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Walter knew he probably shouldn�t go. Here it was, just a few days before Christmas and there was still shopping to be done, decorations that he�d promised Sybil he�d help put up and, probably, two dozen other things that he hadn�t even thought of.
Walter knew he probably shouldn�t go. Here it was, just a few days before Christmas and there was still shopping to be done, decorations that he�d promised Sybil he�d help put up and, probably, two dozen other things that he hadn�t even thought of. But, when Uncle Click called he just couldn�t come up with an excuse quickly enough, at least one that the old man would accept. And Sybil was no help. When he looked in her direction, eyebrows arched, questioning, she just closed her eyes and nodded slowly. Sybil had a hard time abiding Uncle Click�s rough, male chauvinist ways but she understood that, although he was no blood relation, Walter was about as close to family as the old man had. Besides, it might be good to have her husband out from under foot for a couple of days so she could get some holiday chores done without his �assistance.�
Uncle Click said the weather would be �stiffening� and the ducks were sure to come pouring into the flooded shallows of the Roanoke River any day. And, they needed to get going right away � tonight or first thing in the morning � so they could get to his camp and be ready when the mallards and their kin arrived.
Everything Uncle Click did had to be in a rush. That aspect of his somewhat challenging personality seemed to be getting more pronounced as time went on. Maybe it was a natural reaction to the advancing years and the fact that, once you passed your seventieth birthday, you realize you�d better get on with whatever you are going to do. Walter trailed Uncle Click by only a couple of decades but often felt like a youngster in his presence. As was usually the case when the old man proposed one of his �adventures,� Walter responded �Yes sir, I�ll pick you up in the morning.�
The drive through rural Edgecombe and Martin counties the next day was a welcome respite from the hectic holiday traffic Walter had been negotiating for the last week or so. Soybean and peanut fields surrounded stout country homesteads, most of which displayed at least a few colorful lights outside and the glow of a decorated tree through a window or door. Uncle Click was right about the weather. The sky darkened as they headed east. It was a cold front pushing in from the northeast, a winter pressure shift that held promise of waterfowl on the wing, but also the surety of stiff wind, plunging temperatures and, possibly, icy conditions. By the time they reached the dirt road that wound through the Roanoke River floodplain toward the camp, the weather had �thickened� as Uncle Click put it and it was apparent there would be no chance to get to a blind and put out decoys before dark.
The road, no more than a path in some places, was adequate for a two wheel-drive vehicle like Walter�s pick-up in most cases but he sometimes wished he was driving a Jeep as he negotiated the deep ruts that punctuated its two mile length. This was one of those times.
The two hunters finally emerged from the thick cover of the bordering woods into an opening a little higher and drier than the surrounding area. A small, board-and-batten cabin squatted in a grove of towering pines, sweet gums and live oaks. A routed sign over the screen door that led to the front porch read �Promised Land.� A visitor, long gone as were most of Uncle Click�s old friends, had hung it there, a testament to the general sentiment that life just didn�t get much better anywhere else.
Walter had to agree with that assessment. He had spent some great times at the old cabin � fishing for stripers in the spring; hunting turkeys in the verdant spring woods; waiting along field edges and forest paths for deer in the fall; and, occasionally, shooting mallards and wood ducks as they dropped through the flooded timber on cold winter mornings. He and Uncle Click had enjoyed some good times there. As the old man was apt to say with a grin, �A large time was had by one and all!�
Walter sometimes wondered how much longer their days at the Promised Land would be. He certainly wasn�t getting any younger and, hard as it was to accept, Uncle Click was reaching the last few miles on his life�s journey. What would happen to the old cabin when he was gone? Uncle Click had one sister, in the Midwest, that he corresponded with on occasion. But, from what Walter gathered, they had never been very close. She had married money and gone in one direction while Uncle Click had taken another track. He preferred the company of bird dogs and canvas-clad hunters, the taste of Tennessee bourbon, and the smell of salt marsh air. He was an intelligent man but had been born about a hundred years too late, Walter surmised. Uncle Click would have felt much more at home in the early 1900s. The modern world just turned a little too fast for the old sportsman.
By the time the two men hauled their gear into the cabin and got a couple of old Coleman lanterns lit, rain had started to fall. As they fired up the relic kerosene heater at one end of the one-room structure, it changed to sleet and then, while they sat in old, overstuffed chairs, savoring the spreading warmth and sipping early evening cocktails, it became freezing rain. Sleet or snow would have been preferable. They wouldn�t stick to tree limbs and every other surface as readily. The freezing rain did, and gradually coated every inanimate object with a thick coating of ice. By the time the two men dozed off, the world outside was a wintery � and deadly � wonderland.
When Walter�s watch alarm roused him in the dark cabin the next morning, he sensed something was wrong. There was no wind rustling the pines, no clattering of loose objects on the cabin�s exterior, sounds that would herald good duck hunting conditions. When he opened the door he saw why. Everything was covered in ice, inches thick in some cases. Limbs had broken under the weight and covered the ground like pick-up sticks. Whole trees threatened to topple over. His truck looked like an ice sculpture. The path back toward the highway they came on resembled an ice skating rink. Lord only knew what the paved roads in the area were like.
Later, as the sky lightened, he and Uncle Click surveyed the situation. There would be no duck hunting that day, or for many days. In fact, they were stuck in the cabin � literally � until things warmed up or help arrived. It was a hard realization, made especially so by the fact that there was no communicating with anyone outside the cabin. They did have enough food for a few days and, Walter hoped, sufficient fuel for the lamps and heater so see them through.
Spending time outside the cabin was not an option. Every step beyond the front door invited a slip and fall. Limbs, some as big as a man�s leg, could be heard crashing down and, every so often, an entire tree would come thundering to earth. All Walter and Uncle Click could do was hunker in the confines of the little cabin, hope a tree didn�t come smashing through the roof, and keep the coffee pot full. Without the distractions of television and other electronic encumbrances, there was little to do but sit and talk. So they did � about days gone by, good hunts, leaky fishing boats, folks that were no longer around and gun dogs they wished still were. Politics and world affairs never came up and seemed a world away.
At one point in the afternoon, the conversation turned to wives and Uncle Click casually stated that he�d been married once, for about six months. Walter�s mouth fell open. In all the years he had known the old man, he had never heard him mention a wife. He�d just assumed, as most folks had, that he was a confirmed bachelor.
Uncle Click explained. He had met Beth at a USO social about the time World War II was ending and she was the prettiest girl he�d ever seen. They were married a few months later, when he was discharged from the Marines, and set up house in Halifax County. Before they had time to really begin a life together, however, there was an outbreak of influenza and Beth was taken from him. �After her, I just never found a woman to suit me,� the old man explained matter-of-factly, his eyes glistening slightly. With that, he reached in his wallet and pulled out a small yellowed photo. It was a much younger, much slimmer Uncle Click and a dark haired girl in a dress with puffed sleeves and a ribbon at the neck. Walter had to admit Uncle Click was right. She was mesmerizing.
After that, the conversation got quieter and before long the two men were dozing in their chairs. At one point, Walter looked over at where Uncle Click lay back with his eyes closed. The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. Was he dreaming of Beth?
The men were roused from their slumber a short time later by a rumble outside. It was one of the farmers from out on the highway in a huge John Deere tractor. He had seen Walter and Uncle Click turn in the night before and was afraid they might be in a bind at the cabin. He was able to tow Walter�s truck to the paved road, which had been clear enough to allow travel if one was extremely careful and, before evening, the men were back in their respective homes, safe and sound.
A few days later, Christmas morning, Walter heard a ruckus outside. It was Uncle Click, standing in the driveway, yelling �Walter, Walter� at the top of his voice. That was his standard greeting; why bother with a doorbell when you could just holler? Walter noticed the old man cradled something in his arms. It was a yellow Lab puppy, probably no more than eight weeks old, all head and legs and big dark eyes.
Passing the pup over to Walter, he said matter-of-factly, �Here, he�s for you. I figured you need a good dog for when we go duck hunting. Merry Christmas.�
With that, Uncle Click turned on his heel and started toward his old station wagon. After a few steps, he paused and turned back. �I got another one out of the litter for myself � named her Beth,� he said with a grin and a nod.
He never got to see his or Walter�s dog hunt at Promised Land. He went to the camp�s namesake in spring of that year. And Beth came to live with Walter, Sybil - and her brother, �Click.�


text:
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subset: commoncrawl


text:
Write a News Story
Meet a Pioneer Pilot
Amelia Earhart Home
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How amelia died
By: Colton T.
Idaho, Age 10
Amelia was planing to go around the worid. she had a full gas tank and was ready to go. She planed to stop all around the world to get gas for the airplane. She was all most done when she couldn't find one small island.There was a militar6y ship wating for her but they never sal her. my theory is that they ran out of fuel and crashed into the ocean and the plane crashed into the ocean draging her down with.
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A truffle has a thick, smooth to wrinkled outer skin, somewhat rough in texture and a color that varies from black to off-white, depending on the variety. Categorized according to seasons, the four main types of truffles are: White Winter, a.k.a. White Autumn (Scientific Name: Tuber magnatum), Black Winter (Scientific Names: Tuber melanosporum, Tuber brumale vitt, ), White Summer, a.k.a., White Spring (Scientific Names: Tuber magnatum, Tuber borchii), and Black Summer (Scientific Name: Tuber aestivum). The most popular variety is the Black Winter Truffle, which is greyish-black in color with small diamond-shaped projections. This truffle is also known as the French black truffle, the black diamond truffle, the Perigord, or the Umbria truffle, most specifically those from the Umbria region of Italy. Harvested from December to March, the Black Winter Truffle has a deep earthy flavor with a very pungent aroma. Following the Black Truffle in demand is the White Winter Truffle, also called white diamond or Piedmont truffle (most often from the Piedmont region of Italy), which has tan colored, smooth skin with a creamy white flesh, and since demand exceeds supply it commands a higher price than the black truffle. Harvested from October through December, the white truffle has a sweeter smell and provides a mild garlic-like flavor when eaten. The Black Summer Truffle, which has a brownish-black colored knobby outer skin covering a tannish-white inner meat is only mildly aromatic. Abundant in supply, the Black Summer Truffle is harvested from June through November, but is not in great demand. Considered to be the least in demand of all types, the White Summer Truffle is harvested from January to April. The outer skin of this truffle is smooth and tan to white in color with an inner flesh that is off white with the blends of the tan coloring throughout.
