text:
GREENWOOD, S.C. - Georgia Southwestern used a pair of dominating offensive performances Sunday afternoon to sweep Lander as the Lady Hurricanes ended their six game South Carolina road trip on a high note.
Game 1: GSW 15, Lander 6
GSW's Jordan Miller came out of the gates swinging as the junior started off her day with a three-run home run in the top of the first inning as Southwestern raced out to an early 4-0 advantage.
After a pair of runs inched the Bearcats closer, GSW broke the game open over the fourth and fifth innings as the Lady 'Canes scored five runs, including a second long ball from Miller, a two-run blast to center field.
Lander (11-21, 1-10 PBC) tried to rally with two runs in the bottom of the fifth inning but the bats stayed alive for Southwestern as the Blue and Gold scored six runs over the final two innings, including a two-run shot from Nellie Moore, to go on for an easy 15-6 victory.
The blast was Moore's fourth of the season.
Miller finished the game going 3-for-5 with 7 RBI and a pair of home runs for the Lady 'Canes.
GSW (21-20, 5-8 PBC) finished with 19 hits on the contest paced by sophomore Rachel McElroy's 5-for-5 effort.
GSW starting pitcher Allison Pastor (10-6) was credited with the win as the junior threw a complete game, giving up six runs off six hits for the Blue and Gold.
Game 2: GSW 16, Lander 0 (5 innings)
Georgia Southwestern's bats remained blazing in the second game of the day as the Lady Hurricanes made short work of the Bearcats.
On the game, GSW displayed a simply dominant offensive performance, scoring 16 runs off 14 hits in just five innings of play.
After two scoreless innings, GSW punched in six runs in the third inning off four hits.
Jordan Miller highlighted the inning earning the home run trifecta for the day as the junior again went long on a two-run blast.
The Lady Hurricanes topped a big third inning with an even bigger fourth as GSW poured in seven runs off seven hits.
The inning was highlighted by a Janna Anderson single that notched a pair of runs and a two-RBI double by Elliott Martin.
A day of offensive fireworks was capped off in the fifth inning when Chelsea Hodges hit a two-run blast as GSW went on for the easy 16-0 victory in five innings.
The homer was Hodges' first of the season.
Rachel McElroy went 3-for-3 with two RBI while Anderson went 3-for-4 with five RBI for GSW (22-20, 6-8 PBC).
Starting GSW pitcher Ashley Cavender (7-8) threw a complete game-shutout allowing just three hits with seven strikeouts in five innings of play.
On the day, a trio of Lady 'Canes led GSW with stellar offensive performances.
Jordan Miller went 5-for-8, with three home runs and nine RBI.
Miller currently has seven homers on the season.
Not to be overshadowed, Rachel McElroy went a perfect 8-for-8 with three RBI and Janna Anderson finished 5-for-8 with six RBI helping GSW sweep Lander (11-22, 1-11 PBC).
Georgia Southwestern will take their current four-game winning streak to Columbus State Wednesday for a Peach Belt doubleheader with the Lady Cougars starting at 5 p.m.


text:
Flower Bouquet Workshop and Three Course Lunch
Join us for a relaxing morning of learning how to create a seasonal, hand-tied bouquet, hosted by one of the very talented florists from our local Flowerstalk.
Learn many techniques including how to arrange the flowers, spiral the stem, care for the petals, positioning and balancing them all together.
Finishing the workshop by wrapping the bouquet in the water bubble and placing it in a gift bag to take your creation home after your lunch.
The experience begins with arrival at 10am for coffee & pastries, followed by an entertaining workshop and scrumptious three course lunch crafted by Tom Clarke & his skilled team.
We look forward to welcoming you to this exciting experienced on the following dates!
Spring Flower Bouquet Workshops
Summer Workshops
Wednesday, 8th of May
Wednesday, 22nd of May
Wednesday, 5th of June
Wednesday, 19th of June
Autumn Workshops
Wednesday, 4th of September
Wednesday, 18th of September
Wednesday, 2nd of October
Wednesday, 16th of October
Wednesday, 30th of October - Pumpkin & Flower arrangements!
Wednesday, 30th of October - Pumpkin & Flower arrangements!
Wreath Making Workshops
Tuesday, 26th of November
Wednesday, 27th of November
Tuesday, 3rd of December
Wednesday, 4th of December
Tuesday, 10th of December
Wednesday, 11th of December
Flower Workshop Reading
Call to book 01189 888 500
£89 per person or £160 when booking for two
( the experience can also be purchased as a bespoke voucher for any number of guests; voucher will be available for any of the available workshops throughout the year )
Please note, we require 50% of the amount as a deposit at the time of the booking as well as in an event of cancellation, we operate on a 10 day cancellation policy.
We are always more than happy to accommodate any sorts of dietary requirements and allergies when given enough time in advance.
If you have any questions regarding the lunch or any other questions, please do not hesitate to contact us on 01189 888 500.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
October 17, 2011
Institute for Commercialization integral to making K-State a top 50 public research university
Submitted by Communications and Marketing
Discoveries and innovations that feed off Kansas State University research and brainpower don't just stay on campus.
With the help of the Kansas State University Institute for Commercialization, these discoveries and innovations benefit Manhattan and the region by increasing commercialization of new technologies. In turn, the institute is integral in the university's efforts to become recognized as a top 50 public research university by 2025.
"As we talked with our faculty, staff and other members of the K-State family about what it takes to become a top 50 institution, we got comments on the positive role that the Institute for Commercialization is already playing in that process," Kirk Schulz, the university president, said. "It is critical for the university to have a leader ensuring that our discoveries and strengths benefit not just Kansas State but the broader community."
According to Kent Glasscock, the institute's president, the Institute for Commercialization is helping push the university into the top 50 in several ways. This includes value-added research within the state, the flow of funds into the university and the state of Kansas through licensing agreements, and the start-up companies the institute spins off. These bring opportunities for jobs and further resources to the area, he said.
Since starting in 1994 the institute has created more than 170 jobs in the region with average salaries of $57,000 annually. Additionally, in the past 11 years the institute has generated nearly $165 million in new revenue in Manhattan and each month brings in about $1 million in revenue to the area. Licensing efforts have generated approximately $12 million in direct revenue back to Kansas State University during the past 10 years.
Until recently the institute was known as the National Institute for Strategic Acquisition and Commercialization. This name change doesn't alter the role that the institute plays in corporate relationships; instead it makes its role clearer to the general public, Glasscock said.
"Kansas State University is our home, and our name communicates that to the university community and around the country. We couldn't be more excited," he said.
Among the institute's successes is bringing companies to K-State and the region. The institute brought animal health company Abaxis into a strategic alliance with the university and its veterinary diagnostic lab. This year
Abaxis moved into the Kansas City area, home of K-State Olathe.
In 2008 the Coca-Cola Company gained its first corporate operating presence in Kansas when it acquired 51 percent of NutriJoy Inc. The institute created the company based on a donated technology it gained through its Technology Acquisition, Development and Commercialization program.
The Kansas State University Institute for Commercialization also has succeeded in marketing and licensing patented technologies discovered through K-State research. By licensing intellectual property from the university and major corporations, the institute has created start-up companies financed with more than $30 million in equity and grants during the past nine years.
Additionally, the institute helped bootstrap ScavengeTech in 2002. The Manhattan-based company designs technology that monitors the system health of the legacy engines on the natural gas pipelines across the nation. It was started by Kirby Chapman, former professor of mechanical and nuclear engineering and former director of Kansas State University's National Gas Machinery Laboratory.
"The total focus of the Kansas State University Institute for Commercialization and all that we do will be designed to support the university and its vision 2025 strategy," Glasscock said.


text:
Okay, we all know that I *heart* chocolate, right? Well, when I happened upon these cookies at The Gluten-Free Homemaker's site, I just knew that I had to make them. I modified the recipe, slightly, as I had some pre-mixed GF flour mix that was already opened and needed to be used up.
The recipe as I made it:
Chocolate Chocolate Chip Pudding Cookies
2 1/4 cup GF Flour Mix (I used Bette's Four Flour Blend)
3/4 tsp. xanthan gum
1 tsp. baking soda
1 c. butter, softened (2 sticks)
1/2 c. white sugar
1/2 c. brown sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
1 small box instant chocolate pudding (Jell-O brand is GF, as is Wal-Mart)
2 eggs
2 c. (12 oz.) chocolate chips (I used part semi-sweet, part milk chocolate; dark chocolate would ROCK!)
Combine the flours, gum and baking soda in a small bowl. In your mixer bowl, beat the butter and sugar. Add the vanilla and pudding and beat until smooth. Add the eggs and beat again. Gradually add the flour mixture. With a spoon or spatula, stir in the chips and nuts if using. Drop by spoonfuls on an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake at 325 degrees for 9-11 minutes.
The results…..A.M.A.Z.I.N.G!!!! I have never heard Jon moan & groan over how good a cookie/dessert was before. They were melt-in-your-mouth chocolatey goodness. Holy YUM!!! We then immediately started brainstorming over the other flavor combos we could make. We came up with butterscotch pudding with caramel chips; chocolate pudding with caramel chips, peanut butter pudding with peanut butter or chocolate chips, chocolate pudding with PB chips, lemon pudding with some kind of add in, though we aren't sure what, maybe coconut? Very versatile, moist and delicious! You MUST try this recipe! Thank you, Linda, excellent recipe!
Filed under: Family, Gluten-Free, Gluten-Free Recipes | 2 Comments »


text:
Deserves it. Read here.
Ted Thompson gets contract extension
2 Responses to "Ted Thompson gets contract extension"
Dave in Tucson Says:
February 12, 2011 at 12:09 pm |
Absolutely agreed–all the injuries we had, it's still amazing to me how there were guys available to come in and play at a high level. (Not to mention the rest of the team, especially the defense, that raised their level of play.)
Compare to the disaster that was 2006, the last time the Packers had a lot of key players land on IR.
Hopefully Dom Capers gets an extension too (assuming he wants to stay…)
Nick Says:
February 12, 2011 at 1:50 pm |
Now we need to lock up Capers. For a very long time.


