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The key to successfully growing apples is to pick the right spot. All apples do best in full sun and moist, well-drained soil. Although the trees thrive in a wide variety of soils, avoid planting them in low or wet spots -- they don't grow well in situations where there's standing water for extended periods.
You can plant apples anytime from spring to fall. As is the case with most trees and shrubs, dig a hole that's twice as wide as (but no deeper than) the pot your apple tree comes in. Carefully remove the tree from the pot, loosen its root ball, and spread the roots so they face outward. Fill the hole with the soil you dug out (don't fill the hole with amended soil), and then water the tree well.
How to Select Apple Trees
There are more than 7,000 varieties of apple -- because each is different, take the time to research the best selections for your area. The staff at your local cooperative extension service or local garden center or nursery should be able to help you choose.
Test Garden Tip: Apples bear best when there are two varieties nearby to pollinate each other. In fact, some apples have to be pollinated by another variety in order to bear fruit -- so be sure to take note of special needs such as this when you select varieties for your yard.
Growing Apples in Containers
If you have large containers (at least 4-5 feet in diameter), you can grow apples in pots. Choose dwarf varieties, which won't become too large for the containers. Fill the pots with a high-quality potting mix. It's best not to use garden soil as it doesn't drain well in containers.
In Zone 6 and warmer, you can leave the pots outdoors all year. But in colder climates it's best to move the trees to a more protected spot, such as an unheated garage or storage shed for the winter.
It's important to keep container-grown apple trees watered well. You'll also want to fertilize your apples with a general-purpose timed-release plant food each spring to ensure the tree has enough nutrients to bear a healthy crop of apples.
Training and Pruning Apples
Like many trees, apples have a central leader -- a main, upright trunk -- that the branches grow out from. If your tree starts to develop a second, competing central leader, remove the competing branch. This helps keep your tree stable and healthy.
Also cut out any branches that grow toward the inside of the tree. Your apple tree will stay healthiest if you prune it so it has something of an open framework, meaning the main branches are spaced well apart so sunlight and air reaches all the way through the tree's canopy.
When to Prune
The best time to prune your apple is in late winter or early spring, while the tree is dormant. Always remove any branches that have died, as well as shoots that pop up around the tree's roots and the fast-growing shoots called water sprouts that grow vertically out of the branches.
It's beneficial to remove the flowers or developing fruit the year you plant an apple tree (or the following year if you plant it in the fall). This helps the tree become established faster.
You can also train apples to grow flat along a wall or fence. This decorative process, known as espalier, also makes harvesting easier.
There are early-, mid-, and late-maturing apple varieties, so the harvest season can stretch from August to October.
Pick apples from the tree when they separate easily from the branch and have firm flesh. Soft apples are overripe, but can be used for cooking. Store them in a cool spot (under 40 degrees F) after harvest.
Check out these recipe ideas for using your homegrown apples.
Apple Pests and Diseases
Unfortunately, apples are susceptible to a number of pests and diseases.
Apple maggot larvae burrow into the fruit, causing infested apples to drop early. Prevent it by picking up and destroying all fallen apples every week in summer, and use apple-maggot traps in the tree to catch the adult moths.
Apple scab is most prevalent in areas with cool, wet spring weather. Look for olive-brown spots on the leaves and the fruits. Prevent it by cleaning up all fallen leaves in autumn, selecting scab-resistant varieties (such as 'Honey Crisp' or 'Liberty'), and using liquid-sulfur sprays on the tree as the flower buds begin to open.
Cedar-apple rust causes pale yellow spots on leaf surfaces and fruits. The spots grow, turn orange, and get tiny black dots in them. Prevent it by selecting rust-resistant varieties, spraying with a liquid-sulfur spray in spring, and removing any junipers nearby.
Codling moth is a common insect pest. Its larvae feed on the fruits, creating small holes. Prevent it by spraying Bt, a natural bacterium, two weeks after the petals drop from the blossoms.
Fireblight causes blossoms to turn brown and die and branches to wilt and die with the leaves still on. Prevent it by pruning out any infected shoots, cleaning up all fallen leaves in autumn, selecting scab-resistant varieties (such as 'Empire' or 'Freedom'), and using a copper-sulfur spray on the tree before the buds open.
Powdery mildew looks like there's a silvery-gray covering on plant leaves. It often distorts new growth. Prevent it by cleaning up all fallen leaves in autumn, selecting mildew varieties (such as 'Gala' or 'Goldrush'), and using liquid-sulfur sprays on the tree as the flower buds begin to open.
Test Garden Tip: If you want perfect, blemish-free apples, you'll probably have to use a spray program. Most garden centers sell home orchard sprays, which need to be applied up to four times a year. Follow label directions carefully.
You can grow apples organically, however. The trees produce heavily, and even without spraying, you should be able to harvest plenty of edible fruit as long as you're willing to tolerate a few superficial blemishes.


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Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Grandfather poems. This is a select list of the best famous Grandfather poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Grandfather poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of grandfather poems.
Search for the best famous Grandfather poems, articles about Grandfather poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Grandfather poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
it's 1962 March 28th I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train night is falling I never knew I liked night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain I don't like comparing nightfall to a tired bird I didn't know I loved the earth can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it I've never worked the earth it must be my only Platonic love and here I've loved rivers all this time whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills European hills crowned with chateaus or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see I know you can't wash in the same river even once I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow I know this has troubled people before and will trouble those after me I know all this has been said a thousand times before and will be said after me I didn't know I loved the sky cloudy or clear the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish I hear voices not from the blue vault but from the yard the guards are beating someone again I didn't know I loved trees bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino they come upon me in winter noble and modest beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish "the poplars of Izmir losing their leaves. . . they call me The Knife. . . lover like a young tree. . . I blow stately mansions sky-high" in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief to a pine bough for luck I never knew I loved roads even the asphalt kind Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea Koktebele formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish the two of us inside a closed box the world flows past on both sides distant and mute I was never so close to anyone in my life bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé when I was eighteen apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take and at eighteen our lives are what we value least I've written this somewhere before wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play Ramazan night a paper lantern leading the way maybe nothing like this ever happened maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy going to the shadow play Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat with a sable collar over his robe and there's a lantern in the servant's hand and I can't contain myself for joy flowers come to mind for some reason poppies cactuses jonquils in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika fresh almonds on her breath I was seventeen my heart on a swing touched the sky I didn't know I loved flowers friends sent me three red carnations in prison I just remembered the stars I love them too whether I'm floored watching them from below or whether I'm flying at their side I have some questions for the cosmonauts were the stars much bigger did they look like huge jewels on black velvet or apricots on orange did you feel proud to get closer to the stars I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to say they were terribly figurative and concrete my heart was in my mouth looking at them they are our endless desire to grasp things seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad I never knew I loved the cosmos snow flashes in front of my eyes both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind I didn't know I liked snow I never knew I loved the sun even when setting cherry-red as now in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors but you aren't about to paint it that way I didn't know I loved the sea except the Sea of Azov or how much I didn't know I loved clouds whether I'm under or up above them whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois strikes me I like it I didn't know I liked rain whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train is it because I lit my sixth cigarette one alone could kill me is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue the train plunges on through the pitch-black night I never knew I liked the night pitch-black sparks fly from the engine I didn't know I loved sparks I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return 19 April 1962 Moscow
How neatly a cat sleeps, Sleeps with its paws and its posture, Sleeps with its wicked claws, And with its unfeeling blood, Sleeps with ALL the rings a series Of burnt circles which have formed The odd geology of its sand-colored tail. I should like to sleep like a cat, With all the fur of time, With a tongue rough as flint, With the dry sex of fire and After speaking to no one, Stretch myself over the world, Over roofs and landscapes, With a passionate desire To hunt the rats in my dreams. I have seen how the cat asleep Would undulate, how the night flowed Through it like dark water and at times, It was going to fall or possibly Plunge into the bare deserted snowdrifts. Sometimes it grew so much in sleep Like a tiger's great-grandfather, And would leap in the darkness over Rooftops, clouds and volcanoes. Sleep, sleep cat of the night with Episcopal ceremony and your stone-carved moustache. Take care of all our dreams Control the obscurity Of our slumbering prowess With your relentless HEART And the great ruff of your tail.