If the white truffle is cooked, it loses the strong natural flavor so it is generally best when eaten raw. However, with cooked foods, white truffles can be cut raw into paper-thin slices to be added after the main ingredients are cooked for egg dishes such as omelets or scrambled eggs, pasta, risoto, salads, sauces, or meats such as turkey, chicken, quail that are white in color, or rabbit, and veal meat. Other ingredients that blend well with the flavor of White Truffles are Asiago, Parmesan, and Romano cheeses; mildly bitter tasting greens such as frisee or curly endive; and hard sausage or cured hams such as prosciutto. Fresh white truffles cannot be stored for long periods of time and they do not freeze well, so they are best eaten shortly after being harvested. Black truffles can be served raw, but are best when cooked with meat or added as small bits to sauces and savory dishes, allowing the longer cooking times to blend the flavors together. Slices of raw black truffles are often placed under the skin of uncooked fowl, such as duck, turkey, and upland game to enhance the flavor of the meat during and after it has been cooked. In addition to fowl, the use of the Black Truffles with other foods include: venison, elk, beef, and pork, including bacon and pancetta; hearty wines and brandy, including sauces made with wine or brandy; and cheeses such as chèvre, kasseri, Selles-Sur-Cher, or aged gouda.
Although fresh truffles are available at the end of the fall season and into midwinter, they are generally only found in specialty stores. When selecting, choose firm, evenly shaped truffles providing a fragrant aroma that are blemish free and well-textured. It is best to eat truffles as soon as possible after purchasing because they are very perishable. If they are to be stored, refrigerate for no more than 3 to 5 days and clean the truffle to remove the dirt just prior to preparing. For best storage, wrap each truffle separately in paper toweling and place them in an airtight jar filled with rice. This procedure serves to enhance the flavor of the rice while keeping the truffle scent away from other foods. Replace the paper daily to keep the truffle dry and fresh flavored. Other storage options include coating the truffle with butter, olive oil or a high quality brandy and place in an airtight container in the refrigerator. Coating the truffle in a substance however, will require cleaning the truffle first.
In addition to fresh varieties, truffles are available in a canned, a frozen and a paste form. Truffle oil is also available and is a nice alternative for achieving the truffle flavor without the expense of purchasing fresh truffles. Fresh truffles are best when sliced as shavings added fresh, uncooked as an ingredient to other foods. Regardless of the variety of edible truffle that may be available, truffles and truffle oil can be used universally to flavor egg dishes, pasta dishes, soups, stews, sauces and a variety of meat dishes or as a complement to salads.


text:
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text:
The Champion's Call!Seek out Gurgthock at the Amphitheater of Anguish in Zul'Drak.
DescriptionPfft, what happens down here ain't fightin'. It's a couple of guys dancin' around a flag.
You lookin' for some real action, buddy? 'Cause if you are I got the hottest ticket in town.
Ever heard of Gurgthock and Wodin? Goblin and troll who ran the Ring of Blood back in Outland? Well they're here in Northrend and they've started up a whole new fight club over in Zul'Drak. If you're interested go to Zul'Drak, east of Crystalsong. They're at the big arena in the center. Tell 'em Shifty sent ya!
Shifty sent you, eh?
RewardsYou will receive: 1 29 if completed at level 80
GainsUpon completion of this quest you will gain:
- 2,150 experience


text:
At dawn the haunting sandstone palaces of the new "victory city" of Akbar the Great looked as if they were made of red smoke. Most cities start giving the impression of being eternal almost as soon as they are born, but Sikri would always look like a mirage. As the sun rose to its zenith, the great bludgeon of the day's heat pounded the flagstones, deafening human ears to all sounds, making the air quiver like a frightened blackbuck, and weakening the border between sanity and delirium, between what was fanciful and what was real.
Even the Emperor succumbed to fantasy. Queens floated within his palaces like ghosts, Rajput and Turkish sultanas playing catch-me-if-you-can. One of these royal personages did not really exist. She was an imaginary wife, dreamed up by Akbar in the way that lonely children dream up imaginary friends, and in spite of the presence of many living, if floating, consorts, the Emperor was of the opinion that it was the real queens who were the phantoms and the nonexistent beloved who was real. He gave her a name, Jodha, and no man dared gainsay him. Within the privacy of the women's quarters, within the silken corridors of her palace, Jodha's influence and power grew. The great musician Tansen wrote songs for her, and Master Abdus Samad the Persian portrayed her himself, painted her from the memory of a dream without ever looking upon her face, and when the Emperor saw his work he clapped his hands at the beauty shining up from the page. "You have captured her, to the life," he cried, and Abdus Samad relaxed and stopped feeling as if his head were too loosely attached to his neck; and, after this visionary work by the master of the Emperor's atelier had been exhibited, the whole court knew Jodha to be real, and the greatest courtiers, the Navratna, or Nine Jewels, all acknowledged not only her existence but also her beauty, her wisdom, the grace of her movements, and the softness of her voice. Akbar and Jodhabai! Ah, ah! It was the love story of the age.
The city was finished at last, in time for the Emperor's fortieth birthday. It had been twelve long, hot years in the making, but for a while he had been given the impression that it rose up effortlessly, year by year, as if by sorcery. The Emperor's minister of works had not allowed any construction to go forward during the Emperor's sojourns in the new imperial capital. When the Emperor was in residence, the stonemasons' tools fell silent, the carpenters drove in no nails, the painters, the inlay workers, the hangers of fabrics, and the carvers of screens all disappeared from view. All then, it's said, was cushioned pleasure. Only noises of delight were permitted to be heard. The bells on the ankles of dancers echoed sweetly, and fountains tinkled, and the soft music of the genius Tansen hung upon the breeze. There was whispered poetry in the Emperor's ear, and in the pachisi courtyard on Thursdays there was much languid play, with slave girls being used as living pieces on the checkerboard floor. In the curtained afternoons, beneath the sliding punkahs, there was a quiet time for love.
No city is all palaces. The real city, built of wood and mud and dung and brick as well as stone, huddled beneath the walls of the mighty red-stone plinth upon which the royal residences stood. Its neighborhoods were determined by race as well as by trade. Here was the silversmiths' street, there the hot-gated, clanging armories, and there, down that third gully, the place of bangles and clothes. To the east was the Hindu colony, and beyond that, curling around the city walls, the Persian quarter, and beyond that the region of the Turanis, and beyond that, in the vicinity of the giant gate of the Friday Mosque, the homes of those Muslims who were Indian born. Dotted around the countryside were the villas of the nobles, the art-studio-and-scriptorium whose fame had already spread throughout the land, and a pavilion of music, and another for the performance of dances. In most of these lower Sikris, there was little time for indolence, and when the Emperor came home from the wars the command of silence felt, in the mud city, like a suffocation. Chickens had to be gagged at the moment of their slaughter for fear of disturbing the repose of the king of kings. A cart wheel that squeaked could earn the cart's driver the lash, and if he cried out under the whip the penalty could be even more severe. Women giving birth withheld their cries, and the dumb show of the marketplace was a kind of madness. "When the King is here, we are all made mad," the people said, adding, hastily, for there were spies and traitors everywhere, "for joy." The mud city loved its Emperor, it insisted that it did, insisted without words, for words were made of that forbidden fabric, sound. When the Emperor set forth once more on his campaigns—his never-ending (though always victorious) battles against the armies of Gujarat and Rajasthan, of Kabul and Kashmir—then the prison of silence was unlocked, and trumpets burst out, and cheers, and people were finally able to tell one another everything they had been obliged to keep unsaid for months on end: I love you. My mother is dead. Your soup tastes good. If you do not pay me the money you owe me, I will break your arms at the elbows. My darling, I love you, too. Everything.
Fortunately for the mud city, military matters often took Akbar away. In fact, he had been away most of the time, and in his absences the din of the clustered poor, as well as the racket of the unleashed construction workers, daily vexed the impotent queens. The queens lay together and moaned, and what they did to distract one another, what entertainment they found in one another in their veiled quarters, will not be described here. Only the imaginary queen remained pure, and it was she who told Akbar of the privations the people were suffering because of the desire of overzealous officials to ease his time at home. As soon as the Emperor learned this, he countermanded the order, replaced the minister of works with a less dour individual, and insisted on riding through the streets of his oppressed subjects crying out, "Make as much racket as you like, people! Noise is life, and an excess of noise is a sign that life is good. There will be time for us all to be quiet when we are safely dead." The city burst into joyful clamor.
That was the day on which it became clear that a new kind of king was on the throne, and that nothing in the world would remain the same.
The country was at peace at last, but the King's spirit was never calm. The King had just returned from his last campaign; he had slapped down the upstart in Surat, but through the long days of marching and war his mind wrestled with philosophical and linguistic conundrums as much as with military ones. The Emperor Abul-Fath Jalaluddin Muhammad, King of Kings, known since his childhood as Akbar, meaning "the great," and latterly, in spite of the tautology of it, as Akbar the Great, the great great one, great in his greatness, doubly great, so great that the repetition in his title was not only appropriate but necessary in order to express the gloriousness of his glory—the Grand Mughal, the dusty, battle-weary, victorious, pensive, incipiently overweight, disenchanted, mustachioed, poetic, over-sexed, and absolute emperor, who seemed altogether too magnificent, too world-encompassing, and, in sum, too much to be a single human personage—this all-engulfing flood of a ruler, this swallower of worlds, this many-headed monster who referred to himself in the first-person plural—had begun to meditate, during his long, tedious journey home, on which he was accompanied by the heads of his defeated enemies bobbing in their sealed earthen pickle jars, about the disturbing possibilities of the first-person singular—the "I."