text:
Mortgage Finance around the World
As the debate on the future of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac heats up, a useful exercise is to ask how does the U.S. system of mortgage finance compare to other countries, with the obvious caveat that there are a lot of differences to account for.
A good place to start is a recent working paper by Michael Lea at San Diego State University. The first observation from Dr. Lea's paper is that several countries, with far less government involvement in the mortgage market, have comparable, if not higher, homeownership rates than the United States. These countries include Australia, Ireland, Spain, the United Kingdom and Canada. He also found that countries with less government support of their rental markets also have higher ownership --- not surprising since higher rental subsidies would discourage ownership.
Other differences: the United States and Denmark are the only developed countries where the predominate type of mortgage is a long-term, fixed rate. Most countries have variable rate or fixed rate for shorter periods. For instance in Germany, many mortgages offer a fixed term for 10 years, then either adjust or roll-over.
The United States is also almost alone in having no prepayment penalties and no recourse. Where a mortgage is recourse, the lender is not limited to collecting just on the house but can go after a borrowers' income or other assets. So apparently, in the rest of the World, a borrower is expected to pay his mortgage regardless of the value of his house.
In most other countries, even those with comparable homeownership rates, most funding for mortgages is via bank deposits. That is surprising given how often I've heard it claimed that you can't rely on just deposits to fund the mortgage system. Somehow the rest of the world manages to do so.
That's just a few of the interesting comparisons in Lea's paper. It is an easy read and has some great charts and tables.


text:
15 November 1991: Montezemolo nominated Ferrari Chairman
Maranello, 15 November – It was on 15 November 1991 when, in a fifteen-line press release, Ferrari announced a change in the top management. The board of directors aknowledged that Piero Fusaro wanted to return to the Fiat group and decided "to hand over the chairmanship and the position of CEO at Ferrari S.p.A to Luca Cordero di Montezemolo, giving him full managment responsibilities". These fifteen lines definitely changed the life of Montezemolo, who returned to Maranello after having worked alongside Enzo Ferrari between 1973 and 1977 as team manager of the Scuderia, but they also opened an extraordinary chapter in the history of the company, which continues today. This incredibly successful era is confirmed by the numbers: turnover has grown tenfold ; the number of markets in which Ferrari operates has gone from 29 in the early 1990s to 58 today, and the Scuderia has gone from strength to strength, taking no fewer than 14 World Titles in Formula 1 (eight Constructors' and six Drivers' championships) with 113 Grand Prix wins.
Over the last 20 years Ferrari has known how to change while remaining loyal to the values of its founder, staying close to the territory it operates in, and always moving with the times, giving priority to innovation. The company has succeeded in this goal thanks to the skills and the efforts of the men and many women, who, under the guidance of Montezemolo, have turned the Prancing Horse into one of the most famous brands, and who continue to create exclusive cars for thousands of clients and collectors, but who also create dreams for millions of fans all over the world.


text:
Bonar needed a new twitter background design and created a contest on 99designs.
A winner was selected from 20 designs submitted by 9 freelance designers.
Email Expert
My website is a bootstrap startup aimed at providing a resource to the email marketing, digital messaging and deliverability community.
The twitter account @email_expert supports these efforts.
We offer news, a web directory, twitter directory, calendar of events, a classified ads/marketplace launching soon.
We have high profile bloggers that are submitting topical articles. The twitter account will not only keep users notfied about the updates from the website, but also breaking news from around the web.
Marketing orientated, Web savvy, technically astute.
You can make this fun and avatar/character based, or serious. Feel free to be creative in that respect. Most important it needs to be classy yet bold and striking. It needs to stand out from the plethora of designs that are out there.
Keywords: email, email marketing, inbox, spam filter, junk, whitelist, blacklist, deliverability, digital messaging, marketing automation, spam, anti-spam, inbox placement, email reputation, domain reputation, IP reputation, sender records, SPF Records, feedback loop, social integration, facebook messaging, digital marketing, engagement
Tech Specs:
- Optimal Dimensions 1280px width
- Most important info always to be viewable at 1024 × 768px
- Design must still look excellent in 1920 × 1200px
An "Extended profile", most likely utilising a "Big image" with" fade to colour" incorporated for maximum compatibility across browser resolutions.
To be supplied by you:
- Optimised GIF, JPG or PNG - max 700kb
- Editable PSD with layers (so can change sponsors)
- Background, text, links, sidebar, border #hex colors
Designs I like, but feel free to use your imagination
- logo is 114px × 75px or smaller (your choice)
- use blues, golds, yellow from our site but can add more
- highlight: emailexpert.org
- link: facebook.com/emailexpert
- Mention "managed by @andrewbonar"
- Space for 4 company logos/sponsor incorporated into design. Free to be creative as to how these are included, and it is possible that you can place them in the right hand column sometimes semi-obscured or in the left hand colum in an extended view, whatever works best for the design over all.


text:
EverGreen Recreational Vehicles LLC announced the launch of its 2013 line of i-Go Lite fifth-wheels, according to a news release.
The Middlebury, Ind.-based towable builder said that new models in the i-Go line feature the same aluminum-framed, vacuum-laminated processes and 100-point quality control systems as all EverGreen products. A lightweight composite inner shell and a narrower, 7-foot, 6-inch wide trailer design has allowed EverGreen to reduce weight along with the price on the i-Go Lite series of fifth-wheels.
The two new models both offer deep 42-inch slideouts that are above the wheel well to provide higher ground clearance. Six-inches deeper than the competition, i-Go Lite slides provide the living space of an 8-foot wide fifth-wheel while retaining the towability of a 7 1/2-foot wide fiver. Slides are driven in all four corners with EverGreen's quality four-point gear-driven system to provide smoother operation and a tighter seal.
The G27RK-5 floorplan features a rear-kitchen configuration with counter space and overhead storage across the entire rear of the coach. The large combo dinette and sofa slideout is opposite the kitchen. Access to the front bedroom is through a private bath on both fifth-wheels.
The G27RL-5 is a rear-lounge floorplan that is perfect for entertaining with a slide-out sofa and easy chairs in the back. A dinette is opposite the galley-style kitchen curbside.
For more information visit www.GoEverGreenRV.com.


text:
Only available until 4 February.
By booking a Webinar Season Ticket you will be able to view every standard webinar we hold between February-April, either live or by watching the recording later. You book and pay once. We'll set you up in each webinar and send you the confirmation link. And in addition you'll get one webinar free - so this quarter you get 6 for the price of 5. The webinars covered by the Season Ticket this quarter are:


text:
your shopping cart 0
Shopping cart is empty
- Categories
Waterproof Orthalion pattern - Anemony
|Shipping within
|1 - 3 days
|The Availability Of
|High availability
Orthalion waterproof digital print
It is characterized by high resistance to abrasions, rubbing and stretching. Is soft and pleasant to the touch. The fabric is perfectly protected by a transparent polyurethane powleczeniem on the left side and the colourless coating water-repellent on the right. Overprint UV resistant and has certyfiakt Oeko Tex Standard 100.
The price is orthalion with a length 1 meter and includes VAT.
Buying a few pieces you will get always in one piece
Specifications/Technical Data
- Composition: 100% polyester
- Width: 155 cm (+/-5%)
- Weight: 120 g/m2
- Printed with the certificate: Oeko-Tex Standard 100
- Finishing: PU/WD
Application of the ortalionu clothing industry:
- rain capes
- hairstyling capes
- jacket
- aprons
- raincoats
- covers for clothing
- furniture covers
- clothing for animals
- rain accessories
Orthalion laundering provision:
- Machine wash at 30 deg C
- Do not iron
- Dry in an upright position
- Not may chlorinate
- Do not dry clean
- do not clean the aggressive chemicals
- in the case of fine dirt wipe with a damp cloth
There is currently no comments or ratings for this product.


text:
UNIVERSITY OF PHOENIX STADIUM — Caleb Hanie's final audition to be Peyton Manning's backup surely didn't go as well as he would have hoped.
Hanie was sacked five times in the first half and failed to lead a scoring drive.
Here's Hanie's line: 7-of-13, 75 yards, 0 TDs, 0 INTs. Rating 71.0.
Hanie also scrambled once, for 11 yards.
The Broncos have now gone four quarters without a score. The Broncos' starters scored 17 points in the first quarter last Sunday against San Francisco. Hanie threw a touchdown pass to Joel Dreessen in the second quarter of that game.