Millions of babies watching the skies Bellies swollen, with big round eyes On Jessore Road--long bamboo huts Noplace to shit but sand channel ruts Millions of fathers in rain Millions of mothers in pain Millions of brothers in woe Millions of sisters nowhere to go One Million aunts are dying for bread One Million uncles lamenting the dead Grandfather millions homeless and sad Grandmother millions silently mad Millions of daughters walk in the mud Millions of children wash in the flood A Million girls vomit & groan Millions of families hopeless alone Millions of souls nineteenseventyone homeless on Jessore road under grey sun A million are dead, the million who can Walk toward Calcutta from East Pakistan Taxi September along Jessore Road Oxcart skeletons drag charcoal load past watery fields thru rain flood ruts Dung cakes on treetrunks, plastic-roof huts Wet processions Families walk Stunted boys big heads don't talk Look bony skulls & silent round eyes Starving black angels in human disguise Mother squats weeping & points to her sons Standing thin legged like elderly nuns small bodied hands to their mouths in prayer Five months small food since they settled there on one floor mat with small empty pot Father lifts up his hands at their lot Tears come to their mother's eye Pain makes mother Maya cry Two children together in palmroof shade Stare at me no word is said Rice ration, lentils one time a week Milk powder for warweary infants meek No vegetable money or work for the man Rice lasts four days eat while they can Then children starve three days in a row and vomit their next food unless they eat slow. On Jessore road Mother wept at my knees Bengali tongue cried mister Please Identity card torn up on the floor Husband still waits at the camp office door Baby at play I was washing the flood Now they won't give us any more food The pieces are here in my celluloid purse Innocent baby play our death curse Two policemen surrounded by thousands of boys Crowded waiting their daily bread joys Carry big whistles & long bamboo sticks to whack them in line They play hungry tricks Breaking the line and jumping in front Into the circle sneaks one skinny runt Two brothers dance forward on the mud stage Teh gaurds blow their whistles & chase them in rage Why are these infants massed in this place Laughing in play & pushing for space Why do they wait here so cheerful & dread Why this is the House where they give children bread The man in the bread door Cries & comes out Thousands of boys and girls Take up his shout Is it joy? is it prayer? "No more bread today" Thousands of Children at once scream "Hooray!" Run home to tents where elders await Messenger children with bread from the state No bread more today! & and no place to squat Painful baby, sick shit he has got. Malnutrition skulls thousands for months Dysentery drains bowels all at once Nurse shows disease card Enterostrep Suspension is wanting or else chlorostrep Refugee camps in hospital shacks Newborn lay naked on mother's thin laps Monkeysized week old Rheumatic babe eye Gastoenteritis Blood Poison thousands must die September Jessore Road rickshaw 50,000 souls in one camp I saw Rows of bamboo huts in the flood Open drains, & wet families waiting for food Border trucks flooded, food cant get past, American Angel machine please come fast! Where is Ambassador Bunker today? Are his Helios machinegunning children at play? Where are the helicopters of U.S. AID? Smuggling dope in Bangkok's green shade. Where is America's Air Force of Light? Bombing North Laos all day and all night? Where are the President's Armies of Gold? Billionaire Navies merciful Bold? Bringing us medicine food and relief? Napalming North Viet Nam and causing more grief? Where are our tears? Who weeps for the pain? Where can these families go in the rain? Jessore Road's children close their big eyes Where will we sleep when Our Father dies? Whom shall we pray to for rice and for care? Who can bring bread to this shit flood foul'd lair? Millions of children alone in the rain! Millions of children weeping in pain! Ring O ye tongues of the world for their woe Ring out ye voices for Love we don't know Ring out ye bells of electrical pain Ring in the conscious of America brain How many children are we who are lost Whose are these daughters we see turn to ghost? What are our souls that we have lost care? Ring out ye musics and weep if you dare-- Cries in the mud by the thatch'd house sand drain Sleeps in huge pipes in the wet shit-field rain waits by the pump well, Woe to the world! whose children still starve in their mother's arms curled. Is this what I did to myself in the past? What shall I do Sunil Poet I asked? Move on and leave them without any coins? What should I care for the love of my loins? What should we care for our cities and cars? What shall we buy with our Food Stamps on Mars? How many millions sit down in New York & sup this night's table on bone & roast pork? How many millions of beer cans are tossed in Oceans of Mother? How much does She cost? Cigar gasolines and asphalt car dreams Stinking the world and dimming star beams-- Finish the war in your breast with a sigh Come tast the tears in your own Human eye Pity us millions of phantoms you see Starved in Samsara on planet TV How many millions of children die more before our Good Mothers perceive the Great Lord? How many good fathers pay tax to rebuild Armed forces that boast the children they've killed? How many souls walk through Maya in pain How many babes in illusory pain? How many families hollow eyed lost? How many grandmothers turning to ghost? How many loves who never get bread? How many Aunts with holes in their head? How many sisters skulls on the ground? How many grandfathers make no more sound? How many fathers in woe How many sons nowhere to go? How many daughters nothing to eat? How many uncles with swollen sick feet? Millions of babies in pain Millions of mothers in rain Millions of brothers in woe Millions of children nowhere to go New York, November 14-16, 1971
In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign -- namely MERCY STREET. Not there. I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there. Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A.M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was... And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime. Pull the shades down -- I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? Not there. I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.
To grow old is to lose everything. Aging, everybody knows it. Even when we are young, we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads when a grandfather dies. Then we row for years on the midsummer pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage, that began without harm, scatters into debris on the shore, and a friend from school drops cold on a rocky strand. If a new love carries us past middle age, our wife will die at her strongest and most beautiful. New women come and go. All go. The pretty lover who announces that she is temporary is temporary. The bold woman, middle-aged against our old age, sinks under an anxiety she cannot withstand. Another friend of decades estranges himself in words that pollute thirty years. Let us stifle under mud at the pond's edge and affirm that it is fitting and delicious to lose everything.