He, Akbar, had never referred to himself as "I," not even in private, not even in anger or dreams. He was—what else could he be?—"we." He was the definition, the incarnation of, the We. He had been born into plurality. When he said "we," he naturally and truly meant himself as an incarnation of all his subjects, of all his cities and lands and rivers and mountains and lakes, as well as all the animals and plants and trees within his frontiers, and also the birds that flew overhead and the mordant twilight mosquitoes and the nameless monsters in their underworld lairs, gnawing slowly at the roots of things; he meant himself as the sum total of all his victories, himself as containing the characters, the abilities, the histories, perhaps even the souls of his decapitated or merely pacified opponents; and, in addition, he meant himself as the apogee of his people's past and present, and the engine of their future.
This "we" was what it meant to be a king—but commoners, he now allowed himself to consider, in the interest of fairness, and for the purposes of debate, no doubt occasionally thought of themselves as plural, too.
Were they wrong? Or (O traitorous thought!) was he? Perhaps this idea of self-as-community was what it meant to be a being in the world, any being; such a being being, after all, inevitably a being among other beings, a part of the beingness of all things. Perhaps plurality was not exclusively a king's prerogative, perhaps it was not, after all, his divine right. One might further argue that, since the reflections of a monarch were, in less exalted and refined form, doubtless mirrored in the cogitations of his subjects, it was accordingly inevitable that the men and women over whom he ruled should also conceive of themselves as "we"s. They saw themselves, perhaps, as plural entities made up of themselves plus their children, mothers, aunts, employers, co-worshippers, fellow-workers, clans, and friends. They, too, saw their selves as multiple, one self that was the father of their children, another that was their parents' child; they knew themselves to be different with their employers than they were at home with their wives—in short, they were all bags of selves, bursting with plurality, just as he was. Was there then no essential difference between the ruler and the ruled? And now his original question reasserted itself in a new and startling form: if his many-selved subjects managed to think of themselves in the singular rather than the plural, could he, too, be an "I"? Could there be an "I" that was simply oneself? Were there such naked, solitary "I"s buried beneath the overcrowded "we"s of the earth? It was a question that frightened him as he rode his white horse home, fearless, unvanquished, and, it must be conceded, beginning to be fat; and when it popped into his head at night he did not easily sleep. What should he say when he saw his Jodha again? If he were to say simply, "I'm back," or "It is I," might she, in return, feel able to call him by that second-person singular, that tu which was reserved for children, lovers, and gods? And what would that mean? That he was like her child, or godlike, or simply the lover of whom she, too, had dreamed, whom she had dreamed into being as eagerly as he had dreamed her? Might that little word, that tu, turn out to be the most arousing word in the language? "I," he practiced under his breath. Here "I" am. "I" love you. Come to "me."
One final military engagement disturbed his contemplation on the homeward road. One more upstart princeling to slap down. A diversion into the Kathiawar Peninsula to quell the obstinate Rana of Cooch Naheen, a young man with a big mouth and a bigger mustache (the Emperor was vain about his own mustache, and took unkindly to competitors), a feudal ruler absurdly fond of talking about freedom. Freedom for whom, and from what, the Emperor harrumphed inwardly. Freedom was a children's fantasy, a game for women to play.
No man was ever free. His army moved through the white trees of the Gir Forest like a silently approaching plague, and the pathetic little fortress of Cooch Naheen, seeing the advent of death in the rustling treetops, broke its own towers, ran up a flag of surrender, and begged abjectly for mercy. Often, instead of executing his vanquished opponents, the Emperor would marry one of their daughters and give his defeated father-in-law a job: better a new family member than a rotting corpse. This time, however, he had irritably torn the insolent Rana's mustache off his handsome face, and chopped the weakling dreamer into garish pieces—had done so personally, with his own sword, just as his grandfather would have, and had then retreated to his quarters to tremble and mourn.
The Emperor's eyes were slanted and large and gazed upon infinity as a dreamy young lady might, or a sailor in search of land. His lips were full and pushed forward in a womanly pout. But in spite of these girlish accents he was a mighty specimen of a man, huge and strong. As a boy, he had killed a tigress with his bare hands and then, driven to distraction by his deed, had forever forsworn the eating of meat and become a vegetarian. A Muslim vegetarian, a warrior who wanted only peace, a philosopher-king: a contradiction in terms. Such was the greatest ruler the land had ever known.
In the melancholy after battle, as evening fell upon the empty dead, below the broken fortress melting into blood, within earshot of a little waterfall's nightingale song—bul-bul, bul-bul, it sang—the Emperor in his brocade tent sipped watered wine and lamented his gory genealogy. He did not want to be like his bloodthirsty ancestors, even though his ancestors were the greatest men in history. He felt burdened by the names of the marauder past, the names from which his name descended in cascades of human blood: his grandfather Babar, the warlord of Ferghana, who had conquered, but always loathed, this new dominion, this India of too much wealth and too many gods, Babar the battle machine, with an unexpected gift for felicitous words; and before Babar the murderous princes of Transoxiana and Mongolia, and mighty Temüjin above all—Genghis, Changez, Jenghis, or Chinggis Qan—thanks to whom he, Akbar, had to accept the name of Mughal, had to be the Mongol he was not, or did not feel himself to be. He felt . . . Hindustani. His horde was neither Golden, Blue, nor White. The very word "horde" struck his subtle ears as ugly, swinish, coarse. He did not want hordes. He did not want to pour molten silver into the eyes of his vanquished foes or crush them to death beneath the platform upon which he was eating his dinner. He was tired of war.
He remembered the tutor of his childhood, a Persian Mir, telling him that for a man to be at peace with himself he must be at peace with all others. Sulh-i-kul, complete peace. No Khan could understand such an idea. He did not want a Khanate. He wanted a country.
The Rana of Cooch Naheen, young, slender, and dark, had knelt at Akbar's feet, his face hairless and bleeding, waiting for the blow to fall. "History repeats itself," he said. "Your grandfather killed my grandfather seventy years ago."
"Our grandfather," replied the Emperor, employing the royal plural according to custom, for this was not the time for his experiment with the singular—this wretch did not merit the privilege of witnessing it—"was a barbarian with a poet's tongue. We, by contrast, are a poet with a barbarian's history and a barbarian's prowess in war, which we detest. Thus it is demonstrated that history does not repeat itself but moves forward, and that Man is capable of change."
"That is a strange remark for an executioner to make," the young Rana said softly. "But it is futile to argue with Death."
"Your time has come," the Emperor assented. "So tell us truthfully before you go, what sort of paradise do you expect to discover when you have passed through the veil?" The Rana raised his mutilated face and looked the Emperor in the eye. "In Paradise, the words 'worship' and 'argument' mean the same thing," he declared. "The Almighty is not a tyrant. In the house of God, all voices are free to speak as they choose, and that is the form of their devotion." He was an irritating, holier-than-thou type of youth, that was beyond question, but in spite of his annoyance Akbar was moved. "We promise you that we will build that house of adoration here on earth," the Emperor said. Then, with a cry—Allahu Akbar, _"_God is great," or, just possibly, "Akbar is God"—he chopped off the pompous little twerp's cheeky, didactic, and therefore suddenly unnecessary head.
In the hours after he killed the Rana, the Emperor was possessed by his familiar demon of loneliness. Whenever a man spoke to him as an equal, it drove him crazy, and this was a fault, he understood that. A king's anger was always a fault; an angry king was like a god who made mistakes. And here was another contradiction in him. He was not only a barbarian philosopher and a crybaby killer but also an egotist addicted to obsequiousness and sycophancy who nevertheless longed for a different world, a world in which he could find exactly that man who was his equal, whom he could meet as his brother, with whom he could speak freely, teaching and learning, giving and receiving pleasure, a world in which he could forsake the gloating satisfactions of conquest for the gentler yet more taxing joys of discourse. Did such a world exist? By what road could it be reached? Was there such a man anywhere in the world, or had he just executed him? What if the Rana of the mustache had been the only one? Had he just slain the only man on earth whom he might have loved? The Emperor's thoughts grew vinous and sentimental, his eyes blurring with drunken tears.
How could he become the man he wanted to be? The akbar, the great one? How?
There was nobody to talk to. He had ordered his stone-deaf body servant, Bhakti Ram Jain, away, out of his tent, so that he could drink in peace. A body servant who could not hear his master's ramblings was a blessing, but Bhakti Ram Jain had learned to read his lips now, which undid much of his value, making him an eavesdropper like everyone else. The king is mad. They said that: everyone said that. His soldiers his people his wives. Probably Bhakti Ram Jain said so as well. They did not say it to his face, for he was a giant of a man and a puissant warrior, like a hero out of the ancient tales, and he was also the king of kings, and if such a one wished to be a little nutty then who were they to argue? The King, however, was not mad. The King was not content with being. He was striving to become.
Very well. He would keep his promise to the dead Kathiawari princeling. In the heart of his victory city he would build a house of adoration, a place of disputation where everything could be said to everyone by anyone on any subject, including the nonexistence of God and the abolition of kings. He would teach himself humility in that house. No, now he was being unfair to himself. Not "teach." Rather, he would remind himself of, and recover, the humility that was already lodged deep in his heart. This humble Akbar was perhaps his best self, created by the circumstances of his childhood in exile, clothed now in adult grandeur but still present nonetheless; a self born not in victory but in defeat. Nowadays, it was all victories, but the Emperor knew all about defeat. Defeat was his father. Its name was Humayun.