text:
I don't have one but can someone tell me the procedure for adjusting the valves on the new engine? A condensed version would be fine. Just wondering and haven't seen it published. Thanks much.
I don't have one but can someone tell me the procedure for adjusting the valves on the new engine? A condensed version would be fine. Just wondering and haven't seen it published. Thanks much.
I think you have to remove the cams to get at the shims (adjusting plates according to the parts breakdown), but that is guesswork from looking at the engine pics.
Valve checks are every 12,000 mi. Here's a link to a google doc from advrider.com to the service schedule
I'm not sure whether non-google users can access this though.
Valves may well never have to be adjusted though because of the new design. The same seems to be true of the camhead GSs (08-12).
And because it's fly by wire, there's no more throttle body adjustments!
Warmest regards,
Doc Reid Hester
Wondering about your drinking? Consider our FREE Drinker's Checkup
Get saddlesore when riding? Check these shorts out
Thanks and its great if it never had to be done - but - what if it did? Remove head covers, cams and insert shims???
Remove valve cover. Measure. If out of spec calculate the needed change(s). Remove cam (that part is a guess) and remove current shim(s). Measure the shim(s) (maybe it's the marked size, maybe not -- assuming the shim is marked). Add in the calculated adjustment. Match that to the nearest standard size replacement shim. Buy (order) needed shims from your dealer. Replace old shim with new. Restore cam (assuming it was removed). Measure again to make sure you didn't screw up a calculation. Restore valve cover.
Just like the valve adjustment on a flying brick 4 valve K bike.
So the question remains unanswered. I've asked a few people, including a new owner, and nobody seems to really know "fer sure" yet...
Shims? And what style? Setscrew & locknut? Slide the fingers over?
Whoever gets inside - post a picture!!!
"Never" is a pretty long time, very hard to accept... even hydraulic lifters may need a check once in awhile, especially if the oil is low-grade or not changed often enough...
Last edited by Pauls1150; 05-26-2013 at 04:44 PM.
Agreed, hydraulics are typically super-reliable and people take them for granted (in cars) and mostly ignore them.
Their installation usually requires a specific "preload", maybe two turns of "compression" after the initial touch of the mating parts. If this isn't done correctly (and it's really not so very critical in a non-racing engine), it may wear faster or cause faster wear of the cam or followers, especially if the case-hardening was thin to begin with.
Stock Harley hydraulic lifters got a bad rap for a long time because they'd collapse and spew bearing needles through the engine - very expensive if not caught immediately. ("What's that awful racket? I'll just spin it more and see if it quits.") Valve control improved when solid rods were installed, since they didn't need to spin up too high; occasional lash checks were accepted as the trade-off.
Honda's Hawk 750 needed high-quality oil & frequent oil changes to keep the lifters reliable; otherwise it was a great motor.
The Vulcan 1500/1600/1700/2000 have hydraulic lash and without drama.
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
Good examples of how to do it, though they certainly don't spin like our engines.
I haven't kept up with Kawi's developments; do their hydraulic valve trains live a long time?
I've also expected Suzuki to come out with a good system, since they have a reputation of their bikes absorbing a beating and keeps on ticking.
What do the big Yamaha Vees use?
Quinton Grubbs did 260k miles on his 1500 nomad and I know another guy with a 2009 1700 voyager that has 175k miles. Lots of folks go over 100k miles with 1500/1600 nomads.
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
Big twin Harley's don't rev higher than vulcans
Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk
Kent Christensen
Thanks, Kent! Now, do the followers slide sideways or does the cam have to be pulled...


text:
Open 9am. to 5pm., Monday through Saturday; park is closed on Sunday. The Park and Visitor Center is operated by the Florence Chamber of Commerce . The Visitor Center offers free information on local and regional attractions and is developing exhibits for the park.
Introductory Park Video
About the Park
On Feb. 12, 2011, McFarland State Historic Park re-opening as the Town of Florence Visitor Center. See Photos.
The history of the park's building provides visitors with a look into the past. The building represents a transition between Sonoran and Anglo-American architecture with its wood-shingled pitched roof surmounting traditional adobe brick walls. Like most buildings in Territorial Arizona, the original 1878 structure was constructed by hand using native materials. Soil from the area was used to make adobe bricks which were laid on a trench foundation filled with river rocks. All lumber for the floors and roof was hauled by wagon from northern Arizona.
The first jail was located in the courtyard at the rear of the building. It was a small adobe cubicle without windows. Burlap and canvas covered the entrance to keep the wind out in cold weather. Buried in the center of the jail was a huge boulder to which prisoners were chained. When a prisoner of importance was incarcerated, the jailer was obligated to bed down in front of the entrance. An 1882 addition to the building provided extra offices for the recorder and sheriff and a jail.
When a larger courthouse was built in 1891, the adobe structure became the county hospital. There, doctors provided up-to-date care for almost fifty years. The exterior was changed as a result, with plastering and wooden porches added. In 1938, the building became a welfare and public health center, and later, in 1963, the Pinal County Historical Society acquired and maintained the building as a museum until 1970. In 1974, former governor Ernest W. McFarland purchased the building and donated it to the Arizona State Parks Board for a historic park.
An archives building was completed in 1982 and now houses the McFarland papers. With the assistance of the National Historical Publications and Records Commission, the extensive collection was organized to file level and the U.S. Senate papers have been published.
The park offers guided walking tours of Florence's downtown historic district by appointment. School and educational groups are invited to visit and provided courtroom talks and guided walk through the building. For more information call (520) 868-5216.
More Than A Courthouse
In 1878, Florence, Arizona was known as "the garden city." Located in the middle of the desert, its lush grass would spread outward from tall stands of cottonwood trees that lined the hard-packed streets. Farmers, ranchers and miners would join townspeople at the Pinal County Courthouse, the center of activity, to socialize and transact business. The courthouse occasionally served as a dance hall, where memoirs from Estella Kentfield Colton, circa 1887, reveal: "Every week there was a public dance at the courthouse. They danced in the courtroom. There was always a big attendance and ... men, women and children came just to look on and enjoy the music."
The local "Vigilance Committee" stormed the sheriff's office in this building in 1888, dragged two men from their cells and hanged them in the corridor of the jail. Those two had been charged with holding up a stage and killing Johnny Collins, the guard. A coroner's jury later found that the two prisoners had met their deaths "at the hands of parties unknown." A short time later, the same "vigilance" group attempted to lynch four other prisoners under the same circumstances but were thwarted in their efforts when Michael Rice, the jailer, armed the prisoners, took them upstairs and faced down the mob from the windows above the street.
This adobe brick building, now McFarland State Historic Park, served many roles during the late 1800s and early 1900s, most notably as a jail house and a hospital. Indeed, it was the first Pinal County Courthouse. Built in 1877-78, it held the sheriff's office, the courtroom, the judge's chambers, and the jail on the first floor. The second story was used as a jury room and quarters for visiting lawmen.
Today, visitors tour the building where they can see and feel for themselves the history of Arizona and the people who helped shape it. While at the park, take a moment to visit the archives to see and read documents from all three branches of government in which "Mac" McFarland served.
Inside the park, be sure to visit Florence's WWII Prisoner of War Camp exhibit. This exhibit depicts the lives of the people who were stationed and imprisoned there. Photographs and artifacts from U.S. Servicemen and the Prisoners of War are displayed in this one-room exhibit. A video presentation shows the lives of these prisoners from their capture to their release.
"Mac" McFarland
Ernest W. McFarland, or "Mac", contributed to Arizona history through an active public service career and many lasting projects. He is the only known American to have served his state in the highest branches of government (U.S. Senator of which he served as majority leader, Governor, and Arizona Supreme Court Justice).
The decades in which "Mac" served the government also witnessed unprecedented growth in Arizona and the Southwest. McFarland was in the forefront during a crucial time, assisting in the modernization of Arizona, the region and the country.
"Mac" McFarland was commonly referred to as the "Father of the G.I. Bill" because he wrote the home and business loan sections. Other major contributions include working on the Central Arizona Project and founding the Arizona State Parks system in 1957.
Western Region
- Alamo Lake
- Buckskin Mountain
- Cattail Cove
- Lake Havasu
- River Island
- Yuma Quartermaster Depot
- Yuma Territorial Prison
Northern Region
- Dead Horse Ranch
- Fort Verde
- Homolovi
- Jerome
- Red Rock
- Riordan Mansion
- Slide Rock
- Verde River Greenway
Eastern Region
- Boyce Thompson Arboretum
- Catalina
- Fool Hollow Lake
- Lost Dutchman
- Lyman Lake
- McFarland
- Oracle
- Tonto Natural Bridge
Southern Region


text:
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Murder in Livingston County, Kentucky 1807
Some details of the case can be found in Livingston County, Kentucky Miscellaneous Files 1807, Accession #A1986-289, Box 1, Kentucky Dept for Libraries and Archives, Frankfort, Kentucky.
Commonwealth of Kentucky
William Trimble and Lewis Portee
William Trimble and Lewis L. Portee ... was taken on the 24th day of March 1807 ... by John G. Lofton, one of the Commonwealth's Justices of the Peace in & for Livingston County by warrant to my custody & possession with a command ... to commit them to the jail upon a charge of having with Robert Trimble Junr. on the 7th day of March 1807 at the house of George Brown in Centreville feloniously killed and murdered John Gooch, late Deputy Sheriff of Thomas Gist, late Sheriff of Livingston County, by shooting and William and Portee in my custody or in the Jail or prison safely to keep and further to be dealt with as the Law directs and until discharged by declaration of Law ... [signed] David Kline, Jailor.
May term 1807 Livingston Circuit Court: The Grand Jurors Impannelled and Sworn ... present that Robert Trimble, yeoman, and William Trimble, yeoman, and Lewis L. Portee, yeoman, not having the fear of God before their Eyes, but being moved & seduced by the Instigation of the Devil the 7th day of March 1807 at the house of George Brown of Centreville ... with force in and upon the body of a certain John A. Gooch, late Deputy Sheriff of said county ... feloniously, willfully, voluntarily and of their malice aforethought an assault did make and that ... Robert Trimble, a certain pistol of the value of four dollars, then and there charged and loaded with gun powder and a leaden bullet, which pistol Robert Trimble in his right hand ... upon the right side of the belly of John A. Gooch ... did strike, penetrate and wound John A. Gooch ... to the depth of six inches and breadth of one inch of which sd. mortal wound John A. Gooch instantly did die and that William Trimble and Lewis L. Portee ... was present aiding helping and abetting comforting assisting and maintaining Robert Trimble ... The Jurors upon their oaths do say that Robert Trimble, William Trimble and Lewis L. Portee feloniously, willfully, voluntarily and of their malice aforethought ... did kill and murder contrary ... and against the peace and dignity of the Commonwealth of Kentucky. [signed] John Gray, attorney for the commonwealth.
Apparently, Robert Trimble did not remain in Livingston County to face the jury. The following comes from the Danville, Kentucky Mirror, 10 April 1807:
Murdered: In Centreville the 7th inst. captain John A. Gooch, of the above town, of a pistol ball shot by Robert Trimble. The amiable, generous and humane disposition of this young man, endeared him to every person of his acquaintance. He has left an amiable young widow. All his acquaintaince laments his untimely death, and the citizens of Centreville and others of Livingston county, pledge themselves to make up and pay a reward of $200 to any person or persons who shall apprehend the sd. Robert Trimble, and lodge him in any jail in the United States, or that shall secure him so that he may be brought to punishment.
Robert Trimble is a young man about 5 feet 11 inches high, straight and heavy made, about 23 or 24 years old, regularly featured, but in general of a downcast look of his eyes and eyebrows, dark hair and eyes. [signed] Hiram McDaniel, Enoch Prince, Robert Leeper, James Richey Sen., David Kline, Joshua Scott, Jesse Ford, Robert McConnell, A. Gooch, Moses Shelby, Horatio Merry, Isaac Bullard, [?] Armstrong, James Deacon, Robert Hodge, George Brown.
The Jury returned their verdict:
"We of the Jury ... find William Trimble Guilty of Manslaughter and do adjudge him to be confined in the jail & penitentiary house for the space of two years. [signed] Robert Love, foreman.
"We of the Jury impanneled for the tryal of Luis L. Portee Charged with murdering John A. Gooch do find him Not Guilty. [signed] W. Birdsong, foreman."
Robert Trimble was not found.
John A. Gooch left a young widow and one child, John S. Gooch, for whom Moses Shelby was appointed guardian. An inventory of his estate, filed 29 April 1807 provides a glimpse into his life: One home spun suit; one coat; pantaloons & waste coat; several lots of clothes, including "another lot of clothes in which the deceased was murdered;" one fine hat band and buckle; two umbrellas; one Helmet & Horse Sword; Scale, protractor and dividers for Surveyors; a hymn book; surveying book; one writing desk and two pocket books; two trunk locks and two horses. Because slaves were considered personal property, "one Negro Boy named Stephen betwixt fifteen & sixteen years old" was appraised at $450. One has to wonder what John A. Gooch might have achieved if his life had not been cut short.
Published 23 April 2008, Western Kentucky Genealogy Blog, http://wkygenealogy.blogspot.com/
2 comments:
- Robert A Myers said...
I'm excited to read this information. I'm researching a major emigration out of Livingston County to the White River in Arkansas 1810-1811, including the Trimbles, Hardins, Laffertys, Trammels, Askeys, etc. I'm wondering if you know any details about the horse theft accusations against Robert Trimble. Later in 1813, the Cherokees settled on the White River accused Nicholas Trammell and his brother-in-law, Mote Askey, of stealing their horses. The Cherokees also named Robert and William Trimble as intruding on public lands there. I'm wondering if Robert Trimble and Nicholas Trammell might have ever had livestock dealings, whether legitimate or illegitimate. Also, is there any truth to the story that a crooked Livingston County sheriff took the Trimbles' land on behalf of swindlers after they emigrated to Arkansas? Hoping to hear more about this. Robert Myers, firstname.lastname@example.com
- January 2, 2012 at 11:35 PM
- Robert A Myers said...
Here is more information concerning this incident and would like to find out more:
Robert Myers, firstname.lastname@example.com
- January 2, 2012 at 11:41 PM


