of Grésivaudan from sight. During the ascent, a few birds sung around us, including Common chaffinch (Fringilla coelebs), Goldcrest (Regulus regulus) and Coal tit (Periparus ater), but they were shy and did not greet us.
Suddenly, the path turned flat. We tried to see the lake, but it was hidden behind a foggy veil. The wind was blowing, carrying layers of clouds to and from the valley. Sometimes we could see the peaks above us, a moment after nothing was left but the shore of the lake, five meters from us.
In this desolate scenery, a bird song caught my attention. In a massive scree, a Black redstart (Phoenicurus ochruros) was hunting. Changing my lens, I sat on a boulder. I spotted at least three or four redstarts, male and female, but they were a bit far for a good picture, especially since the clouds were having a lot of fun shrouding the whole area, including me and my target.
After a moment, the birds disappeared, and without the excitement, I started to suffer from the cold. By any means, it was time to go back and witness a fantastic ascent of l'Alpe d'Huez… from my sofa. In the descent, the fog created a mysterious atmosphere around cairns and fallen trees.


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I decided to go live with the site without being actually, y'know, done with everything. So I hope you'll put this blog on your blogroll or feed and keep checking back. The more I got into this, the more I realized how much there is to do! Eventually, I'm imagining lots of patterns and tips and photos... But for the moment I have a few, just to get things started.
Here's the post from my other, only-occasionally-quilting-related blog, about how this site came about. (And please remember, like I say on my main page, I am NOT the quilt police! I just want to try to make things easier for charity quilters, who tend to have hearts full of love to begin with.) :-)
For the past few months, an idea has been germinating in my mind.
It all started with this blog post from my online quilting friend Nancy: "Quilts for Friends We Haven't Met Yet," about quilters who were troubled that quilts made for injured members of the armed services were referred to as "charity quilts." Here's a quote (but you should click on the link, because the entire post is worth a read):
The problem, as I understand it, is that quilts made for [a very worthy organization] were referred to as "charity quilts" and, as such, carried an inference -- for some people -- of shoddy workmanship and/or inferior quality fabric. I didn't quite get it.
I make quilts to give to people I know and quilts to keep. I also sometimes make quilts to give away to people that I do not know, people who have had some sort of life-altering event and could use a little extra comfort. I think of those quilts as charity quilts, to differentiate from those I give to people I know. I use the same quality of fabric and degree of care in my work for all of my quilts. I wrote to a friend who was among the incensed and asked for clarification. I asked her, "What language would you suggest for quilts that are given away to needy individuals, to people we don't know, or to special causes? Charity means kindness, love, that kind of thing, doesn't it? When I hear "charity quilt" I don't assume inferior workmanship and cheap fabric. I think it is a quilt made for an unknown recipient out of love."
[...]isn't it a shame that such a fine word [charity] has morphed into something so shabby?
This post, of course, activated a lot of circuitry in my brain, both the quilting parts and the word nerd parts. Part of my response in her post's comments:
I see it both ways. "Charity" in our society has taken on a bad connotation -- it's bad to receive, and it implies the givers are somehow "better than."
Which is too bad, because as you said, the roots pf the word are beautiful. It come from the latin "caritas" which originally meant "preciousness, dearness, high price." Far from the "castoffs from the rich" meaning it's come to have. I believe there are also places in Bible translations where it has been used interchangeably with "love," right? (Hasn't 1 Cor 13:13 sometimes been translated as "faith, hope and charity"?)
Because yes, [the recipients of quilts from this charity] definitely deserve appealing quilts made with love and care. But so do the abused wives. And the foster kids. And the people undergoing chemo. And the folks in nursing homes. And I think the vast majority of quilters are loving, caring people who would agree with me.
A few months ago, our church started a little quilting group. There are about ten or so of us. And one of the things we do is make "charity quilts." And I have seen first-hand how difficult it can be to make quilts with eye appeal from donated fabrics that weren't originally selected to go together and frequently wouldn't have been my own first choice for a quilt. (Not that they're bad fabrics. It's just that my taste for my own quilts runs to pure, bright colors, and our donated fabric is generally a lot more grayed and muted.) I look at these fabrics and my mind blanks on how best to use them.
That's when the idea arrived: Wouldn't it be fun to create a website with tips and ideas for creating nice quilts for charity from donated fabric? A site to help quilters restore the good name of "charity," helping to push it back towards its original "caritas," or love?
My nephew-in-law introduced me to Weebly, the web design site for complete amateurs, over Thanksgiving. I registered my domain name last night. Since then I've been busily constructing my "Caritas Quilts" site.
It currently has a lot of blank pages and details to be filled in later, but it's coming along. Expect to see it go live later this week.
I'm so excited!
And now we're live. So..welcome! Glad you're here! Come back! And be sure to fill your quilts with the ultimate fabric softener, caritas, both the ones made for the people you already love, and the ones made for the friends you haven't met yet.


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- Rhodochrosite ps. Calcite, with Quartz
- Madem-Lakkos mine, Cassandra Mines, Chalkidiki, Greece
- Small Cabinet, 8.2 x 5.4 x 4.5 cm
Greek rhodochrosite is uncommon, and especially with "sparkle" as it tends to be dull in luster. Here we have the solution - Beautifully formed rhombohedrons of light pink rhodochrosite to 3 cm across are partially covered by a secondary, drusy layer of sparkling, colorless quartz. This is a example of uncommon, aesthetic rhodochrosite from Greece! The large rhodochrosites formed as pseudomorphs after a previous generation of sharp rhombohedral calcite crystals, as is typical for the locality. This specimen came out some time ago and has been part of the longtime private collection of a major Greek collector and miner and has not been to market previously.


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Cmr. Bush Applauds Alamo Management Committee Unanimous Vote to Approve Alamo Plan
(512) 936-0719
PDF Version
AUSTIN — Today, Land Commissioner George P. Bush released the below statement following the Alamo Management Committee's unanimous passage of the Alamo plan. The management committee has provided day to day oversight of the development of the Alamo plan and is comprised of representatives appointed by the San Antonio Mayor, General Land Office and Alamo Endowment fund.
"Today's vote by the Alamo Management Committee brings the Alamo one step closer to restoring its former glory," said Commissioner Bush. "The Alamo is a symbol known across Texas as a beacon of liberty and freedom from an oppressive government. In 2015, the Texas Legislature mandated the General Land Office enter into an agreement with the City of San Antonio to coordinate the improvement of the Alamo complex. Making good on this directive, the Alamo preservation plan will repair and preserve the Alamo, restoring reverence to the land the defenders gave their lives upon. I look forward to voting with the Mayor on this plan and will move quickly in adherence with the Management Committee's suggested dates. This plan is four years in the making and its goal is for all Texans to Remember the Alamo."
The Alamo Management Committee's vote includes:
- Alamo Plaza, as reflected in the August 2018 Alamo Plan expands from 1.3-acres to 12.6-acres. Of this 5.9-acres will be a civic space and 6.7 will be a historic site. (4.2 acres are current State property.)
- The historic site will include a new 2.5-acre Outdoor Museum which recaptures and delineates most of the original Historic Mission Footprint. This historic mission space will have six access points and will be open to the public 24 HOURS A DAY FOR FREE through the access points outlined in #3 through #6 below.
- The Outdoor Museum/Historic Mission Footprint will be open via the six access points for the 16 hours when the Alamo Indoor Museum is closed to the public, generally, from 6:00 PM to 9 AM. However, the Alamo Museum operating hours may be adjusted at various times during the year as the seasons change. The museum will always be open 8 hours of every day and closed 16 hours of every day.