He didn't like thinking about his father. His father had smoked too much opium, lost his empire, got it back only after he pretended to become a Shiite (and gave away the Koh-i-noor diamond) so that the King of Persia would give him an army to fight with, and had then died by falling down a flight of library stairs almost immediately after regaining his throne. Akbar hadn't known his father. He himself had been born in Sind, after Humayun was defeated at Chausa, and then scurried off to Persia, abandoning his son. His fourteen-month-old son. Who was found and raised by his father's brother and enemy, Uncle Askari of Kandahar, wild man Uncle Askari, who would have killed Akbar himself if he could ever have got close enough, which he couldn't, because his wife was always in the way.
Akbar lived, because his aunt wanted him to. And in Kandahar he was taught about survival, about fighting and killing and hunting, and he learned much else without being taught, such as how to look out for himself and watch his tongue and not say the wrong thing, the thing that might get him killed. About the dignity of the lost, about losing, and how it cleansed the soul to accept defeat, and about letting go, avoiding the trap of holding on too tightly to what you wanted, and about abandonment in general, and in particular fatherlessness, the lessness of fathers, the lessness of the fatherless, and the best defenses of those who are less against those who are more: inwardness, forethought, cunning, humility, and good peripheral vision. The many lessons of lessness. The lessening from which growing could begin.
There were things, however, that nobody thought to teach him, and that he would never learn. "We are the Emperor of India, Bhakti Ram Jain, but we can't write our own damn name!" he shouted at his body servant at dawn, as the old man helped him with his ablutions.
"Yes, O most blessed entity, father of many sons, husband of many wives, monarch of the world, encompasser of the earth," said Bhakti Ram Jain, handing him a towel. This time, the hour of the King's levee, was also the hour of imperial flattery. Bhakti Ram Jain proudly held the rank of Imperial Flatterer First Class, and was a master of the ornate, old-school style known as cumulative fawning. Only a man with an excellent memory for the baroque formulations of excessive encomiums could fawn cumulatively, on account of the repetitions required and the necessary precision of the sequencing. Bhakti Ram Jain's memory was unerring. He could fawn for hours.
The Emperor saw his own face scowling back at him from his basin of warm water like an augury of doom. "We are the king of kings, Bhakti Ram Jain, but we can't read our own laws. What do you say to that?"
"Yes, O most just of judges, father of many sons, husband of many wives, monarch of the world, encompasser of the earth, ruler of all that is, bringer together of all being," said Bhakti Ram Jain, warming to his task.
"We are the Sublime Radiance, the Star of India, and the Sun of Glory," said the Emperor, who knew a thing or two about flattery himself. "Yet we were raised in that shithole dump of a town where men fuck women to make babies but fuck boys to make them men—raised watching out for the attacker who worked from behind as well as the warrior straight ahead."
"Yes, O dazzling light, father of many sons, husband of many wives, monarch of the world, encompasser of the earth, ruler of all that is, bringer together of all being, Sublime Radiance, Star of India, and Sun of Glory," said Bhakti Ram Jain, who might have been deaf but who knew how to take a hint.
"Is that how a king should be raised, Bhakti Ram Jain?" the Emperor roared, tipping over the basin in his wrath. "Illiterate, ass-guarding, savage—is that what a prince should be?"
"Yes, O wiser than the Wise, father of many sons, husband of many wives, monarch of the world, encompasser of the earth, ruler of all that is, bringer together of all being, Sublime Radiance, Star of India, Sun of Glory, master of human souls, forger of thy people's destiny," said Bhakti Ram Jain.
"You are pretending you can't read the words on our lips!" the Emperor shouted.
"Yes, O more insightful than the Seers, father of many—"
"You are a goat who should have his throat slit so that we can eat his meat for lunch."
"Yes, O more merciful than the gods, father—"
"Your mother fucked a pig to make you."
"Yes, O most articulate of all who articulate, f—"
"Never mind," said the Emperor. "We feel better now. Go away. You can live."
And here again with bright silks flying like banners from red palace windows was Sikri, shimmering in the heat like an opium vision. Here at last, with its strutting peacocks and dancing girls, was home. If the war-torn world was a harsh truth, then Sikri was a beautiful lie. The Emperor came home like a smoker returning to his pipe. He was the Enchanter. In this place he would conjure a new world, a world beyond religion, region, rank, and tribe. The most beautiful women in the world were here, and they were all his wives. The most brilliant talents in the land were assembled here, among them the Nine Jewels, the nine most brilliant of the most brilliant, and with their help there was nothing he could not accomplish. And then there was Birbal, the best of the nine, who were the best of the best. His first minister, and first friend.
The first minister and greatest wit of the age greeted him at the Hiran Minar, the tower of elephants' teeth. The Emperor's sense of mischief was aroused. "Birbal," Akbar said, dismounting from his horse, "will you answer me one question? We have been waiting a long time to ask it." The first minister of legendary wit and wisdom bowed humbly. "As you wish, Jahanpanah, Shelter of the World." "Well, then," said Akbar, "which came first, the chicken or the egg?" Birbal replied at once, "The chicken." Ak-bar was taken aback. "How can you be so sure?" he wanted to know. "Huzoor," Birbal replied, "I promised to answer only one question."
The first minister and the Emperor were standing on the ramparts of the city, looking out at the wheeling crows. "Birbal," Akbar mused, "how many crows do you imagine there are in my kingdom?" "Jahanpanah," Birbal replied, "there are exactly nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine." Akbar was puzzled. "Suppose we have them counted," he said, "and there are more than that, what then?" "That would mean," Birbal replied, "that their friends from the neighboring kingdom have come to visit them." "And if there are fewer?" "Then some of ours will have gone abroad to see the wider world."
A great linguist was waiting at Akbar's court, a visitor from a distant Western land: a Jesuit priest who could converse and dispute fluently in dozens of languages. He challenged the Emperor to discover his native language. While the Emperor was pondering the riddle, his first minister circled the priest and all of a sudden kicked him violently in the backside. The priest let out a series of oaths—not in Portuguese but in Italian. "You observe, Jahanpanah," said Birbal, "that when it's time to unleash a few insults a man will always choose his mother tongue."
"If you were an atheist, Birbal," the Emperor challenged his first minister, "what would you say to the true believers of all the great religions of the world?" Birbal was a devout Brahmin from Trivikrampur, but he answered unhesitatingly, "I would say to them that in my opinion they were all atheists as well; I merely believe in one god less than each of them." "How so?" the Emperor asked. "All true believers have good reasons for disbelieving in every god except their own," said Birbal. "And so it is they who, between them, give me all the reasons for believing in none."
The first minister and the Emperor were standing at the Khwabgah, the Place of Dreams, looking out over the still surface of the Anup Talao, the monarch's private, formal pool, the Pool Without Peer, the best of all possible pools, of which it was said that when the kingdom was in trouble its waters would send a warning. "Birbal," said Akbar, "as you know, our favorite queen has the misfortune not to exist. Even though we love her best of all, admire her above all the others, and value her above even the lost Koh-i-noor, she is inconsolable. 'Your ugliest, most sour-natured shrew of a wife is still made of flesh and blood,' she says. 'In the end, I will not be able to compete with her.' "
The first minister advised the Emperor, 'Jahanpanah, you must say to her that it is precisely in the end that her victory will be apparent to everyone, for in the end none of the queens will exist any more than she does, while she will have enjoyed a lifetime of your love, and her fame will echo down the ages. Thus, in reality, while it is true that she does not exist, it is also true to say that she is the one who lives. If she did not, then over there, behind that high window, there would be nobody waiting for your return."
Jodha's sisters, her fellow-wives, resented her. How could the mighty Emperor prefer the company of a woman who did not exist? When he was gone, at least, she ought to absent herself as well; she had no business to hang around with the actually existing. She should disappear like the apparition she was, slide into a mirror or a shadow and be lost. That she did not, the living queens concluded, was the sort of solecism one had to expect from an imaginary being. How could she have been brought up to know her manners when she had not been brought up at all? She was an untutored figment, and deserved to be ignored.
The Emperor had put her together, they fumed, by stealing bits of them all. He said she was the daughter of the Prince of Jodhpur. She was not! That was another queen, and she was not the daughter but the sister. The Emperor also believed his fictitious beloved was the mother of his firstborn son, his long-awaited firstborn son, conceived because of the blessing of a saint, that very saint beside whose hilltop hovel this victory city had been built. But she was not Prince Salim's mother, as Prince Salim's real mother, Rajkumar Hira Kunwari, known as Mariam-uz-Zamani, daughter of Raja Bihar Mal of Amer, of the Clan Kachhwaha, grievingly told anybody who would listen. So: the limitless beauty of the imaginary queen came from one consort, her Hindu religion from another, and her incalculable wealth from yet a third. Her temperament, however, was Akbar's own creation. No real woman was ever like that, so perfectly attentive, so undemanding, so endlessly available.
She was an impossibility, a fantasy of perfection. They feared her, knowing that, being impossible, she was irresistible, and that was why the King loved her best. They hated her for her theft of their histories. If they could have murdered her they would have done so, but until the Emperor tired of her, or died himself, she was immortal. The idea of the Emperor's death was not beyond contemplation, but so far the queens were not contemplating it. So far, they bore their grievances in silence. "The Emperor is mad," they grumbled inwardly, but sensibly forbore to utter the words. And when he was galloping around killing people they left the imaginary consort to her own devices. They never spoke her name. Jodha, Jodhabai. She wandered the palace quarters alone. She was a lonely shadow glimpsed through latticed stone screens. She was a cloth blown by the breeze. At night she stood under the little cupola on the top story of the Panch Mahal and scanned the horizon for the return of the King, who made her real.