text:
Two months ago we told you about Orismar de Souza, the Brazilian man who built his own car while homeless. Now he wants to sell his beast — but has already turned down an offer of about $15,000.
Orismar says he's not driving the vehicle much because he lacks a license for vehicles. He says he wants to sell his "shrimpmobile" to buy a living space for his parents so they can retire. Doing so requires about $30,000. Couldn't he just send a bill for advertising to Johnny Walker?
H/T to TheBlazinAce!


text:
So here's my story, I met this girl in college and we have been friends for three years. She's the nicest girl I know who likes to smile all the time. A few months ago we were both invited to a party by an old colleague of ours. As the night went on, she got drunk, and revealed to me she was not happy with her marriage because her husband is too controlling and has become reckless with his spending. (Bought a Mercedes using money from their joint-account without her consent.) She was so upset that she didn't want to go home and opted to stay the night at my place instead. She didn't have to worry about her husband because he's usually out with his friends and doesn't come back until late in the morning and she's been to my apartment before. When we got back to my place her behavior reverted back to normal. She was acting like her same old cheerful self again. We started joking around and dancing to some indigenous folk music. Eventually we got tired and watched tv. I was planning to sleep on the couch and was falling half asleep when suddenly she crawled into my blanket. I asked what she was doing and she said she was cold. I knew she drank alot earlier so I figured she was still feeling the buzz. After awhile I heard her crying again. I asked her what's wrong and she told me she doesn't think her husband loves her anymore. They haven't been intimate lately and he treats her more like a trophy. I tried to comfort her, telling her that she's over thinking, but she wouldn't stop crying so in the spur of the moment I wrapped my arms around her, kissed her on the head, and told her I love her. Ever since then when we're not meeting each other three nights a week, we constantly text message each other, or have late night phone conversations.
What would you do if you were in my situation?


text:
Children's Theatre Company located in Minneapolis, Minnesota is a 501(c)(3) non-profit. It is our policy to donate only to other 501(c)(3) organizations. While we would like to grant all requests made to us, as a non-profit organization we must limit the number of contributions we make.
We no longer accept mailed requests for donations. Please fill out the below form to request a donation. Requests must be made at least 4 weeks prior to the date by which you need the donation.
No phone calls please.
Priority will be given to the following groups:
- Children's Theatre Company Employees and Constituents
- Arts Organizations
- Local Education Organizations
- Local Social Service Organizations dealing with Children
- Local Social Service Organizations that compliment CTC's mission of diversity and inclusion
Due to limited availability, we are not always able to contribute to priority organizations. We will often only be able to make a donation every 24 months to the same organization.
We regret we are unable to make donations to the following types of benefits and organizations:
- Benefits for a specific individual or family
- Fundraisers for political purposes
- Fundraisers for religious organizations
- Secondary requests on behalf of a National Organization (for-profit organizations or individuals raising money for another group such as United Way, American Cancer Society, Susan G. Komen, etc…)
- We are unable to provide door prizes, incentives, or cash donations/sponsorships.
To make a request please submit the form below:


text:
Ask Linda
Linda Lee, our Q&A expert, welcomes your questions. Direct your e-mails to her at firstname.lastname@example.com.
Bias Opinion
Is there a trick to sewing bias tape around curves without it twisting and cupping?
There are some very fancy bias binder attachments available for most machines. These attach and stitch bias tape to an edge in one step, but there's a better way that doesn't require any special equipment. For the best finished look, choose a double or French bias tape or cut your own bias pieces to customize the color and vary the size.
Cut bias strips six times your preferred finished width, plus an additional 1/8*-1/4* depending on the fabric thickness. The thicker the fabric, the more you should add to the width. Fold the strip in half lengthwise before applying it to the edge. Pin the raw binding edges to the project raw edge. As you're working around the curve, give the binding a little shove, easing as much fullness into the application as you can without creating puckers. This will keep the binding flat when finished.
Stitch the binding to the project along the seamline. Trim the seam allowance to an even width that's slightly narrower than the finished binding width. Wrap the binding around the raw edges, keeping it as snug as possible against the edge. The outer folded edge should lie beyond the seamline on the project wrong side. Pin frequently in the seam well, parallel to the outer edge. Stitch in the ditch from the right side so that the stitches are both hidden in the seam well and catching the folded edge on the fabric wrong side.
Suited for Silk
What kind of lining should I use in a silk suit?
The best all-purpose lining for most projects and fabrics is Bemberg rayon. You can find this in most independent fabric stores or online. It's lightweight but durable. I also recommend using China silk for a very lightweight lining, although it's less durable and can shred at stress points over time. Avoid using polyester lining in a silk garment. It's too stiff and doesn't conform to the characteristics of a nice silk.
Ruffle Trouble
I'm covering seat cushions for my kitchen chairs. How do I calculate the amount of fabric needed for a ruffle around each cushion?
First, decide whether you want a single-layer ruffle that's hemmed on one edge or if you want a ruffled that's folded in half, so the fabric right side is visible on both sides. Either way, measure the circumference of the seam cushion. Multiply that measurement by at least two and add a few inches. Most ruffles are double the fullness. Next, calculate the desired width of the ruffle and decide whether the ruffle will be single or double-sided. Cut enough strips to stitch together and form one long piece.
For the Beads
Which presser foot should I use to attach beads?
Look for a presser foot that has a scooped out tunnel on the foot bottom that's large enough to travel over the beads. Manufacturers have different names for these feet but look for a "pearls and piping" or "beading" foot. You'll also want to purchase invisible tread to use on the
top of the machine with regular thread in the bobbin. If your beads are strung on poor quality cotton thread and you want durability, consider restringing the beads on nylon beading thread.
Place the string of beads on the fabric surface and fit the presser foot over the beads. Set your machine to a lengthened zigzag stitch, so it traverses over the beads easily. Stitch slowly and use the needle down capability on your machine so it's easy to adjust the beads and stitching frequently.
Appeared in:


text:
On a dark winter morning at the Müllerhaus men's hostel, Julian Bledstein reached for his Dopp kit. At home, he could medicate himself blindfolded, but here, across the ocean, it wasn't so easy. The room stank, and more than one young man was snoring. The beds in the old gymnasium were singles, which didn't keep certain of the guests from coupling when the lights went out. Sometimes Julian could hear them going at it, fornicating as if with silencers on. He studied the sounds when he couldn't sleep, picturing the worst: animals strapped to breathing machines, children smothered under blankets. In the morning he could never tell just who had been making love. The men dressed and left for the day, avoiding eye contact, mesmerized in the glow of their cell phones.
Julian held his breath and squeezed the syringe, draining untold dollars' worth of questionable medicine into the flesh of his thigh. He clipped a bag holding the last of his money to the metal underside of his bed. His father's hard-earned money. Not enough euros left. Not nearly enough. He'd have to make a call, poor-mouth into the phone until his father's wallet spit out more bills.
He left the hostel and took the stone path down to nothing good. This morning he was on his way, yet again, to meet Hayley's train. Sweet, sweet Hayley. She would fail to appear today, no doubt, as she had failed to appear every day for the past two weeks. It seemed more and more likely that his lovely, explosively angry girlfriend wouldn't be joining him in Germany—even though they'd spent months planning the trip, Julian Googling deep into his unemployed afternoons back home, Hayley pinging him sexy links from work whenever she could. A food-truck map, day treks along the Königsallee. First they'd destroy England and France, lay waste to the Old World, then drop into freaking Düsseldorf for the last, broken leg of the journey.
It was meant to be a romantic medical-tourist getaway, a young invalid and his lady friend sampling the experimental medicine of the Rhine. But they'd fought in France, and he'd come to Düsseldorf ahead of her. Now he waited not so hopefully, not so patiently—dragging himself between the hostel, the train station, and the Internet café, checking vainly for messages from Hayley—while seeking treatment at the clinic up on the hill.
Treatment—well, that perhaps wasn't the word for it. His was one of the incurable conditions. An allergy to his own blood, as he not so scientifically thought of it. An allergy to himself was more like it. His immune system was confused, fighting against the home team. Or his immune system knew exactly what it was doing. These days, autoimmune diseases were the most sophisticated way to undermine yourself, to be your own worst enemy.
Back home, he'd tried it all—the steroids, the nerve blocks, the premium plasma—and felt no different. He'd eaten only green food until it ran down his legs. Then for a long time he'd tried nothing. He'd tried school, then tried dropping out, living, in his mid-twenties, in his old room in his father's house. Through it all, though, he had mostly tried Hayley, as in really, really tried her, and he could see how very tried she'd become.
It was Hayley who'd pushed for this trip, so that Julian could finally have a shot at the new medical approach they'd read so much about, a possible breakthrough with rare autoimmune disorders. In Germany, a shining outpost on the medical frontier, doctors tried what was forbidden or unconscionable elsewhere. And for a fee they'd try it on you. Massive doses of it. You could bathe in its miracle waters. You could practically get stem-cell Jell-O shooters at the bar on Thursday nights. So long as, you know, you waived—yes, waived—goodbye to your rights, your family, your life. It was not such a terrible trade.
On Julian's first day, the clinic staff had brandished a very fine needle. It had gleamed in the cold fluorescent light of the guinea-pig room. From Julian's wheezing torso, the doctors had drawn blood and marrow, his deep, private syrup—which they then boiled and spoon-fed back to him until he sizzled, until he just about glowed. Of course, the whole thing was more complicated than that, particularly the dark arts they conjured on his marrow once they'd smuggled it out of him. They spun it, purified it, damn near weaponized it, then sold it back to him for cash. Zero-sum medicine, since he'd grown it himself, in what Hayley, digging into his ribs, had called "the Julian Farm." Except that the sum was a good deal larger than zero.
And after a few weeks, or so the idea was, you'd be better. In his wellness fantasies, Julian always pictured himself scrubbed clean, nicely dressed, suddenly funny and charming. Better in every goddam way. But, of course, throughout these treatments, as he'd discovered, the frowning doctors hedged and balked and shat caveats, until the promise of recovery was off the table, out of the room, nowhere near the building.
This morning, he ducked the stares of shopkeepers, who guarded their doors against him, the pale American who spent no money. They must have come to recognize his sickly figure by now. What was left of it. God knows they gawked. To Julian, it seemed that they could see right through his clothes, and they were not amused. You'd need more than clothing to hide a body like his. You'd need a shovel, a tarp. Tarps were designed to cover men like him.
Julian could only walk faster, wincing, until the shopkeepers released him from eye contact. Had anyone, he wondered, ever studied the biology of being seen? The ravaging, the way it literally burned when you fetched up in people's sight lines and they took aim at you with their minds? He wanted to summon a look of kindness and curiosity in return, a look that might make them forgive his miserly ways, his trespass on their ancient, superior city. But his face lacked the power to convey. He'd stopped trying to use it for silent communication—the gestures you tendered overseas, absent a shared language, to suggest that you were not a murderer. Such facial language was for apes, or some mime troupe in Vermont. Mummenschanz people who emoted for a living. He ate with his face and spoke with it. Sometimes he hid it in his hands. That should have been enough.
Anyway, why not let them think that he meant them harm, these people of Düsseldorf? Give them a good scare. A man dressed up as his own corpse, in a costume called simply "Julian." Too bad he couldn't distribute his gray pelt en masse, so that a population of sunken-eyed Julians could limp through Germany, begging for candy, muttering, "Trick or treat, Süsses oder Saures." For now, he was the only one who got to wear it.
It took him just one sucking sprint on a cigarette to reach the train station, a fearsome building in rust-colored stone. After a few mornings inside, braving the crush of travellers reeking of chowder, he figured he didn't need to enter the dank space to wait for Hayley. A granite ledge opposite the station offered a perfect view of the decamping passengers. Every morning, locals poured out of the building wrapped in hemp and straw. The fancier ones wore the waxed canvas coats of hunters. Occasionally, an American or two spoiled the tasteful palette with vacation colors. They shot into the town square like clowns fired from a cannon, mugging their snack-smeared faces at some imagined camera and releasing high-strung moods as if by megaphone: I have arrived in your historic city, and I am the happiest person you will ever know! Let me rub my joy on you!
Even if some rare Americans were shrewd enough to go native, shoeing themselves in the earth-brown padabouts of Europeans, wearing sweaters and satchels instead of parkas and backpacks, their faces, haunted by the tourist advisories, gave them away. Julian pictured them on the train ride into town, the German landscape scrolling by in fairy-tale colors outside the window while they huddled over their Fodor's, steeling themselves when they came to the warning that visitors who showed fear or uncertainty were the first to be singled out. Targeted through binoculars by cunning locals, led down unmarked streets into alleys, where they'd be robbed and erased from the world. Even in modern Germany. Even in the civilized world. Especially in the civilized world!
Tourists and, for that matter, all people were merely accidents of physics, foamy chuff in the wake of a larger activity. That wouldn't be explicitly stated in the Fodor's. Not in so many words. Bodies were the jettisoned waste of something too great to comprehend. And the so-called "inner life" of these bodies was just biological sewage, produced by an organism that was, itself, a higher form of waste. Duh! People were statistically insignificant, a rounding error. Since he'd got sick, since he'd started frequenting online illness forums, particularly the terminal-illness ones, where the goddam sunny side of life was systematically shut down, this had become obvious. And boo freaking hoo.
Maybe, though, in terms of day-to-day survival, it was best to put this stuff out of his mind. One's smallness, the very, very convincing ways in which one's presence failed to matter, sometimes had to go without saying.
That was a tombstone inscription for you: Julian Bledstein. He went without saying.
Or: Here lies Julian Bledstein. He lied to himself, and now he lies here.
Two weeks had gone by like this. Trains had rolled in from Paris, Salzburg, Dresden, Berlin. A disappointment of trains, failing each time to spit from their insides the girl Julian had fought with in Strasbourg. In fact, he and Hayley had fought in several cities on this trip, a road show of freeze-outs and recriminations. For the most part, they'd warred silently, with so much stealth that sometimes Julian wasn't sure whether they were actually quarrelling. Hayley could look so serious beneath her pixie haircut. She was too stubbornly self-contained, too confident, too O.K. with it all, which was decidedly not O.K. with Julian. A self needed to spill out sometimes; a body should show evidence of what the hell went on inside it. But Hayley had built a firewall around her feelings and moods. There was no knowing her, and fuck you if you tried to pierce her privacy. You were a creep and an invader, and you'd be rebuffed, then shamed. Even in bed, as she hobbyhorsed on top of him with the focus of a child doing homework, grimacing when her moment came, he wondered if she was mad at him. Their mating activity was hardly sexier than a needle in the back. But at least he got to see her naked.
Hayley would fall quiet if Julian suddenly touched her hand, when all he wanted was to be touched back. That was the consolation prize available to the bottoms in a relationship, right? The mules, the dinguses, the shitbags? Touchbacks were supposed to be free. But she'd be clearly annoyed at the transparency of Julian's desire when out of nowhere he pounced. Poking her to be cute, which was not, he knew, cute. Was there a subcategory of shit-eating grin, depending on whose shit you ate? He'd gone to a different school of etiquette, the school of no shame, the school of I need more from you. He'd been fucking homeschooled in emotional helplessness, scoring off the charts. By touching Hayley and waiting for her response, Julian could pursue the kind of emotional research you didn't get to conduct in graduate school, a dissertation-level inquiry into the limits of revulsion regarding people who ostensibly love each other. Which always turned out to be a really stupid move. Hayley would smell his need, and it stank, it really, truly stank.
But she didn't flee, even though his salient feature as a man was his leavability. He created occasions for departure in others. Until now, Hayley had hung in there. Her loyalty alone was an aphrodisiac, even though his medication sometimes gave him the cold, dull crotch of a mannequin. Hayley also believed in Julian's illness, found it true and real and even pretty damn interesting, a faith that had turned out to be rare. Hayley and Julian's father and the occasional stranger on the Internet, where the ill go in search of one another, humping one another's empathy slots—these were the believers. Even if, sometimes, maybe, Julian did not entirely believe in the illness himself.
Hayley wasn't coming. It was pretty obvious. Julian sat shivering in the chill, listening for the 9:13. Then the 9:41. Then the 10:02. He was tired. In winter, he sometimes caught a fever. His arms burned hot, as if a flame were being held to his skin. This was the nerves dying, an Internet confidant had explained. Of course his immune system wanted him dead. It knew. It was making the call on behalf of the wider society. It was taking him out. In the larger project of the universe, of which he must necessarily be kept in the dark, his own existence appeared to be an obstacle. So the species makes an adjustment. It redacts.
No one else was waiting outside today. No one else was stupid enough to sit and freeze on a granite ledge in middle Germany, watching the trains come in. People here knew where their loved ones were. Loved ones' coördinates were simply available. Such was the nature, the very definition, of a loved one. Normal people didn't need to risk exposure and illness waiting outside and wondering, letting their minds work up end-times scenarios. They did not need to dream up future sorrows for themselves.
After the first trains of the morning failed to produce Hayley, Julian stood at a café for a scorched espresso, then returned to his lookout to wait. When Hayley still didn't come, he took shelter at the crêpe stand, where the day's crêpes had already been cloaked in black jam. A death bread, for two euros.
He wasn't hungry. He was never hungry. But some dim sense of duty haunted him, his father's voice, gentle and girlish, suggesting that food might help. Food, food, food. "Please, Julian, eat something," his father was always saying, as if noxious, soon to be spoiled material from the earth would do anything but poison him further. For Julian's whole life, his father had stood at the stove and made pancakes for him, grilled cheese, oatmeal, eggs, burgers. Later, when the alternative-care community had thrust nutritional strategies their way, when the Prednisone and the Lyrica, the off-label intravenous immunoglobulin, and the chemotherapy worms had fattened and ruined and bleached and burned and defeated him, his father had steamed bushels of kale. But Julian had only ever picked at his plate, as if dissecting roadkill for shards of glass. His father, especially after Julian's mother travelled underground to spend the rest of eternity inside a luxury coffin, had removed Julian's untouched food and spooned it into the trash. Only to try again a few hours later, smiling and kind.
So now Julian thought that eating something might be smart, but the tourist's gesture for plain crêpe eluded him. Or perhaps the vender just enjoyed watching him pretend to scrape something foul from his hand. Scraping it and scraping it, souring his face to indicate his distaste for the jam, while the vender grinned at him and winked, as if Julian were demonstrating something the two of them might do together later, in private. Why were such gestures always considered sexual, one hand doing something untoward to the other hand? Why wasn't this seen as a semaphore of the beginning of the world, God the Creator digging life from the soil and brushing it off, sending it without a headlamp into the darkness? Julian might finally consent to play charades, maybe, if instead of celebrities the pantomime were restricted to events surrounding the big bang. Religious scenarios. The cold narrative of physics. Reënactments from the very, very beginning of time. Very fucking very. And, on the eighth day, God made his creatures so lonely they wept. Picture that charade, he thought.
Julian was early for his transfusion. This was probably good, because he had to navigate a ritual confusion at the clinic's front desk. It concerned the existence of Hayley.
"You do not come alone?" the receptionist quizzed him, as per fucking usual. She rose slightly in her chair and peered behind him. He stepped aside so that she could see the emptiness.
"I do."
As in, regardez how goddam alone I am. See it once and for all.
There seemed to be no way to permanently establish the fact of his solitude. He shrugged at her and showed, via sneer, what he considered to be justified disgust. It made his face ache.
The receptionist failed to notice.
"You are not supposed to be coming alone," she insisted, waving the form.
It was true. He'd agreed to be accompanied—they didn't give a shit by whom—because the treatments left you weak, woozy. The treatments left you worse than that. Supine, prone, drooling, horny. Never mind how problematic that was, how much that confirmed that "treatment" was the wrong word. What should you call it when afterward you needed to be led from the premises? When, owing to the obliterating immunosuppressants, which preceded the perfectly refreshing speedballs of marrow, the body lacked the power to remove itself? Probably they didn't care, at this first-class medical establishment, if the body was dumped in the Rhine. Just get it out of the clinic. Did they call it "the body"? Did they ask each other, peeking from behind their German curtain: Has the body gone? It is all clear, ja?
Anyway, he'd done fine most days without Hayley, weaving through the granite lobby after his treatment, baby-stepping down the broad white stairway overlooking the town. On some days, well, at least once, he'd even felt strong and alert, with a fresh dose of doctored stem cells running through his blood.
Julian leaned in, showed his teeth. These were the gray teeth, he knew, of someone threatening not to bite you but to crumble his mouth on your face, leaving bits of horrid ash.
"Would you like me to leave?" he hissed at her. "Because I will. Is that what you want?"
Ooh, boy. What a tremendous threat, not to follow through on his own treatment, which his father had already paid for! He really had her now. He'd backed her into a corner!
The receptionist sighed. She was a human being after all.
"This person exists for you?"
"Not just for me."
"And you say she is coming?" The receptionist struck a hopeful tone.
Oh, God, he thought, let's not be hopeful anymore. Where has it got us, really?
"No," Julian said. "I'd say she is not."
The clinic wasn't what he'd been expecting when he first arrived. The place lacked a porch with rocking chairs, where dignitaries convalesced deep in thought, staring out over a thundering gorge. Nurses did not come by with blankets to cover your lap. You did not take the clean, healing air, or hike up mossy trails into the mountains. Convalescence here was presented as an essentially professional activity, like day-trading. The reception lounge was smartened up like a bank; the treatment rooms were hidden in vaults. Photographs of athletic prowess, framed in metal, lined the hallways. Bodies performing impossible maneuvers, in full color, glistening, mostly nude. These images were hung, no doubt, to flatter the rumored celebrity clients, who must have had their own entrance, their own goddam wing, because Julian never saw them. Rich and arthritic American athletes, willing to take injections of liquid horse penis or whatever into their stiff joints, able to afford exceedingly rare and hazardous attacks on their bodies. Sea sponge in the neck, cartilage-fortifying worms, administered via cream.
In the waiting room, patients gazed at their phones or read or looked anywhere but at one another. A certain shame lingered over people who were going out of pocket on experimental health care, paying too much to keep feeling worse far from home. How humiliating to be seen like this, failing to rage, rage against the dying of the light. Failing even to fucking complain.
When his name was called, the technician led him to the semi-private room where patients reclined in blue vinyl chairs, watching television they could not understand. In transfusion chair No. 3, Julian submitted to the usual pre-treatment shenanigans. He confirmed his name and birth date, signing, yet again, a German-language consent form. A nurse practitioner arrived to stick him for blood, filling a vial from his leg until it looked like a long black bullet. She waved it at him, and it foamed.
"You are O.K.," she said.
"I am?"
"Yes." She smirked. "I know this." She tapped her head. A universal sign of certainty. He needed to remember to tap his head when he spoke, no matter what. He should always tap his head.
"Ready?" the nurse asked, and he nodded to her. He wasn't.
She wheeled up the apparatus and switched it on. Inside its wire frame rested the clear bag sloshing with his new life, frothy and pink. It produced a not unpleasant hum.
He let his arm fall into the syringe basket and closed his eyes, waiting for the dreams that sometimes came when the long needle, loaded with marrow, was raised over his body.
After the treatment, Julian's father assured him from the lobby pay phone that money was not a problem. He'd wire it over on his lunch break, which meant that Julian could get it later tonight. But how was he feeling, his father wanted to know, and how were his side effects and was he able to sleep, because you don't get better if you don't sleep well, that's just common sense, and of course the city must be tempting, the museums and the old opera house and the Latin food festival that had begun last night, according to what his father had read online—what an exciting thing for Germany to be doing! his father said—but he shouldn't go crazy amid the delights of Düsseldorf. The delights! Was his hotel clean? He should take care of himself, and money, seriously, was not a problem.
This, Julian knew, was his father's way of not saying that money was a problem, a very big problem, and that his father worried about it night and day, but never spoke of it. Never. Julian was simply allowed to lick money from his father's body whenever he wanted to, and his father had pledged never to cry out in pain.
They would find a way, his father said. He'd send more than Julian had asked for, because worrying about money was the last thing Julian needed right now. He needed to heal. Was he healing?
Julian glanced at his needle-kissed arm. He imagined the German blood product sluicing through his body, trouncing the free radicals, persuading his white blood cells not to eat through bone.
He guessed that he was healing. Quite.
"How's Hayley?" his father asked. "She keeping you fed?"
Julian pictured Hayley prying his mouth open with her fist, pouring sauce down his throat.
"She's fine," Julian answered. No doubt this was true. Hayley was probably having a glass of wine, smoking, sitting at an outdoor café somewhere. France, still? Berlin? They'd spoken of Berlin in a vaguely flirty way, as if they might like each other more there.
"Is she with you now? Can you put her on?"
His father and Hayley and their whisper time: they were his armchair doctors, his medical curators, who earned their authority because they cared more about his health than he did.
"Oh, she went ahead to scout out a good place for dinner. I'm starving."
"That's what I like to hear," his father said.
How about that, having something you like to hear. For Julian, it would be what, exactly? Maybe something Hayley-related. Even just her name. Preferably spoken by her. As in: Hey, Jules, it's me, Hayley. I miss you, and I'm on my way.
"O.K., Dad, well, thank you."
His father breathed into the phone. He could tell, all the way from Germany, that back in New Jersey his father was O.K., maybe even smiling. He could feel it. This was something nice. It was very nice. It would do.
He should never, until the very second he died, stop knowing that he had a father who would do anything for him. What a crime to forget this. He was a criminal if he ever stopped thinking this for even a minute.
"I love you, honey," his father said, and they hung up.
Julian took a shortcut to the Old Town, up along Adersstrasse, dipping around the Graf-Adolf-Platz. Germany was deadly cold this time of year, the trees slick with ice, the grass so scarce it seemed the whole country had been poured in cement. The weathered stone, the weathered people—even the language was weathered. It was genius, Julian thought, to create a language from strangled cries, deathbed wheezing. There was perhaps no truer way to communicate. If he spoke German, his inanities would escalate into parable. Everything out of his mouth would be a eulogy. German was the end-times language, the only tongue worth speaking as the sun shrank and went cold.
Instead, Julian was stuck with whiny, nasal English, in which every word was a spoiled complaint, a bit of pouting. In English, no matter what you said, you sounded like a coddled human mascot with a giant head asking to have his wiener petted. Because you were lonely. Because you were scared. And your wiener would feel so much better if someone petted it. How freakishly impolite, how shameful, to let these things be revealed by one's language. At least overseas he didn't speak much English. He didn't speak much anything.
Julian ate no dinner. He found a wine bar and drank cautiously from a communal bottle of something red and sparkly, a kind of alcoholic soda. He sat in a sea of couches, and every now and then some grinning celebrant poured a swallow into his glass and raised it vaguely at the others. A kind of listless cheers, offered to the room. Each time, Julian raised his own glass in response, nodding his head. Cheers, indeed. When the bottle was empty, and he'd paid far more than he owed, he walked back down to the station and took his position on the ledge.
There was something tremendously good about sitting there and not looking out for Hayley, a habit he'd decided to break. He didn't even know the train schedule tonight. The trains could do what they liked. He would take an evening off from feeling incomplete without her. A paid vacation. He'd done this shit on his own so far, and if Hayley had been there he would have tried to scrape her, day and night, for pity and understanding. She would have been empty by now, empty and seething, but still he would have kept scraping with his spoon, digging deep into her sweetest parts until they were completely gone.
He'd been doing fine without Hayley, and he would do fine, and he fucking was fine. He sat and he froze and he shivered, and it was perfectly terrific. He had no good reason to be at the station, and yet so far, since he'd arrived, this was his best night in Germany. He even felt sort of healthy, although it made him nervous to think so, and damned if he knew what healthy meant anymore. He'd long ago lost track of how he was supposed to feel, and on days like this, nights like this, treatment or not, it was hard not to be worried, a little bit, that some of the reactionary, conservative doctors whom Hayley had railed against at home, the ones who'd scorecarded Julian in the normal range, might actually have been right. Perhaps he had been fine this whole time. He wasn't legitimately sick. Perhaps this was just what it felt like to be alive.
Or so those doctors had seemed to be saying.
Did everyone else, he wondered, feel listless, strange, anxious, dull, scared—you could pretty much go shopping from a list of adjectives—and did other people just clench their jaws and endure it, without running to the doctor, as he did, again and again?
For hours, it seemed, no trains came into the station. The tracks were quiet and the whole city was perfectly still, as if perhaps there'd been some agreement, deep in the brain of the city, that all machines would be shut down at this hour, all vehicles grounded. A scheduled hiatus of activity on this clear, cold evening in Düsseldorf. Travellers still occasionally made their way out through the station's tall glass doors, locals mostly, pulling dark suitcases across the ice. How they'd got to town without a train was a mystery to Julian, until he realized that they must have arrived hours ago and waited inside, where it was warm, for someone to come and get them. That was what happened to arrivals. Not all of them got met. They'd stared out at the square all evening, as tiny, fuel-efficient cars ripped here and there without stopping for them. Finally, they must have realized that their rides weren't coming, so they'd bundled up and walked out alone into the cold.
That night at the hostel, a visitor came to Julian's bed. Some uninvited man crept under his covers while he slept, and Julian woke up—suddenly, rudely, confused. This man was taking liberties. Before much could happen—before disgrace and shame and, who knows, the implication that he was even remotely O.K. with this—he'd fled to the bathroom.
His heart was blasting, his sleep shirt damp and twisted. From the bathroom, looking back out into the gymnasium, the air thick with sleep, he saw no sign of anything. No man, no sounds, just beds and bodies and darkness. It was as if the stranger had vanished. Hands had been on him while he slept, and when he thought about it he saw himself lying there reciprocating. He couldn't piece it together. What in the goddam hell had happened? He checked his body everywhere, testing. For evidence? Damage?
He'd been touched, that he was sure of. He'd been touched, it had happened, and now there was nothing to be done about it. He crouched in a bathroom stall, trying to think. Some scene in whatever he'd been dreaming—he'd been having some kind of intense dream, oh, God—had allowed this to happen, had made him stay longer in his bed than he should have. As if he were enjoying it. He'd been dreaming of cuddling, and not with Hayley, but big deal. That was how it worked. You could date the whole world in your dreams, and it was O.K. You could, actually, date-rape the whole world in a dream, too. You could kill and clean up after yourself. Or not—you could leave evidence all over the world and get caught and go to jail forever and wake up crying. So fucking what. The point is, he was cuddling someone in his dream, and he was doing it in that squirming way, he had to admit, that he hoped might lead to more, and then he woke up beside a body, and what were you supposed to do? There was no way not to respond. Anyone would. It could have been a dog and he would have nuzzled into it, feeling something. He was aroused, technically, but he had been aroused before the man crawled into bed with him, so this was bullshit.
Oh, God. He wanted to cry foul.
In the morning he asked about other accommodations, and they offered him a private room, for twice the money. Then, no, they withdrew that offer, because it seemed those rooms were taken. The only available beds were in the Turnhalle, where he was staying, and if he would like to change beds he could do that, for a fee. Would sir like a bed in another part of the room?
He lurked outside the hostel, watching the men light their cigarettes and head into town. They filed out silently, squinting against the day. Which one of them had done this?
He realized, once the men were gone from Müllerhaus, that he was exaggerating his indignation. He was worked up for nothing. No one was watching, and he was putting on the fucking Ritz, for God's sake, as if there were something so terribly wrong with someone's kissing him in the night. Was he really supposed to care at this late date who kissed him? Wasn't it enough to be kissed by someone? What was the saying—beggars can't be complete and total losers?
"Your friend is here," the nurse told him as he was finishing his treatment that afternoon.
Friend, Julian thought. Not possible. The word made him picture animals. Pets he'd never had.
"Your friend waits there now," the nurse said, pointing up.
If he followed in the direction she was pointing, he'd float through the ceiling and into the sky before crashing to the ground. Head in this direction, sir, even if it takes you over a cliff. Waiting for you, maybe, will be someone who cares.
Julian cleaned up in the patients' bathroom. On his way out, a nurse directed him to the doctor's office, where his very own doctor, whom he hadn't seen for days, was hanging film in a light box.
The doctor greeted Julian and waved him over to a stool.
Julian, instead, stepped up to the light box. The scan was mostly black, a portrait of darkness.
"Is this me?" Julian asked. "My head?"
The doctor nodded.
"We are looking at your scan while you are here this day."
Julian studied the doctor. He was trim, and his skin glowed. Like most doctors, he seemed offensively healthy, as if he kept the real secret of vitality to himself. He would live forever while people crumbled and died around him. If necessary, he would eat you to survive.
"Well, we see something sometimes," the doctor was saying, "in this kind of white-blood person. The scan is really. This is why we scan. And," the doctor continued, "we have this discovery to show you."
The doctor pointed his pen at a scuff in the film.
"A little discovery. You can discover it here."
The doctor traced the outline of nothing that was, perhaps, a shade lighter than the nothing around it.
Maybe Julian could see it. A very small shape, like a cloud. In his brain. Weather passing through. If you could draw a headache, this is what you would draw.
"This is a concern," the doctor said, looking at Julian hopefully.
"O.K.," Julian said. "Where is it?"
That mattered, right? His entire personality could perhaps be explained by this cloud. A cluster of rogue cells pushes on a nerve, blocks a vessel supplying blood to the deep limbic system, and suddenly you're funny, witty, and charming. That was what a personality was, the blood thirst of rogue cells, a growth in the mind.
The doctor pointed again at the cloud.
"It is here," he said, more slowly.
"No, I mean in me. Where is this thing?"
Julian tapped his head. Maybe it wasn't in the brain itself.
"This is not our work."
"You didn't make this tumor?" Julian grinned.
"Well, tumor," the doctor said, as if there might be some doubt. "We see a shape, yes? We do not make that name for it. We do not work on this kind of area. We do not fix this."
"Does anyone?"
"Someone must know what this is. Who treats the brain where you live."
Yes, someone must.
"We will be sending this scan to your American doctor. And we think that the stem-cell transfusions is not, for now, a good idea. Until this."
The doctor pointed at the cloud and tried, again, to look stumped.
"This first. To understand this. Then, maybe."
Julian was impressed. He had to hand it to him. The doctor had devised a pretty good tombstone inscription.
This first. To understand this. Then, maybe.
Julian laughed.
"What is it?" the doctor said, smiling. As in, thank God this moron is going into denial now. He's going to be one of those people who crack jokes after getting news of a tumor. I will not need to wash his tears from my doctor's coat.
"It's just that, if you tell me it's all in my head now," Julian said, "you won't be lying."
"Aha. I see what you say. This is truly funny. But we will not be lying to you ever, Mr. Bledstein."
Oh, feel free, Julian didn't say. Lie to me all you want.
The nurse brought in the papers to terminate his treatment, seal off liability, sever connections between Julian and the clinic. He signed and signed and signed.
The doctor, frowning thoughtfully, stood by.
"I am sorry we do not have a way to give you your money back," the doctor was saying.
"I could help you," Julian said. "If you want."
"Excuse me?"
"I could show you a way to give me my money back," Julian explained. "You know, how to transfer it back to my credit card. It's not so hard."
"Oh, you must misunderstand." The doctor blushed.
"Yes, I must," Julian said.
Outside the clinic, standing on the steps in her long corduroy thrift-store coat, nearly hidden by a plaid scarf, was Hayley. She gave him a shy little wave, sheepishly smiling, forgiving, forgetting, denying, all in one cute fucking face. How on earth.
"Jules! Oh, my God, you took forever!"
"I took forever?" He tried to sound arch. Here Hayley actually was. Jesus Christ.
"It's freezing," she said, laughing.
She had a gift for killing off oddity, making shit like this—sudden encounters in foreign countries—seem routine.
Julian agreed that it was cold. Germany in February and all that.
"Are you O.K.?" she asked. "You look good."
How nice if that were true. He'd never looked good, not even as a baby. Hayley should be ashamed of herself. He looked good. Still, he had to applaud her strategy. Cheer, denial, exuberance. If only he could.
"Come here already!" Hayley shouted. "Come hug me, you stupid bastard. How are you? Oh, my God, I can't believe I'm seeing you."
He succumbed to Hayley's hug, giving little back.
"Oh, you," she kept saying. "I missed you, you know."
They walked through the icy streets of Düsseldorf, stopping to sit and shiver on a cold metal bench by the Rheinturm. Julian took Hayley through the Old Town, along Carlsplatz, pointing out cultural zones with the indifference of a local. He lied, effortlessly, about places he hadn't even seen, like the Kunstakademie—looking at art was the last thing he'd wanted to do—and invented a day trip to Cologne. Which he'd taken last Wednesday? Or maybe Thursday? Hayley beamed up at him, her brave and adventurous boyfriend, snuggling into his coat as they walked.
Hayley kept saying that she couldn't believe she was here. I mean, could he? she asked. Could he believe it? And he disappointed her by saying, that, well, yeah, he could, because she had been supposed to come, hadn't she?
"I know, but it's crazy, right?" she said.
Julian steered Hayley clear of Müllerhaus, but he kept it in his sights, a secret back door he could fall through. He didn't interrogate her on her whereabouts these past two weeks, on the matter of who or what had detained her in the brighter, more exciting ports of Europe, and she didn't mention it. She hardly spoke. Maybe they hadn't fought or maybe they weren't still, in some quiet, effortlessly Zen way, fighting right now. One day, people would swab each other with animosity sticks, and there'd be no way to hide it. Just as you could be tested for cancer, you could be tested for fury. Your anger would show, or your resentment, your detachment, your ambivalence, your reduced sexual attraction, no matter what you said or did. Your mood would be a chemical fact, and, if you lied about it, then poor, poor you. You'd be found out! Looking at Hayley, seeing her radiate, feeling her cozy up against him, it was ridiculously hard—in fact, it was impossible—not to feel that the affection she was suddenly smothering him with was meant for someone else.
Maybe that person shared his name, and looked like him—the poor fuck—but so what. Hayley wanted a stranger—You are dead to me, he wanted to say to himself—and Julian couldn't help her. Instead of breaking up with your girlfriend, could you break up with yourself?
"So I talked to your dad," Hayley said.
"Well." She looked at him funny. "Because I wanted to know where you were." She punched him softly in the arm.
Maybe she wanted to say: play along with this, Julian, please, please, because this is how it works. I am trying so hard right now.
"You knew exactly where I was," he said. "I've been right here the whole time. I've been at the clinic every day for two weeks. Where else would I be?"
"I wanted to know that you were doing O.K., and, you know, where you were staying."
"So you asked him?"
"I knew you'd have been in touch with him."
"I can care about you, Julian."
"I know you can, Hale."
She could care about him in theory, and maybe in real life, too. But he must have migrated to some other place, because both of those territories seemed very far off to him now.
They crossed the Oberkassel bridge, where the wind destroyed them, and finally Hayley admitted to being impossibly, horribly cold. And hungry. The poor thing's nose was running, and her face was red. Could they maybe head back now? she wanted to know.
"Back where?" he said.
"To the room."
"Room? There is no room."
"At the Am Volksgarten. You know, where we . . . They had rooms. I didn't know where you were, and you weren't checked in there."
"Oh, are you Madame Düsseldorf now? What have you been here for, like, eleven minutes? Plus, I have a place to stay. And there isn't room there for you."
"What do you mean?"
Julian vowed not to look at that area of her that seemed to be crying.
"I am perfectly lodged, thank you."
"Would you please stop it?"
"I doubt it."
"Jules, please. I want to stay with you tonight."
He turned away and crossed the avenue, and she spoke his name, but not so urgently. This is what a favor looks like, he thought. Probably there was a favor being done right now. Except, as he turned uphill and left Hayley behind, he had to wonder who, exactly, was doing this favor, and who was the fucking favor even for?
It was getting dark. Soon the hostel lights would go off. The men would tuck in, and some of them would be snoring in seconds. The whole room would hum with desire, forty or fifty men who required darkness for their work. This was where he belonged. This time, he'd stay in his bed, no matter what. He would not bolt. He'd listen all night for footsteps. If none came, then perhaps he would be the stranger. He would find someone sleeping in the Turnhalle, someone who needed badly to be visited, and he would oblige.
Julian would reach out his hand. He wouldn't say it out loud, but he could certainly think it. He'd been thinking it for so long now. Wouldn't you like to join me? And wouldn't that phrase serve as the perfect inscription on the tombstone they would finally, mercifully, place, when the time came, over his grave? ♦


