text:
(Part One)
By Aaron Fleming & Duke De Mondo
Duke De Mondo
Stresses stressing me – the sudden pressure exerted by unknown entities upon my easternmost testicle. The curious noises sweeping and darting about my arsehole – folks nearest eyeing me with yaps all skewed to one side, and me shaking the head, saying no, it's just making funny noises, I didn't go guff or anything. The fact that a woman across the way looks a bit like Maggie Gyllenhaal and I very much desire to court her – a desire forever thwarted by that far-too-interested inclination of the head she gave in response to some slanderous gabbling about psychoanalysis.
Panic! Thinking – Dear Christ in Heaven, I gave that self-same tilt of the bonce not five minutes ago. What's that Jay-Z lyric about his mother tells him never to argue with idiots, for from a distance folks can't tell the difference…
Sir Fleming gives a raise of the eyebrows upon approaching, his tester waddling behind. "Sorted?" says I.
"Sorted," he echoes with a just-perceptible wince.
A sweep of the arm the tester gives then, gesturing toward a doorway beyond which two or three individuals of staggering beauty sit gazing doe-eyed at other like cherubs fawning about the frescos in a cathedral, mesmerised by their likenesses.
A person of indeterminable sex and nationality smiles at me as I pass. I offer a stilted approximation of such, careful not to reveal the sore lamentable state of my teeth, lest they set upon me here and now with flames and nunchaku and daggers, Sir Fleming left to watch aghast as they beat thon Devil's pegs from out my screaming, squealing maw.
Up a narrow, ill-railed staircase the tester takes us, leading us to a screening room situated on the first floor. On the wall by the door hangs a framed movie poster replete with images of lovers embracing in triumph and foulest villainous bastards clawing the flesh from their bones in rage. The Story Of Book One, it says. "I was hoping it might be Cocktail," says I.
"Or Battlefield Earth," says Sir Fleming, sighing a vast, fathomless sigh.
Her fidgeting for the light switch proving fruitless, the tester shows us to the screening room, a horizonless hovel shrouded in robes of the pitchest, densest black. The black of the deep afore kissed by the light of Yahweh. The black of the dreams of risen Lazarus. The black of infinity.
"Take a seat," she instructs, assuming that we know where there are seats to be taken.
Groping blind at the air, robbed of spatial awareness, knowing neither the size of the room nor the shape, my fingers presently brush the soft arm of a chair, sending signals then to the pole of my arse – "Come hither, ye cheeks, come hither…"
"It lasts about twenty minutes," our guide instructs us, leaving us then, both of us terrified to speak for fear of the sundry other forms that may or may not be sat on seats to our left, to our right, afore or behind us. The ears scrab at the murmur of the darkness, sifting for tell-tale sighs or wheezes, coughs or sniffs.
"Might have the trailer for the new Rambo," Sir Fleming whispers.
I nod, or at least assume myself to nod. In this impenetrable wash of black, a fella's motions and gestures become as the orations of the deaf – one can never be wholly certain that what he's doing corresponds entirely to what he thinks he's doing.
Suddenly, the screen afore us blazes into life, charging the black with light, wringing from the colossal dark a much more manageable colossal murk. The vague shape of my hand conjured anew from nothingness fills me with calm, and whilst waiting for the picture to begin I spend a time flexing and relaxing my fingers 'front my face, like a child discovering for the very first time the joy of a gargantuan fart in the hush of a chapel.
Aaron Fleming
Images burn across the screen, a cryptic collage of narrative fragments divorced from order. The numbing darkness of yore is undercut by a new source of light, siphoning fear hitherto running rampant, dispelling nightmare visions of a boisterous Psychlo gang rape – an inevitable fate in such a room as this.
I look to my left. The outline of the Duke is perceptible, seemingly relaxing to the bout of on-coming flickery we are being dished. I, on the other hand, remain jittery as to the unknown spectres and agents potentially seated to our rear, the voiceless entities sharing our air; what if they, through chance or iniquity, are breathing in precise unison with us? How might we then detect the threat? And just what is that object standing mid-aisle, clicking and humming and titillating the floor?
Impending doom gives way to the film. A portrait of a tale, painted with streaks glissading through this tomb, catalepsy drones ushered out of hidden speakers. A man enjoys a birthday party, exchanging kisses with loved ones, wife brokering love petals animating his life. Surges back and forth in plot leave the story unclear – a music video without a song, forging a Lynch-like air of confusion, rasping ambiguity and diffidence, stretching TV movie colours over itself like a shabby condom pulled over a crooked cock.