Jodha knew that her illustrious husband must have had witchcraft in his blood. Everyone had heard about Genghis Khan's necromancy, his use of animal sacrifice and occult herbs, and how, by the use of the black arts, he managed to sire eight hundred thousand descendants.
Everyone had heard the tale of how Timur the Lame after conquering the earth had tried to ascend to the stars and conquer the heavens, too. Everyone knew the story of how the Emperor Babar had saved the dying Humayun's life by circling his sickbed and luring Death away from the boy to the father, sacrificing himself so that his son might live. These dark pacts with Death and the Devil were her husband's heritage, and her own existence the proof of how strong the magic was in him.
The creation of a real life from a dream was a superhuman act, usurping the prerogative of the gods. In those days, Sikri was swarming with poets and artists, those preening egotists who claimed for themselves the power of language and image to conjure beautiful somethings from empty nothings, and yet neither poet nor painter, musician nor sculptor had come close to what the Emperor, the Perfect Man, had achieved. The court was also full of foreigners, pomaded exotics, weather-beaten merchants, narrow-faced priests from the West, boasting in ugly, undesirable tongues about the majesty of their lands, their gods, their kings. When the Emperor showed her the pictures of their mountains and valleys they'd brought with them, she thought of the Himalayas and of Kashmir and laughed at the foreigners' paltry approximations of natural beauty, their vaals and aalps, half-words to describe half-things. Their kings were savages, and they had nailed their god to a tree. What did she want with people as ridiculous as that?
They came in search of—what, exactly? Nothing of use. If they had possessed any wisdom, the inutility of their journeying would have been obvious to them. Travel was pointless. It removed you from the place in which you had a meaning, and to which you gave meaning in return by dedicating your life to it, and spirited you away into fairylands where you were, and looked, frankly absurd.
Yes: this place, Sikri, was a fairyland to them, just as their England and Portugal, their Holland and France, were beyond her ability to comprehend. The world was not all one thing. "We are their dream," she had told the Emperor. "And they are ours." She loved him because he never dismissed her opinions, never swatted them away with the majesty of his hand. "But imagine, Jodha, if we could awake in other men's dreams and change them, and if we had the courage to invite them into ours," he told her while they slapped down ganjifa playing cards one evening. "What if the whole world became a single waking dream?" She could not call him a fantasist when he spoke of waking dreams, for what else was she?
She had never left the palaces in which she had been born a decade earlier, born an adult, to the man who was not only her creator but her lover. It was true: she was both his wife and his child. If she left the palaces, or so she had always suspected, the spell would be broken and she would cease to exist. Perhaps she could do it if he, the Emperor, were there to sustain her with the strength of his belief, but if she were alone she wouldn't have a chance. Fortunately, she had no desire to leave. The labyrinth of walled and curtained corridors that connected the various buildings of the palace complex afforded her all the possibilities for travel she required. This was her little universe. She lacked a conqueror's interest in elsewhere. Let the rest of the world be for others. This square of fortified stone was hers.
She was a woman without a past, separate from history, or, rather, possessing only such history as he had been pleased to bestow upon her, and which the other queens bitterly contested. The question of her independent existence, of whether she had one, insisted on being asked, over and over, whether she willed it or not. If God turned his face away from his creation, Man, would Man simply cease to be?
That was the large-scale version of the question, but it was the selfish, small-scale versions that bothered her. Was her will free of the man who had willed her into being? Did she exist only because of his suspension of disbelief in the possibility of her existence? If he died, could she go on living?
She felt a quickening of her pulse. Something was about to happen. She felt herself strengthen, solidify. Doubts fled from her. He was coming.
The Emperor had entered the palace complex, and she could feel the power of his approaching need. Yes. Something was about to happen. She felt his footfall in her blood, could see him in herself, growing larger as he walked toward her. She was his mirror, because he had created her that way, but she was herself as well. Yes. Now that the act of creation was complete, she was free to be the person he had created, free, as everyone was, within the bounds of what it was in their nature to be and to do. How strong she suddenly was, how full of blood and rage. His power over her was far from absolute. All she had to be was coherent. She had never felt more coherent. Her nature rushed into her like a flood. She was not subservient. He did not like subservient women.
She would scold him first. How could he stay away so long? In his absence, she had had to combat many plots. All was untrustworthy here. The very walls were filled with whispers. She had fought them all and kept the palace safe against the day of his return, defeating the small, self-serving treacheries of the domestic staff, confounding the spying lizards hanging on the walls, stilling the scurry of conspiratorial mice. All this while she felt herself fading, while the mere struggle for survival required the exercise of almost the full force of her will. The other queens . . . no, she would not mention the other queens. The other queens did not exist. Only she existed. She, too, was a sorceress. She was the sorceress of herself.
There was only one man she needed to enchant, and he was here. He was not going to the other queens. He was coming to what pleased him. She was full of him, of his desire for her, of the something that was about to happen. She was the scholar of his need. She knew everything.
The door opened. She existed. She was immortal, because she had been created by love.
He was wearing a cockaded golden turban and a coat of gold brocade. He was wearing the dust of his conquered land like a soldier's badge of honor. He was wearing a sheepish grin. " 'I' wanted to get home faster," he said. " 'I' was delayed." There was something awkward and experimental about his speech. What was the matter with him?
She decided to ignore his uncharacteristic hesitancy and proceed as she had planned.
"Oh, you 'wanted,' " she said, standing upright, in her ordinary day clothes, pulling a silken head scarf across the lower portion of her face. "A man doesn't know what he wants. A man doesn't want what he says he wants. A man wants only what he needs."
He was puzzled by her refusal to acknowledge his descent into the first person, which honored her, which was supposed to make her swoon with joy, which was his newest discovery and his declaration of love. Puzzled, and a little put out.
"How many men have you known, that you are so knowledgeable?" he said, frowning, approaching her. "Did you dream up men for yourself while 'I' was away, or did you find men to pleasure you, men who were not dreams? Are there men that 'I' must kill?" Surely this time she would notice the revolutionary, erotic newness of the pronoun? Surely now she would understand what he was trying to say?
She did not. She believed she knew what aroused him, and was thinking only of the words she had to say to make him hers.
"Women think less about men in general than the generality of men can imagine. Women think about their own men less often than their men like to believe. All women need all men less than all men need them. This is why it is so important to keep a good woman down. If you do not keep her down, she will surely get away."
She hadn't dressed up to receive him. "If you want dolls," she said, "go over to the doll's house, where they're waiting for you, prettifying and squealing and pulling one another's hair." This was a mistake. She had mentioned the other queens. His brow furrowed and his eyes clouded over. She had made a false move. The spell had almost broken. She poured all the force of her eyes into his, and he came back to her. The magic held. She raised her voice and continued. She didn't flatter him. "You already look like an old man," she said. "Your sons will imagine you're their grandfather." She didn't congratulate him on his victories. "If history had gone down a different path," she said, "then the old gods would still rule, the gods you have defeated, the many-limbed many-headed gods, full of stories and deeds instead of punishments and laws, the gods of being standing beside the goddesses of doing, dancing gods, laughing gods, gods of thunderbolts and flutes, so many, many gods, and maybe that would have been an improvement." She knew she was beautiful and now, dropping her thin silk veil, she unleashed that beauty, and he was lost. "When a boy dreams up a woman, he gives her big breasts and a small brain," she murmured. "When a king imagines a wife, he dreams of me."
She was adept at the seven types of unguiculation, which is to say the art of using the nails to enhance the act of love. Before he left on his long journey, she had marked him with the Three Deep Marks, which were scratches made by the first three fingers of her right hand upon his back and his chest, and on his testicles as well: something to remember her by. Now that he was home, she could make him shudder, could actually make his hair stand on end, by placing her nails on his cheeks and lower lip and chest, without leaving any mark. Or she could mark him, leaving a half-moon shape upon his neck. She could push her nails slowly into his face. She could perform the Hopping of the Hare, marking the areolas around his nipples without touching him anywhere else on his body. And no living woman was as skilled as she at the Peacock's Foot, that delicate maneuver: she placed her thumb on his left nipple and with her four other fingers she "walked" around his breast, digging in her long nails, her curved, clawlike nails, which she had guarded and sharpened in anticipation of this very moment, pushing them into the Emperor's skin until they made marks resembling the trail left by a peacock as it walks through mud. She knew what he would say while she did these things. He would tell her how, in the loneliness of his Army tent, he would close his eyes and imitate her movements, imagine his nails moving on his body to be hers, and be aroused.
She waited for him to say it, but he didn't. Something was different. There was an impatience in him now, an irritation almost, an annoyance she did not understand. It was as if the many sophistications of the lover's art had lost their charms and he wished simply to possess her and be done with it. She understood that he had changed. And now everything else would change as well.
As for the Emperor, he never again referred to himself in the singular in the presence of another person. He was plural in the eyes of the world, plural even in the judgment of the woman who loved him, and plural he would remain. He had learned his lesson. ♦


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LAFAYETTE — There was excellent pitching, defense and even an unsung hero in Campolindo High's 2-1 baseball triumph over host Acalanes on Saturday afternoon.
The nine-inning victory keeps the Cougars in sole possession of first place in the Diablo Foothill Athletic League — a game ahead of Alhambra and two up on Acalanes.
With two outs in the top of the ninth, Campolindo catcher Adam Remotto hit a chopper over reliever John York and beat out the throw to first for an infield single, as Ryan Hooper scored the go-ahead run from third base.
Remotto, who was doused with the ice bucket afterward, said it was his first game-winning hit of the season.
"It was fun," the sophomore said. "Tough first pitch (in the at-bat). Curveball. I couldn't even see it at first. I thought he would come back with it and try to get me because I missed so badly the first time. I was kind of guessing. I got lucky."