- The public will freely enter the Alamo, the Church, the new Museum and the Outdoor Museum/Historic Mission Footprint through a main entry when the museum is open (generally 9 am until 6 pm). Daily the public will, without charge, be able to enjoy the delineated Historic Mission Footprint area, the new Outdoor Museum interpretive elements, living history programs, and the Alamo Church.
- Every day and every hour of the day, the Alamo will welcome people who simply want to passively and reverently, wander the site, take photos in front of the church, or just sit on the new sitting walls while drinking coffee and reflecting on the site.
- The Alamo Museum Director can, at their discretion, open two additional access/exit points if, at any time during the Museum operating hours (generally 9 am until 6 pm), there is no Museum programming scheduled for the 2.5-acre Outdoor Museum/Historic Mission Footprint. Additionally, the Alamo Museum Director may decide to open additional access/exit points on visitor days. These additional access points will be staffed by museum personnel and the same security checks and access rules that apply to the visitors entering through the main entrance will apply to these additional access points.
- At the request of the San Antonio City Manager and/or the Alamo Museum Director the Alamo Indoor Museum and the Alamo Outdoor Museum/Historic Footprint hours of operation may be extended until 12:00 midnight for special events.
A full text of the Alamo Management Committee's vote of approval can be found here and here.
More Press Releases


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How will tacky Christmas sweaters, a murder mystery help local children?
Tacky sweaters and murder mysteries will benefit local youth.
For the sixth year, the Boys and Girls Club is holding a murder mystery dinner with the theme of a tacky Christmas sweater party.
The fundraiser will help raise money for scholarships, said Jack Weller, president of the Boys and Girls of Cleveland County.
"The money we raise is set aside for scholarships for the Rural Experiences for the Youth," Weller said. "Children get to feed goats and learn about animals and farming."
The goal is to raise $3,000 for the scholarships, he said.
The Tacky Christmas Party Murder Mystery Dinner will be a meal, and during the meal, each person becomes a suspect of the murder mystery.
"We decided to make things different and make it a tacky Christmas party theme since we are close to the holidays," Weller said. "It's a fun way to raise money."
The sixth annual murder mystery will be on Saturday, Nov. 2, at 6 p.m. at the Don Gibson Theatre.
Want to go?
The sixth annual murder mystery will be on Saturday, Nov. 2, at 6 p.m. at the Don Gibson. Tickets are $30.
For tickets, call Susan Allen at 704-564-7562, Don Gibson Theater at 704-487-8114 or the Boys and Girls Club at 704-482-3258.


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Level II data provides a detailed view of the last 30 Bid and Ask positions/offers posted by Market Makers. Time and Sales information is available for the most recent 30 trades.
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If you want to subscribe to our packages, simply log in to your Stockhouse account and then go to "Stockstream." The rest of the instructions on how to subscribe to Stockstream can be found here.


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RENO, Nev. (AP) — Accused of murder for confronting two unarmed trespassers with a deadly barrage of gunfire, Wayne Burgarello walked out of a Nevada courthouse a free man after the jury found him not guilty of all charges in the latest of a series of cases nationally testing the boundaries of stand-your-ground self-defense laws.
"It's going to be OK," he said as he laughed with family members outside the courtroom after hugging his lawyer after the clerk's reading of the verdicts Friday night.
Burgarello, 74, a retired Sparks school teacher, insisted he was acting in self-defense when he shot and killed Cody Devine and seriously wounded Janai Wilson in a vacant, rundown duplex he owns in February 2014.
A jury deliberated for six hours before finding him not guilty on a charge of attempted murder as well as four alternative charges of first- and second-degree murder, voluntary manslaughter and involuntary manslaughter. He would have faced up to life in prison without parole if convicted of first-degree murder.
Burgarello's lawyer told reporters he wanted to go home with his loved ones after a long day and had no further comment.
"We'd just like to say thank you to the jury for finally seeing what this case was about, which is justified self-defense," Reno attorney Theresa Ristenpart said. "He did what he had to do to protect his own life."
A friend of the Devine family who now serves as a victims advocate in Minnesota said state lawmakers need to re-examine "how these stand-your-ground laws have led to unjust homicides."
"Justice was not served today," said the Rev. Howard Dotson, a former Sparks minister. "Cody Devine did not deserve to die for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Washoe County Assistant District Attorney Bruce Hahn had argued first-degree murder was warranted because Burgarello acted with premeditation. He said Burgarello wanted to exact revenge for repeated burglaries at the property he largely abandoned nine years ago in a working-class neighborhood just east of Reno.
"There was going to be a deadly confrontation," he told the jury. "He was mad. Somebody was going to pay."
Hahn declined to say whether he was surprised by the verdicts Friday night.
"The Sparks Police Department did a tremendous investigative effort and we're grateful for the jury's service," he told The Associated Press.
Wilson testified during the two-week trial that she stayed at the duplex off and on for three years. She said Burgarello opened fire without provocation while she and Devine were sleeping in a makeshift bed on the floor.
Neither trespasser had a firearm, but Burgarello told police Devine's arm "came up like a gun."
Ristenpart said he might have mistaken a black flashlight found at the scene for a gun and had only a split second to respond. She said it was Devine and Wilson, not Burgarello, who "created the dangerous, threatening situation, trespassing, getting high on meth and being where they shouldn't be, where they had no right to be."
"The state wants you to find Wayne was the aggressor for going into his own home. That's not being aggressive. That's your right," she said.
Hahn said the trespassers had no business being there, but did nothing to threaten Burgarello and didn't deserve to be "shot like fish in a barrel on the floor."
Devine was shot five times, including once in the head. Wilson was shot three times.
"It wasn't one or two (shots), then we'll talk. It was eight rounds," Hahn said. "It was open season."
Nevada's stand-your-ground law allows property owners to use deadly force against attackers who pose an imminent threat, regardless of whether they are armed as long as the shooter isn't the initial aggressor.
More than 30 states have adopted or strengthened stand-your-ground laws since Florida expanded its law in 2005 to allow deadly force outside the home. Interpretation of those laws has been controversial since a Florida jury acquitted George Zimmerman in Trayvon Martin's 2012 shooting death.
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Delia's father had watched her drowning when she was a little girl. The accident happened in a neighbor's pool. Delia lay submerged near the bottom, her lungs filling with chlorinated water. She could see Dad's distorted form bent forward, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, cigarette dangling from his lips, blandly inquisitive. Mom scooped Delia out and smacked her between the shoulder blades while she coughed and coughed.
Delia didn't think about it often. Not often.
• • • •
Barry F threw a party at his big, opulent house on Hillside East. He invited people to come after sundown. A whole slew of them heeded the call. Some guests considered Barry F an eccentric. This wasn't eccentric—sundown comes early in autumn in Alaska. Hours passed and eventually the door swung wide, emitting piano music, laughter, a blaze of chandelier light. Three silhouettes lingered; a trinity of Christmas ghosts: Delia; Delia's significant other, J; and Barry F.
"—the per capita death rate in Anchorage is outsized," Barry F said. "Out-fucking-sized. This town is the armpit. No, it's the asshole—"
"Bethel is the asshole," J said.
"Tell it on the mountain, bro."
"I'll tell you why Bethel is the worst. My dad was there on a job for the FAA in '77. He's eating breakfast at the Tundra Diner and a janitor walks past his table, lugging a honey bucket—"
"Honey bucket?"
"Plumbing froze, so folks crapped in a bucket and dumped it in a sewage lagoon out back. Honey bucket. It's a joke. Anyway, the dude trips on his shoelace . . . Go on. Imagine the scene. Envision that motherfucker. Picking toilet paper outta your scrambled eggs kills the appetite. Plus, cabin fever, and homies die in the bush all the livelong day. Alcoholism, poverty, rape. Worst of the worst."