The Duke mumbles something, words dissolving on the journey to my ears. I fear at any moment I will turn to him to be met with a face howling in venomous rapture, an accusatory finger aimed right at me, ala Donald Sutherland in the '78 Invasion of the Body Snatchers. To what intense glow of subliminal imagery have we thus far been subjected? Is that my spinal cord fraying at the edges, or just wind?
The introductory puzzlement progresses to something more compatible with words, a linear series of events, such as would follow Dolph Lundgren on a trip to Menarys.
The protagonist, jumping over clutches and avoiding slams, playing football, hurtling to and fro to wrench a ball from its spinning serenity, but then: a horribly debilitating accident. Upon taking possession of the ball, he is driven down to the ground, pummeled by fellow players, helmets cracking femurs and fibulas, a kneecapping homage to C Company, the glint of Johnny Adair shining through every spasm.
Hospital awaits. Broken legs, that's the diagnosis. Terror and bewilderment, depression and self-loathing, all fissures pockmarking his existence. Feverish flashes of our hero's beau come to console, only to be banished by dejection. Medical staff torture him, surgery teased in haunting melodies, unsettling ambiance fed through a reverse-catheter.
A sinister psychoanalyst arrives, news of "you'll never walk again" still ringing in his ears. The beardy visitor, tall and ominous, recommends many years of psychoanalysis – the only course of action available in such an instance of trauma.
"But, doctor," cries the fellow, "how will that cure my legs, my goddamn legs!"
"Cure?" bellows the shrink, with a smirk to his colleagues, "How naïve! Ha! There is no cure, don't be so foolish."
The psychoanalyst and his entourage proceed to taunt the patient's naivety.
It's not until he's at his lowest – a nadir spotlighting suicide, heroin, and other escapes – that mercy sees fit to concede him a redemption. Waking up one morning, expecting to be met with maniacal surgeons, he finds a copy of Dianetics on his bed. Lounging supine, he examines said booklet. The marvels and revelations come quickly. Pages flicker in the light of his fingers, mesmerised eyes flex over the contents: memories in the head, retained and locked away, the awful truth about psychiatry, those damn pesky reactive minds.
Digested, the protagonist sets to work transforming theory into practice. Toes come into focus, dead appendages detached from life.
Tension – what could possibly happen here?
I momentarily glance at the Duke, him recoiling in disgust at such a vulgar close-up of toes.
Then it happens: the big toe ignites into motion, followed by swishes lashed by the others. Another second and the man is on his feet, sprinting around the hospital room, bounding onto chairs, then leaping onto the floor. The doctors are stunned, unable to comprehend that a mere book would cure this man's broken legs, but there you have it. A final shot of the psychoanalyst, sulking, cantankerous to the bitter end, leaves us in no doubt as to the winner of this duel.
The credits gaze at us from the screen.
"I say we go burn the Freud Museum right this very instant!" I propose to the Duke.
Not listening, the Duke enquires, "Isn't she coming back for us? What do we do?"
The guide has indeed failed to return, the screening room empty save for us. With a great lunge I flick the light-switch. Icons adorn the walls, held loftily by still-wet jissom, the smell smothering the room.
"Shall we leave?" says I.
"Aye," the Duke mouths approvingly.
Duke De Mondo
The digital projector behind us murmurs contentedly, exuding curious tendrils of azure light that dance and whirl demented about the airways.
"What'd you make o' that, at all?" Sir Fleming enquires.
"I dunno," I say, scratching at the bum-fluff on my jaw, squinting a touch. "It's all a bit… well it's a bit self-serving, the whole thing, is it not?"
Thinking then – Christianity, Hinduism, Islam… Which of them isn't self-serving? Their longing for justice (whatever their definition of such may be), their professed love (to lesser or greater extent) of the downtrodden and the weak and the beaten and bruised – it's all self-serving, it's all in pursuit of some personal gain to be garnered far side of a bullet in the eyehole or a topple off of a cliff or a battle with the minotaur or whatever.
Perhaps Scientology is just more honest?
Heads poking out the door of the screening room, scanning the stairways either side. "Where is she?" I ask. "Do they have a Rapture, these people? Has she been plucked from out the Earth by the thumb and forefinger of L. Ron? Has she been set upon by Psychlos?"