text:
Life & health
The evolution of healthier lives in Asia
Life & health – South Asia Focus
Bringing health insurance to Bangladesh
The untapped potential of Pakistan health
Nepal - A long way to go yet
Sri Lanka: Innovation can make a difference
Corporate insurance will look quite different in the future
New world for claims professionals
Going viral: The vaccination gap
Growing cyber risk
Why dynamic risk pricing is the future of group insurance
Creating a healthy market
Playing with the big boys
Exploring the digital market
A veritable boomtown
Growing with the nation
China reinsurance realities revealed
Will optimism transform into opportunities?
Committed to GBA insurance interconnection
ASEAN: Bullish prospects for region's insurance market
Asia: McKinsey says region's insurers need to seize digital opportunities
Australia: Premium prices continue to increase
Bangladesh: 31 insurance companies must list on the bourse by 31 Dec
Hong Kong: 1.7m adults lack healthcare protection
India: Multi-peril crop insurance model launched
Indonesia: Credit insurance to push growth of non-life business
Japan: Insurers increase premium rates
Malaysia: Only 15% of SMEs have flood insurance
New Zealand: Reserve Bank chief calls for more effort to build confidence in insurance
Singapore: MAS acts to promote responsible adoption of AI
South Korea: Life insurers see first negative spread in over 70 years
Sri Lanka: Actuaries need to take into account investment volatility
Taiwan: Insurers' exposure to Hong Kong grows
Thailand: Online insurance broker surprised at age distribution of its customer base
Vietnam: Bancassurance is a winning distribution strategy for insurers
Reinsurance in China yet to reflect size of the direct insurance market
Revised health insurance regulation takes effect on 1 Dec
Govt agencies studying feasibility of forming agricultural reinsurer
Lloyd's to form single governing body
Allianz and Microsoft form partnership to transform insurance processes
PARIMA Kuala Lumpur 2019 Conference - 'Redefining Risks' highlights
Events Page
Brunei marks EAIC Day by creating more awareness on financial literacy
View from India
Banking crisis and insurance industry - view from India
Mission 1bn by 2025
Think Tank
The Geneva Association - Public authority liability and the cost of disasters
Adapt to stay relevant
People on the move
SIRC: Facing the climate crisis
Bringing global expertise to a local market
Excitement in growth
'Diving in' to translate awareness into action
Saluting our best
Sneak preview of tomorrow
The casualty book portfolio
The biggest issues for reinsurers in Asia in 2020
Selling more insurance
The pivot east continues
The importance of embracing technology
Big issues facing the industry in 2020
Challenges between corporates and start-ups
Resilience for Asia's emerging middle-class
An enabler for Asian insurers
Data, technology integration and customer satisfaction
Digital transformation and consumer behaviour
Growing Asia, greater challenges
Collaboration with InsurTechs
Navigating in turbulent times
Risk management in 2020 and beyond
Growth opportunities in Asia
Recurring themes, new challenges
Seeking sustainability in a digital future
Healthy and wealthy: Asia in 2020 and beyond
Trendspotting for 2020
Collaboration on the horizon
Trends shaping the future
Continued growth, but challenges ahead
Reinventing to stay relevant
If you are already a subscriber
To read this news article only BUY
Note that your comment may be edited or removed in the future, and that your comment may appear alongside the original article on websites other than this one.
There are no comments submitted yet. Do you have an interesting opinion? Then be the first to post a comment.