The briskly played game pitted powerhouse programs and reigning North Coast Section champions — the Cougars (12-6-1, 6-1 DFAL) in Division II and Dons (14-6, 4-3) in Division III.
The outcome was a reversal of fortune for the Cougars, who fell 2-1 to the Dons on March 19. Campolindo is seeking a fourth consecutive DFAL title.
Campolindo left-hander Matt Ladrech went seven strong innings, allowing five hits, striking out six and walking two. Reliever Tyler Luckhurst worked the final two innings to get the win, striking out four.
Acalanes starter Andrew Merken scattered six hits over seven innings with six strikeouts. He kept the top three hitters in Campolindo's lineup, Brett Stephens, Trent Shelton and Robbie Tenerowicz, from reaching base. Stephens managed a single in the eighth.
"We played hard," Merken said. "They got the run when they needed it, and we didn't get the job done, but we played really well. We just didn't have what it took to win that game."
Every time the Dons made a move, the Campolindo defense had the answer. The Cougars turned 6-4-3 double plays in the fourth and fifth innings to stymie potential rallies.
After the Dons' Grant Henderson singled down the left field line with one out in the ninth, he tried to stretch it to a double, but was thrown out by left fielder Scott Singh.
Acalanes' Jake Berry, who was 2 for 3, had an RBI single in the first to produce a 1-0 lead in the first inning. The Cougars' Ryan Hooper (3 for 4) scored to tie it in the fourth on a two-out infield single by Andy Petite.


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Cars Synopsis
Cars is the saga of Lightning McQueen, a hot-shot animated stock-car voiced by actor Owen Wilson. En route to a big race, the cocky McQueen gets waylaid in Radiator Springs, where he finds the true meaning of friendship and family.
After an early trailer that made Cars look like it was well on its way to being Pixar's first bad movie, things are looking up for the little gear head movie. The film's latest trailers are absolutely beautiful, a marked contrast the bland, uninspiring stuff we first saw from the film.
It's Pixar, so of course that no matter how shaky the concept you have to give this movie the benefit of the doubt. Double that, since the film is directed by Pixar giant and now Disney animation head John Lasseter. Lasseter is well on his way to being the new Walt Disney, and anything the guy touches instantly turns to gold.
What was to be Pixar's last film with Disney has become the first shining symbol of Pixar and Disney's new permanent partnership after Disney bought out the Lamp Jr. inspired, computer animation company. But who bought who? Disney paid for Pixar, but it's Pixar's creative minds that ended up in charge of Disney. Cars is the last product of their old cooperation and a harbinger of the new, closer relationship which may well end up being the thing that saves Disney from its inevitable slide into irrelevance and direct to DVD pandering.
Watch for Cars to clean up at the box office this summer, good or not. The Pixar reputation means everything, and in a year absolutely glutted with computer animated movies their work continues to stand head and shoulders above the competition. Even the voice casting of newly anointed box office poison Larry the Cable guy can't ruin that.


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Michele Bachmann speaks to supporters in Iowa after a poor showing in caucus votes, reiterating her criticisms of President Obama.
WEST DES MOINES, Iowa – Minnesota Congresswoman Michele Bachman told a room of about 65 supporters Tuesday that she's staying in the race for president, despite her weak showing in the Iowa caucuses.
"The pundits and the press will again try and pick the nominee based on tonight's results, but there are many more chapters to be written on the path to our party's nomination," Bachmann said.
Bachmann finished last in the caucuses, with 5 per cent of the vote, bookending a journey in Iowa that was marked by an early surge in polls, and a win in August at the state Republican Party's straw poll.
Despite the stunning reversal of fortune, Bachmann pressed her case Tuesday as a "fearless conservative," with "no compromises" on key issues, including cutting spending and "standing with our ally, Israel."
"I believe that I am that true conservative who can and who will defeat Barack Obama in 2012," Bachmann said.
Joshua Lott / Reuters
Republican presidential candidate and Representative Michele Bachmann (R-MN) on the Iowa campaign trail
Her remarks capped a tense evening inside a Marriott hotel ballroom, where a thin crowd of supporters watched returns come in on a large television monitor, while campaign staff sat on a sofa in the hallway, tapping messages on smart phones.
"We're disappointed, but we're very proud of Michele, because she sticks to her core principles," said Rich Heki, a Bachmann supporter, and the husband of a member the campaign's Iowa staff.
Bachmann spent the early evening in her childhood city of Cedar Falls, where she addressed voters at Iowa's largest caucus location, on the campus of the University of Northern Iowa.
Earlier, she dropped in to an MTV "Rock the Caucus" event at a high school here in West Des Moines, where she answered questions from reporters.
Asked if she would continue past Iowa in the event of a disappointing finish in the caucuses, Bachmann set her sights on South Carolina.
"We're confident – that's why we bought our tickets for South Carolina," Bachmann said. "We're moving on, and we're moving forward. Because this election is far from over. This is the opening chapter."
More on NBC Politics:


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Mercedes-Benz of Silver Spring offers an extensive showroom highlighting a few models above. Take a minute to browse the showroom to learn detailed information regarding each model available on our lot, including the 2019 Mercedes-Benz CLA 250. If you're thinking about trading your current vehicle in for your dream model, use our Mercedes-Benz trade-in form. For more information contact Mercedes-Benz of Silver Spring or stop by our Silver Spring Mercedes-Benz dealer for a test drive today!
Your privacy is important to us.
Mercedes-Benz USA takes your privacy seriously and does not rent or sell your personal information to third parties without your consent. Read our privacy policy.
*Your additional costs are sales tax, tag and title fees for the state in which the vehicle will be registered, any dealer-installed options (if applicable) and a dealer processing fee ($299 Maryland); ($135 Pennsylvania); ($699 Virginia, North Carolina). Prices are subject to change, and prior sales are excluded from these offers. While every reasonable effort is made to ensure the accuracy of this information, we are not responsible for any errors or omissions contained on these pages. Please verify any information in question with the dealer.


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WASHINGTON, Nov. 12 (UPI) -- U.S. President Barack Obama plans a public push to solidify support for tax hikes on the wealthy along with spending cuts to cut the deficit, officials said.
Obama is to meet with labor leaders Tuesday and business leaders Wednesday in the hope of winning their backing for his proposal to let tax rates rise to 39.6 percent from 35 percent on taxable incomes of more than $200,000 for individuals and $250,000 for couples, the officials told The Wall Street Journal.
Ending the George W. Bush-era tax cuts for those wealthy people would raise about $440 billion in new revenue over 10 years, the White House estimates.
He also plans to travel outside of Washington in the hope of broadening national support for the idea, which White House officials believe won voter backing in last week's election, the Journal said.
Obama's meetings with labor and business leaders -- who can influence different lawmaker segments on Capitol Hill -- are to come before he meets with congressional leaders Friday.
The White House wants roughly $1.5 trillion in new taxes over 10 years, largely targeting the wealthy, coupled with spending cuts Obama said in September would reduce the long-term deficit $3 trillion beyond the $1 trillion agreed to as part of a deal to raise the U.S. debt ceiling.
Congress returns to Washington Tuesday with a looming year-end "fiscal cliff" -- a combination of big tax increases and spending cuts totaling hundreds of billions of dollars scheduled to begin Jan. 1 the Congressional Budget Office predicts would drive the U.S. economy back into recession next year and push the jobless rate to 9.1 percent.
Republicans have said since the election that they're now willing to soften their anti-tax stance to avoid the cliff.
Sen. Bob Corker, R-Tenn., told "Fox News Sunday" he thought collecting more taxes from the nation's highest earners should be part of the mix -- but only by closing tax loopholes, not by increasing tax rates as Obama proposes, and only if Democrats agree to cut federal spending.
"I am optimistic," he said. "I think there is the basis for the deal."
He said Republicans were now "willing to put revenues on the table if we can do it in a pro-growth way, and there is a way of doing that."
Conservative commentator William Kristol, founder and editor of the political magazine The Weekly Standard, told "Fox News Sunday": "It won't kill the country if we raise taxes a little bit on millionaires. It really won't."
Obama adviser David Axelrod told CBS' "Face the Nation," "I think there are a lot of ways to skin this cat, so long as everybody comes with a positive, constructive attitude toward the task."


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Rupert Murdoch's News Corp has completed the $815.3 million sale of its stake in local pay-TV operator Sky Network Television.
The global media empire slated for a demerger along publishing and broadcasting lines later this year sold its 43.6 per cent stake in Sky TV at $4.80 a share in an underwritten placement to institutional investors. Sky TV today said the sale has been completed.
A trading halt on the shares put in place for the sale has now been lifted. The stock last changed hands at $5.17 on Friday.
Murdoch's exit from the pay-TV firm comes four months after New Zealand's billionaire Todd family sold its 11 per cent stake for $218 million at $5.05 a share. That was a discount of 5.8 per cent at the time. News took the cornerstone stake in Sky TV via a merger with Independent News Ltd in 2005.
The stock is rated an average 'outperform' based on nine analyst recommendations compiled by Reuters, with a median target price of $5.535.
Last week, the New Zealand pay-TV operator reported a 9 per cent lift in first-half profit to $68.2 million, with a total subscriber base at 846,988.


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Oakland, Berkeley, And East Bay News, Events, Restaurants, Music, & Arts
brother Eric Lowen,
Yes, that was when the city closed our social club in August 2011. We will gladly refund your $20 and apologize. Thanks for reaching out. Birdman Mike
I have mixed feelings about Birdland. My wife and I, having heard about the place, we induced to buy an annual membership one week before the joint closed and it left a bitter taste.
The best thing next to Alexeis having an incredible mind for understanding her demographics is that she is super hot...
I think street festivals like the Union St Fair should be a separate issue from the Fillmore Jazz festival. I would expect that the level of talent and pay for something with the history/name of the Fillmore Jazz Festival should be taken seriously and professionally - if you want the heavy hitters, then yes, they should be paid their due.
