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Personalised Card - Heart Graffiti
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By BoltonBeauty from Bolton, Lancashire


text:
As others have pointed out, the stock technicals of Cytori are showing signs of stress for two reasons, the macro environment today is tough XBI down 1.68%, the NASDAQ 100 breaking below it's 100 day SMA and the obvious uncertainty of attaining funding to replenish the companies fast depleting cash. All of this is known to management, and we can reasonably assume that they are working hard to deliver funded partnerships in Q-4, albeit one quarter after previous assurances. BARDA is positive, but will not provide near term funding relief and may be further delayed by negotiations over the fiscal cliff and the potential for sequestration. A secondary will certainly solve the funding problem but at the expense of dilution to existing shareholders. While this option is clearly far less desirable than funded partnerships in Q-4 the clock is timing out. Realistically, management has between now and Thanksgiving to conclude agreements. Beyond that date, the imperatives of Cytori's prospective partners to meet YE revenue, EBITDA, and operational objectives will likely defer their focus until after New Year. Since these potentials partners can read balance sheets, they must all be aware that Q-4 is imperative to Cytori leadership but not necessarily to them. It is hard to conclude an attractive deal when one side needs it more urgently than the other. Shareholders may face the painful prospect of CC concluding deals in the next 6-7 weeks that transfer disproportionate rewards to funding partners, denying shareholders substantial medium/long term value, or floating a secondary and concluding superior agreements from a position of cash strength. Consequently, the stock may decline in the near term to the mid $3's, but be better positioned by mid Q-1.
For those who are investing for the longer term and believe in the Cytori opportunity, building a stronger more sustainable company that has the cash to capitalize on the emerging market to deliver medium/long term stock holders rewards this may be an alternative. Those with less conviction or a nearer term investing horizon may find this unattractive. I do concur that in either case the share price will be under consider negative pressure in the near term and could decline to the mid $3's as you have suggested. It has unsuccessfully struggled to maintain $4 today.
Nice conversation with yourself!

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Home was too far behind to imagine, that cold night.
Two days later, they topped a rise to see far ahead a herd of animals grazing on the plain. His grandfather stood up on his horse, shading his eyes.
"See pole? See colors?"
Oktar had no idea where to look, but in trying to follow his grandfather's gaze, saw a flash of color that was not grass or rock: red. Fluttering.
"Is ours," his grandfather said. He threw back his head and let out a long, wavering cry, then another, then barked like a dog four times.
"What is—"
"Quiet. Wait."
Oktar looked around, seeing nothing but grass blowing in the wind, hearing nothing but wind hissing in the grass. The herd was mere dark specks against the tawny grass, moving slowly away from them.
Then–between one turn of his head and the next–someone appeared, not four horse-lengths away. Man and horse, the man sitting as Oktar's grandfather sat, as if his backbone grew from the horse's back. The same dark hair, but unstreaked by any gray, hung in braids adorned with beads and feathers. A horsefolk face, wide, the color the townsfolk called saddle leather, high cheekbones under ruddy cheeks, black eyes like his grandfather's and his own. The same clothes, with the same pattern woven into the pants and shirt-sleeves, the long shirt belted, the vest over it open in front, showing a red lining. On his head a twisted scarf, red and yellow, with one end hanging down behind. And on this man's feet, knee-high boots whose soles were embroidered in brilliant colors, set with chips of bone or shell. The man had pulled his toes up, as if to make sure they saw every detail of the intricate design.
How did he walk on those, Oktar wondered. He must, but how? The colors were bright, undimmed by dirt. He glanced at his grandfather. For a long moment, his grandfather did not move or speak. Then his grandfather tipped his head up toward the sky and began chanting in the horsefolk tongue. The other man said nothing, sat motionless on his horse. His grandfather paused in the chant, and gestured at Oktar, then fell silent.
The man looked at Oktar. He had the same beady black eyes as Oktar's grandfather and father, with the same tattoos in swirls and dots covering the heart-hand side of his face, and the same expression on it: contempt for the boy who didn't measure up. The man opened his mouth and said something short and emphatic. Oktar couldn't understand the words, but the tone confirmed the eyes: contempt.
His grandfather rode forward, held out his withered arm, and shouted, as loud as Oktar had ever heard him, right in the man's face; the man's horse pinned its ears and pivoted away. The man jerked the rein, brought it back around. The two men stared at each other a long moment, silent.
Then the man uttered another phrase, in a completely different tone, turned his horse, and the horse picked up a brisk trot.
"Come!" Oktar's grandfather followed the man without a backward look, only that one word, and Oktar rode after him, his stomach clenching.
These were "his people?" This man, of the same tribe as his grandfather and father, this man who disliked him on sight, as the horsefolk back in town had, as everyone had? Would he ever find anyone who would give him a chance?
For the first time since leaving home, the hateful voices in his head drowned out everything around him. The boys at the grange, the horsefolk adults, the Marshal, the market judicar, everyone he had ever known: they all hated him; they always had.
He glared at his grandfather's receding back, at the other man. He hated them–the way they sat their horses, the way they looked at him, the way they rode on paying no attention to him, despising him.
He yanked at the rein; his horse threw its head up but stopped. The distance between him and his grandfather lengthened. Fine. Let him go on. Let him go back to the tribe; they were not Oktar's people. Not now, not ever.
He pulled his horse's head around and booted it in the ribs; it turned a tight circle, shaking its head. It wanted to follow the others. But he did not. He would go back–not to the same house, to his father's anger and his mother's scoldings and the town that hated him. He would find another town. There must be one somewhere.
He tried again to turn his horse, this time using the few words he now knew, and the horse wiggled its ears, and took a few hesitant steps before trying to swing around again. He said the words again, louder, kicked with both legs, and the horse moved on the direction he meant. He sat back against the trot, kicked again, and it picked up a canter. Behind him, he heard a yell, the sound of hooves. He kicked, kicked with each stride, until the horse was galloping, then leaned forward. He had no thought left but escape, no thought of the days traveled, the food he did not have, anything but away, escape, freedom.
Then his horse skidded to a sudden halt, Oktar's fingers and legs lost their grip, and he slid off the horse's back, right over its lowered neck, onto the ground. Again. He wanted to sink into that ground before his grandfather arrived, before another humiliation. The ground did not cooperate. He blinked, opened his eyes, and saw in front of him two dark hooves, and between them a dark muzzle. His horse? He looked up, into the face of a horse he had never seen, a peculiar yellowish color, with a long dark forelock, and two astonishing dark eyes looking into his.
Whuff! Its breath smelled of the grass and herbs under his face. The nostrils quivered, coming nearer. Without thinking, he breathed back into them, lifted a hand to touch that muzzle. The horse's upper lip extended a little, touched his hand, then the horse sniffed up his arm, finger to wrist to elbow to shoulder…and the next thing he knew had gripped his shirt in its teeth and lifted him as if he weighed nothing, setting him on his feet. Then it let go and stepped back.
Nearby, his horse stood, watching not him but the other horse. The new one, he could see now, had a body all that golden yellow color with legs dark to the knees and hocks, a dark mane and tail, and a dark stripe down the back. And–even he could tell this–it was a mare. Every story he'd been told brought a sudden chill down his backbone, weakness to his legs. This was a dun horse–a dun mare–a daughter of the Mare of Plenty, a mare among mares, the herd's wise leader.
The mare cocked her head, then reached out and took his hand in her teeth. Her big square yellow teeth closed very gently around his fingers, then tugged just a little. He took a step forward. She released his hand, nodded like a human, came closer and butted him with her head. He stumbled back; she turned sideways to him, lowered her head to the ground and ripped up a mouthful of grass. One of those big dark eyes watched him; the ear on that side pointed to him. When he did not move, she gave another loud Whuff! and stamped the near foreleg.
He knew what she wanted. But it was impossible. If she was the Mare of Plenty, consort of the Windsteed, mother of all the herds of the horsefolk, no human dared mount her. She was not to be ridden.
The mare swung her hindquarters closer to him, and her tail lashed him. Then she presented her neck again, this time looking at him with both eyes, both ears pricked.
Get on, fool of a boy. Clear as if she had human speech.
Would she run away with him? Would she buck him off? Trample him?
Only if you stand there.
It was hard to take that step, hard to lift his leg and step over that lowered neck, hard to imagine what it would be like–and as he thought that, the mare jerked her head up and he found himself sliding right over her low withers and onto her bare back. She stood motionless a moment, then walked toward his grandfather and the other man, both of them now only a few lengths away, staring at him in a very different way.
His horse—the one he had been riding—trailed alongside, its head near the mare's flank. As the mare walked toward, and then past, his grandfather, the two men turned their horses to ride one on either side.
"You were run away."
His grandfather sounded scornful, as usual. But no familiar surge of anger came; he could scarcely recall what he'd been doing, or why. Under him, the mare's back swayed, and from her emanated a sense of comfort and safety he had not felt since early childhood, since the days his mother had carried him, had protected him from the older children, before he knew that who he was, who she was, who they all were, made any difference.
"What means you?" his grandfather asked.
He had no words to answer he thought his grandfather would understand. "She came to me," he said.
The other man laughed, and said something to his grandfather that made his grandfather laugh.
"She knows horse from ass," his grandfather said. "You are son's son after all." He reined back, moved alongside the horse Oktar had been riding, and scooped up the trailing rein in his withered arm, grabbing it then with his good hand. He moved back up beside Oktar. "You take rein. I go."
Oktar took the rein his grandfather held out; the other man said something emphatic to his grandfather. The words hissed and clicked; all three horses pricked their ears.