"Please," Delia said. "Can we refrain from trashing a native village for the sin of not perfectly acclimating to a predatory takeover by the descendants of white European invaders?"
"Ooh, my girlfriend doesn't enjoy the turn of conversation. Sorry, my precious little snowflake. Folks weren't so politically correct in the 1970s. I'm just reporting the news."
"If we're talking about assholes, look no further than a mirror."
"Kids, kids, don't fight, don't derail the train," Barry F said in an oily, avuncular tone. "Anchorage is still bad. Right?"
"Wretched. Foul."
"And on that note . . ." Delia said.
"Haven't even gotten to the statistics for sexual assault and disappearances—"
"—Satanists. Diabolists. Scientologists. Cops found a hooker's corpse bound to a headboard at the Viking Motel."
"Lashed to the mast, eh?"
"You said it."
"Hooker? Wasn't she a stripper, though? Candy Bunny, Candy Hunny . . . ?"
"Hooker, stripper, I dunno. White scarves, black candles. Blood everywhere. News called it a ritual killing. They're combing the city for suspects."
"Well, Tito and Benny were at the Bush Company the other night and I haven't seen 'em since . . ."
"Ha-ha, those cut-ups!"
"I hope not literally."
"We're due for some ritual insanity. Been saying it for months."
"Why are we due?"
"Planet X is aligning with the sun. Its passage messes with gravitational forces, brain chemistry, libidos, et cetera. Like the full moon affects crazies, except dialed to a hundred. Archeologists got cave drawings that show this has been a thing since Neanderthals were stabbing mammoths with sharpened sticks."
"The malignant influence of the gods."
"The malignant influence of the Grays."
"The Grays?"
"Little gray men: messengers of the gods; cattle mutilators; anal probe-ists . . ."
"They hang around Bethel, eh?"
"No way to keep up with the sheer volume of insanity this state produces. Oh, speaking of brutalized animals, there was the Rabbit Massacre in Wasilla."
"Pure madness."
"Dog mutilations. So many doggy murders. I sorta hate dogs, but really, chopping off their paws is too damned far."
"And on that note . . . !" Delia stepped backward onto the porch for emphasis.
"On that note. Hint taken, baby doll. Later, sucker."
Delia and J separated from the raucous merriment of the party. The door shut behind them and they were alone in the night.
"What's a Flat Affect Man?" Delia wore a light coat, miniskirt, and heels. She clutched J's arm as they descended the flagstone steps alongside a treacherously steep driveway. Porchlights guided them partway down the slope.
"Where did you hear that?" Sportscoat, slacks, and high-top tennis shoes for him. Surefooted as a mountain goat. The softness of his face notwithstanding, he had a muscle or two.
"Barry F mentioned it to that heavyset guy in the turtleneck. You were chatting up turtleneck dude's girlfriend. The chick who was going to burst out of her mohair sweater."
"I wasn't flirting. She's comptroller for the university. Business, always business."
"Uh-huh. Curse of the Flat Affect Men, is what Barry said."
"Well, forget what you heard. There are things woman was not meant to know. You'll just spook yourself."
She wanted to smack him, but her grip was precarious and she'd had too many drinks to completely trust her balance.
Hillside East was heavily wooded. Murky at high noon and impenetrable come the witching hour. Neighborhoods snaked around ravines and subarctic meadows and copses of deep forest. Cul-de-sacs might host a house or a bear den. But that was Anchorage. A quarter of a million souls sprinkled across seventeen-hundred square miles of slightly suburbanized wilderness. Ice water to the left, mountains to the right, Aurora Borealis weeping radioactive tears. October nights tended to be crisp. Termination dust gleamed upon the Chugach peaks, on its way down like a shroud, creeping ever lower through the trees.
A few more steps and he unlocked the car and helped her inside. He'd parked away from the dozen or so other vehicles that lined the main road on either side of the mailbox. His car was practically an antique. Its dome light worked sporadically. Tonight, nothing. The interior smelled faintly of a mummified animal.
The couple sat in the dark. Waiting.
She regarded the black mass of forest to her right, ignoring his hand on her thigh. Way up the hillside, the house's main deck projected over a ravine. Bay windows glowed yellow. None of the party sounds reached them in the car. She imagined the turntables gone silent and the piano hitting a lone minor key, over and over. Loneliness born of aching disquiet stole over her. No matter that she shared a car with J nor that sixty people partied hardy a hundred yards away. Her loneliness might well have sprung from J's very proximity.
After nine months of dating, her lover remained inscrutable.
J lived in a duplex that felt as sterile as an operating room—television, double bed, couch, and a framed poster of the cosmos over the fake fireplace (a faux fireplace in Alaska was almost too much irony for her system). A six-pack in the fridge; a half-empty closet. He consulted for the government, finagling cost-efficient ways to install fiberoptic communications in remote native villages. That's allegedly what he did when he disappeared for weeks on end. Martinis were his poison, Andy Kaufman his favorite (dead?) entertainer, and electronica his preferred music. His smile wasn't a reliable indicator of mood or temperament.
Waking from a strange, fragmentary dream, to a proverbial splash of cold water, Delia accepted that the romance was equally illusory.
"What is your job?" she said, experiencing an uncomfortable epiphany of the ilk that plagued heroines in gothic tales and crime dramas. It was unwise for a woman to press a man about his possibly nefarious double life, and yet so it went. Her lips formed the words and out they flew, the skids greased by a liberal quantity of vino.
"Same as it was in April," he said. "Why?"
"Somebody told me they saw you at the airport buying a ticket to Nome in early September. You were supposed to be in Two Rivers that week."
"Always wanted to visit Nome. Haunt of late career Wyatt Earp. Instead, I hit Two Rivers and got a lousy mug at the gift shop."
"Show me the mug when I come over for movie night."
"Honey pie, sugar lump! Is that doubt I hear in your voice?"
"It is."
"Fine, you've got me red-handed. I shoot walruses and polar bears so wealthy Europeans can play on ivory cribbage boards and strut around in fur bikinis." He caressed her knee and waited, presumably for a laugh. "C'mon, baby. I'm a square with a square job. Your friend must've seen my doppelganger."
"No. What do you actually do? Like for real."
"I really consult." He wore a heavy watch with a metal strap. He pressed harder and the strap dug into her flesh.
"There's more," she said. "Right? I've tried to make everything add up, and I can't."
"Sweetie, just say what's on your mind."
"I'm worried. Ever have a moment, smack out of the blue, when you realize you don't actually know someone? I'm having that moment."
"Okay. I'm a deep cover Russian agent."
"Are you?"
"Jeez, you're paranoid tonight."
"Or my bullshit detector is finally working."
"You were hitting it hard in there." He mimed drinking with his free hand.
"Sure, I was half a glass away from dancing on the piano. Doesn't mean I'm wrong."
"Wanna get me on a couch? Wanna meet my mother?"
"People lie to shrinks. Do you even have a mother?"
"I don't have a shrink. Don't have a mother." His hand and the watch strap on his wrist slid back and forth, abrading her skin. "My mother was a . . . eh, who cares what the supernumerary does? She died. Horribly."
"J—" Would she be able to pry his hand away? Assuming that failed, could she muster the grit to slap him, or punch him in the family jewels? She hadn't resorted to violence since decking a middle school classmate who tried to grab her ass on a fieldtrip. Why had she leapt to the worst scenario now? Mom used to warn her about getting into bad situations with sketchy dudes. Mom said of hypothetical date rapists, if shit got real, smile sweetly and gouge the bastard's eye with a press-on nail.
The phantom piano key in her mind sounded like it belonged in a 1970s horror flick. How much did I have? Three glasses of red, or four? Don't let the car start spinning, I might fly into space.