"Angels of the love affair, do you know that other, the dark one, that other me?" 1. ANGEL OF FIRE AND GENITALS Angel of fire and genitals, do you know slime, that green mama who first forced me to sing, who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime of brown where I was beggar and she was king? I said, "The devil is down that festering hole." Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul. Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you of the Bunsen burner, you of the candle, you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue, you of the fierce solar energy, Mademoiselle, take some ice, take come snow, take a month of rain and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain. Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it's terrible weight. 2. ANGEL OF CLEAN SHEETS Angel of clean sheets, do you know bedbugs? Once in the madhouse they came like specks of cinnamon as I lay in a choral cave of drugs, as old as a dog, as quiet as a skeleton. Little bits of dried blood. One hundred marks upon the sheet. One hundred kisses in the dark. White sheets smelling of soap and Clorox have nothing to do with this night of soil, nothing to do with barred windows and multiple locks and all the webbing in the bed, the ultimate recoil. I have slept in silk and in red and in black. I have slept on sand and, on fall night, a haystack. I have known a crib. I have known the tuck-in of a child but inside my hair waits the night I was defiled. 3. ANGEL OF FLIGHT AND SLEIGH BELLS Angel of flight and sleigh bells, do you know paralysis, that ether house where your arms and legs are cement? You are as still as a yardstick. You have a doll's kiss. The brain whirls in a fit. The brain is not evident. I have gone to that same place without a germ or a stroke. A little solo act--that lady with the brain that broke. In this fashion I have become a tree. I have become a vase you can pick up or drop at will, inanimate at last. What unusual luck! My body passively resisting. Part of the leftovers. Part of the kill. Angels of flight, you soarer, you flapper, you floater, you gull that grows out of my back in the drreams I prefer, stay near. But give me the totem. Give me the shut eye where I stand in stone shoes as the world's bicycle goes by. 4. ANGEL OF HOPE AND CALENDARS Angel of hope and calendars, do you know despair? That hole I crawl into with a box of Kleenex, that hole where the fire woman is tied to her chair, that hole where leather men are wringing their necks, where the sea has turned into a pond of urine. There is no place to wash and no marine beings to stir in. In this hole your mother is crying out each day. Your father is eating cake and digging her grave. In this hole your baby is strangling. Your mouth is clay. Your eyes are made of glass. They break. You are not brave. You are alone like a dog in a kennel. Your hands break out in boils. Your arms are cut and bound by bands of wire. Your voice is out there. Your voice is strange. There are no prayers here. Here there is no change. 5. ANGEL OF BLIZZARDS AND BLACKOUTS Angle of blizzards and blackouts, do you know raspberries, those rubies that sat in the gree of my grandfather's garden? You of the snow tires, you of the sugary wings, you freeze me out. Leet me crawl through the patch. Let me be ten. Let me pick those sweet kisses, thief that I was, as the sea on my left slapped its applause. Only my grandfather was allowed there. Or the maid who came with a scullery pan to pick for breakfast. She of the rols that floated in the air, she of the inlaid woodwork all greasy with lemon, she of the feather and dust, not I. Nonetheless I came sneaking across the salt lawn in bare feet and jumping-jack pajamas in the spongy dawn. Oh Angel of the blizzard and blackout, Madam white face, take me back to that red mouth, that July 21st place. 6. ANGEL OF BEACH HOUSES AND PICNICS Angel of beach houses and picnics, do you know solitaire? Fifty-two reds and blacks and only myslef to blame. My blood buzzes like a hornet's nest. I sit in a kitchen chair at a table set for one. The silverware is the same and the glass and the sugar bowl. I hear my lungs fill and expel as in an operation. But I have no one left to tell. Once I was a couple. I was my own king and queen with cheese and bread and rosé on the rocks of Rockport. Once I sunbathed in the buff, all brown and lean, watching the toy sloops go by, holding court for busloads of tourists. Once I called breakfast the sexiest meal of the day. Once I invited arrest at the peace march in Washington. Once I was young and bold and left hundreds of unmatched people out in the cold.
Taped to the wall of my cell are 47 pictures: 47 black faces: my father, mother, grandmothers (1 dead), grand- fathers (both dead), brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins (1st and 2nd), nieces, and nephews.They stare across the space at me sprawling on my bunk.I know their dark eyes, they know mine.I know their style, they know mine.I am all of them, they are all of me; they are farmers, I am a thief, I am me, they are thee. I have at one time or another been in love with my mother, 1 grandmother, 2 sisters, 2 aunts (1 went to the asylum), and 5 cousins.I am now in love with a 7-yr-old niece (she sends me letters in large block print, and her picture is the only one that smiles at me). I have the same name as 1 grandfather, 3 cousins, 3 nephews, and 1 uncle. The uncle disappeared when he was 15, just took off and caught a freight (they say).He's discussed each year when the family has a reunion, he causes uneasiness in the clan, he is an empty space.My father's mother, who is 93 and who keeps the Family Bible with everbody's birth dates (and death dates) in it, always mentions him.There is no place in her Bible for "whereabouts unknown."
I. And Willy, my eldest-born, is gone, you say, little Anne? Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man. And Willy's wife has written: she never was over-wise, Never the wife for Willy: he would n't take my advice. II. For, Annie, you see, her father was not the man to save, Had n't a head to manage, and drank himself into his grave. Pretty enough, very pretty! but I was against it for one. Eh!--but he would n't hear me--and Willy, you say, is gone. III. Willy, my beauty, my eldest-born, the flower of the flock; Never a man could fling him: for Willy stood like a rock. `Here's a leg for a babe of a week!' says doctor; and he would be bound, There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round. IV. Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue! I ought to have gone before him: I wonder he went so young. I cannot cry for him, Annie: I have not long to stay; Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away. V. Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold; But all my children have gone before me, I am so old: I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. VI. For I remember a quarrel I had with your father, my dear, All for a slanderous story, that cost me many a tear. I mean your grandfather, Annie: it cost me a world of woe, Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. VII. For Jenny, my cousin, had come to the place, and I knew right well That Jenny had tript in her time: I knew, but I would not tell. And she to be coming and slandering me, the base little liar! But the tongue is a fire as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire. VIII. And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. IX. And Willy had not been down to the farm for a week and a day; And all things look'd half-dead, tho' it was the middle of May. Jenny, to slander me, who knew what Jenny had been! But soiling another, Annie, will never make oneself clean. X. And I cried myself well-nigh blind, and all of an evening late I climb'd to the top of the garth, and stood by the road at the gate. The moon like a rick on fire was rising over the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale. XI. All of a sudden he stopt: there past by the gate of the farm, Willy,--he did n't see me,--and Jenny hung on his arm. Out into the road I started, and spoke I scarce knew how; Ah, there's no fool like the old one -- it makes me angry now. XII. Willy stood up like a man, and look'd the thing that he meant; Jenny, the viper, made me a mocking courtesy and went. And I said, `Let us part: in a hundred years it'll all be the same, You cannot love me at all, if you love not my good name.' XIII. And he turn'd, and I saw his eyes all wet, in the sweet moonshine: Sweetheart, I love you so well that your good name is mine. And what do I care for Jane, let her speak of you well of ill; But marry me out of hand: we two shall be happy still.' XIV. `Marry you, Willy!' said I, `but I needs must speak my mind, And I fear you'll listen to tales, be jealous and hard and unkind.' But he turn'd and claspt me in his arms, and answer'd, `No, love, no;' Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago. XV. So Willy and I were wedded: I wore a lilac gown; And the ringers rang with a will, and he gave the ringers a crown. But the first that ever I bare was dead before he was born, Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn. XVI. That was the first time, too, that ever I thought of death. There lay the sweet little body that never had drawn a breath. I had not wept, little Anne, not since I had been a wife; But I wept like a child that day, for the babe had fought for his life. XVII. His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain: I look'd at the still little body--his trouble had all been in vain. For Willy I cannot weep, I shall see him another morn: But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born. XVIII. But he cheer'd me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay: Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way: Never jealous--not he: we had many a happy year; And he died, and I could not weep--my own time seem'd so near. XIX. But I wish'd it had been God's will that I, too, then could have died: I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side. And that was ten years back, or more, if I don't forget: But as to the children, Annie, they're all about me yet. XX. Pattering over the boards, my Annie who left me at two, Patter she goes, my own little Annie, an Annie like you: Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will, While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill. XXI. And Harry and Charlie, I hear them too--they sing to their team: Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of a dream. They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed-- I am not always certain if they be alive or dead. XXII. And yet I know for a truth, there's none of them left alive; For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty- five: And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten; I knew them all as babies, and now they're elderly men. XXIII. For mine is a time of peace, it is not often I grieve; I am oftener sitting at home in my father's farm at eve: And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I; I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by. XXIV. To be sure the preacher says, our sins should make us sad: But mine is a time of peace, and there is Grace to be had; And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease; And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of Peace. XXV. And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain, And happy has been my life; but I would not live it again. I seem to be tired a little, that's all, and long for rest; Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best. XXVI. So Willy has gone, my beauty, my eldest-born, my flower; But how can I weep for Willy, he has but gone for an hour,-- Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next; I, too, shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext? XXVII. And Willy's wife has written, she never was over-wise. Get me my glasses, Annie: thank God that I keep my eyes. There is but a trifle left you, when I shall have past away. But stay with the old woman now: you cannot have long to stay.