"It make trouble, I go there," Oktar's grandfather said to him. "I not go. He want, give me food. I stay here, but only tonight."
"You're leaving me? I can't talk—"
"You learn. You learn, son's son. You horse-folk. She says." He pointed his elbow at the mare; she flicked an ear.
"But I don't know—who is he?"
"Family," his grandfather said. He waved his hand; the other man nodded, and kicked his horse forward.]]>
His horse. He looked around wildly. His horse had crossed the stream and now grazed on the far side, the rein trailing.
"And take off socks before you walk on the land. Wring dry, tuck in shirt."
The socks were not dry, but cold and damp when he dropped them down the neck of his shirt. Carefully, wincing at the rocks under his feet, he made it to the other side of the creek and up onto the muddy bank. The horse eyed him and ambled on a few steps. At least the ground, once he was up, had grass on it. He walked toward the horse; the horse moved away. No matter how he tried, he could not get within reach of that trailing rein.
"Sit down, fool! And call horse."
He sat down: his legs were shaky anyway. But call the horse? How?
"I taught you horse-calling chant: were you not listening?"
That droning song? Oktar hadn't understood any of the words, but the rhythm stuck with him. He tried it without words. His grandfather joined in, this time facing him; he tried to copy all the sounds. From behind him he heard a slight swish, then a warm breath caressed the back of his neck. Finally, the horse bumped him with its muzzle. Cautiously, he reached back with one hand and felt the rein in the grass and grasped it.
"Now you turn, sitting, and breathe into horse nose."
That was ridiculous. But he had no choice; he wiggled around and faced the horse, whose muzzle was then only a handspan from his face. From here on the ground, the horse looked looked impossibly tall. The horse reached out to sniff, and Oktar breathed carefully into one of the large nostrils, then the other. The horse blew slobber all over his face. Oktar wiped it off on his sleeve, then reached out to scratch under the horse's chin, something he remembered his father doing.
"Now up, one down jerk on rein, put leg over neck, pull mane up, horse lift you."
Oktar followed these directions with misgiving, and the horse's abrupt lift almost made him fall again. He squirmed back to a balanced position, but behind him was the bulge of the pad and sheepskin. He had no idea how he was going to get back onto it. His grandfather offered no advice. Oktar tried one thing after another, finally discovering that bracing his knees on the horse's shoulderblades and his arms on the neck allowed him to raise his backside enough to lift himself back into the hollow his morning's ride had created.
"Follow me this way," his grandfather said, and rode out of the creek on the far side.
Oktar's horse followed. He sat on the sheepskin, his rump warming up a little, but the rest of him shivering in the wind that blew from the north down the little valley they followed. His damp socks, a cold lump next to his belly, warmed very slowly as he rode. He clutched the single rein tightly, not sure what to do with it–he had never seen a horse ridden with a single rein.
His grandfather sang. Oktar's horse walked a little faster until it was almost beside his grandfather's horse. His grandfather did not look at him. Sometime in the afternoon, when his clothes had dried, his grandfather handed him one of the flasks.
"One swallow. Don't drop it."
The flask had a thong loop through the neck. After taking a swallow, Oktar worked the end of the loop through his belt and around the belly of the flask, so it hung at his side, as his grandfather's hung. They rode on. Oktar's stomach ached, demanding food. He had no food. He wasn't sure his grandfather had food. When the sun had dropped well behind one of the hills, his grandfather stopped his horse and rolled lightly off its back. He handed his rein to Oktar.
"Hold this. Wait." He took a long time untying the pack, lifting it one-armed from the horse, opening it on the ground. Most of the bulk was a pair of wool cloaks; inside them were four small packets. Then his grandfather looked at him. "Get down. Do this." He took the rein of his horse back from Oktar and tucked it into his belt.
Oktar slid off awkwardly, biting his lip when his bruised feet hit the ground. He tucked his rein as his grandfather had. His grandfather was doing something with the girth of his own horse's pad. Oktar looked…there was a knot, sort of. He found it on his horse, worked it loose, then pulled off the pad and sheepskin.
"Take off this." His grandfather was pulling the bridle off his horse; Oktar did the same, wondering how they would keep the horses from wandering away. But the two horses walked into the creek, drank, then set to grazing along the creek's edge.
Supper was a handful of raw oats–one for him, one for his horse, who lipped it from his hand and then walked off to graze again. He had never eaten raw oats; he had thought them food for horses. But he was hungry so he chewed and swallowed without complaint. His grandfather brought back some leaves of a plant Oktar didn't recognize and gave him two. He ate the bitter leaves, drank the four swallows of water his grandfather ordered.
Oktar had never slept anywhere but on a straw-stuffed bag on the floor of his father's house, where walls kept out the wind and rain. Now, for the first time, he lay on the ground under stars, wrapped in one of the cloaks, the hill wind finding every opening and every damp fiber of his clothes. His grandfather had shown him how to fold the pad to support his head, and use the sheepskin under his neck and upper body.
"Demons in ground steal heart," his grandfather said. "Never lie down on ground without sheepskin."
In the morning, he rolled the pack up with his grandfather's instructions, put the pad and sheepskin back on his horse, then–this time without difficulty–got his horse to lift him up again. His grandfather made him get off. "Girth loose," he said. Oktar tightened it until the old man nodded. The horse sighed heavily, but lifted Oktar up on its neck again. He squirmed back into place, wishing he wasn't as sore.
"We go faster or no food," his grandfather said. "Lean back." And booted his mount into a bouncy trot.
Oktar's horse followed, and Oktar grabbed for mane. Leaning back made no sense, but he did it, and then took the pounding on his tailbone until his grandfather said "Hyah!" to his horse and both of them broke into a faster gait. Smoother, too, a sort of up and down rocking motion.
The land came at them faster. Soon the creek was narrow enough to step over and then just a trickle in the grass, and the horses were lunging up a steeper slope.
"Hoy!" his grandfather said when they were high enough Oktar could see over the top; the horses slowed to a halt. On the far side of the rise, the land was a tumbled mass of hills, with a distant line of higher ground against the sky.
"We go down a little. Never stop on ridge." His grandfather's horse picked its way down slowly; Oktar followed. His grandfather's horse stopped, lowered its head. "You never drop rein," Oktar's father said. "But you stand on horse back."
To Oktar's surprise, the old man bent over, put his crooked hand on his horse's withers, got his knees on his horse's back, and then stood up, still holding the rein in his good hand. He looked completely at ease. "You!" he said to Oktar.
Oktar used both hands on his mount's withers and slowly–breathing hard–got his knees up. It felt far worse than sitting, sore as his rump was. He felt unbalanced and he wasn't even on his feet.
"Look at hill, not grass!" Oktar obeyed. "Tuck feet under–stand!"
Wobbling, nearly-but-not-quite-falling, Oktar finally made it to his feet, arms wide, the rein still clutched in his sweaty heart-hand. He swayed, but caught himself…and then began to feel stable.
"Now we go," his grandfather said, pulling on his horse's rein. Up came the head. His grandfather said something in horsefolk talk, and his horse walked off, while he stood on its back as if rooted to it.
Oktar's horse lifted its head–the movement of muscles in its back almost threw him–and walked after the other. Oktar half-crouched, trying to stay in balance with it, but they were going down-slope, the horse picking its way with uneven steps over small rocks and around larger ones. Oktar's toes clung to the sheepskin, digging into the fleece…and there ahead was his grandfather, straight as a pole. He could see, from behind, how his grandfather's knees were slightly bent, and his hips moved with the horse's movement, while his shoulders stayed level. Oktar tried to copy that, but his legs were shaking with the effort by the time his grandfather turned to look at him.
"Now down," his grandfather said, with a nod that might have been approval or not. He sat down on his mount, and did not wait to see if Oktar had made it back to the horse's back before kicking his own into the faster rocking gait.
Oktar grabbed mane and managed to stay on, just barely. He reeled in the length of rein he'd let out. He was shaky, hungry, but…he had stood up on the back of a horse, a moving horse. He'd never done that before. None of the boys he'd fought had done that. He imagined showing them…but his grandfather's horse jumped something ahead of him. He felt his horse gather itself, a great shove–a jolting landing–and he was off-balance, losing his grip on the mane–he was falling. He hit the ground hard, rolled over rocks and finally lay still, stunned. His shoulder hurt, his back hurt. He tried to sit up and his head spun. He heard hoofbeats coming toward him.
"Is not my blood! Must be false."
Oktar looked. His grandfather was sitting on his horse, looking up at the sky. His own horse was standing a distance away, the rein dragging and the sheepskin pulled awry.
"Cannot be. My seed does not fall off horse. Twice in two days." The old man spat aside. "Not my son's son.
Something rumbled. Oktar stared. The morning's milky blue sky now curdled into clouds, thickened more, darkened at the base, and a roiling tower of white rose high, gleaming in the sun.
"I try. I tell him. Has no…nothing of horse in him."
A louder rumble, then a roar; Oktar's ears popped. A cold wind buffeted him; the horses turned tail to it, heads down. He struggled to his feet, only to be battered by a fall of rocks–of ice, he realized, hard cold lumps falling out of the cloud that now broke right on top of him. He fell to the ground, covering his head with his arms, as the ice pounded his back, his legs, his arms. What about his grandfather? He tried to look; through the confusing blur of falling ice, he saw his grandfather's horse…and on the ground, a dark lump. His grandfather was down? Hurt?
Despite the battering ice, Oktar forced himself up, staggering, slipping on the ice that now covered the ground, ice-rocks battering his head, to get to his grandfather. His grandfather lay still, his pack over his head.
"Granfer! Are you–" At the sound of his voice, his grandfather peered out from under the pack.