J paused, head tilted as if concentrating upon Delia's imagined minor key plinking and plinking. He released her and straightened and held his watch close to his eyes. The watch face was not illuminated. Blue gloom masked everything. Blue gloom made his skull misshapen and enormous. Yet the metal of the watch gathered starlight.
"Were you paying attention when I told Barry that Planet X is headed toward our solar system?" he said.
"Yes." Except . . . Barry had told J, hadn't he?
"Fine. I'm gonna lay some news on you, then. You ready for the news?"
She said she was ready for the news.
"Planet X isn't critical," he said. "Important, yes. Critical, no. Who cares about a chunk of ice? Not so exciting. Her star is critical. A brown dwarf. It has, in moments of pique that occur every few million years, emitted a burst of highly lethal gamma rays and bombarded hapless worlds many light years distant. Every organism on those planets died instantly. Forget the radiation. She can do other things with her heavenly body. Nemesis Star first swung through the heart of the Oort Cloud eons past. Bye-bye dinosaurs. Nemesis' last massive gravitational wave intersected the outer fringe of Sol System in the 1970s. Nemesis has an erratic orbit, you see. Earth got the succeeding ripple effect. Brownouts, tidal waves, earthquakes, all them suicides in Japan . . . A second wave arrived twenty years later. The third and final wave hit several days ago. Its dying edge will splash Earth in, oh, approximately forty-five seconds."
"What?" she said. "I don't get it."
"And it's okay. This is when they come through is all you need to understand. I'm here to greet them. That's my real job, baby doll. I'm a greeter. Tonight is an extinction event; AKA: a close encounter of the intimate kind."
Delia fixated on the first part of his explanation. "Greeter. Like a store greeter?" She thought of the Central Casting grandad characters stationed at the entrance of certain big box stores who bared worn dentures in a permanent rictus.
"Stay. I forgot my jacket." J (wearing his jacket, no less) exited the car and be-bopped into the night.
Stay. As if she were an obedient mutt. She rubbed her thigh and watched his shadow float along the driveway and meld into the larger darkness. Chills knifed through her. The windows began to fog over with her breath. He'd taken the keys. She couldn't start the car to get warm or listen to the radio. Or drive away from the scene of the crime.
Delia's twenty-fifth birthday loomed on the horizon. She had majored in communication with a side of journalism at the University of Alaska Anchorage. She was a culture reporter, covering art and entertainment for the main Anchorage daily paper.
People enjoyed her phone manner. In person, she was persistent and vaguely charming. Apolitical; non-judgmental as a Swiss banker. Daddy had always said not to bother her pretty little head. Daddy was a sexist pig to his dying breath; she heeded the advice anyhow. Half of what interviewees relayed went in one ear and out the other with nary a whistle-stop. No matter; her memory snapped shut on the most errant of facts like the teeth of a steel leghold trap. Memory is an acceptable day-to-day substitute for intellect.
Her older brothers drove an ambulance and worked in construction respectively. Her little sister graduated from Onager High next spring. Little sister didn't have journalistic aspirations. Sis yelled, Fake news! When gentlemen callers (bikers and punk rockers) loaded her into their chariots and hied into the sunset.
Delia lived in an apartment with two women. She owned a dog named Atticus. Her roommates loved Atticus and took care of him when she couldn't make it home at a reasonable hour. They joked about stealing him when they eventually moved onward and upward with trophy spouses and corporate employment. I'll cut a bitch, she always said with a smile, not joking at all.
Should she ring them right then for an emergency extraction? "Emergency" might be a tad extreme, yet it seemed a reasonable plan. Housemate A had left on an impromptu overnighter with her boyfriend. Housemate B's car was in the shop. Housemate B helpfully suggested that Delia call a taxi, or, if she felt truly threatened, the cops. Housemate B was on record as disliking J.
Am I feeling threatened? Delia pocketed her phone and searched her feelings.
Her ambulance-driving brother (upholding the family tradition of advising Delia to beware a cruel, vicious world) frequently lectured about the hidden dangers surrounding his profession. Firemen and paramedics habitually rushed headlong into dicey situations, exposing themselves to the same risks as police and soldiers, except without guns or backup. Paramedics get jacked up every day. While you're busy doing CPR on a subject, some street-dwelling motherfucker will shiv you in the kidney and grab your wallet. Only way to survive is to keep your head on a swivel and develop a sixth sense. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, you better look around real quick.
Words to live by. She touched the nape of her neck. Definitely prickling, definitely goosebumps and not from the chill. She climbed out and made her way into the bushes, clumsier than a prey animal born to the art of disappearing, but with no less alacrity.
She stood behind a large spruce, hand braced against its rough bark. Sap stuck to her palm. It smelled bitter-green. Her thigh stung where a raspberry bush had torn her stocking and drawn blood. A starfield pulsed through ragged holes in the canopy. She knew jack about stars except the vague notion that mostly they radiated old, old light. Stars lived and died and some were devoured by black holes.
Nearby, J whooped, then whistled; shrill and lethal as a raptor tuning a killing song. Happy and swift.
He sounds well-fucked. Why did her mind leap there? Because his O-face was bestial? Because he loved to squeeze her throat when they fucked? The subconscious always knows best. As did Mama and big brother, apparently.
J's shadow flitted near the car. His whistle segued to the humming of a nameless, yet familiar tune. Delia shrank against the bole of the tree and heard him open the driver's door. After a brief pause, he called her name. First, still inside and slightly muffled (did he think she was hiding under a seat cushion?); second, much louder toward the rising slope behind him; last, aimed directly toward her hiding spot. Her residual alcohol buzz evaporated as did most of the spit in her mouth.
"Delia, sweetheart," he said. "Buttercup, pumpkin, sugar booger. I meant to say earlier how much I adore the fact you didn't wear makeup tonight. The soap and water look is sexxxxxy! I prefer a girl who doesn't put on her face when she meets the world. It lights my fire, boy howdy. But now you gotta come here." His voice thickened at the end. By some trick of the dark, his eyes flared dull-bright crimson. His lambent gaze pulsed for several heartbeats, then faded, and he became a silhouette again. "No?" he said in his regular voice. "Be that way. I hope you brought mad money, because you're stranded on a lee shore. Should I cruise by your apartment instead? Would your roomies and your dog be pleased to meet me while I'm in this mood? Fuck it, sweetheart. I'll surprise you." He laughed, got into the car, and sped away. The red taillights seemed to hang forever; unblinking predatory eyes.
The entire scene felt simultaneously shocking and inevitable.
Of course, she speed-dialed her apartment to warn Housemate B. A robotic voice apologized that the call would not go through. It repeated this apology when she tried the police, her favorite taxi service, and finally, information. Static rose and rose until it roared in her ear and she gave up. She emerged from cover and removed her heels and waited, slightly crouched, to see if J would circle around to catch her in the open. A coyote stalking a ptarmigan. Yeah, that fit her escalating sense of dread—him creeping that ancient car, tongue lolling as he scanned the road for her fleeting shadow.
The cell's penlight projected a ghostly cone. She followed it up the hill to her nearest chance for sanctuary, the house of Barry F. Ah, dear sweet Barry F, swinging senior executive of a successful mining company. He wore wire rim glasses and expensive shirts, proclaimed his loathing of physical labor and cold weather (thus, he was assigned to Alaska, naturally), and hosted plenty of semi-formal parties as befitted the persona of a respectable corporate whip hand—which meant prostitutes were referred to as companions and any coke-snorting and pill-popping shenanigans occurred in a discreet guestroom.
Notwithstanding jocular collegiality, Barry and J weren't longtime friends, weren't even close; their business orbits intersected and that was the extent of it. J collected acquaintances across a dizzying spectrum. Scoffing at the quality of humanity in general, he rubbed shoulders with gold-plated tycoons and grubby laborers alike. Similar to the spartan furnishings of his apartment, individual relationships were cultivated relative to his needs.