"Hubbard only knows," Sir Fleming replies in hushed tones, his eyes narrowed, searching. "But I will stand in this darkness no more."
Criticisms plucked out the broadsheets and the tabloids and the blogs, considered anew whilst clambering from one floor to the next.
"It's absurd! Aliens! Fucking… fucking thetans!? It's absurd!"
Maybe so, thinking, but none more at all than the idea of a virgin birth or of a woman turning to a pillar of salt or of a staff turning into a snake.
"They're kidnappers!"
Thinking – It's not really kidnap, though, is it? These people are adults. They can decide for themselves if they wanna whistle tarrah to the folks what raised them. Did not Christ himself bid his followers to leave her indoors indoors, to abandon mothers and fathers, to sling aside the progeny like a month-old wank-rag?
Says a man straddling the back of my brain – "Each epoch gets the religion it deserves!"
This is the crux of the matter.
Having outgrown Christ and Buddha, having decided that the whole rich man / camel / eye of needle carry-on is all well and good when you're a student, like, but fuck me… Having decided a bypass is needed that folks can get to Heaven without having to go anywhere near the townships of Revolution and Individual Accountability and Solidarity where thon hoary old Marxist Christ done spent his gap year blathering and braying, having reached these conclusions, it was surely inevitable that the West would spawn something like Scientology.
Scientology is the only religion that makes any sense whatsoever at this point in time.
The Bible is too dangerous a bugger of a thing for it suggests that the poor and the exiled and the disenfranchised are pissed the fuck off and are two cross-nails shy of wrenching the power back from the vicious bastards who built their empires 'pon their shoulders. To Hell with the perversions the Churches are peddling – Christianity is a philosophy of rebellion and revolution.
For this reason, the West has grown ever more uncomfortable with it. Its preachers will divert attention to the two lines in the Bible that mention rim-jobs or tea bagging, they'll pontificate endlessly on the texture of the Whore of Babylon's hoo-hah, on the notes that maybe came from out those trumpets, anything at all that keeps folks from stumbling upon the message of those texts, that keeps them from questioning those IMAX screens at the end of every pew, those blood diamond crucifixes, those Aryan saviours, those chariots of friendly-fire.
What the rise of Evangelical Christianity represents is not a strengthening of belief in The Bible but a fear of it. Keep folks thinking about abortion and homosexuality and you're keeping them from thinking about what Christ got up to in that temple.
For these reasons, aye, Scientology makes perfect sense. It's a religion for the Pharaohs, not the fuckers who clean the Pharaohs' stables or cook their haddock of an evening.
It's about personal gain, it's about money, it's about power.
By cloaking itself in the colours of science, it appeals to a culture fed up with superstition, yet it retains enough of the reek of the mystical to play on nostalgia for those very same beliefs, and its own beliefs it has the good sense to hide till such times as folks are financially and mentally invested enough to approach without erupting in a thousand chards of delirious laugh-laugh.
It is genius.
"Maybe we should see what's in there?" Sir Fleming suggests, startling me some, gesturing to the door up ahead.
I cough in the affirmative, saying then about I hope to fuck it's a toilet. "The wild need for to dangle o'er the porcelain a time, I have. At the very least I hope there's some machine that'll rid me of the desire to shit by fixing what the aliens did or freeing me from stuff I heard one time before my ears had developed."
Sir Fleming considers this. Then – "Dear God, maybe the Knowledge Machine is in there."
A glance over the shoulder – shadows on the lower floor… footfalls. Sir Fleming tries the handle. It's locked. "We best go back down," I say, panicked some. "If they find us up here who knows what they'll do."
"Kill us, maybe."
"Stone dead. To within an inch of our very lives…" Grimacing some then. "Christ, I really could do with a crap."
Aaron Fleming
We shimmy down the stairs, loading screens from Resident Evil commandeering the mind's eye. Posters crawl up the walls, propaganda articles, sowers of seeds pulsating with self-help strength, gestating a rebirth for subjects coiled 'round outdated philosophies and theologies. The stench of Tony Robbins, of charlatan healers, sapphire remedies devised by scoundrels bewitched by the dollar – transitory pecuniary harvests belying a carnivorous rampage that casts the vulnerable into pits of poverty. Outward charisma masks the revolting truth: how an industry built upon the idea of helping people inevitably only aids the perpetrators in amassing vast fortunes.