text:
During World War II (1939-45), the United States and Great Britain issued a joint declaration in August 1941 that set out a vision for the postwar world. In January 1942, a group of 26 Allied nations pledged their support for this declaration, known as the Atlantic Charter. The document is considered one of the first key steps toward the establishment of the United Nations in 1945.
Roosevelt and Churchill Discuss Atlantic Charter
From August 9 to August 12, 1941, U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt (1882-1945) and British Prime Minister Winston Churchill (1874-1965) met aboard naval ships in Placentia Bay, off the southeast coast of Newfoundland, to confer on a range of issues related to World War II. It was the first time the two leaders had met as heads of their respective governments, and at that point, the United States had not yet entered the war (it would do so in December of that year).
The document that resulted from the Roosevelt-Churchill meetings was issued on August 14, 1941, and became known as the Atlantic Charter. The document, which was not a treaty, stated that the two leaders "deem it right to make known certain common principles in the national policies of their respective countries on which they base their hopes for a better future for the world."
Atlantic Charter Issued: August 14, 1941
The Atlantic Charter included eight common principles. Among them, the United States and Britain agreed not to seek territorial gains from the war, and they opposed any territorial changes made against the wishes of the people concerned. The two countries also agreed to support the restoration of self-government to those nations who had lost it during the war. Additionally, the Atlantic Charter stated that people should have the right to choose their own form of government. Other principles included access for all nations to raw materials needed for economic prosperity and an easing of trade restrictions. The document also called for international cooperation to secure improved living and working conditions for all; freedom of the seas; and for all countries to abandon the use of force.
Allied Nations Support Atlantic Charter
On January 1, 1942, at a meeting in Washington, D.C., representatives of 26 governments (the United States, Great Britain, the Soviet Union, China, Australia, Belgium, Canada, Costa Rica, Cuba, Czechoslovakia, Dominican Republic, El Salvador, Greece, Guatemala, Haiti, Honduras, India, Luxembourg, Netherlands, New Zealand, Nicaragua, Norway, Panama, Poland, South Africa, Yugoslavia) signed a "Declaration by United Nations" in which they pledged their support for the Atlantic Charter's principles.