However, something like the Union St fair is different to me. Folks aren't going there to listen to music - they're going to drink and eat and enjoy the sun (if we're lucky enough to get it in SF :). If there is good music discovered there - then yes, what a plus! That's what turned me off to this whole thing in the first place. I happen to have a band that is doing very well right now that was booked via our agent (not a cattle call) and we happily took the gig because the band wants to play in front of as many summer crowds as they possibly can (in fact they had two gigs that day). Was it the best guarantee we've received all summer? No. But this particular band is averaging about $500-$1K per show for most of the stuff they do - they are gigging constantly, getting press and radio play. As they grow, the guarantees grow. The implication that they were 'lesser' talent because they accepted the gig alienated me right away.
I have been working as an advocate for bands for over sixteen years and have seen the dramatic changes to the industry at large, yet all of my bands are all doing quite well. Bottom line is - your name and draw means everything in this business and I do think pay should be commensurate with that. However, I think in a case like Union St fair, the bands don't have to put in the kind of work they normally would because they know that it's a built-in crowd. It would be nice if you were paid based on your musical talent and years of study, but it's all about the numbers in this business just like any other. Many do not know how to promote themselves and do not realize how important this aspect of your career truly is. If you are bringing in the numbers, then absolutely you should and will get paid accordingly. But why would the Union St fair even bother with this when they know that folks are going to come out no matter what? Why would they opt to pay a band, let's say $1K when there are a bazillion other bands that will do it for half - and bands that are just as good? Simple economics - law of supply and demand.
Restivo's comments are incredibly insulting...
all he talks about is exposure...if you've ever dealt
with him personally then you know that he is absolutely
insolent...I love that instead of offering to take this seriously,
perhaps makes some changes, etc. he says he'll "hire a booking agent and just let 'em do it themselves. And it's not going to be Stephanie Dalton."
what else do you need to hear?
Restivo has no business being close to musicians or the public
thanks people very interesting reading here.
I"d also like to encourage all musicians in this area, regularly performing Jazz, Latin and R&B, to get to know Stephanie Dalton. Her efforts to make this public, and protect the interests of the friends, and music she loves, are nothing short of heroic.
She emails a weekly newsletter I think all gig warriors should check out.
email her to receive it!
As a 35-year veteran of nearly every large club and Musical Genre in the bay area, with four California music awards, and over 3500 gigs under my belt, and speaking on behalf of me and mine, I find it vastly offensive that any so-called "promoter" or "agent" would even consider attempting to pay musicians so little.
But it's out fault and the blame falls on none other
Musicians in this area, while being some of the most brilliant minds musically and artistically on the planet, are still some of the most bunker mentality, no-business understanding, most backbiting, and least organized musicians in the entire country.
"Promoters", "Agents" and "Managers", all know this well, and come here from around the country to take advantage of our scene, one that was paid for with the blood sweat and tears of over 7 generations of musicians, which include some of the founders of rock and roll itself, as well as Jazz, and Latin music, and the entire club music scene which has it's roots in SF' and Oakland's prohibition-era speakeasies.
We have pedigree and linage. and one that deserves some respect.
I have been exceedingly lucky myself in the music business, however many of my more talented brothers and sisters, have lived in a lifestyle of starving artist chic, because they did not want to embrace one hard, cold fact.
This. Is a business. Period.
The art you say? that's the spiritual part. the beauty, and sacredness of it, resonates through the world from this place, so famous for the musicians that have come from here, and the ideas that were spawned here.
But, the minute you take your art to market you become a businessperson.
Protect yourself. Learn about business, know who is behind gigs, do the math, ask about the numbers. Do your own gigs.
And remember, there is also a time to not gig.
When the machine is so odious, and so toxic, that it would take that which is a sacrament to us all, and make it fodder for carpetbaggers like Restivo, "Management" people like Ben Yonas, and outright thieves like Happy Sanchez, then that, is a time to really step back and take reality into account.
This is a time of change.
Long live the NEW musician. (I believe we have a battle hymn)
Unbowed, with great love and admiration for those who came before, and and those who will come after me,
Piero Amadeo Infante
Hey There Adam,
I did write an article about the rejuvenation money that came into the Fillmore and how it was appropriated - click here to read - http://urbanmusicpresents.com/Urban_Music_…
I took the facebook conversation that started on your wall Adam and I sent it to the press and sent it to the Fillmore Merchants Association - where upon musicians who were getting $75 got bumped up to $100 - however the bandleaders who do 90% of the business dealings, chart arrangements and scheduling - received lower pay due the $100 bump increase. This was per Restivo - I have talked to two bandleader on this - thus there was not added funding from Restivo - band leaders took the hit - and they do three times the work as sidemen.
There is tons of money moving around in these festivals - and if a two day festival is not within the budget to afford than have a 1 day festival - but don't have it happen at the expense of musicians -
I want to comprise a committee to review this - my survey is giving me some informative information that hopefully will help structure a process to obtaining some by-laws event producers must adhere to -
Festivals and Venues are not the same - Festivals are BIG Business and Venues are small business - there are reputable venues and sleezy venues - the reputable ones will work with the artist to promote them, actually care about music, and give percentages according to draw and / or sales. The other venues who don't do this aren't worth a damn!
Restivo is effectively creating a sleazy venue out of the Fillmore Jazz Festival - and this should not be happening -
Carnaval is pretty bad as well - but hopefully by calling this out and drawing peoples attention to the problem and the fact that it is becoming pervasive hopefully an action plan can be developed to implement change that protects musicians, serves the public and provides away for spectacular festivals to exist.
What we have now is mediocre at best - and the musicians are being paid less than insulting compensation - the Fillmore Merchant's Association and most definitely Steve Restivo should be ashamed - further Restivo talks to people as if they are the *!*t on his shoe - just is not right - that one ass can and does control 80% of the San Francisco's Street Festivals - this is real --
Please visit my website to read all the articles and take the survey I have compiled and written.
I respectfully strongly disagree with "melody maker" "music professional"and "C notes" - Steve Restivo is not trying to make an honest living. If you read the over 100 comments that people form all over the Bay Area posted on my Facebook page 3 weeks ago, you will see that this is not just a few people who have a beef with someone over a low paying gig, it's about dishonesty, shady business and someone who has been a repeat offender for acting unprofessionally to dozens of the Bay's hardest working, most talented musicians.
Just because a festival is "free" doesn't mean the pay should be way below what a "Festival" should pay. If anyone doesn't know about the massive amounts of subsidies that the Fillmore District gets every year to promote "Jazz" then you must be living under a rock. Its been in the papers numerous times. I wish someone would do an article on all that stuff and where all the city and sponsorship money goes...Maybe I'd be proven wrong.
Anyway...My point is that when I first started playing this particular festival 10 years ago, I wasn't a headliner and I was getting paid AT LEAST 3 times what they are talking about here. This all changed for the worse when Restivo came in. My personal beef with him (which is what started this whole discussion about 3 weeks ago on my FB page) goes back over 2 years ago when he tried to cancel 3 of my bands he'd booked/contracted for the Fillmore Fest. When he delivered the bad news to me, he started right in with "but I can make it up to you by booking you at other Festivals I run like the Art and Garden Festival in blah blah blah...". I said "that's great but we have signed contracts and you need to pay us for the lost wages and that's when all hell broke loose and we've been at war ever since. I'll spare you the rest of the details but long story short I went to his boss behind his back and got paid, which made Steve Restivo even more angry with me and I just laughed and never said anything about it until now, over 2 years later.The reason why I finally spoke up is I don't want to see musicians treated like this - this is not "small stuff" it is one of the biggest (and only) festival events in the Bay Area that promotes BAY AREA JAZZ. We need to fight people like this guy from driving our scene into the ground.
All street fairs and festivals have very limited budgets for talent. They are free festivals after all. Having played many community events and street fairs over the last 20 years, I can honestly say that pay is not great. The trade off is being able to sell your merchandise and performing in front of hundreds (or thousands) of potential new fans who would otherwise not see you. I agree, with the post above. This is meat and potatoes issue. Focus on equitable pay across the board day after day. Festivals aren't your bread and butter!!
Bravo Stephanie . . .
Ah those demon promoters . . . Many years ago I formed a side "union" so to speak called "B.A.C.K." > "Bay Area Coalition of Keyboardists" because of hearing some good musician friends of mine were being hired for casuals for yes ~ the dreaded "$75" by agents/promoters and told "if you don't do it for $75 I'll get someone else for $60!" > while at the same time they were making fat money themselves, more than enough to pay everyone fairly and still make a good profit.
Grrrrrrr - into action. Organized meetings with as many local keyboard players as possible and agreed we should get a minimum of $125, and more for putting bassists out of work by kicking bass. How sweet it was to simply say no to ridiculous $75 offers and just refer them to other players knowing they too will just say no. It worked!!!! And can again if players come together rather than just complain and feel victimized.
Musicians are "creative" people ~ which should include being creative when it comes to getting paid appropriately for work, as well as in knowing how to maintain self respect, and in ways to avoid under cutting each other just so we can get that local exposure.
No doubt promoters too often take advantage of artists. But for an artist to then blame the promoters for "their own" acceptance of #### pay is misguided at best. To think it's fine for us to work our local festivals for next to nothing (that is to complain and then go ahead and do it anyway) with the promise of the "E" word, exposure ... is hurtful to the art community as a whole. Just think - with that attitude accepting that poor paying gig most likely "will" lead to more poor paying gigs - not just for you but for everyone.
$75 for a festival gig? Give a lesson or two to an eager kid instead. And maybe a few more for extra $ to put towards alternative ways to get "exposure."