We bought an electric monkey, experimenting rather recklessly with funds carefully gathered since grandfather's time for the purchase of a steam monkey. We had either, by this time, the choice of an electric or gas monkey. The steam monkey is no longer being made, said the monkey merchant. But the family always planned on a steam monkey. Well, said the monkey merchant, just as the wind-up monkey gave way to the steam monkey, the steam monkey has given way to the gas and electric monkeys. Is that like the grandfather clock being replaced by the grandchild clock? Sort of, said the monkey merchant. So we bought the electric monkey, and plugged its umbilical cord into the wall. The smoke coming out of its fur told us something was wrong. We had electrocuted the family monkey.
All afternoon my father drove the country roads between Detroit and Lansing. What he was looking for I never learned, no doubt because he never knew himself, though he would grab any unfamiliar side road and follow where it led past fields of tall sweet corn in August or in winter those of frozen sheaves. Often he'd leave the Terraplane beside the highway to enter the stunned silence of mid-September, his eyes cast down for a sign, the only music his own breath or the wind tracking slowly through the stalks or riding above the barren ground. Later he'd come home, his dress shoes coated with dust or mud, his long black overcoat stained or tattered at the hem, sit wordless in his favorite chair, his necktie loosened, and stare at nothing. At first my brothers and I tried conversation, questions only he could answer: Why had he gone to war? Where did he learn Arabic? Where was his father? I remember none of this. I read it all later, years later as an old man, a grandfather myself, in a journal he left my mother with little drawings of ruined barns and telephone poles, receding toward a future he never lived, aphorisms from Montaigne, Juvenal, Voltaire, and perhaps a few of his own: "He who looks for answers finds questions." Three times he wrote, "I was meant to be someone else," and went on to describe the perfumes of the damp fields. "It all starts with seeds," and a pencil drawing of young apple trees he saw somewhere or else dreamed. I inherited the book when I was almost seventy and with it the need to return to who we were. In the Detroit airport I rented a Taurus; the woman at the counter was bored or crazy: Did I want company? she asked; she knew every road from here to Chicago. She had a slight accent, Dutch or German, long black hair, and one frozen eye. I considered but decided to go alone, determined to find what he had never found. Slowly the autumn morning warmed, flocks of starlings rose above the vacant fields and blotted out the sun. I drove on until I found the grove of apple trees heavy with fruit, and left the car, the motor running, beside a sagging fence, and entered his life on my own for maybe the first time. A crow welcomed me home, the sun rode above, austere and silent, the early afternoon was cloudless, perfect. When the crow dragged itself off to another world, the shade deepened slowly in pools that darkened around the trees; for a moment everything in sight stopped. The wind hummed in my good ear, not words exactly, not nonsense either, nor what I spoke to myself, just the language creation once wakened to. I took off my hat, a mistake in the presence of my father's God, wiped my brow with what I had, the back of my hand, and marveled at what was here: nothing at all except the stubbornness of things.
1 The children of the Czar Played with a bouncing ball In the May morning, in the Czar's garden, Tossing it back and forth. It fell among the flowerbeds Or fled to the north gate. A daylight moon hung up In the Western sky, bald white. Like Papa's face, said Sister, Hurling the white ball forth. 2 While I ate a baked potato Six thousand miles apart, In Brooklyn, in 1916, Aged two, irrational. When Franklin D. Roosevelt Was an Arrow Collar ad. O Nicholas! Alas! Alas! My grandfather coughed in your army, Hid in a wine-stinking barrel, For three days in Bucharest Then left for America To become a king himself. 3 I am my father's father, You are your children's guilt. In history's pity and terror The child is Aeneas again; Troy is in the nursery, The rocking horse is on fire. Child labor! The child must carry His fathers on his back. But seeing that so much is past And that history has no ruth For the individual, Who drinks tea, who catches cold, Let anger be general: I hate an abstract thing. 4 Brother and sister bounced The bounding, unbroken ball, The shattering sun fell down Like swords upon their play, Moving eastward among the stars Toward February and October. But the Maywind brushed their cheeks Like a mother watching sleep, And if for a moment they fight Over the bouncing ball And sister pinches brother And brother kicks her shins, Well! The heart of man in known: It is a cactus bloom. 5 The ground on which the ball bounces Is another bouncing ball. The wheeling, whirling world Makes no will glad. Spinning in its spotlight darkness, It is too big for their hands. A pitiless, purposeless Thing, Arbitrary, and unspent, Made for no play, for no children, But chasing only itself. The innocent are overtaken, They are not innocent. They are their father's fathers, The past is inevitable. 6 Now, in another October Of this tragic star, I see my second year, I eat my baked potato. It is my buttered world, But, poked by my unlearned hand, It falls from the highchair down And I begin to howl And I see the ball roll under The iron gate which is locked. Sister is screaming, brother is howling, The ball has evaded their will. Even a bouncing ball Is uncontrollable, And is under the garden wall. I am overtaken by terror Thinking of my father's fathers, And of my own will.
Doors were left open in heaven again: drafts wheeze, clouds wrap their ripped pages around roofs and trees. Like wet flags, shutters flap and fold. Even light is blown out of town, its last angles caught in sopped newspaper wings and billowing plastic — all this in one American street. Elsewhere, somewhere, a tide recedes, incense is lit, an infant sucks from a nipple, a grenade shrieks, a man buys his first cane. Think of it: the worlds in this world. Yesterday, while a Chinese woman took hours to sew seven silk stitches into a tapestry started generations ago, guards took only seconds to mop up a cannibal's brain from the floor of a Wisconsin jail, while the man who bashed the killer's head found no place to hide, and sat sobbing for his mother in a shower stall — the worlds in this world. Or say, one year — say 1916: while my grandfather, a prisoner of war in Holland, sewed perfect, eighteen-buttoned booties for his wife with the skin of a dead dog found in a trench; shrapnel slit Apollinaire's skull, Jesuits brandished crucifixes in Ouagadougou, and the Parthenon was already in ruins. That year, thousands and thousands of Jews from the Holocaust were already — were still ¬— busy living their lives; while gnawed by self-doubt, Rilke couldn't write a line for weeks inVienna's Victorgasse, and fishermen drowned off Finnish coasts, and lovers kissed for the very first time, while in Kashmir an old woman fell asleep, her cheek on her good husband's belly. And all along that year the winds kept blowing as they do today, above oceans and steeples, and this one speck of dust was lifted from somewhere to land exactly here, on my desk, and will lift again — into the worlds in this world. Say now, at this instant: one thornless rose opens in a blue jar above that speck, but you — reading this — know nothing of how it came to flower here, and I nothing of who bred it, or where, nothing of my son and daughter's fate, of what grows in your garden or behind the walls of your chest: is it longing? Fear? Will it matter? Listen to that wind, listen to it ranting The doors of heaven never close, that's the Curse, that's the Miracle.