As the table proffering copies of Dianetics ascends out of view, Scientology's kinship with the gargoyles of self-help is clear. Monies crisscrossing hands seems the only way for mental satisfaction, for fulfillment, to attain a contented mind and live a life not weighed down by melancholy. All are equal…in the eyes of the market – a monstrous entity bolstered by parasitic agents like Hubbard's child, polluting the public space with its injunction to cleanse the mind of ills that are probably not there, and if there are, certainly some shite about thetans isn't the cure.
The soft carpet rolls underneath our feet as we slink down, one step after another. At the bottom, in this enclave locked out the back of the church, we try to recall by which door we entered.
"Was it this one?" asks the Duke standing beside a plain white door.
"Who knows," I reply, looking around another corner, sighting stairs to the basement, where stands a table flanked by potted plants. "We might as well try it."
Opening the door brings us once again into the main space. Random people in red t-shirts are wandering around, picking up documents from one desk and moving them to side panels inked in sparkling maxims. Even more copies of Dianetics are housed here. The book slumbers in stacks on the mantle, English editions ruffle up against Greek and Russian editions, with French and Italian loaded onto a lower shelf. The Duke and I squint to see the covers. Stickers announce that two million copies have been sold up to now. A girl with a distracted gait comes up to the stockpile, floats her hand over the books for a second, then slides one out, ambling back to the front of the church.
"This truly is the idol," observes the Duke.
"The girl?"
"The book."
"Ah yes…I feel blasphemous just by looking at the thing!"
"It'll eat your very soul that will," warns the Duke.
Just then a chap in a red t-shirt approaches us, his American twang already revealed through his eyes.
"Like the film?" he quizzes.
"Oh aye," we answer.
"Which one did you watch?"
"Uh…American football, legs – dirty ol' psychoanalysis huckster bastards!" spits the Duke.
"Yes…" The word oozes from his lips, they upturning into a smile, his bench-pressed chest heaving with poorly-concealed merriment.
"You lads want the test?" he throws at us.
"I've already had it…didn't go too well," I say, suppressing the tears. "This guy, however…"
We both look at the Duke.
At this, the prophet hurries off to get someone, a free body able to execute the test.
A video screen on the wall runs what looks like an infomercial, soft focus and blocky graphics the order of the day. More posters grace the wall, small icons dwell in the spaces between them. Glossy leaflets look up from tables. Cheap DVDs and CD-ROMs garnish an empty chair set against the wall. Had Paul been pushing his Christian wares these days this is surely the sort of tactics he would have got up to. Gaudy merchandise lining every corner of the holy place – holy places lining every corner of the high-street.
Yet, where Jesus and Co. had literary merit and artistic credentials to balance the inherent nonsense of it all, the Scientologists have only monotony for a shield. Glimmers of poetic merit don't seem to burst forth from Dianetics. Despite many criticisms to be fired at the Bible — a conflation of historical fact and literature, the foremost — nevertheless, the passages and tales deserve a respect, even if this respect is fired only by admiration for the prose or recognition of the subsequent gems of writing indebted to it. Recall the touching scene in Crime and Punishment where tortured Raskolnikov has righteous Sonia read him the fable of Lazarus; now imagine the latter fable were one involving giant Psychlos beating Johnny Goodboy about the balls, calling him 'craphead' and such like – doesn't have quite the same effect, I think you'll agree.
Best thing Scientology's gifted us, as far as aesthetic and artistic worth is concerned, would be Tom Cruise jumping across Shanghai skyscrapers in Mission Impossible III. Although, in retrospect, that was pretty damn cool, perhaps there's something in this Scientology malarkey after all.
Duke De Mondo
"Sufferin' fuck," says I, "I'm stressin' something wicked over this stress test. Where the blazes is that bastard?"
Sir Fleming surveys the area, nudging me then, guiding my line of sight towards a fella with yellow palms stood grinning a fart's width away. "I hear you're Irish," he says to me.
I nod.
"No. Up North."
"Up North…" He looks at me like I just pissed a dozen emus. As if to say – there are other places? And people live in them?
"I was hopin' I could perhaps get a stress test."
He shrugs and says "Certainly" in an accent somewhere between New Jersey and the house at the end of our street.
Clamping the mits about the silver cylinders, observing his tinkering with the doohickey perched atween us — tapping too-long fingers off the side, glaring at the needle, stroking the chin — I find myself thinking of things I might be stressed about.