What need do I satisfy? Physical? Emotional? Victim? Delia recalled a talk show wherein the host interviewed women who'd survived encounters with serial killers. One guest, a receptionist, had accompanied a coworker on a camping trip. The "nice guy" wined and dined her, then held a knife to her throat, ready to slash. At the last second, he decided to release her instead. I planned to kill you for three months. Go on, the fear in your eyes is enough. The receptionist boogied and reported the incident. Her camping buddy went to prison for the three murders he'd previously committed in that park. Which was to say, how could a woman ever know what squirmed in the brains of men?
As Delia approached the house, the porchlight and the light streaming through the windows snuffed like blown matches. Muffled laughter and the steady thud of bass also ceased. At moments such as this, what was a humble arts and entertainment reporter to do? Nothing in her quarter century of life, on the Last Frontier notwithstanding, had prepared her for this experience: half-frozen, teeth chattering, absolutely alone.
Darkness smothered the neighborhood. Not a solitary lamp glimmered among the terraced elevations or secluded cul-de-sacs. She looked south and west, down into the bowl of the city proper. From her vantage, it appeared that the entire municipality had gone dark. Anchorage's skyline should have suffused the heavens with light pollution. More stars instead; a jagged reef of them, low and indifferent. Ice Age constellations that cast glacial shadows over the mountains.
The phone's beam flickered, perhaps in response to her fear. She assumed the battery must be dying despite the fact she'd charged it prior to the evening's events. It oozed crimson, spattering the stone steps as if she were swinging a censer of phosphorescent dye. She barged through the front door without a how-do-you-do. Warm, at least. In fact, humid as the breath of a panting dog. Her thoughts flashed to dear sweet Fido at the apartment. God, please don't let J do anything to him. Oh yeah, and good luck to my housemate too.
She hesitated in the foyer beneath the dead chandelier and put her shoes on. Her sight adjusted enough to discern the contours of her environment. No one spoke, which seemed ominous. Most definitely ominous. A gaggle of drunks trapped in a sudden blackout could be expected to utter any number of exclamatory comments. Girls would shriek in mock terror and some bluff hero would surely announce he'd be checking the fuse box straight away. There'd be a bit of obligatory ass-grabbing, right? Where were all the cell phones and keychain penlights? A faucet dripped; heating ducts creaked in the walls. This was hardcore Bermuda Triangle-Mary Celeste shit.
Snagging a landline was the first order of business. Her heels clicked ominously as she moved around the grand staircase and deeper into the house to its spacious, partially sunken living room.
Everyone awaited her there. Wine glasses and champagne flutes partially raised in toast; heads thrown back, bared teeth glinting here and there; others half-turned, frozen mid-glance, mid-step, mid-gesticulation. Only dolls could be frozen in such exaggerated positions of faux life. The acid reek of disgorged bowels and viscera filled Delia's nostrils. She smelled blood soaked into dresses and blood dripping from cuffs and hosiery; she smelled blood as it pooled upon the carpet and coagulated in the vents.
Her dying cell phone chose that moment to give up the ghost entirely. She was thankful. Starlight permitted her the merest impressions of the presumed massacre, its contours and topography, nothing granular. Her nose and imagination supplied the rest. Which is to say, bile rose in her throat and her mind fogged over. Questions of why and how did not register. The nauseating intimacy of this abominable scene overwhelmed such trivial considerations.
A closet door opened like an eyeless socket near the baby grand piano. Atticus trotted forth. Delia recognized his general shape and the jingle of his vaccination tags and because for the love of everything holy, who else? The dog stopped near a throng of mutilated party-goers and lapped the carpet between shoes and sandals with increasing eagerness. A human silhouette emerged next and sat on the piano bench. The shape could've been almost anybody. The figure's thin hand passed through a shaft of starlight and plinked a key several times.
B-flat? Delia retained a vague notion of chords—a high school crush showed her the rudiments as a maneuver to purloin her virtue. Yes, B flat, over and over. Heavily, then softly, softly, nigh invisibly, and heavily again, discordant, jarring, threatening.
I'm sorry you had to bear witness. These words weren't uttered by the figure. They originated at a distance of light years, uncoiling within her consciousness. Her father's voice. The human animal is driven by primal emotions and urges. How great is your fear, Delia? Does it fit inside a breadbox? Does it fit inside your clutch? This house?
The shape at the piano gestured with a magician's casual flourish and the faint radiance of the stars flickered to a reddish hue. The red light intensified and seeped into the room.
The voice in her head again: Looking for Mr. Goodbar stuck with you. Diane Keaton's fate frightened you as a girl and terrifies you as a woman. In J, you suspect you finally drew the short straw. The man with a knife in his pocket, a strangling cord, a snub-nose revolver, the ticket stub with your expiration date. The man to take you camping and return alone. And sweetie, the bastard resembles me, wouldn't you say?
Ice tinkled in glasses—spinning and slopping. Glasses toppled and fell from nerveless fingers. Shadow-Atticus ceased slurping and made himself scarce behind a couch. He trailed inky pawprints. Timbers groaned; the heart of the living room was released from the laws of physics—it bent at bizarre, corkscrew angles, simultaneously existing on a plane above and below the rest of the interior. Puffs of dust erupted as cracks shot through plaster. The floor tilted and the guests were pulled together, packed cheek to jowl.
There followed a long, dreadful pause. Delia had sprawled to her hands and knees during the abrupt gravitational shift. Forces dragged against her, but she counterbalanced as one might to avoid plummeting off a cliff. She finally got a clean, soul-scarring gander at her erstwhile party companions.
Each had died instantaneously via some force that inflicted terrible bruises, suppurating wounds, and ruptures. The corpses were largely intact and rigidly positioned as a gallery of wax models. Strands of metal wire perforated flesh at various junctures, drew the bodies upright, and connected them into a mass. The individual strands gleamed and converged overhead as a thick spindle that ascended toward the dome of ceiling, and infinitely farther.
The shape at the piano struck a key and its note was reciprocated by an omnidirectional chime that began at the nosebleed apex of the scale and descended precipitously, boring into plaster, concrete, and bone. The house trembled. Delia pushed herself backward into a wall where normal gravity resumed. She huddled, tempted to make a break for it, and also too petrified to move.
There are two kinds of final girls. The kind who escape and the kind who die. You're the second kind. I am very, very proud, kiddo. You'll do big things.
Cracks split the roof, revealing a viscid abyss with a mouthful of half-swallowed nebulae. It chimed and howled, eternally famished. Bits of tile plummeted into the expanse, joining dead stars. Shoe tips scraped as the guests lifted en masse, lazily revolving like a bleeding mobile carved for an infant god. The mobile jerkily ascended, tugged into oblivion at the barbed terminus of a fisherman's line.
Delia glanced down to behold a lone strand of the (god?) wire burrowing into her wrist, seeking a vein or a bone to anchor itself. She wrenched free and pitched backward against a wall.
The chiming receded, so too the red glow, and the void contentedly suckled its morsel. Meanwhile, the shadow pianist hunched into a fetal position and dissolved. Run along, her father said. Run along, dear. Don't worry your pretty head about any of this.
Delia ran along.
• • • •
Alaska winter didn't kill her. Not that this was necessarily Alaska. The land turned gray and waterways froze. Snow swirled over empty streets and empty highways and buried inert vehicles. Powerlines collapsed and copses of black spruce and paper birch stood vigil as the sun paled every day until it became a white speck.