A wind's word, the Hebrew Hallelujah. I wonder they never gave it to a boy (Hal for short) boy with wind-wild hair. It means Praise God, as well it should since praise Is what God's for. Why didn't they call my father Hallelujah instead of Ebenezer? Eben, of course, but christened Ebenezer, Product of Nova Scotia (hallelujah). Daniel, a country doctor, was his father And my father his tenth and final boy. A baby and last, he had a baby's praise: Red petticoats, red cheeks, and crow-black hair. A boy has little to say about his hair And little about a name like Ebenezer Except that you can shorten either. Praise God for that, for that shout Hallelujah. Shout Hallelujah for everything a boy Can be that is not his father or grandfather. But then, before you know it, he is a father Too and passing on his brand of hair To one more perfectly defenseless boy, Dubbing him John or James or Ebenezer But never, so far as I know, Hallelujah, As if God didn't need quite that much praise. But what I'm coming to - Could I ever praise My father half enough for being a father Who let me be myself? Sing Hallelujah. Preacher he was with a prophet's head of hair And what but a prophet's name was Ebenezer, However little I guessed it as a boy? Outlandish names of course are never a boy's Choice. And it takes some time to learn to praise. Stone of Help is the meaning of Ebenezer. Stone of Help - what fitter name for my father? Always the Stone of Help however his hair Might graduate from black to Hallelujah. Such is the old drama of boy and father. Praise from a grayhead now with thinning hair. Sing Ebenezer, Robert, sing Hallelujah!
En l'an trentiesme do mon aage Que toutes mes hontes j'ay beues... PIPIT sate upright in her chair Some distance from where I was sitting; Views of the Oxford Colleges Lay on the table, with the knitting. Daguerreotypes and silhouettes, Here grandfather and great great aunts, Supported on the mantelpiece An Invitation to the Dance. . . . . . I shall not want Honour in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Philip Sidney And have talk with Coriolanus And other heroes of that kidney. I shall not want Capital in Heaven For I shall meet Sir Alfred Mond. We two shall lie together, lapt In a five per cent. Exchequer Bond. I shall not want Society in Heaven, Lucretia Borgia shall be my Bride; Her anecdotes will be more amusing Than Pipit's experience could provide. I shall not want Pipit in Heaven: Madame Blavatsky will instruct me In the Seven Sacred Trances; Piccarda de Donati will conduct me. . . . . . But where is the penny world I bought To eat with Pipit behind the screen? The red-eyed scavengers are creeping From Kentish Town and Golder's Green; Where are the eagles and the trumpets? Buried beneath some snow-deep Alps. Over buttered scones and crumpets Weeping, weeping multitudes Droop in a hundred A.B.C.'s.
Although it is a cold evening, down by one of the fishhouses an old man sits netting, his net, in the gloaming almost invisible, a dark purple-brown, and his shuttle worn and polished. The air smells so strong of codfish it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water. The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up to storerooms in the gables for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on. All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea, swelling slowly as if considering spilling over, is opaque, but the silver of the benches, the lobster pots, and masts, scattered among the wild jagged rocks, is of an apparent translucence like the small old buildings with an emerald moss growing on their shoreward walls. The big fish tubs are completely lined with layers of beautiful herring scales and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered with creamy iridescent coats of mail, with small iridescent flies crawling on them. Up on the little slope behind the houses, set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass, is an ancient wooden capstan, cracked, with two long bleached handles and some melancholy stains, like dried blood, where the ironwork has rusted. The old man accepts a Lucky Strike. He was a friend of my grandfather. We talk of the decline in the population and of codfish and herring while he waits for a herring boat to come in. There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb. He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty, from unnumbered fish with that black old knife, the blade of which is almost worn away. Down at the water's edge, at the place where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp descending into the water, thin silver tree trunks are laid horizontally across the gray stones, down and down at intervals of four or five feet. Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, element bearable to no mortal, to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly I have seen here evening after evening. He was curious about me. He was interested in music; like me a believer in total immersion, so I used to sing him Baptist hymns. I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God." He stood up in the water and regarded me steadily, moving his head a little. Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug as if it were against his better judgment. Cold dark deep and absolutely clear, the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us, the dignified tall firs begin. Bluish, associating with their shadows, a million Christmas trees stand waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones. I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same, slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones, icily free above the stones, above the stones and then the world. If you should dip your hand in, your wrist would ache immediately, your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn as if the water were a transmutation of fire that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame. If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter, then briny, then surely burn your tongue. It is like what we imagine knowledge to be: dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free, drawn from the cold hard mouth of the world, derived from the rocky breasts forever, flowing and drawn, and since our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

subset: commoncrawl


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Shyness is nice, but Shyness can stop you From doing all the things in life that you'd like to. Morrissey/Marr Louder Than Bombs/Ask
J. Alfred was not unlike our friend Bartleby the Scrivener. They were both radically passive, for different historical reasons. Prufrock didn't dare, and Bartleby preferred not to. Neither thought their opinions mattered. Both were wrong.
T.S. Eliot and Herman Melville created these characters as interpretations of the contemporary male psyche (and cautionary tales for same, I should hope).
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Storage Baskets
Choose from these great wicker and wooden storage baskets - perfect for your baby nursery or child's bedroom! Each is lined in your choice of boys & girls soft gingham colors. Totes and hampers by Banana Fish and Cotton Tales make great additions to any kids room, allowing everything to remain neat and tidy by keeping laundry off the floor.


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Regarding the game, not a bad concept, but the episodic bits make me sad.
Sounds like an interesting concept; I'll keep an eye on its progress.
Cheers for the heads up on the game.
Sounds like every game this days needs to have a "creepy asylum level", in addition to a "stealth level" and "escort quest". In fantasy game, haunted library fulfills the same role :-)
So, can you lick this object? And lol @ complaining about being a sex object while she objectifies herselfs. Its like denying reality itself. Yeah, first thing men will see about a women is how beatiful she is, deal with it, or hide your skin if you don't like and begin to work on something that don't involves showing skin.
The game's concept sounds pretty interesting. Most procedurally generated game environments tend to look artificial and wonky which would be a big problem in a game focused on exploration, so let's hope they find a way around that.
As for Chobot, I'll wait and see. If the vocalist from My Chemical Romance can write a fantastic comic series (The Umbrella Academy) anything is possible.
I refer you to this excellent post.
And then I declare with upmost confidence you are an irredeemable moron.
And her argument would have been a lot stronger if there weren't other females in the industry who didn't need to show some skin to get noticed. I don't think Leigh Alexander has ever posed in swimwear, but then given her talent I doubt she ever needed to. Possibly also why she's better known for her writing than her mammary glands too.
It's true with that a hot, sexily dressed woman, the first thing men will notice is how beautiful she is. That's something women should be aware and you're right, that's a choice they should make.
However, if following that first impression you decide not to bother even finding out anything else about that woman, if you dismiss her as 'hot, therefore can't be taken seriously' then that's a problem with you. Do you see the difference? I can look at Jessica Chobot and think that she's hot, and then look at her work and think that she does some pretty good video journalism too. You look at her and see that she's hot and so then stop looking for anything else. That's not her fault.
Call me crazy, but I'd find it hard to take anyone seriously who voted themselves the Psuedonym of Chobot. It's not just that she's criticizing the industry for the stereotype she herself benefits from, although that wins no points from me. But then she gives herself a cutesy, game-related name to further the image. "Hypocrite" does not begin to describe that behavior. People who comport themselves in such a manner, compel me to ignore their body of work. Since they give the impression that it would be as shallow and pointless as they, themselves appear to be.
You know, you posted the same thing in the last page, so i tried to find if she really did some good articles, but to tell the truth, i don't want to read IGNorance to see if she can prove to be a good writer(reading some article titles i don't find nothing interesting either). In the game journalist drama thread, i proved that one of the works of Lauren Wainright is pretty shitty, be it bribed or not, and you excused her saying its the publication fault. I guess you will do the same thing if i point out to some dumb IGN article so why bother...