"You! Why come?"
"I thought you were hurt."
"Use eyes. Under horse no ice falls. Put head under."
Oktar put his head under the horse's belly, above his grandfather. Nothing hit his head. A last few lumps of ice pounded his back and legs, and then it was rain, hard and cold. He shivered; he couldn't help it. Then his teeth chattered. His grandfather blew a long, horselike sound through his lips.
"Get under all the way, stupid one."]]>
A healthy book, at this point, should be accreting material–characters, plot hooks that will link to other plot bits later, details that will form a consistent background. Some of the accretion will be plot drivers (or at least attachment points) and some won't, and it's impossible to know at this stage. But it should begin to have both momentum (like impulsion in horses–the desire to go forward) and a sort of gravitational field that draws in "story stuff." When a book doesn't do that, it may not be destined to be a book, so the first 100 pages really matter even if they're later discarded for a different beginning. A healthy book "wants to be written."
It has acquired a good, strong, new character who immediately produced abundant backstory that connects well with the others this character needs to work with. It's good to have new characters entering a multi-volume story. (Where do new characters come from? Memories, of course, with a mashup of people the writer's known, but also from chance meetings, when you've been thinking "I need a character with this sort of look, this sort of personality" and you walk into a school or store or airport and there they are, right in front of you. The person you see is remade for the story, of course–this character will be most like the real person in appearance, least like him on the inside–but the real person was tickling my writer sense when I first saw him, and now he's part of the story.)
The first fifty pages felt good; it's still feeling good. A hundred pages is a safety marker…when my books die on the vine (and several have!) they do so earlier. Usually between 30 and 50 pages, more rarely between 50 and 100. So on I go, happier with each day's work that doesn't totally suck. (The suckage days will come later–they're in the mix somewhere, every book but the first, and more in SF than in fantasy.)
I'll be really happy at the 300 page mark, but it's unwise to think hard about that until I'm closer to it. Best practice for right now is to show up for work, start typing, and let the story out a little more slowly than it could be pushed, as the well is filling back up.]]>
Eventually the stone wall turned away around the bulge of a hill, and nothing was in front of them but rolling land, grass with stones showing here and there, and clumps of trees in the hollows. Oktar no longer felt nauseated, but he was hungry and thirsty and all of yesterday's bruises and scrapes hurt. So did his legs. Ahead of him, his grandfather's back was straight, shoulders level, legs dangling easily.
That posture signaled, as clearly as words, that the old man did not want to hear anything from his grandson. Not complaints, not questions, not chatter. As day brightened around them, Oktar heard a new noise–a droning sound that he finally recognized as his grandfather…singing. Singing in the horsefolk tongue, of course. Oktar did not understand the words, and whatever it was had no melody like the songs the townsfolk sang in the taverns or while working at their crafts. What it did have was rhythm, the rhythm of the horses, of their hooves and the sway of their bodies, the swish of their tails. Oktar found himself humming in the same tuneless way, minus words.
They rode on through the morning, as the ground rose and lowered, but mostly rose. They passed through a wood where birds racketed away from them on noisy wings and out again onto a stony slope tufted with patches of reed. Oktar saw many trails beaten into the earth by unknown feet…some narrower, some wider. Sheep? Horses? Wild animals? He had no idea. He had never been so far from town; he had never meant to be where he was, and it confused him. So much sky overhead; so wide a land; so empty of people.
When the sun was high overhead, and they were riding alongside a narrow fast-moving stream, his grandfather stopped; Oktar's horse stopped too, lowered its head, and blew a long rattling sigh. Now his grandfather turned to him.
"Ah. You did not fall off. That is good. We rest horses, water horses, let them feed."
"We get off?" Oktar asked. He wanted to ease his legs, lie down on the grass and rest.
"No! We are horsefolk: we ride. Watch and learn, foal." His grandfather nudged his horse into the water; Oktar's followed, lowered its head to drink. His grandfather tossed Oktar's rein back to him without warning; Oktar reached, but didn't catch it, and almost fell off. The horse ignored the rein trailing in the water. "Dig your toes in the girth…lean forward, bracing on neck…pull up on mane behind ears."
Oktar managed this on the third try, clutching his mount's neck, and the horse's head came up from the water.
"Now take rein," his grandfather said.
Oktar let go the neck with one arm, and reached. His horse swung sideways, away from his weight. He fell into the cold water with a splash.
"Stupid," his grandfather said. "Since already wet, fill water-flasks."
Oktar clambered up, fighting the pull of the knee-deep water, his wet wool clothes heavy with it, his feet flinching from the sharp edges of rock. His grandfather threw the flasks, again without warning; this time he caught one, but the other splashed in the water and immediately bobbed away.
"GET IT!" his grandfather said. Oktar stumbled and slipped downstream; his socks were no real protection from the rocks. Finally the flask caught between two rocks and he grabbed it before it slipped away, then splashed back to where his grandfather sat on his mount. "Fill."
He started to dip the flasks in the water, but his grandfather growled. He stopped.
"Up there." His grandfather jerked his head to indicate upstream. "Clean water. Not near horses."
I've informed the site, but who knows if they'll bother to make any correction. So I'm being pro-active or something similar. (mirrored on Universes blog)]]>
"They said we were dirty stinking horse–" he paused; the word they'd used was forbidden. "–droppings," he finished.
"You should ignore them," his mother said. "They are ill-bred; you should not dirty your hands with them."
Oktar's hands, bruised and bloody as well as his nose, were at his sides, half-hidden by his long horsefolk shirt, but he knew she knew.
"Who hit first?" she asked.
"Tam Togirdsson." He touched his nose.
"And you did not duck away. And you hit him–"
"The others were already hitting me."
"Well. Come and I will clean your face."
During that painful process–for she insisted on scrubbing out every raw scratch–Oktar took no heed of her words, but went on thinking how he would get back at Tam and the others. It was not his fault. It had never been his fault. He could not help having a horsefolk name, a horsefolk face, living in the neighborhood where the small group of horsefolk in this town clumped together for protection. He'd never stolen anything, but if one of the others stole a plum from a stand in the market on the way home from the grange, he was the one accused. He'd never lied…well, almost never…but he was the one called a liar, if another boy wanted to make trouble. Which they mostly did.
"There," his mother said finally. His face stung with her scrubbing. "And now you will stay inside until your father comes, and he will deal with you. You are beyond a woman's strength to beat."
His father. O Mare of Plenty, if his mother would not merely switch him with the horsetail that hung behind the kitchen door…if she actually meant for his father to punish him! He counted up the days in his head. Yes. He was indeed six days past the time his father had set, and thus…
"You will polish every pot in the kitchen," his mother said. "And then the floor. And there is no supper for you, until after."
Araimak Cracolnya sat in their one chair and listened to his wife's recital of Oktar's misdeeds without a change of expression. Araimak's father, Ormaktar, squatted on his heels by the fire as usual, his black eyes gleaming like those of a gnome, his clan tattoos shadowing one side of his face. When the tale was told, Araimak stared at Oktar a long moment.
"I have heard already of this from the market judicar," he said. His horsefolk accent was much stronger than Oktar's, less than Ormaktar's. "It is a bad thing you have done. It is bad for all of us, not only you, not only this hearth, but all the horsefolk hearths. Did I sire or your mother foal a wild ass, that you bray and bite and kick like one?"
Oktar glared back. "It was not my fault," he said.
"Oh? Because a few horseflies nipped you, you must attack?"
"Because I am not a coward like–" Oktar stopped, at the look on his father's face, his grandfather's face.
"Who would you name, little ass?" his grandfather said, rising effortlessly from his squat. "Who of our people?"
You, he wanted to say, but knew he must not.
"Me, perhaps, with my withered arm, for coming here when the tribe bade me go, called me bad luck for them?" His grandfather's labored Common, mixed with horsefolk terms, was hard to follow word by word, but the meaning was clear: Granfer was angrier than Oktar had ever seen. "You think I should have fought them, bade your father fight them, the whole tribe, and branded them with my bad luck?" He spat at Oktar; the spit landed on Oktar's chest, an insult barely less than on his face. "You are a fool, and I would say none of your sire's get, marked with the ass's stripe, but for your dam, who is blameless in this. Sometimes a foal is born wrong, maybe that is you."
"No!" His mother spoke, switching to the speech of horsefolk where Oktar could understand only one word in four, if that. Full of hissing and clicking, that tongue was, as if talking to horses. The old man answered in the same, and then his father, and then they all fell silent and looked at him, two sets of black eyes, one of shadowed green.
"It is time you met your own folk," his father said. "You have a sickness no beating will cure, but healing comes on the grass, from the Mare of Plenty and the Windsteed's clean wind in your lungs." He nodded to Oktar's mother, who slipped away and began rattling dishes and pots.
Was he to have supper after all? And no beating? He could not understand that, and his nose hurt and his black eye and the cuts and bruises on his face and chest and the foot that had been stamped on and the shins that had been kicked. He wanted very much to sit down–to lie down, even–but he could not until his father gave him leave.
Shortly his mother came back with a mug.
"You will drink this," his father said. "There will be no demons from the town in your belly when you leave; you will go to the People as clean as we can make you."
His mother stood behind him, firm arms around his body, holding him upright and still, while his father poured the liquid down his throat. He gulped and gagged and shuddered at the taste of it and the knowledge of what it would soon accomplish.
The next morning, before dawn, he could scarcely walk–and not steadily–when his father wakened him, took him outside, and doused him with well water, scrubbing him all over as if he were a shirtling. A hasty drying, and then he was bade dress in his father's oldest horsefolk clothes. Wool britches with a band of decorative weaving midway down, tied below the knee to shorten them for his shorter legs, a faded wool shirt that came to his knees with more bands of color on the sleeves, a horsehair rope belt, thick wool socks.