Delia travelled west, then south, snagging necessities from deserted homes and shops. Her appearance transformed—she wore layers of wool and flannel, high-dollar pro ski goggles, an all-weather parka, snow pants, and thick boots. Her tent, boxes of food, water, and medical supplies went loaded into a banana sled courtesy of a military surplus store. She acquired a light hunting rifle and taught herself to use it, in case worse came to worst. She didn't have a plan other than to travel until she found her way back to a more familiar version of reality. Or to walk until she keeled over; whichever came first.
In the beginning, she hated it. That changed over the weeks and months as the suburban softness gave way to a metallic finish. Survival can transition into a lifestyle. She sheltered inside houses and slept on beds. She burned furniture for warmth. However, the bloodstains disquieted her as did eerie noises that wafted from basements and attics during the bleak a.m. hours. She eventually camped outdoors among the woodland creatures who shunned abandoned habitations of humankind as though city limits demarcated entry to an invisible zone of death. The animals had a point, no doubt.
Speaking of animals. Wild beasts haunted the land in decent numbers. Domestic creatures were extinct, seemingly departed to wherever their human masters currently dwelled. With the exception of the other Atticus. The dog lurked on the periphery of her vision; a blur in the undergrowth, a rusty patch upon the snow. At night he dropped mangled ptarmigans and rabbits at the edge of her campfire light. He kept his distance, watching over her as she slept. The musk of his gore-crusted fur, the rawness of his breath, infiltrated her dreams.
In other dreams, her mother coalesced for a visit. Now it can be said. Your father murdered eight prostitutes before lung cancer cut him down. The police never suspected that sweet baby-faced sonofabitch. You were onto him, somehow. She woke with a start and the other Atticus' eyes reflected firelight a few yards to her left in the gauze of darkness that enfolded the world.
"Thanks for the talk, Mom."
Delia continued to walk and pull the sled. Sometimes on a road, or with some frequency, on a more direct route through woods and over water. She didn't encounter any human survivors, nor any tracks or other sign. However, she occasionally glimpsed crystallized hands and feet jutting from a brush pile, or an indistinct form suspended in the translucent depths of a lake. She declined to investigate, lowered her head and marched onward.
One late afternoon, near spring, but not quite, J (dressed in black camo and Army-issue snowshoes) leaped from cover with a merry shriek and knocked her flat. He lay atop her and squeezed her throat inexorably, his eyes sleepy with satisfaction.
"If it were my decision, I'd make you a pet. You don't belong here, sugar pie." He well and truly applied his brutish strength. Brutish strength proved worthless. His expression changed as terror flooded in and his grip slackened. "Oh, my God. I didn't know. They didn't warn me . . ."
Her eyes teared and she regarded him as if through a pane of water. Her eyes teared because she was laughing so hard. "Too late, asshole. Years and years too late." She brushed his hands aside. "I'm the second kind."
He scrambled to his feet and ran across fresh powder toward the woods as fast as his snowshoes could carry him, which wasn't very. She retrieved the rifle, chambered a round, and tracked him with the scope. A moving target proved more challenging than plinking at soda bottles and pie tins. Her first two shots missed by a mile.
Delia made camp; then she hiked over to J and dragged him back. He gazed at her adoringly, arms trailing in the snow. He smiled an impossibly broad, empty smile. That night, the fire crackled and sent sparks homeward. J grinned and grinned, his body limp as a mannequin caught in the snarled boughs of a tree where she'd strung him as an afterthought. The breeze kicked up into a chinook that tasted of green sap and thawing earth.
"Everything will be different tomorrow," she said to the flames and the changing stars. Limbs creaked. J nodded, nodded; slavishly agreeable. His shadow and the shadow of the tree branches spread grotesquely across the frozen ground.
The wind carried to her faint sounds of the dog gnawing and slurping at a blood-drenched snowbank. The wind whispered that Atticus would slake himself and then creep into the receding darkness, gone forever. Where she was headed, he couldn't follow.
"So, while there's time, let's have a talk," Delia said to Grinning J. "When we make it home, tell me where I can find more boys just like you."
Spread the word!


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MSU COMMUNITY MUSIC SCHOOL - https://www.communitymusicschool.msstate.edu/
Students & Parents,
It was with great pride that the Department of Music at Mississippi State University formally opened the doors to the Community Music School (CMS) in August of 2016. The faculty were excited about this wonderful addition to our musical community, and we were looking forward to welcoming the first official class to the MSU campus! It could not had come at a more historic moment in our history.
Students desiring private lessons will find a wealth of talented, committed teachers within the CMS. Weekly lessons occur on the campus, culminating in student recitals at the end of each semester. Beginners, intermediate performers, and advanced musicians alike will find just the right teacher to nurture your musical talent. A rich variety of solo literature, etudes and technical studies will advance your performance abilities far beyond your current level of expertise. And above all, it will be an enjoyable experience.
The Department of Music is in the midst of a New Music Building campaign, and in the not too distant future, we will find ourselves in world-class facilities. The new building will house our current university program and the CMS, all in one location. While this will not happen overnight, the planning for the new building is already well underway. We are all very enthused about the impact this will have on all of the music students both at MSU and in the Community Music School. We trust you will share in this excitement!
Please share this information with other families who may have aspiring musicians in their midst. Applications are accepted for study at the beginning of each semester, and with the addition of new faculty and more instrument choices, we fully expect the number of interested students to exceed those of previous years. It is an exciting time to be teaching in the Department of Music, and we anxiously await to see how the addition of the CMS will impact our future offerings.
So, thank you for considering musical study within the CMS, and I look forward to meeting many of you as move onto the MSU campus for weekly music lessons. And should there be any questions, please feel free to contact us. We will do our best to make your CMS experience one that will make a marked impact upon your musical and personal growth!
Barry E. Kopetz, DME
Head, Department of Music
Director, The Community Music School at MSU


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So this is my third blog post today. Huh. Something of a record. Mainly trying to test out posting in Markdown instead of using that God-awful Gutenberg. I'm trying to learn to love it, or at least tolerate it, but it is a struggle.
Just wanted to recount my recent adventures in using this aging MacBook Air with Linux instead of OS X for a couple months earlier this year. TLDR: I tried it, it was okay. I am back to using OS X.
For those more interested, here is a longer version. This laptop is a ten year old MacBook Air that has worked admirably. However, it no longer get software updates from Apple and it is stuck on High Sierra, which I think came out over 4 years ago now. No Mac OS X security updates; no Safari updates (not that I used that browser very much) and more importantly to me, no more Homebrew updates soon. I decided to try installing Ubuntu 20.04 on this machine back in February. It worked, but it was kind of pokey slow and was not the upgrade I was looking for. So I decided to give mxLinux a spin on this computer and I was pleasantly surprised. It ran well, I was able to install everything I needed and get updates on a regular basis. I know Debian well, and this distro had all that plus a bit extra tooling that I liked. I installed mxLinux in late February and used it for two and a half months.
So what happened? A few things :) – First and foremost, I borked the boot process one day when I overwrote my GRUB settings during an apt-get session. While I could have struggled through this issue and figured out how to fix the GRUB boot process and gotten back into mxLinux, I started thinking about some other issues that gave me pause. A couple things really stood out to me.
- First, one of my biggest problems was the trackpad sensitivity and settings. Using mxLinux was frustrating me for weeks. Everytime I tried to type something, the heel of my hand inevitably would brush the trackpad, sending the mouse pointer into frenzies across the screen. I would lose my focus, or click away to another application. It was frustrating. I figured out a setting to disable the trackpad while I was typing, but then trying to use both trackpad and keyboard (like web browsing and scrolling through a page, filling in a form) became a slow… motion… pain… in… the… butt. Waiting a second or two everytime I switch between the two input modes slowly grew excruciating. But I could live with it.