Family? No, as good a relationship with the kin as anyone could hope for.
Friends? I choose wisely…
The filth and the fumbling? Two times a week. Three if I'm bored. Seven if there's a good update on YouPorn.
Money? I have next to none, but I don't think it would be appropriate to say so in here. Like wanking beeswax o'er the Pope's Sunday trousers. Like mounting the effigy by the altar for to shag a seraph in the ear. Like tickling a vicar's willy mid-service. Like farting in the guru's beard. Like-
"So," says he. "Stress. What are you stressed about?"
The test takes about five minutes, during which time I learn only that I am indeed stressed about the things I said I was stressed about, for the needle gave a nigh-on-imperceptible quiver 'round about the time I said so, or at least it did after your man there got to fidgeting a bit with the article on the far-side.
"What does this mean?" I ask.
"It means you're stressed," says he. "And this…" he holds aloft a copy of Dianetics, "will tell you why."
Thinking – I know why. I just told you why. Ah well. Best just to push the bottom lip out a bit, do some nodding, say about I'm skint right now but I'm ever so interested so I am and I'd be a crazy, scabby, stinkin' fuckin' hoor if I was to bet against me stopping by to pick one up when I'm a touch more flush about the fivers and the tens.
For a time Sir Fleming and I stand gawking at the folks on the floor below, the folks with the scribbling and the big clocks and the air of solemn contemplation hung like shrouds about their bodies. "I.Q tests," your man says in passing. "You're welcome to take it if you want."
Sir Fleming and I exchange a set of glances in the key of Damn The Test More I Want To Take, thanking him anyway, and promising to take news of L. Ron to the people of Ireland soon as they get the potatoes working again.
The End And So OnPowered by Sidelines


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Dr. Akman is Associate Professor of Clinical Neurology and Pediatrics of the Division of Pediatric Neurology, Departments of Neurology and Pediatrics, College of Physicians and Surgeons of Columbia University. Dr. Akman was born and educated in Ankara, Turkey where she graduated with Honors from the School of Medicine, Ankara University. Dr. Akman completed her training in Child Neurology at State University of New York; and Clinical neurophysiology and Epilepsy at Boston Children's Hospital, Harvard Medical School. Subsequently, Dr Akman joined the Division of Pediatric Neurology and Pediatric Epilepsy at Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center and participated in clinical education and patients' care until 2008. Between 2008 and 2010, Dr. Akman worked as the Director of Clinical Epilepsy Research at Texas Children's Hospital, Baylor College of Medicine. Dr Akman has re-joined the Division of Pediatric Neurology and Pediatric Epilepsy as the Director of Pediatric Epilepsy in 2010. Her clinical practice focuses on infantile and childhood epilepsy; epilepsy surgery and the treatment of refractory epilepsy in children.Read more
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Category:Frisby on the Wreake
English: Frisby on the Wreake is a village in England located near Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire.
See also category: Frisby, Leicestershire.
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Roy Hodgson, the Liverpool manager, is not a man used to pointing out the brutally obvious, usually leaving it to the public's wider intelligence to see what is in front of their eyes.
However, he confounded that reputation yesterday by confirming what the entire Premier League already knew: Joe Cole has so far flattered to deceive during his Liverpool tenure.
When Cole signed a four-year contract in July, it was greeted with enthusiasm verging on ecstasy by most Liverpool fans who were convinced that his capture represented the first marquee signing of the new post-Rafael Benitez era.
But from the moment he was dismissed against Arsenal on his Premier League debut, Cole has failed to impress; a situation not helped by a hamstring problem that has hindered his recent game time and mobility.
Hodgson is as supportive as it gets of players who are down on their luck and spoke yesterday about his willingness to put an arm around a player if he feels he needs it. However, when it comes to Cole, it would seem that Hodgson is taking a firmer stance, insisting that although he still retains faith in the England international it is rapidly becoming time that that faith was repaid with performances on a level so far unseen on Merseyside.
"Joe has to come to terms with the fact that he has come here after an unsuccessful period at Chelsea with high hopes of taking Liverpool by storm and unfortunately it's not happened," Hodgson said. "He should be convincing me and everyone watching that this is a player who can help Liverpool win things and I think you couldn't say that has been the case so far.
"All Joe needs is a couple of good games or maybe a goal and that could turn things around for him.