His grandfather led their two horses–ponies, the townsfolk called them–to the door, just visible in the light from the lamp inside. No saddles, but wool-stuffed pads held on with a girth and a sheepskin over all. His grandfather accepted the pack his mother handed him, and threw himself up onto the lead horse's back.
Oktar had seen that before but never accomplished it. Town boys who rode used saddles with stirrups, and climbed on boxes to mount. His father picked him up and set him on the horse.
"Don't fall off," he said. "And learn better."
"But shoes–" Oktar said, fumbling in the dark for reins. He couldn't find them.
"Horsefolk don't walk," his grandfather said from ahead of him. "They ride." He clucked to the horses and they moved off down the dark street. Oktar's belly writhed inside, but he had already spewed everything he had; he clung to the sheepskin and wondered if he would survive the day.
(this is just the opening of the story that wants to grow too big.)]]>
We had a very dry spell between December and March, but then the rains…small ones at first, and then heavier ones. For the first time since spring 2007, a floodgate has been opened in Buchanan Dam and one in Mansfield Dam. Lake Travis finally reached "full" a month ago; Lake Buchanan reached it this past weekend. No, the drought was not just 2011 (as some people seem to think.) Nine years without the lakes being full even briefly…and until the rains last spring, most of that was below 50% capacity.
The land is recovering; the plants that got rain when they needed it last year and this recover the fastest. The large trees that died, finally, between 2011 and 2015 will require many decades for replacement, and in some cases will never return–as with animals, small disjunct populations of plants can't be replaced naturally. We had two or three huge old black willows down in the creek woods, and between a half dozen and a dozen American elms, some quite large…and one, the biggest tree we had, cottonwood. That's not coming back.
But there's water running in the creek, clear running from spring-flow, and in every pool of the grassland, insects are mating and breeding…little water beetles, damselflies, dragonflies, water striders, etc. Bees (both honeybees and natives), flower flies, beetles, butterflies are on the flowers of the many native forbs; the native grasses are up in their different shades of green, their different heights.
I have two contracts active–one for a short story set in the Vatta universe, and the other for the sequel to Cold Welcome. Plus the production chores for that book–dealing with copy edits, reading proofs, doing whatever little writing chores the publisher wants as publicity. Things should lighten up next year, because then I'll just have the editorial and production work on the sequel to do. At that point, I'll have done some serious thinking about how best to manage continued writing with a need for more time spent on LifeStuff (the lights of those locomotives are also getting closer) and thus how to arrange my schedule…and Decisions will be made. As books have "hinge points" at which the story shifts gears or directions or both…so do lives.
But in the meantime, I'm afraid I won't be here much except in the comments section, unless drastic things happen. (Since a friend has just lost his job, and several others' jobs look shaky, drastic things happening seems to be a trend, so…you never know.) The comments show up in my email, so I'll be responding to those, but not sure about actual posts. Though maybe. It's all uncertain right now.
Working on the rewrite of Cold Welcome. On Monday, I sent Editor the latest draft of the new ending, and in light of Editor's comments worked on it some more, then started in on front-to-back run (actually crawl!) through combining her original letter, the marked up manuscript line edits, and the changes that would be required by the new ending. This also involved having two versions of the first chapters on the monitor at once, the letter, a stack of reference printouts, and the marked ms beside me on the desk.
At the times when my head exploded or my vision blurred too badly, I'd break for knitting, which is how these got finished (y'all deserve a picture by now, so here it is:
They're wearable only for the pictures, right now, since the loose ends of yarn from the stripes are still, well, loose inside. I should have the ends woven in by my birthday, so that's when I plan to wear them all day for the first time. That variegated yarn runs (I've used it in stripes before) so I'm hoping the other yarns resist picking up the stray dye, but it's worth doing anyway. If they end up looking tie-dyed, so be it.
Meanwhile, the rewrite. Going slowly, as I'm seeing double more (the artificial lens in the left eye, the cataract in the right eye, and the lenses in my glasses do not easily agree on where to focus. If I hold my head absolutely still, and look through the upper half of my glasses, I can see fairly well with my right eye; the left eye is blurry. If I close my left eye and lean over the desk and look through the bottom of half of my glasses, I can also read with my right eye, until the difficulty of seeing through the cataract and holding focus gives me a headache. The left eye is really only good for true distance vision (10 feet or more.) But–I still CAN see, and I can see colors, and even though I can't see as well through binocs or the camera as I used to, I still have vision. The left eye is a help when I've misplaced my glasses–I can walk around the house OK without glasses because of the left eye's distance vision.
So. Slowly she goes, step by step…and into the murk and mire, seeing some rough spots Editor missed, fixing those, deciding phrase by phrase if the change made the page before now asks for a change right here. Ideally, the writer reads it all aloud, but right now I have coughing fits if I talk to long, so I barely voice it. Try to hear, in the dialogue, the different characters' different voices, and make sure I'm showing that. For instance, in this book–and this shouldn't be a spoiler–the Commandant of Slotter Key's Spaceforce Academy makes an appearance. He was Ky's commander when she was a cadet (the first Vatta's War volume, Trading in Danger) and he took her resignation. Now she's an admiral, commanding a fleet larger than that of her home planet. He's still more than twice her age and locally more powerful. How will this affect the way he speaks to her? What was his style of language before and what will it be now? Is he wary of her? Confident that he's still got the upper hand? Comfortable with former student who succeed? He's not onstage long; all this has to be conveyed economically, within the context of what's happening, and through Ky's perception of him.
Things that get fixed on rewrites: structural problems, getting all the parts in the right places and doing that a story foundation needs. Causes before consequences, motivations foreshadowed sufficiently but not boringly, confusing constructions reworked for ease of reading, etc. Continuity: in multi-volume works, or books written in a story-universe used before, details need to match what was already published. Characters have to be recognizable as the same (inside and out) unless reasons are given for the change. Characters that are just sketched in given more shading and depth if they're important enough to the plot; major characters' backstory and motivations highlighted a little (or a lot, in some cases); transitions made clear but smooth; story-logic rechecked at every point in the plot (does it make sense that this would happen, that X would do Y, that M could be a logical result of actions GHK, etc.) Because the writer has lived with a story a year or more, the writer knows more about it than shows in the book–and may not put something in because she already knows it. Editors catch things like that. My Editor has a list; I have another list; eventually the two lists will merge and we'll agree it's done. Not, however, yet.
Balancing what the reader needs to know with what the reader can (and will enjoy) grasping on his/her own is tricky, and requires understanding the most likely readers for the given work. Some readers are both skilled and intuitive; they will pick up the slightest hint. Some will come to the book with more background knowledge; others will need more direct information–but it must be trickled in just when they need it.
And this is why I'm crawling through the book, nose firmly on the grindstone except for necessary breaks from the computer, and flat forgot to post Tuesday and Wednesday and today until now. I may be absent for a day or two at a time until the spots have been removed and the wrinkled smoothed out and Editor agrees we're done for now. Thanks for your patience.]]>
It's easy to imagine what tools you need for "basic getting along" when you look at small children who don't have them yet, and how we help children develop: they need to be able to communicate with others, manage their own bodies and their own emotions, complete the "activities of daily living" (dressing and undressing, keeping themselves clean, feeding themselves, etc.) I have a book, written maybe 25 years ago, that lays out in detail the skills those authors thought a disabled child had to learn before he or she could live independently. I was a grown woman who'd been living independently for decades and I hadn't mastered all those skills! (I call a plumber or electrician to do some of the things that book mentioned.)
But what about writers? What is–or should be–in a writer's toolkit? What skills, in and out of writing, does a writer have to have, what's nice-to-have but not that necessary and what are the specialized tools that are only needed rarely, or by some specialists? On some Tuesdays I'll be writing about the writer's toolkit, and today's tool is…
Curiosity. Whether writing nonfiction or fiction or plays or poetry, a writer needs a good stout lump of curiosity. Trained curiosity. Focused curiosity. Curiosity about words (what's the word for that thing on the end of a fabric shoelace? What did nice mean before it meant what it means now?), about language as a whole, about, well, everything. People–what they do, how they do it, and why they do it. Machines–how they work and how they fail. Plants, animals, soils, rocks, landforms, weather.
Curiosity keeps new information flowing toward the writer, and that fills the well of imagination, where it can combine with older sensory impressions, facts, opinions, ideas and provide the meat that clothes the bones of a story. Curiosity makes the research fun, rather than a burden. The person without curiosity has little motivation to learn, to do any research, to pay attention to other people, to the sights and sounds and smells and flavors of a location. And that makes for very shallow, very dull writing.
Writers with a high Curiosity Quotient never run out of ideas because they never run out of questions. "I wonder…" is a thought that should be in every writer's head at least once a day. "I wonder why that guy just slammed his mug down and left the coffee shop. Angry? Scared? Just remembered something important?" "I wonder what's under this street?" "I wonder what exactly happens when a goose is sucked into a jet engine–what breaks first?"
Curiosity bothers some people. It bothers parents when their kids ask embarrassing or inconvenient questions. It bothers many teachers when a student asks a question that's off-topic or unexpected, not in the book. "Don't look–don't touch–don't ask–" is thrown at a lot of kids (at me, too) and so as adults many people have trained themselves not to let their curiosity out of a box.