- Second was the realization that my battery life on Linux was just terrible. I just took the time and effort last fall to replace the battery in this laptop, and using OS X I got 3 – 4+ hours on a charge, using the computer almost constantly with either video or music playing in the background. Under Linux, I was lucky to get 2 hours out of the battery. Worse, the battery percentage was completely off kilter. It would say 62% charge remaining, then just completely die 3 minutes later. Not cool bro.
- Lastly, I have to honestly say I missed some of the benefits of the Apple ecosystem. Turns out I like being able to take a Facetime on my computer instead of my iPhone. Managing the Apple family plan was easier on a computer instead of my iPhone too. Huh.
So I am back in the Apple fold for now. It was pretty easy to restore everything back to where I was in February. Thank you Time Machine. Only took about two hours to put everything back in place and get back to where I was on February 8, 2021. I got a lot of apps furiously updating themselves right now. Looking at you Firefox, and you VS Code, and you Kindle, and you WhatsApp desktop, and you Dropbox, and you Teams. Just not you Safari :)


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Lady Huskies soccer drops 2 to end season
Pawhuska's high school soccer season reached its conclusion Monday when the Lady Huskies a 4A-8 match at Verdigris, 5-0.
The district-leading Lady Cardinals improved to 13-2 on the season and maintained a perfect 8-0 mark in the district. The PHS girls dropped to 3-4 in the district and 5-7 on the year.
During the 2017 campaign, the young Pawhuska squad struggled to score points. After graduating its top three scorers a year ago, the PHS squad's 18-player roster included a dozen freshman and sophomores.
Last Thursday, the Lady Huskies lost to the Oologah-Talala Lady Mustangs, 7-2, in another District 4A-8 contest. That match was supposed to have been played in Pawhuska, but a rain-drenched field at Beach Memorial Stadium forced it to be moved to the artificial surface of Mustangs Stadium.
After falling behind early, 2-0, the coach Giovanie Soliano's Lady Huskies tied the match with goals by freshmen Avery Perrett and Leah Strahm. The Lady Mustangs regained the lead on a penalty kick five minutes before halftime.
"(Goalkeeper) Jordan (Kitchel) got a hand on it, but it ricocheted in," coach Giovanie Soliano said.
Oologah added four more goals in the second half, while the Lady Huskie offense sputtered.
The same evening, Verdigris had claimed a battle of 4A-8 unbeatens. The Lady Cards improved to 7-0 in district and 12-2, overall, with a 5-2, at Claremore Sequoyah. The defeat dropped the Lady Eagles to 6-1, 12-2, and bumped them into second place. Oologah (5-2, 9-4) was alone in third.
Pawhuska was 5-6 for the season and had a 3-3 district mark. The Lady Huskies were tied with Miami (3-3, 5-7) and Grove (3-3, 5-4) in the district standings, were also 3-3 in the district, standings and 5-6 on the season.
PHS's rained-out match against Riverfield was cancelled, since its outcome would not affect the Class 4A playoffs' scenario.
Verdigris: 8-0 … 13-2
Sequoyah: 7-1 … 13-2
Oologah: 5-2 … 9-4
Miami: 3-4 … 5-8
Grove: 3.2 … 5-4
Pawhuska: 3-4 … 4-6
Riverfield: 1-4 … 1-5
Commerce: 1-6 … 1-12
Webster: 0-7 … 2-12


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Rob Kall: THE K.P.E.I, KALL POSITIVE EXPERIENCE INVENTORY The positive experience inventory is a partial list of experiences, behaviors, memories, observations imaginings and fantasies that are heartwarming, uplifting, energizing, or that make people feel good, happy, ecstatic, joyful, confident, strong, loved, etc. Use this list to open your eyes to and widen your view of PE opportunities. Use it to explore your positive experience memory (PEM) treasures to create a PEM Library.
Rob Kall: An outline of the Anatomy of Positive Experience positive experiences are our most valued personal assets and inner resources. The are the building blocks of happiness, inner strength, the capacity to love, to face adversity and most of the other good parts of life.
Rob Kall: Positive Experiences are the Heart of Happiness positive experiences are the basic building blocks of happiness. Here's why.


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I didn't mean to write any more about the Queen's Jubilee outfits – I'm sure you're all Jubileed out by now – but we were discussing the cloak the Queen wore at Monday night's concert in the comments below and it sent me down a delightful little Internet rabbit hole, from which I emerge with these pictures.
Here is the Queen on Monday night wearing a very elegant black wool cloak over her sparkling gold cocktail dress.
It reminded me of the famous Annigoni portrait of the Queen as a young woman wearing the robes of the Order of the Garter.
Here is the portrait in question with the stark dark blue of the robes throwing all the attention on her delicate pale skin (goodness that woman has a flawless complexion) and the wistful expression on her face.
Apparently Annigoni was inspired to paint it this way when he was with the Queen making preparatory sketches for the portrait and she said casually, in French, '"You know, when I was a child, I used to spend hours in this room looking out of the windows. I loved watching the people and the cars down there in the Mall. They all seemed so busy. I used to wonder what they were doing and where they were all going, and what they thought about outside the Palace." And as she spoke her face lit up with the exact expression – youthful, almost child-like – which the artist sought.
I then discovered that Cecil Beaton (who had taken her coronation pictures) deliberately tried to recreate the Annigoni magic with this 1968 photographic portrait. He wanted to show the Queen as a person without her jewels, costumes and fancy regalia, and so asked her to wear a simple admiral's boat cloak, to enormously striking effect. Recognise the cloak?
Finally we have a picture from the infamous Annie Leibovitz photo shoot in 2008, where the Queen was apparently in a rather grumpy mood, even if she didn't in fact storm out as was rumoured at first.
This was the last picture of the day (Leibovitz was only allotted 25 minutes of the Queen's time – imagine the stress!) and the Queen, after being pictured in various sumptuous evening gowns, pulled on the simple black cloak once again. The resulting image was then digitally superimposed over a brooding picture of the palace gardens taken the day before.
Yet again it's enormously arresting, though was famously called 'vampiric' by one critic. There are other spectacular photos of the day with the Queen in full rig, but it is in this one, without her tiara, jewellery or furs, where she looks most fearsomely majestic.
One simple cloak. And one fascinating story. Which portrait do you like best?


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In a conversation with his Bush-era predecessor Condoleezza Rice at Stanford University on Wednesday, Secretary of State Rex Tillerson revealed that he prints out the tweets of President Donald Trump so that he can take them into account when making foreign policy decisions.
"The challenge is getting caught up because I don't even have a Twitter account that I can follow what he is tweeting, so my staff usually has to print his tweets out and hand them to me," Tillerson said, after which he asked himself: "How do we take that and now use it?"
Tillerson went on to say that printing out the tweets is "not a bad system," because he doesn't know what the president will tweet ahead of time. Actually, Mr. Secretary, that sounds like a very bad system.
Passing over the inherent absurdity of printing out tweets — surely one of these staffers could set the secretary up with a Twitter account and show him how to use it? — the implications of this system are troubling to anyone with a passing understanding of how international relations work: Not only is the secretary of State unaware of what the president is going to say and when, he may also be finding out more slowly than his more social media–savvy counterparts in foreign governments.
This means that when Trump took to Twitter at the start of the year to engage in a nuclear button-measuring contest with North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un, it's entirely possible that Kim read that tweet before Tillerson did. Of course, the North Koreans have figured out by now that @realDonaldTrump is not to be taken too seriously, so the odds of a rogue tweet leading to nuclear apocalypse are not high — though they're not exactly zero, either.
Trump's Twitter feed may not be a major threat to global security, but it is absolutely a threat to our government's credibility when foreign rivals learn to treat the words of our president as idle blather. (Russia, for its part, claims to still treat every tweet as an official statement.)