text:
Key indie distributor Avalon has picked up several titles at Cannes for Spain, including UK sci-fi film Attack The Block and Mexican drama Miss Bala.
Spanish outfit Avalon Distribution, headed up by Enrique Costa, has had a busy Cannes picking up Joe Cornish' popular action adventure film Attack The Block, starring Nick Frost, Jodie Whittaker and Luke Treadaway, from StudioCanal, about a gang of youths in London who take on aliens and Michael Radford's critically acclaimed music documentary Michel Petrucciani about the late jazz pianist from Wild Bunch.
Avalon has also picked up Emmanuel Mouret's French comedy The Art Of Love, starring Francois Cluzet, from Kinology and Gerardo Naranjo's popular drama Miss Bala about an aspiring beauty queen, played by Stephanie Sigman, who gets caught up in a criminal gang in Mexico's ongoing drugs war, which world premiered in Un Certain Regard and is being handled by Fox International.
"We had a busy and productive Cannes and got exactly what we wanted," Costa told ScreenDaily. "Attack The Block is great fun, Miss Bala is a powerful movie, Michel Petricciani has a similar flavour to Bruce Weber's popular doc Let's Get Lost and The Art of Love should be well received by the audience."


text: Pete started as an intern with the city of Pullman in 1982, and has been employed full-time for the city since 1984. Prior to that, he worked for the U.S. Forest Service on the Mt. Hood National Forest. He obtained his Bachelor of Science degree from the University of California at Berkeley and his master's degree in regional planning from Washington State University. He currently serves on the Planning Association of Washington board of directors.