But to be a writer, you need curiosity, the kind that leads you to read more, explore more, listen more, look more, smell more, taste more. A writer's curiosity is broad, not confined to one topic or one field of knowledge. Encourage your own curiosity (exercise it if it's weak!) It's OK to spend a week or a month or a year following a new rabbit trail down the hole and through the whole burrow. Next week or month, something else will grab your interest. That's fine. Even if you're working a full-time day job, raising children, and short of money…there are ways to keep your curiosity busy and your imagination's well filling.
When I was much younger, and of a lower economic status than most other students, I was asked why I wanted to study physics (that being unusual for a female in those days) and answered that I was very curious. Some wag in the group sneered "I can see that!" and everyone laughed. (I didn't yet know that retorting "Fourth term fallacy" might have turned the joke back on the sneerer.) I did learn that admitting have wide-ranging curiosity–just wanting to learn–wasn't acceptable for girls like me, but the habit was formed. I didn't quit being curious; I did quit talking about it.
I have no idea what that person is doing now, but I can say that being curious–wanting to learn, to understand what I learn, to stretch my mind and stuff more into it–has been a great strategy for me in more than writing.
(mirrored on Universes blog)]]>
This article, found today on Twitter via a friend's tweet, is a terrific resource for anyone interested in how wool was used–and the kind of sheep that could be raised in a subarctic environment. The method of collecting the wool from these sheep is the same used worldwide for collecting an animal fiber from animals that shed annually (it's used for quiviut, the underfur of musk oxen, and a century or so ago for the undercoat of sheep on the western most Hebrides island, St. Kilda.
I know the Vikings were supposed to have used wool sails, but it kept sounding improbable until I read this article, which describes how the sails were sealed, and how someone has, in this century, replicated the process and produced useful sails. But wow, the Vikings would not have had any time to watch TV or surf the internet.
I imagined the Seafolk in Paksworld as similar to the Vikings (what I knew of them then) so the Pargunese would also have had a lot of sheep.]]>


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By Dr. Ray Kessler, who is, incidentally, a retired Prof. of Criminal Justice, former defense attorney and prosecutor is your host. This blog is about sharing information, opinion and commentary relating to crime, law and justice and politics. PLEASE CHECK OUT MY NEW BLOG ON TRIVIA AT http://triviaquestionsplusanswers.blogspot.com/ Note that I do NOT select which ads run on the blog. This is done by Ad-Sense. Appearance of an ad is not a personal endorsement by me.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
First Amendment Freedom of Relgion trumps left-wing political correctness
Some good news on the First Amendment freedom of religion front. Of course, this is just one side of the coin. We must also be diligent in opposing obvious violations of the Establishment clause. Sorting out the interaction of these two clauses is not easy and the Supreme Court has not done much to make things any clearer
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text: Hi, I'm the package maintaner of SUSE Linux/openSUSE and some months ago, I've created a package of openproj for openSUSE. Now, I'm working on update of the openproj to the last available version (1.3). The initial packaging use the third party jars bundled in openproj source archive. So I was working on removal of a dependency on these binary archives and try to use of the distribution ones. The mpop.jar and mpxj.jar contains some classes (com.projity.exchange.MicrosoftImporter), but there're no source code of these classes. Can you release the source code of mpop.jar and mpxj.jar (this seems to be a standard mpxj.sf.net with few projity classes)? Thanks Michal Vyskocil


text:
This Is Not A Prank: A Jonas Brother Is Set To Star In An "Edgy Thriller".
By Jodi Clager | Trade News | March 20, 2013 | Comments ()
Nick Jonas, AKA Fuzzy Jonas, will be starring in Careful What You Wish For. Jonas will play a guy named Doug that begins an affair with Lena (Isabel Lucas), the wife of his investment banker neighbor. When Lena's husband dies under questionable circumstances and it is revealed that he had a high-dollar life insurance policy, sh*t gets real. The synopsis says it is "an edgy thriller reminiscent of Basic Instinct and Body Heat".
I am not even kidding you. Not even a little bit.
Pajiba Love Express
Here's some Daveed Diggs for you. On Daveed Diggs' digs, actually. That man does things with clothes that should not make sense, but are absolutely perfect. (Go Fug Yourself)
Woody Allen has "so moved on" from his daughter's accusations and says he never even thinks about it. He equates her words about him to a bad review he won't read and comments on how wacky it is that Mia Farrow is his mother-in-law. He is the worst. (Celebitchy)
Not The Worst but still very gross: Leonardo DiCaprio and his
Here are 5 under-the-radar shows. I had never even heard of the first two. (Uproxx)


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STARmeterSEE RANK
Up 524 this week
Michael Ballhaus (I)
Michael Ballhaus was born on August 5, 1935 in Berlin, Germany. He is a cinematographer, known for The Departed (2006), Goodfellas (1990) and Gangs of New York (2002). He has been married to Sherry Hormann since October 27, 2011. He was previously married to Helga Ballhaus. See full bio »
Born:in Berlin, Germany
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6 photos | 3 videos | 94 news articles »


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|Problems? Is your data what you think it is?
Re: This year I plan to learn about:by Grey Fox (Chaplain)
|on Jan 03, 2007 at 15:02 UTC ( #592769=note: print w/ replies, xml )
|Need Help??
There wasn't anything about CGI, I plan on working on some Web apps this year. Happy New Year to all Monks.
-- Grey Fox "We are grey. We stand between the darkness and the light" B5
In Section Past Polls


text:
I need to know where to find and how to use something similar to the outline view like in Microsoft Word?
LibreOffice Writer does not have any feature that is exactly like the outline view in MS Office 2010 (only Impress has that), but you can still use the Navigator, which is much more useful in my opinion.
To open it, just go to View>Navigator in the menu or press F5.
When you first open the Navigator it will be a floating Window.
If you drag the window to one side of the LibreOffice parent window, it will offer to dock the floating Navigator window.
To make it float again if it's docked, hold ctrl and double click on the Navigator (in any non-button area), and it will pop out again.
No outline view yet in LibreOffice Writer, but many interested users - take a look at Bug 68167 ! On the other hand, LibreOffice Impress does have a basic but usable outline view.
There is a 3rd-party extension for LibreOffice (and OpenOffice) called Organon.
From the ReadMe on Gitub:
More information is available at the link, above. The author also has a blog/roadmap available with a commenting facility (there is also an issue tracker at Github).
protected by Community♦ Jul 15 at 19:03
Thank you for your interest in this question.
Because it has attracted low-quality or spam answers that had to be removed, posting an answer now requires 10 reputation on this site (the association bonus does not count).
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Welcome to Innovative Cancer Institute. Please take your time visiting our website. We are here to provide you with as much information as possible, as we support and guide you on your healing journey.
Our commitment to your health and well-being is evident from the moment you walk in the door. Under the guidance of Dr. Beatriz Amendola and her highly-trained specialized team, you will receive VIP white glove care from a compassionate staff who understand the emotional rollercoaster you are on.
We recently built a brand new state of the art Radiation Oncology facility, including the latest Radiosurgery and Radiotherapy techniques for our patients. We have the most advanced technology in cancer treatment. Our team will develop a treatment plan specifically for you and we will monitor your day-to-day progress, together with your referring physician, in an environment that is friendly, educational and supportive to you and your family.
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text:
The plane then banks back to the west and flies parallel with the Swans, northeast of Seeley Lake. Long and his organization, the Blackfoot Clearwater Stewardship Project, intend to turn a large strip of land along the range's front, seen from the air as a swath of green forest where the mountains meet the valley floor, into an extension of the Bob Marshall Wilderness.
The project has brought members of the media up for a birds-eye view of the area as part of a renewed push to advance their project into law. More than a decade of planning and promotion has led to partial but not complete victories for the project. Long says there is currently an "impressive" amount of public support, and he believes the project has reached a tipping point where the time to act is now.
The stretch of land along the Swans would be paired with more wilderness extension and protection for the Blackfoot's sources on the southeastern part of the Swans, plus a piece of land around the West Fork of the Clearwater River, in the Mission Mountain Range across the Seeley Valley. The proposed protections, Long says, would ensure wildlife corridors between the Bob Marshall Wilderness and the Blackfoot Clearwater Game Range, near Ovando, for grizzly bears, deer and elk. Protecting the drainages would also help bull trout, who swim upstream to spawn.
"You get up in the air and start looking around and you see how things are connected," says Long of the recent flight. "You just got to keep up that connectivity."
The plan to do so, which was put together over the course of a decade by a coalition of Montanans that includes conservation groups, ranchers, lumber companies, outfitters and even snowmobilers, now needs Montana's congressional delegation to push the proposal in Washington, D.C. A portion of the project that funded forest restoration work became law in 2009 under the guidance of Democratic Sen. Jon Tester. But the larger Blackfoot Clearwater Stewardship Project, including the wilderness designations and considerations for recreation groups, has failed to advance.
Tester tried to wrap it into a larger bill, the Forest Jobs and Recreation Act, which he has introduced several times without success. Rep. Ryan Zinke and Sen. Steve Daines, both Republicans, have declined to throw their weight behind the proposal. The feeling among the project's proponents is that a united delegation would have a far better chance of getting over the hump.
"The senators have kind of drug their feet a little bit," says Smoke Elser, a retired outfitter and wilderness advocate who is one of the Blackfoot Clearwater Stewardship Project's main advocates.
The project hopes to continue raising public support by releasing a new promotional video each month through its website. The videos feature the perspective of different stakeholders, with the first focusing on Seeley Lake timber company Pyramid Mountain Lumber, and the second on Long.