"But our competition for places is getting stronger, so the only thing I can say to him that 'we're happy to have you here Joe, but I can't offer you anything more than a chance and you have to take it when it comes along'."
Meanwhile, Hodgson maintained that talk of a Benitez comeback at Anfield is not concerning him. Hodgson replaced Benitez in the summer before the Spaniard took over at Internazionale but that has all gone badly wrong after Benitez criticised the club president Massimo Moratti for having no money to spend on new players.
Benitez is now back at his Wirral home and that has triggered rumours that he could be reinstalled at Anfield. "It would be surprising," Hodgson said. "If he were the right man for the job then it would have been wiser not to let him go for six months and then have to bring him back."
Unsurprisingly, Benitez has no ally in Jose Mourinho. There is no love lost between the former Inter coach, now at Real Madrid and the man who replaced him. Mourinho offered a withering summary of the situation in Italy yesterday: "Ask all the Inter fans what they think of me and him."
- More about:
- Jose Mourinho
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Audio Post Production Studios NYC based sound services company provides creative audio post production services for TV, Radio commercials, films, TV seriesBIG sound from the built-in stereo speakers and subwoofer. Sound Lounge is the ideal medley of form, function, and fun. This stylish ottoman features an integrated ...Join Solid Rock 94.1 FM WJJO FM in Madison, WI for their exclusive and inclusive Sound Lounge experience! Live music with catered food and alcohol.Soundlounge features live bands from a variety of genres from rock, pop, acoustic, dub, reggae, funk and more. Find out more about our events.Welcome to the Lounge section of DJ Jeannie Hopper's Liquid Sound Lounge, your on line guide to the underground scene of New York CIty and beyondThis notice will show up for all members and you can dismiss it after reading. It should not show again after that. Based on the number of complaints about members ...Welcome to the Liquid Sound Lounge Radio Show, DJ Jeannie Hopper's cartoons of sound from the underground heard every Saturday in New York City on WBAI RadioSound Lounge provides Automated Dialogue Recording - ADR recording and mixing as local records or via ISDN or SourceConnect at our ADR studios in NYC.WELCOME Are you looking for a venue that will Inspire you? The FRESH Facility is THAT space and the perfect place to host your next event ...Welcome to The Seymour Centre – Theatre and performing arts in the heart of the University of Sydney campus.
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A1 Basement Solutions
A-1 Basement Solutions educates the public about basement repair and waterproofing while protecting your home and health.
Where Does All the Rain Water Go?
Doug Lynch
Today I want to talk about surface water which is water that comes from rainfall. Surface water is much different than ground water, and again, much different from a high water table. Surface water comes from above, while ground water and the water table come from beneath your home.
Rain can prod...
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Written Jan 29, 2013


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Modern biomedical research is being transformed by what is increasingly becoming a flood of information. Electronic medical records have opened unprecedented opportunities for studies investigating a wide range of problems ranging from epidemiological aspects of human disease to the comparative effectiveness of various treatment protocols. Similarly, genomic technologies such as DNA microarrays and next-generation DNA sequencing have opened a floodgate of data and information that promises to shed light on the complex nature of human disease. In this information-rich age, one of the greatest challenges is therefore no longer generating data, but effectively integrating it so that it can be used to advantage. Because clinical practice has long been separate from the research enterprise at most academic health centers, a situation has evolved in which clinical and research data exist in separate, often incompatible domains with a variety of technical, institutional, and organizational barriers between them. Further limiting our ability to extract the maximal value of the data we have available is the fact that data within institutions is rarely integrated with the vast body of data available in the public domain. Two large sources of clinical data will be used in this program project. The data for both of these large IFM/DFCI collaborative clinical trials (1000 MM patients treated with RVD with or without high dose therapy and transplant;1210 patients with either monoclonal gammopathy of undetermined significance or smoldering MM (SMM) followed for progression to active MM) are collected in an established clinical trials database at the IFM.