So lets see the argument behind Deano post. You know, if there is one good moment to put a ad hominem, then this is the moment. So i wold call hipocrisy on a women who bitch and whine about objectification of women, when most of her work consist of showing skin and doing erotic things. In this same logic, i would call hipocrisy over a mass murderer who whines about how modern times are so violent, and so on and so forth. You see, she is the antitesis of the thing she actually wants,but maybe this is women logic for you,doing things contrarian to what she says,hohoho
You can dismiss her as a writer/presenter based on the quality of her work. That's fine. You've gone and looked, that's all I wanted.
The problem was when you were dismissing her as a writer/presenter based on the fact that she was hot and posed in a bikini.
Along the same lines, there's been some discussion about her body and appearance since someone posted some photos of her in this thread. Some people would tell you off for that. Not me. You pose for sexy photos and post them online, you're opening yourself up to comments about how sexy other people think you are.
But these are distinct things. You can't dismiss someone's writing because of an opinion about her modelling work. You can only dismiss it by looking at her writing.
If you look at it the other way, it's obvious how silly it is: "I've never seen a photo of her, but her writing is good which means she must be ugly".
She's not complaining about female games journos doing modelling work, she's complaining about the reaction when they do.
Let's accept that the reaction to female games journalists posing in bikinis for photo shoots is that they get taken less seriously. There are two ways to fix this:
a) female games journalists stop posing in bikinis
b) male readers start to take female games journos seriously even when they pose in bikinis
Now, I think the solution should be b). There are two reasons I think that. Reason one is because I support a woman's right to do what she wants and not be judged for it in utterly unrelated fields. That's the fair, feminist point of view. Reason two is that I like looking at photos of hot women in bikinis.
I really don't see why you favour option a).
Now imagine John Walker bikini photos. It would be curiousity at worst and a complete non issue at best, and nobody would link it to him being good or bad at something completely different. It's a ridiculous thing.
It's certainly not limited to video games (journalism) but I fear its community is only a couple of years away from getting called backwards by the Vatican.
Once again, you're judging her on only a handful of things she's done. Things that aren't harmful to anyone else like a serial killer which you brought up in your half-brained, English-butchering rant.
You won't bother to read anything she's written so you're more far more comfortable in your ignorance and stupidity by judging her on one point of her career than forming an actual opinion about all her work as a whole. She's not objectifying herself, you are. Because you just look at a few pictures and start babbling incoreherently.
Say I knew for certain that John Walker's bikini photos were created with the intention of drawing in more viewers through sexual attraction and promoting the RPS site or a product advertised on the site - I would be questioning his creditability as a writer. If the photos were posted on his personal blog or somewhere else which had no affiliation with RPS or any other place he's worked? Eh, I guess there's no reason why he shouldn't be able to work as a games writer and a model on the side...
Because if John posed for a half naked photo in an oiled thong with the express intention of garnering more views for a site that has nothing to do with half naked photos, it sends a message that he's willing to do whatever it takes to get more views for the site. This would cast a shadow over his opinions and jeopardize the trust between writer and reader. That's why if he wants to keep that trust, he can never pose.
No matter how much we might want it.


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Jack Black singS "Kiss from a Rose" on Idol Gives Back [YOUTUBE]pLUJUtpcYDw[/YOUTUBE] |
I don't watch that show, but that was a pretty funny clip |
I don't watch either... but that was hilarious!!! I love Jack Black! |
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Earlier tonight, 50 Cent dissed his new artist Game on the radio and kicked him out of G-Unit for disloyalty. Later, at the Hot 97 radio station where 50 Cent was being interviewed there was a shootout that injured one person. The man shot is unidentified, and there's no word on if this was related to the friction with Game ... Read More »
Combining Bloglines with Del.icio.us
Can some geek please take advantage of the api's for Bloglines and Del.icio.us to create a combined newsreader and bookmark manager that allows for tagging of webfeeds and url's? Feedmarker does this, but it's ambitious founder has been building the free service by himself from scratch, and it is still filled with bugs. I recently suggested that he use the ... Read More »
Bloglines + Del.icio.us = Feedmarker
Feedmarker is a free new service for social bookmarking of webpages and webfeeds. I currently use Bloglines as my webfeed news reader, and del.icio.us for bookmarking. I have long wished that I could use the two services together, because both of them are extremely useful to me. Bloglines does have the ability to store or "blog" about a link, but ... Read More »
Todd Lynn needs a blog
Todd Lynn, the Hot 97 Morning Show co-host who helped record the "Tsunami Song" and was heard joking on air "I'm gonna start shooting Asians," was interviewed by over the phone and on IM by two blogs (see the Hiphopmusic.com and Trickology.com interviews.) In the interviews he continually claims that he was taken out of context and worries that anything ... Read More »
Greg Tate vs Greg Tate
Recently I stumbled upon a Village Voice review of a Tribe Called Quest's album, written by Greg Tate almost a decade ago, when Tate was a younger man. I was struck by how different Tate's outlook on the culture was back then, and how similar his observations are to how I and my friends feel about the music today. Did ... Read More »
Yes, Virginia, Hip-hop is Not Dead
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say hip-hop is dead. Papa says, "If you see it in a weblog, it's so." Please tell me the truth, is hip-hop dead? –Virginia O'Hanlon Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the nostalgia of a nostalgic age. They do not enjoy the present but the ... Read More »
Def Jam Buys Roc-a-fella (Winner and Losers)
Def Jam bought the Roc and Jay-Z is now president of the company. Let the rumors cease. Today some people are happy about this and some aren't. Let me break down the winners and losers. Winner Russell Simmons just strengthened his Def brand, and diluted the Roc, which has been his main rival in the urban marketplace. Loser Damon Dash ... Read More »
DJ Clue – the Cherry Lounge part 1 (hosted by Nas)
Clue gets props for taking his title as The Professional seriously. His tapes play like real albums. And this one is no different. Everything from the artwork to the description text imbedded on the cd clues you that you're dealing with a cat who has mastered this mixtape game. Read More »
Grandmaster Flash in Rock Hall of Fame
Flash's nomination is a self-serving scam by the Hall of Fame. Read More »
Weblogs Beyond The Web
It's time for the weblog to move away from the web page. A blog is a conversation, remember? I post on my site in order to connect and communicate with people who share similiar interests as me. Most others have blogs so their friends and families can keep up with what's going on with them. All this virtual fellowship happens ... Read More »


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Avionics In Plain English
Paperback, 190 Pages
Prints in 3-5 business days
The rate of change in the field of avionics is so fast that even the legislators are struggling to keep up with it. With new digital cockpits, it is getting to the stage that, if your VCR still flashes 12:00, you will have no business flying a modern aircraft!
The majority of twin-engined (and many single-engined) aircraft now have complex autopilots, glass cockpits and navigation equipment, possibly including Flight Management Systems (FMS).
This book originated with a request from the RCAF for training materials for engineers, but curious pilots whose training syllabus did not include avionics, and who would like to know a little more will find it useful as well.
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Product Details
- 9780978026950
- Copyright
- Phil Croucher (Standard Copyright License)
- Publisher
- Electrocution
- Published
- December 13, 2015
- Language
- English
- Pages
- 190
- Binding
- Perfect-bound Paperback
- Interior Ink
- Black & white
- Weight
- 1.26 lbs.
- Dimensions (inches)
- 8.26 wide x 11.69 tall
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Up to 60 worshippers fled a Hare Krishna temple in Leicester yesterday moments before the building was partially destroyed in an explosion.