We are very disappointed that the Westside project was approved with no significant changes to the initial proposal despite many public objections and suggested resolutions. The Forest Service has completely ignored the majority of public comments asking for modifications to the initial plan, particularly concerning the construction of new logging roads, a bridge across a pristine riparian area, heavy handed logging methods planned for the Coyote Coulee trail area and the use of quiet residential roads by logging trucks.
I flew on this warbird a couple of summers ago. It was an incredible experience!
I have been here for 2 lunches, 2 dinners and for a few drinks with…
Hey kinney...I realize as a MSU Alum it is difficult being able to find your…


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Marc Peltzman has zealously litigated hundreds of real estate oriented disputes on behalf of clients in the Central Florida area since 2001. During his 10 years of professional practice Mr. Peltzman has had the pleasure of representing a wide variety of individuals, corporations and governmental entities. Raised in Central Florida, he received his bachelors degree from the University of Central Florida with majors in both Legal Studies and Political Science. Mr. Peltzman earned his law degree from the University of Florida and joined the Florida Bar in 2001.
Mr. Peltzman began his legal career in the litigation section of the Orange County Attorney's Office representing Orange County's taxpayers in a variety of eminent domain matters, plat and boundary disputes, and Burt J. Harris actions. Mr. Peltzman spent the next four years at one of Orlando's most prestigious 100+ attorney downtown law firms. While continuing to handle a variety of real estate disputes, Mr. Peltzman also used that time to expand his eminent domain practice to include representation of private property owners. Mr. Peltzman also expanded his practice to include property tax disputes, both on behalf of taxing authorities and taxpayers. Immediately before opening Marc D. Peltzman, P.A., Mr. Peltzman partnered with a small boutique law firm engaged in mortgage foreclosure and replevin actions. During that time Mr. Peltzman also began representing commercial and residential landlords and tenants.
In October, 2009, Mr. Peltzman founded Marc D. Peltzman, P.A. Today Mr. Peltzman has the pleasure of representing property owners, landlords, tenants and governmental entities in all manner of real estate disputes including eminent domain, foreclosure defense, landlord/tenant, plat and boundary issues, property tax disputes and commercial litigation with an emphasis on real property.
Languages spoken: Swedish, English
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Marc is an incredible attorney, mentor and friend. With that said, it is without hesitation that I endorse him. I consider myself lucky for having had the opportunity to learn from him and get to know him. Hire Marc with confidence.
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Pharmacy robbed in HardwickAugust 31,2013HARDWICK Police are investigating an early morning burglary at a pharmacy in the Vermont town of Hardwick.
Police say thieves broke into the Rite Aid pharmacy around 1 a.m. Friday and stole an undisclosed amount of prescription drugs.
Authorities said surveillance footage from the store shows two people involved in the burglary.
Anyone with information about the crime is asked to call Hardwick police.MORE IN This Just InMany say they are encouraged by Mayor Christopher Louras recent decision to form a group of... Full StoryOnce closed for business, tenants at the Diamond Run Mall in Rutland Town dont often re-open. Full StoryORWELL The Orwell Volunteer Fire Department will be hosting a benefit auction Friday. Full Story
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Welcome to Springs of Life Ministries Church
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Springs of Life Ministries Church – ThaneThis site is your one-stop site for a spirit filled church at Thane. Our doors are wide open to people from all backgrounds, languages and profession regardless of where they are on their spiritual journey with God. We believe you are important and God has a plan and purpose for your life, because He loves you.
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If I had told you on Dec. 31, 1999, that the next decade for the Red Sox would include seven 90-win seasons and, yes, the end of "The Curse" as well as a second World Series championship, I'm pretty sure the news wouldn't have come as a galloping shock. Why would it?
I know, the Yankees were in the middle of a dynastic run, but did they have Nomar Garciaparra, who was 25 years old and hit .357 in 1999? Or how about Pedro Martinez? Just 27, entering his prime. He went 23-4 with a 2.07 ERA in 1999.
OK, Jimy Williams was quirky, but he did lead the Sox to 94 wins and the ALCS in 1999. And Dan Duquette? Won't be filming any sitcom pilots soon, but between the Pedro trade, the Jason Varitek/Derek Lowe deal and the ability to find guys off the street (Reggie Jefferson, Troy O'Leary, Bret Saberhagen, Tim Wakefield), it sure would have seemed that he was the right guy for the job.
The core was in place.
Well, things have a way of changing.
What was Theo Epstein doing in 1999? Passing the California bar exam. Terry Francona? Just finished his third (losing) season as Phillies manager. He'd be fired in 2000 after winning 65 games. David Ortiz had 20 at-bats for the Twins in 1999. His batting average? How about .000? What kind of odds would you have given me on 12/31/99 that these guys would be a huge part of the first Red Sox World Series winner in 86 years?
So here's a look at the decade that was for the Red Sox. We'll hand out a few awards, ask a few questions and try to figure out what it all meant.
(Just one thing before we get started. I've decided to ignore the steroid factor when dealing with the last 10 years. Before the e-mails come in blasting me for being inconsistent (I've written plenty about how toothless baseball has been on the issue), let me say that I am very well aware that some guys on the Red Sox took performance-enhancing drugs over the last decade. But the truth is that (a) I have no idea who did what when, and (b) you don't either. Time may very well change all that, but for now we are still in the dark. Sort of weak, I know, but for this kind of thing it's the best I can do.)
So here we go (and, as always, feel free to e-mail away to firstname.lastname@example.com).
C: Jason Varitek
1B: Kevin Youkilis
2B: Dustin Pedroia
SS: Nomar Garciaparra
3B: Bill Mueller
LF: Manny Ramirez
CF: Johnny Damon
RF: Trot Nixon
DH: David Ortiz
SP: Pedro Martinez
SP: Curt Schilling
SP: Josh Beckett
RP: Jonathan Papelbon
A couple of thoughts:
Bill Mueller hit for a higher average (.303 to .295, almost a wash), had a better OBP (.378 to .350) and OPS (.853 to .829) in his three seasons with the Sox than Mike Lowell has in four seasons in Boston. Sure, Lowell was the World Series MVP in 2007, but Mueller was every bit as good in the 2004 World Series (Mueller batted .429, Lowell .400). I was surprised, but it was a pretty easy choice. If you had asked me before I started the column I would have assumed Lowell.
You could also make a case for J.D. Drew in right field, but I think the volume of Nixon's work (six years vs. three, during which Drew has better numbers but not by enough) gives him the edge. No other position has anything even close to a debate.
If I had chosen four starters, Derek Lowe probably would've made the cut. If I had picked two relievers, Derek Lowe probably would've made the cut. Some say that if they had nominated six for the Best Supporting Actor Oscar in 2004, Derek Lowe probably would've made the cut for his work in "Still We Believe."
The best season by an eligible player not on this list? Would you believe Carl Everett in 2000 (34 homers, 108 RBI, .300 batting average, .587 slugging)?
Do any Sox make my all-decade MLB team?
C: Jorge Posada (Maybe never the best catcher in baseball, but never outside the top three or four at any point this decade. And a legitimate Hall of Fame candidate.)
1B: Albert Pujols (player of the decade)
2B: Chase Utley
SS: Derek Jeter
3B: Alex Rodriguez
LF: Barry Bonds (Yeah, I know, but tough to ignore a .517 OBP from 2000-07. Plus if I leave him off for the steroids, Manny is next in line at LF.)
CF: Carlos Beltran (Not a great crew here. Not sure there's a Hall of Famer in the bunch. Jim Edmonds? Andruw Jones? Torii Hunter?)
RF: Ichiro
DH: David Ortiz
SP: Roy Halladay
SP: Johan Santana
SP: Pedro Martinez (2.99 ERA is the best of any starter during the decade.)
RP: Mariano Rivera
Think the Diamondbacks got equal value in the Curt Schilling trade?
Casey Fossum: One season in Arizona. A 4-15 record with an ERA of 6.65. Traded after the 2004 season for Jose Cruz, who hit .214 in 64 games.
Brandon Lyon: Missed the 2004 season (elbow) and was awful in 2005 (6.44 ERA). Actually bounced back and was OK in 2006 and 2007, but struggled again in 2008. Signed as a free agent with Detroit in 2009.
Michael Goss: Doesn't have a Wikipedia page. Never a good sign.
Jorge de la Rosa: Packaged a few days later and sent to Milwaukee in a deal for Richie Sexson.
So Arizona got two years of decent pitching from a middle reliever in the trade -- and the Diamondbacks were the ones who proposed the package to the Sox. The Sox won a couple of World Series in the four years Henry Cabot Schilling was in town, and No. 38 finished his tenure in Boston with a regular-season record of 53-29 and a playoff record of 6-1. Probably they win the Series without Schilling in 2007, but it's possible that without that trade the Sox are still looking to end the "1918" chants.
I can't sign off on the Eric Gagne trade as the worst, considering that (a) everyone thought it was a steal at the time, (b) David Murphy would never be more than a fourth outfielder with the Sox and (c) the Sox won the World Series in 2007 even with Gagne wasting a spot on the playoff roster. No real harm done.
But the Jeff Suppan trade in 2003? This had a lasting impact.
I still think Freddie Sanchez could've been an everyday shortstop, something you may have noticed the Sox have sort of been looking for over the last five years or so. He doesn't fit the Theo mold perfectly (career .334 OBP), but he's won a batting title and is a pretty safe bet for at least a .280 average each season. At worst he'd be a "leave alone" guy at shortstop.
And Mike Gonzalez has a career ERA of 2.57 and 330 strikeouts in 280.2 innings pitched. He has the fifth-best ERA among relievers since 2004 and will be a closer somewhere in 2010.