The aims of Core B are to create, maintain and quality control the clinical database (Specific Aim 1);to collect, transport, process and store tissue samples from all sites utilizing standardized procedures in centralized tissue banks (Specific Aim 2);and to develop a data warehouse to integrate the sample tracking and oncogenomic information with the relevant clinical data from the clinical trials database with web based query capabilities (Specific Aim 3).
|Bae, J; Prabhala, R; Voskertchian, A et al. (2015) A multiepitope of XBP1, CD138 and CS1 peptides induces myeloma-specific cytotoxic T lymphocytes in T cells of smoldering myeloma patients. Leukemia 29:218-29
|Hu, Y; Song, W; Cirstea, D et al. (2015) CSNK1?1 mediates malignant plasma cell survival. Leukemia 29:474-82
|Moreau, Philippe; Cavo, Michele; Sonneveld, Pieter et al. (2014) Combination of international scoring system 3, high lactate dehydrogenase, and t(4;14) and/or del(17p) identifies patients with multiple myeloma (MM) treated with front-line autologous stem-cell transplantation at high risk of early MM progression-related J Clin Oncol 32:2173-80
|Lu, R; Pal, J; Buon, L et al. (2014) Targeting homologous recombination and telomerase in Barrett's adenocarcinoma: impact on telomere maintenance, genomic instability and tumor growth. Oncogene 33:1495-505
|Anderson, K K; Flora, N; Archie, S et al. (2014) A meta-analysis of ethnic differences in pathways to care at the first episode of psychosis. Acta Psychiatr Scand 130:257-68
|Chretien, Marie-Lorraine; Hebraud, Benjamin; Cances-Lauwers, Valérie et al. (2014) Age is a prognostic factor even among patients with multiple myeloma younger than 66 years treated with high-dose melphalan: the IFM experience on 2316 patients. Haematologica 99:1236-8
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text:
Student Movement for Free Markets and Limited Government
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What is Turning Point USA?
Turning Point USA is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization founded on June 5, 2012 by Charlie Kirk. The organization's mission is to identify, educate, train, and organize students to promote the principles of fiscal responsibility, free markets, and limited government.
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text:
I'm in a bad place now,
This is where you led me.
You said you'd show me heaven.
Why, why lie?
These were dark times
Life's journey had made me
Lose my way.
This hell went on, day after day.
The mask you wore was
Summers sun,
the winter of my life was
Soon to come.
How many were there?
Which one told you to do the
Things you did?
For Gods sake, I was just a kid!
Soft like putty for you to mould,
did everything,everything! I was told.
The perfect girl for you took shape.
So young, so stupid.
What a mistake.
It was such a long, long time.
Your mask was slipping,
I could see it crack, it was breaking up,
Falling apart.
I saw it all whilst you were killing
my heart.
You were ill
I couldn't I see that
All of you were ill, inside of there.
Inside the darkness of you.
Just a few more drinks.
Just one more sniff.
Look the other way.
I know I'm gonna pay
Who do I see now?
Is it you, the one with
Summers smile,
or another dark one,
Locked in there?
Again you left me with a little token
Say's I to the doc
"Can you fix me? I'm broken".
© Copyright 2017 Sunnyson. All rights reserved.
Status: Finished
Genre: Poetry
Very moving poem. Pain and deep emotion eloquently expressed. Great work. SN
I really enjoyed this one. Perfect structure and progression in emotion.. Thank you for sharing it.
Wow, rather unique structure, I leally liked it. You did a very good job. The content is most heartbreaking, I'm glad you got through it ok, I love the ending!
Amazing job on this it's very emotional and I like the ending a lot it's different
Book / Romance
Short Story / Fantasy
Poem / Poetry
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text:
Injuries hurt, but fill-ins can be soothing to your fantasy roster
Injuries seem to have come early and often this year.
From Evan Longoria's oblique strain five at-bats into the season to Josh Hamilton's broken bone in his shoulder, fantasy owners have been forced to patch serious holes in their lineups.
The latest scare involved Minnesota Twins star catcher Joe Mauer, who had weakness in his legs that was feared to have been related to spinal cord and back issues that hampered him in the past. Instead, Mauer seems to be suffering from a viral infection that will keep him on the disabled list for a couple weeks but doesn't pose severe long-term concerns.
Those injuries are in addition to ones keeping Chase Utley, Zack Greinke, Kendrys Morales, Corey Hart, Brad Lidge, Jason Bay, Johan Santana and Brandon Morrow sidelined. That's an awful lot of talent missing from fantasy rosters.
EXPERT CHAT: Steve Gardner answers questions Monday, 11 a.m. ET
If your team has been ravaged by bad injury luck and is looking up at your rivals from the league's basement (and, yes, that describes nearly every one of my teams), there's one thing for which to be thankful: It's early.