Of course, even if Tillerson did get an intern to set up his phone with Twitter and push notifications, that wouldn't change the fact that the president of the United States is routinely making public statements to the entire world, which his top diplomat learns about no sooner than the rest of us.
It's not hard to imagine an unplanned tweet having consequences that the State Department is left scrambling to clean up. In fact, we don't need to imagine: That's just what happened when Trump hurled insults at Pakistan and declared his intent to cut off aid to that country in a tweet on New Year's Day. The tweet reportedly blindsided U.S. diplomats, who had no warning that it was coming. Sure, Trump had vented his spleen at Pakistan in his Afghanistan strategy speech last summer, but no other president would ever have made a public statement that jeopardized our relations with a volatile, nuclear-armed ally without asking (or at least telling) the National Security Council first.
Unfortunately for the people in charge of implementing Trump's foreign policy, they can't stop him from tweeting, nor can they publicly acknowledge how little weight the president's tweets carry among our allies and adversaries. Even though we know Trump has surprised his own staff in the past with his tweets, his improvised speeches, and his unscheduled interviews with the New York Times, they can't just admit that his words don't reflect any previously agreed-upon message. Instead, the administration's line is adjusted after the fact to incorporate the president's unscheduled statements. Like a Hollywood diva rewriting the script on set, Trump tweets from his id and forces his underlings to "make it work."
Accordingly, when Trump issued his vaguely phallic dig at Kim earlier this month, key figures in the administration spent the following weekend building a world in which these tweets were part of a coherent diplomatic strategy. Tillerson defended them by saying that such bellicose rhetoric is the only kind of language the North Koreans understand. U.N. Ambassador Nikki Haley and CIA Director Mike Pompeo made appearances on the Sunday news shows to assure the nation that Trump's tweet was simply meant to remind Kim that if he went to war with the U.S., he and his country would be obliterated — as if he were not already aware of that.
You see, tweeting threats at North Korea is actually a good thing, Haley told ABC's George Stephanopoulos, because the president "has to keep Kim on his toes." In other words, the best way to handle a paranoid dictator with nuclear weapons and the world's fourth-largest army is to taunt him into becoming even more paranoid. Perhaps that's also why the administration has decided to leak that they are considering a preemptive "bloody nose" strike on North Korea, provided they can figure out how to do so without subjecting millions of innocent South Koreans to massive reprisals.
When Stephanopoulos pressed Haley on how foreign diplomats were responding to Trump's tweets in general, she doubled down, making the case that the president's itchy Twitter finger was really a gift to U.S. diplomacy: "If anything, I notice that they're absolutely glued to [his tweets], but they see him as unpredictable," she said. "I think they don't know what the U.S. is going to do at any given time, and so for that reason they're getting much more cautious and they're paying attention to how they work with us."
This is not the first time Haley has defended Trump's unpredictable behavior as useful to her diplomatic efforts, but her claims beggar belief. For one thing, none of her predecessors had trouble getting the world to pay attention to the United States. And it's hard to imagine that she, Tillerson, or any of the other "adults in the room" are actually advising Trump to hurl cryptic invective at foreign governments on social media without warning. Kim may be kept "on his toes" this way, but so are they.
You can't claim that the president's tweets are part of your plan if you don't know when they're coming or what he's going to say. That's literally the opposite of having a plan. Not only do Trump's tweets not follow his administration's foreign policy strategy, they are effectively creating that strategy by forcing his diplomats to construct policy narratives around them.
If Trump's unmeasured outbursts against North Korea (among other countries) are part of anyone's strategy, it is only in the sense that they are recurring contingencies around which his Cabinet members and their staffs must plan. That the president will periodically yell at the world without notifying anyone beforehand is now a baseline reality that the American diplomatic, military, and intelligence communities will likely have to deal with for the duration of Trump's presidency, since Twitter refuses to shut down his account.
Hence Tillerson's defense of an approach with which he clearly disagrees and Haley's absurd claim that she actually prefers to work for a boss who behaves unpredictably, acts on impulse, and makes decisions publicly before discussing them privately. They have to make it work, so they can't admit that it doesn't. Let's just hope there isn't a printer jam in Foggy Bottom the day Trump tweets out something really destructive.


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When online BMX magazine The Come Up posted an impressive video of 21-year-old transgender biker Chelsea Fietsgodin in May, editor Adam LZ says he wasn't prepared for the backlash. He simply wanted to introduce their readers to one of the sport's up-and-coming female riders.
But he soon encountered some viewers lashing out against Fietsgodin's trans status, questioning if she should be included among the ranks of women riders — an argument that echoes the experiences other trans women partaking in women's sports.
"The question of Chelsea's gender had been brought up in a rather crude fashion," LZ recalls, so he asked Fietsgodin to discuss her experiences with the wider biking community. BMX, he points out, is not as progressive a sport as many believe, and the closet for LGBT players continues to remain closed unless space is intentionally opened.
In the interview last month, Fietsgodin — who reveals that her last name is a professional pseudonym which translates to "bike goddess" in Dutch — has a self-assuredness that belies the fear she's felt about opening herself up to others' reactions.
"It's amazing how quickly a few people started shouting stuff about me being a man because I can ride a bike well and I've got strong legs (which, shockingly, happen when you ride bikes everyday)," she shares.
Fietsgodin also explains how accusations that she "cheated" at women's BMX by being transgender kept her from releasing any videos of herself riding until now. She was only able to overcome internalized sexism and transphobia with "a combination of support from other girl riders and analyzing where those thoughts came from."
"The big thing to realize … is that I'm not here to compete with other women and girls riding, I'm here to have fun on my bike and push the progression of women's riding and our acceptance within the sport," she says, reminding readers that BMX freestyle was never intended to be competitive.
"I think a big problem stems from women riders being pitted against one another as if there can only be one of us that's the best in the world."
Read the full interview here and catch the video — originally titled "Is This the Best Girl BMX Rider Ever?" by The Come Up — below.


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March 10th, 2015 → 3:48 pm @ admin
Root canals—or endodontic treatment—are the safest and most effective way to save teeth from painful and damaging tooth decay. Unfortunately, several myths persist about the treatment. The following myths are among the most commonly shared inaccuracies regarding root canals.
Root Canals are Painful
The most common misconception about root canals is that they cause pain, when in fact they relieve it. The myth itself dates back many decades—prior to the introduction of modern endodontic technologies. Today, the procedure is no less comfortable than a routine teeth cleaning. In a recent survey, patients who've had the procedure—as opposed to those who haven't—were six times likelier to describe it as painless. After all, the purpose of a root canal is to remove painful tissue damage from teeth.
They Cause Infections
Another myth regarding root canals is the much-discredited theory that they cause infections. This particular myth was rooted in the 1920s-era research of one Dr. Weston A. Price, who made false claims to discourage root canals in favor of tooth extraction. Despite a brief wave of fear-based tooth extractions, science eventually closed in on the true causes of infectious diseases, and Price's claims were refuted by the medical community during the 1950s.
Extractions are Better
Another misperception—stemming largely from Price's claims—is the myth that tooth extractions are safer, healthier, and preferable to root canals. Fact is, no scientific evidence links root canals to infection; and since teeth don't grow back, they're always worth saving. Even if you got an artificial tooth in place of an extracted one, it could prevent you from consuming certain foods.
If you think you need a root canal, call Sanford Dental Excellence at (407) 268-6409 for more information. We provide a range of dental care for patients in Lake Mary, Orlando, and Sanford, and we'll gladly tend to your dental needs.
More from Sanford Dental Excellence: Debunking Myths About Root Canals, sanford dental excellence, Root Canals