And unlike Gagne, not a lot of people thought the Suppan addition clinched a World Series. There were a lot of first-guessers on this one. And they were right, as Suppan had a 5.57 ERA for the Sox in 10 starts and never appeared in a postseason game.
You could throw the Doug Mirabelli for Cla Meredith and Josh Bard trade in the mix, I guess, but if I were a GM I would trade Meredith and Bard for Sanchez and Gonzalez in a flash. Bard has done nothing the past two years and Gonzalez has significantly outperformed Meredith since 2006.
Sure, he only played in 120 games, but Manny's 2002 season is the standard here. He won his only batting title (.349) and led the American League in OBP (.450) as well. His slugging percentage for the season, .647, was his highest in his Boston career by 28 points and was 139 points better than that season's MVP winner, Miguel Tejada.
The rest of the top 10:
2. Manny Ramirez — 2006
3. David Ortiz — 2007
4. Ortiz — 2006
5. Nomar Garciaparra — 2000
6. Manny — 2001
7. Manny — 2002
8. Ortiz — 2005
9. Kevin Youkilis — 2008
10. Bill Mueller — 2003
The truth is that I could've put Ortiz's 2004 season in over Mueller (or Youkilis' 2008) but I decided to throw in a different name. The only MVP season of the decade, Dustin Pedroia's 2008, falls somewhere in the 12-16 range.
Well, a lot of folks who know a lot more than I do about this stuff think that Pedro Martinez in 2000 had the best season of any pitcher in history, so I think we can go ahead and hand out the consolation prize to the other folks.
Here's what I wrote about Pedro's 2000 season a few months ago …
(1) Martinez led the AL with a 1.74 ERA, almost beating runner-up Roger Clemens (3.70) by a full two runs. Clemens was in fact closer to 38th place (Rolando Arroyo) than to first place.
(2) If Jimy Williams had left Martinez in for another inning during his final start of the 2000 season and Pedro allowed 45 earned runs without recording an out he STILL would have won the ERA title.
(3) His ERA in his six losses was 2.44.
(4) His WHIP for the season (.737) is the best single-season total in MLB history.
And this was at the peak of HGH madness (the average AL WHIP for the season was 1.49). Of the top 100 WHIP seasons all time, just six have been from the 2000s (three from Pedro). This season would have been dominant in the dead ball era, much less 2000, when the league ERA was 4.91. Forty-seven AL players hit at least 20 home runs in 2000. In 1910 (pretty much a typical dead ball season) the entire league hit 147 homers, which goes a long way in understanding a league ERA of 2.52.
(5) His batting average against was .167.
(6) He had 15 games with at least 10 strikeouts. In those 15 starts he had a total of 16 walks.
(7) How about these road numbers?
12-1, 1.66 ERA, 150 Ks in 119 innings
Road OBP against was .206
(8) The only season in history in which a starting pitcher struck out more than twice as many batters (284) vs. hits allowed (128).
(9) His highest ERA for any month was his 2.60 in August. Tough to call that month a struggle, though, as he had a .622 WHIP, a 3-1 record and a 25.5 K/BB ratio.
Hard to believe that Pedro won just one AL Pitcher of the Month Award in 2000 (April). I had a sneaking suspicion that the voters may have just looked at won/loss records to make the determination (shock), so I decided to have a look ...
Yup, the five other winners (James Baldwin in May, Cal Eldred in June, Clemens in July, Steve Sparks in August and Tim Hudson in September) combined for a 25-1 record. That's a huge edge over Pedro's 13-6 record (remember, his 5-0 record in April doesn't apply here.) So the voters got this one right, huh?
Well, maybe not.
Pedro Martinez (final five months): 13-6, 1.83 ERA, 234 Ks, 24 walks, .716 WHIP
The five winners: 25-1, 2.24 ERA, 143 Ks, 63 walks, 1.05 WHIP
Take out the win/loss and it's not even close. That's how great Pedro was in 2000. He was that much better than 25-1.
The rest of the top 10:
2. Pedro — 2003
3. Pedro — 2002 (Zito's Cy Young season)
4. Jonathan Papelbon — 2006
5. Derek Lowe — 2002
6. Curt Schilling — 2004
7. Josh Beckett — 2007
8. Lowe — 2000
9. Papelbon — 2007
10. Keith Foulke — 2004
And a little Player A/Player B before we move on…
Player A: 16-9, 3.90 ERA, 227 strikeouts in 217 IP, 1.17 WHIP, 125 ERA+
Player B: 17-6, 3.86 ERA, 199 strikeouts in 212.1 IP, 1.192 WHIP 123 ERA+
Player A? Pedro Martinez in 2004.
Player B? Josh Beckett in 2009.
If you remember, one of the big stories of 2004 was how Schilling, not Pedro, was the alpha dog of the staff. And there were more than a few whispers about how Pedro was finished. And while there is no doubt that his 2004 season wasn't nearly vintage Pedro, can the passage of time at least give us a little perspective?
Beckett was a legit Cy Young candidate for most of the 2009 season. Pedro's 2004 season was better. A.J. Burnett has signed both a $55 million and $82.5 million contract in his career. He has never had a season as good as Pedro's in 2004.
No long hair. Didn't coin "Cowboy Up." No nickname. No bloody sock. Wasn't the captain. Never tried to release an album. No embarrassing pictures with college girls popping up on Barstool Sports. No sick grandmother or sore throat or midnight meeting at the Ritz with Enrique Wilson.
Nope, what Bill Mueller did was play baseball and keep his head down. And in three seasons with the Sox he managed to win a batting title and deliver the biggest regular season hit AND postseason hit of 2004. Plus you could've easily made a case for him as World Series MVP (he hit .429 in the St. Louis sweep.) The final line for his three seasons in Boston? .308/.378/.474. And the price for that effort was $6.7 million. Not per season. Total. A steal at twice the price. (Or, if you believe this story, five times the price.)
Another way to look at how much of a bargain Mueller was for the Sox: His total contract was $3 million less than the Sox paid Matt Clement in 2006 (a 6.61 ERA in 12 starts.)
I'm going with Clement, but three other candidates did enough (or didn't do enough) to earn consideration.
(1) David Wells — Truth be told he was OK in 2005 (15-7, an ERA of 4.45 that was just about the league average) and was the one starter that pitched well in the White Sox series. But he showed up to spring training in 2006 looking remarkably like Mr. Belvedere and made only eight starts (with a 4.98 ERA) before getting shipped off to San Diego. Still, a season of decent production and a reasonable contract ($4 mil in 2005) eliminates him from the top spot on the flop chart.
(2) Edgar Renteria — When can you score 100 runs and still manage to have a lousy season? How about when you spend most of the season (129 games) batting second in a lineup that included David Ortiz (47 HR, 148 RBI, .300 BA, .397 OBP) hitting third and Manny Ramirez (45 HRs, 144 RBI, .292 BA, .388 OBP) in the cleanup spot?
Both Manny and Ortiz were in the top five in slugging and top seven in OBP for the 2005 season. Renteria had an OBP of .335 that season (and slugged just .385), right at the league average. So almost any player in the American League that season would've scored at least 100 runs in that spot.
Of course, not every player in the league was making $8 million. Renteria was just a bad fit in Boston. If Bill Mueller (.369 OBP) hits second in 2005 he might've scored 120 runs.
(3) Julio Lugo — Almost put him in the top spot, but he has a huge edge over Clement in postseason play. Lugo hit .385 in the 2007 World Series (after hitting .300 in the ALDS). Clement's playoff ERA with the Red Sox? 21.60.
How about Steve Ontiveros? He hadn't pitched in the majors since 1995 when he joined the Sox in September of 2000 at the age of 39 after two Tommy John surgeries to reconstruct his pitching elbow.
You know the deal — everyone had given up on him, he had labored through the minors, all that stuff. And after all that he finally gets the call to pitch for the Red Sox in the middle of a pennant race.
Great story, right? Wondering why there was no Disney movie made about it? Well, I'm not sure, but giving up six runs in the first inning of a comeback start isn't something that goes well with a John Williams score. After that Ontiveros pitched two more times out of the bullpen for the Sox in 2000 and that was it. He never pitched in the major leagues again.
If Jeremy Giambi had even put up average numbers — something in the .270/.365/.450 range — he likely would have stayed in the everyday lineup for the 2003 Red Sox. And that probably would have meant that you and I would never have had, among others things, the immense pleasure of reading "Big Papi: My Story of Big Dreams and Big Hits."
Not if the Yankees win the World Series. Nope. That would eliminate the only advantage the Sox have. If the Phillies win, then you have to ask yourself this question: What is the value of one World Series?
The Yankees won eight division titles in the decade, the Sox just one. Four pennants for the Yankees, two for the Red Sox. If all you grade by is World Series titles then you've got your answer. I think any other standard would point to the Yankees, however.
(I'm sorry, but the Phillies are not allowed in this debate. The most games the Phillies won in any season this decade is 93. The Yankees have averaged 96.5 over the last 10 years, the Red Sox 92. Three playoff appearances for the Phillies. Nine for the Yankees, six for the Sox. The Phillies are 11th in baseball in wins from 2000-09. Sure they've had a nice run the last three years, but before that they were middle of the pack for seven years. Am I giving Robert Downey Jr. Actor of the Decade? Sure, if I'm starting the decade in 2007. But it doesn't work that way. Gotta give him a hit for "Ally McBeal" and "Gothika." Same goes for the Phillies. A 65-win season in 2000 counts the same as a 93-win season in 2009. And my Actor of the Decade? Maybe a little bit of a surprise, but I'm going with Philip Seymour Hoffman. Has anyone over the past 10 years given more good performances in good films? A few of the more notable efforts:
"State and Main"
"Almost Famous"
"Punch-Drunk Love"
"Cold Mountain"
"The Savages"
"Before the Devil Knows You're Dead"
"Charlie Wilson's War"
"Synecdoche, New York"
A free copy of "Deep Drive: A Long Journey to Finding the Champion Within" if you can guess the movie on this list during which Rob Bradford fell asleep in the theater while watching.)