It's always dangerous to draw conclusions based on small sample sizes. In fact, you hear that alliterative phrase repeatedly at this time of year. The loss of one (or more) key players early likely will have a dramatic impact on your place in the standings.
Matt Holliday and Adam Dunn were out for only a week or so, but by the time they returned, they'd missed half of the young season.
Fantasy owners who paid top dollar for third basemen Ryan Zimmerman and Longoria are feeling an even deeper pain … and will be feeling it a little longer.
Still, there are reasons to be optimistic (statistics through Sunday).
New talent rises to the surface
Early on, injuries have created playing time for lesser-known players to step forward.
The Arizona Diamondbacks' Willie Bloomquist and Tampa Bay Rays' Sam Fuld went undrafted in all but the deepest leagues, but these outfielders have been helpful to fantasy owners who snatched them off the waiver wire.
The versatile Bloomquist filled in so well for shortstop Stephen Drew that he has earned more playing time in the outfield. Bloomquist started the season with a 10-game hitting streak, and his .316 average with seven stolen bases make him one of the most valuable fantasy players so far.
Fuld has been the main beneficiary of Manny Ramirez's sudden retirement. He's playing great defense, hitting .347 and leading the American League with seven steals.
Even if you missed these gems, there will be others on the waiver wire in weeks to come.
Last season for instance, the Toronto Blue Jays' Jose Bautista was hitting .213 with four homers at the end of April. He turned out to be a fairly valuable player when he added 50 more homers to his total over the remaining five months.
Milwaukee Brewers closer John Axford was in the minor leagues last April. But once he was called up, he produced eight wins and 24 saves.
In leagues that use free-agent acquisition budgets (FAAB), be thankful the injuries have hit while you still have most of your original bankroll. In leagues that award weekly waiver picks in the inverse order of the standings, there's at least one benefit to being last.
Time is on your side
An early-season injury doesn't have to be a crippling blow to your title hopes. Two seasons ago, Mauer missed the first month with back problems but returned to put up the best numbers of his career (.365, 28 homers, 96 RBI) and win the AL batting title and MVP award.
Longoria, Zimmerman, Greinke and company are all young enough — and talented enough — that they could do the same thing once they're back to 100%.
Josh Hamilton's two-month absence makes him a slightly different case. But Hamilton owners: Would you rather be without him in April and May or lose him in September when the waiver wire has been picked clean?
At least now there's a better chance of finding someone who can make a positive contribution, especially at a position as deep as outfield. Is David Murphy already on someone else's roster? Alex Gordon, Jeff Francoeur, Matt Joyce, Logan Morrison and Jonny Gomes are likely to be available in most mixed leagues.
Those free agents may not completely fill the void, but a hot streak lasting just a few weeks can help ease the pain.
In head-to-head leagues, it's even easier to overcome early-season injuries. All you need to do is survive so you just make the playoffs. On the other hand, the loss of a player like Hamilton late last season could have ruined even the most well-constructed team's chances of bringing home a title.
Shortstops on the mend
While there's usually plenty of outfield depth on the free-agent wire, the same cannot be said for shortstop.
With Hanley Ramirez and Derek Jeter hitting around .240, Erick Aybar and J.J. Hardy sidelined and most recently Rafael Furcal out with a broken thumb, finding a shortstop who can help is getting tougher.
The season's biggest shortstop surprise is the Cleveland Indians' Asdrubal Cabrera, 25, who was hitting .279 with four homers and 14 RBI. Sell-high time? Maybe not. Cabrera was a .308 hitter with 17 steals in 2009 and was off to a decent start last season before missing the second half with a broken arm. He's currently in the top 20 overall fantasy performers on ESPN's Player Rater and second to Troy Tulowitzki among shortstops.
That kind of offensive production might not last all season, but he could end up being a top-five shortstop in AL-only leagues.
Meanwhile, keep an eye on the Boston Red Sox's Jed Lowrie. With starter Marco Scutaro off to a slow start (.188), Lowrie is one of the few Red Sox hitters having any sort of success. He's even getting a look in the leadoff spot.
Lowrie missed the first half of 2010, but hit .287 with a .907 slugging percentage after the All-Star break. Eligibility at second base as well as shortstop adds to his fantasy value.
If injuries force you to look to fill a roster spot at a middle infield position, Lowrie has the upside to be worth grabbing for the long haul.


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