They were led to safety by the president of the temple and his wife during the close of celebrations for Janmastami – a two-day holiday marking the birth of Lord Krishna. Watch manager Bill Smith of Leicestershire Fire and Rescue Service said the explosion had been caused by a leaking valve from a gas cylinder which had been used to cook food for the followers. "He ran out of the kitchen, got everyone out of the building, and seconds later there was a large explosion," said Mr Smith.
Four people were treated for minor injuries at the scene of the blast. President Pradium Nadas said afterwards: "The thing that people need to know is that we are safe. The building is damaged and that is a devastating thing. It is sacred for us and our lord resides there."
The Iskcon temple, in a suburban house in Thoresby Street in the east of the city, is the focus for a large and close-knit Krishna community in the East Midlands. Hundreds of worshippers, including many children, had visited the centre over the previous 48 hours as part of the celebrations, which have been going on across the world. A marquee was still up outside the red brick house, a third of which is believed to be destroyed.
Police and firefighters had feared that some worshippers were stuck in the rubble of the building after local residents reported seeing flames billowing from the house and heard people screaming. Some said they feared the explosion was a bomb.
Officers deployed a helicopter with thermal imaging cameras to help locate any victims, and a search dog was also sent in to find any possible survivors.
Dillon Kidger, who works for a roofing company in the same road as the temple, said he rushed outside after hearing a large explosion. "It was actually that loud that the building shook. I heard banging noises and people screaming, there was a big fire and the building was gone in about five to 10 minutes," he said.
- More about:
- Hinduism
- Leicestershire
- Rescue
- Temples


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Brad McGehee
Professional Experience Brad M. McGehee is a MCSE+I, MCSD, and MCT (former) with a Bachelors' degree in Economics and a Masters in Business Administration. Currently the Director of DBA Education for Red Gate Software, Brad is an accomplished Microsoft SQL Server MVP with over 10 years' SQL Server experience. Having founded the popular community site SQL-Server-Performance.Com, where he now acts as the technical editor and forum moderator, Brad specializes in SQL Server Administration, Performance Tuning, and High Availability. He regularly consults with multiple clients, helping them to get the most out of SQL Server. Community Support Brad is a frequent speaker at A well-respected and trusted name in SQL Server literature, Brad is the author or co-author of more than 12 technical books and over 100 published articles. His most recent book (as a co-author) is Professional SQL Server 2005 Administration by Wrox Press. Home Life When he is not travelling to spread his knowledge on SQL Server, Brad lives in
Brad"s personal website is http://www.sqlbrad.com
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ADO.NET and SQL Server Performance Tips - 13 Dec 2006
Tips for Optimizing SQL Server OLAP/Analysis Services — Cube Performance - 13 Dec 2006
Tips for Optimizing SQL Server OLAP/Analysis Services: Data Warehouse & Datamart Performance - 06 Dec 2006
How to Minimize SQL Server Blocking - 15 Nov 2006
Useful SQL Server DBCC Commands - 14 Nov 2006
Performance Tuning SQL Server Constraints - 13 Nov 2006
SQL Server Filegroups - 12 Oct 2006
Learning SQL on SQL Server 2005 - 02 Oct 2006
Inside Microsoft SQL Server 2005: T-SQL Querying - 28 Sep 2006
Microsoft SQL Server 2005 Implementation and Maintenance: Self-Paced Training Kit (Exam 70-431) - 27 Sep 2006


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Current score for this Deck, based on 4 votes:
4.50 | |
Add your comments | |
Author | Message |
LV20 Member since
December 2, 2010 |
Subject: Posted: September 21, 2012 05:39 pm
i had to put a comment to vote on your deck.
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LV79 Member since
November 22, 2010 |
Subject: Posted: September 22, 2012 10:22 am
to shed light on my 5 rating.
i feel that this deck has what it takes as an exodia deck.... for a fun deck it is just not fast enough... deep sea diver is great. but i would change this. i would run: x2 Marshmallon(thin the deck out) x3 Emissary of the Afterlife(better the chances) the #1 goal for exodia decks is to get exodia out as quick as you can....... i am not saying make this a TKO deck. just have fun with it.... this is a good deck.. JUST THINK..... AN EXODIA DECK TOP 8 AT WORLDS!!!!!!!!!! |
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elizabethdavis1 |
Subject: Posted: September 22, 2012 01:06 pm
Do I switch two cards for a second marshmallon and emissary of the afterlife, and if I have to what cards would they be?
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LV79 Member since
November 22, 2010 |
Subject: Posted: September 23, 2012 02:59 am
take out these
Spirit of the Pot of Greed x1 Deep Diver( if you do't want a take this cards out, take out Spirit Reaper instead) replace them with: x1 emissary x1 Marshmallon -try this out a few times and see how you like it. also maybe try adding the trap card Scrap-Iron Scarcow- this card stops one attack once per turn |
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Party idea submitted by BizGirl Feb 2nd, 2008
- 2
The Great Pumpkin Party
By: Tammy Stables Battaglia
Halloween parties for families must strike a delicate balance: exciting enough for older kids but not too scary for the little ones. Four years ago, my family discovered a party format that worked out so well, it has become a much-anticipated October tradition; a pumpkin-decorating party. Each year, usually the Sunday before Halloween, our friends arrive toting their carefully chosen pumpkins. We set out tools, supplies, and some easy-to-eat fare, put on spooky music, and let everyone get to work. From toddlers to teens, our guests carve, paint, and decorate their masterpieces, hoping to take home the coveted grand prize (some families spend days devising their pumpkin design). Even though the party format is straightforward, we've learned a few ways to really make the event stand out. Here, then, are our top tips.
Set the mood for your carving fest with an easily mass-produced invitation that doubles as an award tag. Fold in half a rectangle of orange construction paper (ours was roughly 5 1/2 by 6 1/2 inches) and cut a half pumpkin on the fold, as you would a valentine heart. Unfold it and write out the details using a marker. We make our event BYOP (Bring Your Own Pumpkin) and hold it the Sunday afternoon before Halloween. Be sure to mention prizes to draw Sunday afternoon quarterbacks off the couch!
Outside among the changing leaves on an Indian summer afternoon is the best spot for a carving party (both for the atmosphere and the mess). But be ready to move to a garage, basement, or covered porch if the weather turns lousy. Your artists need space to work, so set up picnic or folding tables in the backyard and cover each with a plastic tablecloth or newspaper. Not only does it protect the table, it also rolls up the spilled pumpkin goo for easy cleanup when the party's over. And speaking of goo, be sure to set a roll of paper towels on each table for messy hands.
The right party music will help your carvers get in the mood. Pick up a CD of scary sounds or a fun Halloween song mix (try your library first).
Here are some of our favorites:
- Halloween Hits (Rhino Records) We especially love the merengue of "The Blob" and the silly sounds in "Martian Hop".
- The Nightmare Before Christmas: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (Disney) We've been using this one for years for the eerie yet melodic music.
- Very Scary Music: Classic Horror Themes (Delta) You name the spooky TV or movie music, it's here.
- Boo, Cackle, Trick or Treat (Wee Bee Music) A great selection of not-so-often-heard Halloween songs with a folky, sing-along sound.
Decorating for this affair can be as easy as pulling out all your Halloween decor. For extra credit, make a pumpkin-head scarecrow to greet guests as they arrive or set jack-o-lanterns aglow for an evening party. Let the kids become pumpkin art themselves with the help of a pumpkin face-paint stamp. You can buy these at craft stores or make your own by cutting a small pumpkin out of craft foam, then gluing it to a piece of cardboard. Cover with orange face paint, dab off any excess, and decorate the carvers.