Two words: gorilla suit.
How crazy was the three months that Theo Epstein was out of a job? There was a period of about 24 hours or so during the whole saga when it looked like Jeremy Kapstein was going to be the general manager of the Red Sox. And I remember not being at all surprised. Everything seemed to be in play. If they had signed Jimmy Fallon as a consultant I would've read it in the paper the next day and quietly nodded.
Manny Ramirez. Only other name that even warrants a glance is Ortiz, and he falls short in the categories that matter most.
Manny (eight seasons in Boston): .312 batting average, .411 OBP, .588 slugging
Ortiz: (seven seasons in Boston): .288 batting average, .388 OPB, .578 slugging
Pedro Martinez. Here's a line of his WORST numbers from 2000-03.
2.39 ERA, .700 winning percentage, 1.039 WHIP, 7.1 hits allowed per nine innings, 9.9 Ks per nine innings.
Not bad, huh? The WHIP, hits per nine innings and Ks per nine all led the American League. At his worst he was the best. Don't forget, from 1999-2003 Pedro was to pitching what Babe Ruth was to hitting in the 1920s. If he could have played outfield three days a week and hit .270 or so he would have been Babe Ruth.
Dale, Michael and Jerry dig into the details of this draft for the Patriots with ESPN's Mike Reiss.
Giardi and Price discuss the Tom Brady appeal getting overturned and Roger Goodell's victory tour. The guys can't believe the victory lap and some of his behavior. The more you listen to him, the more frustrating his behavior becomes.
Giardi and Price break down how the teams in the AFC East altered their futures after the NFL Draft weekend.
Sam Packard is joined by Celtics 2nd Round draft pick Abdel Nader to discuss his path to the the NBA and how he plans to improve his game. Sam then talks to Player Development Coach Nick Friedman from Elite Skills Training, the pre-Draft camp Nader attended. Friedman also gives his opinion on the Celtics performance at summer league and the development of Jaylen Brown.
Isaiah Thomas talks to Glenn and Lou about why he loves Boston, the NBA Money Bump, oh, and some Durant guy
Danny Ainge joins Glenn and Christian to explain the Celtics draft process; and he also discusses the trade rumors that permeated the night.
Drew Pomeranz looked stronger in his second Red Sox start but the offense wasn't there to back him up tonight. Mut recaps the 4-2 loss to the Tigers. Thoughts on the manager, the bullpen, and your Sox calls as well.
Joe Castiglione & Tim Neverett talked to the new Sox reliever, who got his first save for the team today against the Twins.
Christian recaps the Sox 2-1 loss to the Twins. Eduardo Rodriguez had a good showing tonight but couldn't get the run support needed to secure a W. Thoughts on all of that as well as your calls on Red Sox Review.
Joey Mac joins Ken Laird on his Saturday show to discuss the David Backes addition and Loui Eriksson departure in NHL free agency
DJ and Pete continue to assess the season that was for the Bruins and look toward the future for the franchise and how they can improve.
DJ and Pete are together for the final Sunday Skate of the season. They get into their overall thoughts on the season, the Bruins keeping Claude Julien on as head coach and the end-of-season press conferences last week. They discuss the rebuild process, what the Bruins need and how they can obtain it. Plenty of callers have their own theories and opinions on all of these topics as well.
Respected journalist Jackie MacMullan is forced to spend ten minutes listening to previous show renditions of Gary Tanguay's erotic writings, including from his novel 'Love in a Day.'
Dino, Gary Tanguay and Jackie MacMullan discuss the state of the presidential race, including whether Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton have driven any voters from one side of the political spectrum to the other.
ESPN's Jackie MacMullan are in studio to discuss the state of the Celtics, including Gerald Green's signing over the weekend and a glut of players on the roster.
Glenn and Tom Caron talk about Michael Jordan's letter where he calls for a halt to gun violence. They also talk about MJ's timing in using this platform; something he'd not done in the past.
Debbie Wasserman Schultz was booed by her Constituency at a breakfast to kick off the DNC, and Glenn and Tom Caron discuss what that means for the Convention.
Glenn and Tom Caron talk about the Aroldis Chapman trade; looking at what the Cubs gave up, the price for Relievers might be too steep for the Sox to consider.
Dale and Holley close out the show with the day's best sound.
The guys welcome back Michael from vacation and give him crap for his outfit.
We look back at some of the classic temper tantrums of athletes and coaches.
Kirk Minihane is joined by Boston comedy legend Lenny Clarke. If you are a fan of stand up comedy this is the podcast for you. Kirk and Lenny talk about Carlin, Pryor, Williams, Murphy and many more.
Kirk Minihane is joined by former ESPN ombudsman and New York Times writer Robert Lipsyte. Kirk and Robert discuss the current state of ESPN and how Robert feels he did in his role as ombudsman. They both criticize ESPN for the lack of journalism at ESPN and look at some of the curious decisions the world wide leader has made in the past few years.
Kirk Minihane is joined by Lenny Dykstra to talk about his book, his life pleasing older women, and Lenny tries to avoid his past issues with money. This is one explosive episode.
Christian Fauria and Dr Gill talk about what you need to do to be in the best shape to help your golf game. What exercises you should and shouldn't be doing so you can impress on the course.
Uncle Buck breaks down the WWE Draft and the new rosters for Monday Night Raw and Smackdown Live.
This week we look back at the Open Championship.
Glenn, Lou, and Christian examine the latest Pitcher rumored to be on the Sox' radar.More from this show
Gerry, Mut and Kirk dig back into the Melania Trump speech on night one of the RNC and discuss how the Trump team will and should handle things going forward.More from this show
Dino, Gerry and Tanguay spend the final hour-plus of the show discussing the upcoming Republican Convention in Cleveland and taking calls from different sides of the Black Lives Matter debate and it's role in flaming recent violence in the US.More from this show
After a few callers argue with Kirk and Gerry about racial profiling in America, the guys get to WEEI's Michael Holley disagreeing with Callahan on the inclusion of Michael Brown into recent examples of tragic deaths of blacks in America.More from this show
Donald Trump's wife Melania was caught lifting parts of Michelle Obama's 2008 speech at the opening night of the Republican National Convention. Kirk, Gerry and Mike Mutnansky react.More from this show


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Upgraded to 3.6 and then it started blocking anyone who was not registered from commenting. My first thought that the failure was due to another plugin that I recently installed, but deactivating that had no effect. I was still getting ENTER YOUR NAME AND EMAIL and ENTER A COMMENT ERRORS no matter what I did or what settings were in place. When I deactivated this plugin, my troubles magically disappeared and all went back to normal. Didn't need it anyway as I have an anti-spam plugin that works very well in blocking spammers.
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Local elected officials
were at a bustling Port of Albany June 14 to announce that they had secured $5
million in federal stimulus funding to pay for the next phase of a wharf
replacement project, the Albany Times Union reports.
New York state and CSXT have set aside differences so that planning can go forward for a high-speed rail line across upstate New York. The parties have signed a pair of agreements to facilitate planning for the passenger-train track that New York intends to build.
Sound Transit's light-rail system has broken the 20,000 mark for weekday ridership, The Seattle Times reported Friday.
Construction begins next month on a $59 million railroad underpass in Downers Grove, Ill., at Belmont Road, one of the state's most frequently blocked crossings, the Chicago Tribune reports.
A lousy economy and lack of interest have forced the West Virginia Public Port Authority to postpone plans for the Prichard Intermodal Terminal, the Associated Press reports.
Remember Me


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Action Bronson x Statik Selektah ft. Nina Sky - Cocoa Butter
Posted 4 years ago
Tags: Action Bronson
Statik Selektah
Well Done
Thought Boston heavyweight Statik Selektah and Flushing, Queens emcee Action Bronson made a dope pair on Population Control single Never a Dull Moment? Well, the collaborators evidently agree with your assessment, as they've joined forces to craft a full-length collaborative LP. Every bit as smooth as its title suggests, lead single Cocoa Butter finds Statik serving up a smooth, sampled backdrop for Bronson's characteristically virtuosic NYC street lyricism. Topped off with the breezy hook vocals of Polo Grounds/RCA duo Nina Sky, this is just one of many bangers to be found on Well Done, scheduled to hit record stores and online retailers November 22.
Action Bronson Statik Selektah Nina Sky
Written by richard
Posted 4 years ago
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Posted about 14 hours ago by William E. Ketchum III
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Group Since April 19, 2007
Roxycraft ADMIN October 6, 2008
Please join and post your pictures of Roxycraft dolls!
This group discussion is for members only.
Group DescriptionPost pictures of your dolls made from Roxycraft.com patterns!
Additional Info
- Accepted content types: Photos, Videos, Images, Art, Screenshots
- Accepted safety levels: Safe


text:
http://johnmondello.kwrealty.com/listings/areas/30743/propertytype/SINGLE,CO ... more
If you find the listing on Trulia, you can contact the listing agent who will be able to help you learn more about that specific property (and probably will know a lot about ... more
I hate to steal your thread..But I have a home for sale in baker, with a HUGE master suite and bath, A HUGE walk in closet, and office/workout room off the master bedroom. ... more
one misconception home buyers and the general public have about builders is their return on profit. small-med-large builder's will see an average of 8% of profit. this always su ... more