One of the beauties of the Internet is free self promotion . . . and FREE EXPOSURE. Now go and expose yourself . . . :)
Frank Martin
I don't think the issue is festival/special event work. As someone soad earlier, musicians regularly take his for $25 - 50 and meal. Why worry about a once-a-year event when you can't get a respectful wage the other 364 days of the year. The fight needs to be for meat and potatoes, not dessert!
First I want to thank Kathleen and East Bay Express for helping me spread the word on this very important issue.
My focus on Restivo is because he is so aggregious with his disrespect towards our local musicians and further jazz itself. He does control a major pool of the local festivals and is driving the value and quality down with his actions - this being said - HE IS NOT THE ONLY ONE!
My goal is to go to the Entertainment Commission and the Board of Supervisors and hopefully pass a set of by-laws that legislate a minimum standard of pay event producer must adhere to - this would raise the bar - to an even playing field - prevent musicians from cutting the market on each other - and prevent unscrupulous producers like Restivo from being able to take advantage of the musicians in the name of a bad economy!
It is a shame Restivo won't consider me for booking the Fillmore Festival - as I know the music would be slammin' and the musicians would be paid equitably - If you cannot afford a 2 day festival - then don't produce one - live within your means - but don't balance the budget on the musicians backs.
If we want to keep music thriving here in the bay area - we have to create a culture of respect and value - otherwise they will leave - they will have to in order to make their ends meet.
Up and coming musicians certainly have a right to play and get their start - but not at the expense of opportunities of veteran musicians who bring an expertise - you do not underbid the market forsaking the pros for the wannabe's just because they will play for nothing - there is no integrity in that - and also the wannabe's - some of which maybe become pro - and they are only serving themselves.
This is about respect of culture, liveliehood - this is about integrity.
Thanks for your support on this important issue.
Stephanie Dalton, Urban Music Presents
the reality is that to be a musician that feeds a family in this business means you have to work extremely hard and bust your ass for years. I don't know why everyone is making such a big deal out of this one particular person - get off his back. he's just trying to do his job and make a living like everyone else. I'm sure he answers to someone above him. please. the music business is in the toilet in every sense. to think that you should be paid the big bucks by a local street fair is just plain naive.
It's not just about the money - it's frankly the lack of respect shown to artists. Steve Restivo represents to the Merchants and community (and by the way, by serving al three of the big festivals, it does feel like a monopoly) that he will carefully jury and select the artists. Those cattle call letters which arrived a week before the event certainly calls this careful selection process into question.
I know all Festivals put their money first into the big name draw - and then fill in the smaller stages later. Of course, that's understandable...but those other stages can still be a wonderful opportunity to share fantastic local musicianship. Sending out an email at the last minute to whomever might not yet be booked on a holiday weekend is a slap in the face to the very superb local music available here, and also to the merchants and locals who believe in the strength of a Steve Restivo Brand. Those emails (I got them, too) for both Fillmore and Union Street said they had LOTS of slots available...heck of a way to run a railroad, if you ask me.
Especially when there is no pre publicity or advertising to garner you that promised EXPOSURE, Exposure is highly overrated by amateur promoters seeking cheap of free entertainment at a MUSIC FESTIVAL where the Primary reason for it's existence is INDEED the MUSIC , wake up and smell the roses Musicians. Especially guys like Passard who was silly enough to take a cut in pay to play the Festival.
You can actually pay your rent and feed your Family on Publicity if you actually GET IT and use it to your advantage, but in the case of this event it simply does not exist. I have a few friends who have played it for several years and they swear they do not work for $75.00 a musician, but I know better they Lie to attempt to look important to their peers. The problem is not the $75.00 to 100.00 fee per musician offered, all by itself, it is the fact that the Promoters do not know how to book the musicians in the first place.
Those same musicians often play local nightclubs for the same money for four hours a night and many of them for far less.
You mention the word Festival and the Bands who just played the night before for $50 to 100. a man seem to think they are worth two or three times as much just because it is a Festival in the daytime when they have no work anyway and feel they are suddenly worth more money for the same thing they just did the night before.
Many musicians shoot themselves in the foot daily, simply by not being very good business people.
WOW - I'm really happy to see some light being shed on this situation. Good article, I feel like you did a great job with the few people you were able to get info from, since most people didn't want to speak to specifics for fear of getting blacklisted or even worse, sued (which was why I declined for interview).
I really hope Restivo gets ousted and someone who REALLY CARES about music is put in the spot of being in charge of the music at Fillmore Jazz Fest.
Oh and I can guarantee that they won't be calling me : )
"Instead of cash, a big incentive for musicians to play events like the Fillmore Jazz Festival is the exposure, according to Restivo."
You know, people die of exposure.
You can't pay your rent and feed your family on 'publicity.'
I was just blogging about the death of the record store. Thanks for letting me know that Amoeba will still be around for the next five years. I feel like I should be wearing black.


text:
take me out to the ballgame, when the ballgame can
now come to me? by
Colin Thames
21, 2006 - Major
League Baseball 2K6 is a solid baseball game and it's
been beefed up in the audio/visual departments for
the Xbox 360. It's not big on frills but it is loaded
with modes, including online play.
number of modes in this game are outrageous. There
are 10 single-player modes alone, with two multi-player
modes that include Exhibitions and Home Run Derby.
The single-player modes include Quick Games, Season,
Manager Showdown, Home Run Derby, Home Run Derby Career,
World Baseball Classic, Playoffs, Situation, Franchise
and GM Career. Now you might be thinking that most
of these modes are variations on a theme and since
the gameplay mechanics are the same, they really aren't
that big of a deal. However the GM and Franchise mode
are every bit as good as those found on the console
versions. They are deep and a lot of fun if you're
looking for a behind-the-scenes sim of running a professional
baseball team. There are a variety of stats and even
a minor league roster which will assist you to make
draft decisions. Players can be traded, contracts
are negotiated and because of the built-in fatigue
system, you can schedule time off for star players
so they can be in peak form when you really need them.
you know the control systems for baseball games vary
from year to year. So far they have not reached perfection
but they're getting better and deeper. The trick is
to have a deeper control system without it being too
complicated to operate. The learning curve in this
game is not very steep at all. You'll get plenty of
practice just by playing through the various modes
but there is an excellent feature that acts as a coach
with psychic abilities. The Inside Edge is an in-game
tutorial of sorts that gives you hints and tips after
each pitch whether you're pitching or batting. It
takes into account the other players' stats and scouting
data and will give you predictions as to what kind
of pitches to expect or what kind of pitches to throw.
It's well implemented into the gameplay and doesn't
act like a cheat device, it gives you the same relative
information that would be available to all Major League
is relatively easy. Choose your swing with the analog
stick and then press the button at the perfect time
to execute the hack. You can hit flies, grounders,
bunts and hopefully homeruns if you get the right
pitch and the timing of the controls down. You can
increase the speed of base runners and fielders by
mashing the action button. If you're attempting to
catch the ball, pressing the catch button will execute
a dramatic dive or wall climbing animation. All of
the animations are very smooth, even the transition
animations. The players' faces look generic and the
crowd looks like a flat painting - and reacts like
one. At least you can always keep your eye on the
may at first appear to be a more complex affair but
that's just the nature of the interface. It gives
you a lot of control which makes for a more strategic
game. Use the analog stick to aim and press a button
to select a pitch and hold it down. While you're holding
it, the targeting circle will expand, indicating a
greater power level. Let go of the button when you
have the right amount of break or power selected for
your pitch. The circle will then shrink into a crosshair.
Tap the button one more time, preferable when the
circle is at its smallest as this will increase the
accuracy of your pitch. It only take a few moments
to learn how to use this system but it can take some
practice to get really good at it.
are controlled and can throw to any of the four bases
by pressing the corresponding face buttons. When you're
up to bat, you can pre-select specific base runners
and command them to steal a base. You can also adjust
the catcher's position by using the shoulder button.
If you manage to line him up perfectly and he catches
the ball without having to move you will earn some
points that can adversely affect the opposing team's
the game packs a punch on the Xbox 360 when compared
to the current generation console version. Higher
resolution and more animations make this the version
of choice to get, if you already own an X360.
League Baseball 2K6 is a great game as far as the
gameplay mechanics go but it really skimps on the
razzle and dazzle. We are most likely to be forgiving
considering that this is a handheld game but we can't
help but expect more because we know it's possible.
I don't want to have to be making excuses for a game
and if things aren't improved for the '07 season then
the crap is really going to hit the fan.
Colin Thames
Freelance Writer
Rating Legend
1.0 - 1.9 = Avoid
2.0 - 2.4 = Poor
2.5 - 2.9 = Average
3.0 - 3.4 = Fair
3.5 - 3.9 = Good
4.0 - 4.4 = Great
4.5 - 4.9 = Must Buy
5.0 = The Best


text:
The Department of Public Safety (DPS) is a full-service campus-police department serving students, staff, faculty and guests of the college.
Contact Info
Department Head:
Dolores Danser
Chief of Public Safety
Andrea Van Volkenburg
Administrative Officer
Kaufman Building
Mailing Address
DPS is a unit of the Division of Student Development. The department operates 24 hours a day, seven days a week. The department includes a department chief, lieutenants, law-enforcement officers, civilian communication officers, an administrative assistant, a transportation coordinator and one corporal. Additional communication officers and non-sworn special officers assist with crowd control and traffic direction at large events.
- Director's Message
- Mission Statement & Core Values
- Staff Contact Information & Organizational Chart
- Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)
How to Contact Public Safety
Email: email@example.com
Business Phone: 717-245-1349 (Ext. 1349)
Emergency: 717-245-1111 (Ext. 1111)
Campus Location: Kaufman Building
Physical Address: 400 West North St., Carlisle, PA 17013-2896
Mailing Address: P.O. Box 1773, Carlisle, PA 17013-2896
Fax No: 717-245-1054
TTY No: 717-245-1044