Traditional carving is always fun, but we've found that offering other decorating options too makes for more creative results and allows younger kids to participate. Set up stations that let your guests experiment:
- Carving: Stock this table with serrated kid-friendly pumpkin saws, as well as kitchen tools, such as ice-cream scoops, for scraping. Put out bowls for discarded pumpkin goo with one labeled "Seeds Only" for those precious roasting seeds.
- Sculpting: Set out a mixture of precut veggies and toothpicks for fasteners. Carrots make great noses, and the lacy green tops become hair. Big chunks of broccoli and funky-shaped gourds become anything from eyes to antennae. Keep a glue gun hot and handy for more difficult attachments.
- Painting: Lay out nontoxic craft paints, a few brushes, and water for those who want to add a little more color.6) MAKE JUDGING FUN AND FASHIONABLE
Judging shines a spotlight of appreciation on all the artists hard work. Let your guests know when judging will take place, so they'll have a deadline for finishing. To give your judges (we usually have at least three) the ceremonial seriousness their position requires, make our Pumpkin Judge's Hat. If other partygoers want their own and they probably will, they're a snap to make.
When your judges are suitably attired, explain to them how the judging is done. Before the party, you'll have put a handful of candy, stickers, or trinkets in brown paper lunch bags, one for each carver. After reviewing the entries, the judges declare each one best at something: Best Eyes, Most Artistic, Scariest, and so on. They then write the award on a pumpkin cutout (see invitation directions for how-tos), tape the cutout to a goody bag, and award the prize to the artist. For the judges best-in-show grand prize, pick up something a little more special. We usually award a fall decoration such as a front yard scarecrow or some other seasonal novelty that will remind the winner of the party each time he or she sets it out in years to come.
Brisk fall weather can bring out hearty appetites, but gooey fingers demand that eating be easy. Serve chili in paper cups, set out a platter of hot dogs, and offer finger foods such as these Pumpkin Roll-ups. For dessert, try Pumpkin Bread Pudding with chocolate chips.
Pumpkin decorating parties easily can become a tradition, and you can use that to your advantage. If the party is a success and has guests looking forward to next year's gathering, shop for supplies the first or second week in November. Pick up plastic utensils, plates, cups, decorations, table coverings, and prizes on sale. You'll have almost all you need for next year's great pumpkin decorating party.Photo by: NCBrian on Flickr
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RUNNING THREAD FOR ROUND #1 -Chiefs Trade Down
From the Truman Sports Complex
9:30 p.m. – Every team has a trade value chart for draft picks and they vary from team to team. But a popular one that's been used for years, and in the past has been used by the Chiefs under Carl Peterson, had the 21st choice worth 800 points. The combination of the 27th and 70th selections are worth 920 points. So the Browns paid a premium to move up.
9:15 p.m. – Chiefs have traded down from the No. 21 slot to pick No. 27 from Cleveland, who got that pick in an earlier trade with Atlanta. The Chiefs picked up the
Browns third round pick (70). Cleveland drafted Baylor DT Phil Taylor, and on the next pick Indianapolis drafted OT Anthony Castonzo.
8:50 p.m. – With OT Nate Solder going to the Patriots, these guys are still on the board with just three picks ahead of the Chiefs – OT Castonzo and Carimi, LB Ayers, NT Liuget and Taylor and DE Clayborn.
8:40 p.m. – Too bad Mike Pouncey went to the Dolphins on pick No. 15. He would have been a perfect choice to fill one of the biggest needs the Chiefs have on their roster among the interior linemen. You can bet the Chiefs were interseted, but that would have been a jump of six spots, and that would likely have cost them their second or third round pick.
8:20 p.m. – The QB stampede continued as the Vikings grabbed Christian Ponder and now four of the first dozen choices in this year's draft have gone to that position. There will be at least two more in the round – TCU's Andy Dalton and Arkansas's Ryan Mallett.
8:10 p.m. – The first 11 selections have not changed at all the pool of players the Chiefs expected to see for pick No. 21. The only "reach" so far was Tennessee grabbing QB Jake Locker far earlier than he was rated. But the Chiefs were not going to consider Locker at No. 21 anyway.
8:02 p.m. – Now that qualifes as a big surprise … Jacksonville traded up six spots to grab Blaine Gabbert. I didn't see that one coming and don't remember seeing any mention in the last month that the Jaguars were seriously considering a quarterback. It cost them their second round choice to get the chance at Gabbert. I'm sure they were worried about the Vikings at No. 11 and Dolphins at No. 15. Both need quarterbacks.
7:50 p.m. – What a great package that landed in the lap of Mike Holmgren and the Cleveland Browns. They are sitting their with the sixth pick of the draft and all the sudden Altanta's calling and offering a first, second and fourth this year and a first and fourth next year to move up from No. 27 to No. 6. So the Browns went from one pick to five picks all because they sucked so bad last year and they happened to be in the right place at the right time. You've gotta love the NFL Draft!
7:45 p.m. – We hit a surprise bump in the first round with the last two picks. What a culture shock for Aldon Smith going from Columbia, Missouri to San Francisco. And there's his fellow Mizzou teammate Blaine Gabbert still sitting there as Tennessee selected Washington QB Jake Locker.
7:35 p.m. – Now that's a gutsy move. Falcons GM Thomas Dimitroff pulls off a big trade with Cleveland, moving from No. 27 to No. 6 so they could get their hands on Julio Jones, the playmaking WR from Alabama. What a great Draft present for Matt Ryan and Tony Gonzalez.
7:30 p.m. – First five picks and there really have been on surprises to what was projected befor hand- Newton/Miller/Dareus/Green and Arizona just drafted Patrick Peterson the corner out of LSU. Too good a pick to pass up. Cleveland is up and here's where things could get interesting.
7:20 p.m. – We are flying through the start of this draft with Von Miller going to Denver and Marcell Dareus headed to Buffalo and now A.J. Green going to Cincinnati. Miller is going to be a handful for the Chiefs to handle twice a year with the Broncos. Chiefs fans will get to see Dareus debut in the season opener at Arrowhead. I think the selection of Green by the Bengals confirms what we sensedd that Chad Ochocinco's days with the River City are over.
7 p.m. – OK, so we've had kickoff and no surprise as the Carolina Panthers used the first choice of the draft to select Auburn QB Cam Newton. Now, the question is how hard will it be to get this guy signed? With no rookie salary scale in place YET, it may be messy. Selling tickets is what the Panthers were looking for as part of the package for making this pick.
5 Responses to "RUNNING THREAD FOR ROUND #1 -Chiefs Trade Down"
April 28, 2011 - el cid says:
I believe the Belechik school of how to do it in the NFL lost a couple of hundred points in IQ with the Atlanta move. With everything going on in the courts and the potential to turn the NFL into MLB, Atlanta's GM must figure this is the last draft in NFL history.
Got to love the second pick, Miller, he is in court attacking the draft. How's that for stones?
April 28, 2011 - Blake says:
I love it, trade down 7 spots and pick up the a 3rd round pick!!! Sweet!!!
April 28, 2011 - Blake says:
*6 spots
April 28, 2011 - Johnfromfairfax says:
It seems the Ravens didn't pull the plug in time and we actually moved to 26. We picked up Jon Baldwin from University of Pittsburgh. I watched this guy play in college and he's an impact player. He's a big body with soft hands who should be a good match with Bowe.
April 29, 2011 - bhive01 says:
The whole "pass" thing is really weird… I guess everyone ended up getting what they wanted in the end and we got an extra pick from Cleveland on top of it.


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2 responses
maritza munoz said (29 Nov 2012):
Delicious! Makes me feel small... Honey I shrunk the kids like. Cool!
David Delannoy gave props (12 Dec 2012):
belle utilisation du diaph. !