text:
(Eliot Presses Play) Testing, testing, eins, zwei, drei. Ernesto Bornigno, can you hear me?
One would think that others would follow, but this place still crawls along, languishing on the outskirts of infinity, resisting the march of time, cloistered in a torrid menagerie. Reliving it is to remember how it feels to be baked by the sun while the rest of the world evolves and has the pleasure of watching us melt. I left as soon as I could and never looked back. Until the boomerang of death brought me back, that is. No escaping that one. Why anyone would want to live out here has long been a mystery to me. I knew the desert heat would be unbearable and I still made the mistake of wearing black jeans. This wouldn't be a problem if I weren't so vain. But I prefer not to wear shorts, and like the bohemian kids of Echo Park, I have been known to suffer for fashion. And suffer I will, underground, in this godforsaken bomb shelter. There isn't any ventilation either, which concerns me, because I have an irrational fear of asbestos and insulation.
I was appointed by the executor of my grandfather's will to clean out the house that I once lived in. Maybe this was his way of punishing me, and maybe I deserve it. I generally don't like to overexert myself, which he knew quite well. It's not the labor or the task that pains me though, it's my back. I have never completely recovered from idiopathic scoliosis. My spine curves slightly to the left. I have recruited an old friend to help with the grunt work, but at the moment I'm alone in the garage. It's like a sweat lodge in here. My grandfather would have said that I'm taking my sweet-ass time. I would say that I'm being deliberate. Warren, the aforementioned old friend, is upstairs folding cardboard boxes along perforated lines. Boxes I purchased at a highly inflated price from Pack 'n' Sav. I was in a bind because the other do-it-yourself moving companies in this backwater had rented out all their trucks for the weekend. Pack 'n' Sav is the epitome of corporate ineptitude; long queues, disrespectful and incompetent employees, and shameful policies that leave consumers empty-handed on moving day. They have a terrible rating with the Better Business Bureau and I shall never use them again.
Before I go on, I should clarify a few things. The term "old friend" may not be the best way to introduce Warren. When I think of old friends I think of Simon and Garfunkel. Warren was my closest friend. I don't like the phrase best friend either, because at times he was my only friend. But over the years we've either grown apart or time and distance have tricked us into believing so. Warren never strayed from the Inland Empire, which isn't really an empire at all. It's actually a very misleading title. The Inland Empire has frequently been called "The Armpit of the Universe," though there certainly are less desirable places to be stranded. We can settle on "The Armpit of Southern California." Some will argue that it is bounded by Interstate 15, with the epicenter being San Bernardino proper, but I always imagined that it stretched out further and further east until reaching its nadir in Death Valley. In a way, Palm Desert is a world unto itself. Far enough from Los Angeles to make it an inconvenient road trip, yet close enough to acknowledge how it pales in comparison. Other than turbine-powered windmills and its proximity to the world's largest concrete dinosaurs, there is nothing exciting about this dry and distant hamlet. It has pristine professional golf courses, climate-controlled indoor malls and one too many health spas. There's also a desert museum, which is a popular destination for stoned teenagers.
As I said before, I am in this dank underground garage that belonged to my grandparents. The garage is an annex of the house that was added on in the seventies. It is also a basement. There's a stairway leading into the kitchen and you drive downhill to enter; one of several architectural oddities in this little bungalow. Ownership should have been transferred into my name—though I have no desire to hold the property—but they went against my advice and refinanced. Then they refinanced the refinance. The house is now property of First Desert Financial, and will be sold at an auction on the first of July. I am the only living member of my immediate family that is able to perform these duties, as my younger brother is hiding out somewhere in the Amazon, and my father is unavoidably detained. Fortunately, the bank has no jurisdiction over our memories, which are presently strewn all over the basement-garage floor where I once spent an entire weekend watching a Vincent Price retrospective. I'm trying to organize our belongings into separate piles to keep, discard, and stow. It's easy to get sidetracked while flipping through photo albums and searching for meaning. Practically everything from the seventies is in a sallow sepia tone. The prints, however, have maintained their composition, as the pages are covered and protected by a Mylar sheath. Most of the boxes haven't been opened in this millennium. The box tops have thick layers of dust and mold from the leaking ceiling pipes. My allergies are killing me.
We all have talents and vices, and Warren is a good man to have around to get a job done. I hear his pounding footsteps and know that we will be out of here soon. It sounds like he's carrying the boxes from the kitchen into the truck. I'm tempted to help him, as I don't seem to be making any headway, but there is value in nostalgia, and lifting heavy objects has never been my métier. So I will stay down here until he is too weary to carry on alone. He can handle the labor and I will be wistful.
Now here is something I vividly remember. I have in my hands a manuscript, typewritten by the illustrious young talent, Eliot Sinclair—who happens to be, coincidentally, me. This was my initial writing assignment at a new school and the teacher was probably trying to keep me busy, but I saw it as an aptitude test. The teacher asked me to write an autobiography, a classic diversion. An essay by any normal child would have been prosaic and terse. I, on the other hand, was meticulous and verbose. What I remember most about this incident is how my miserable teacher did not believe that I had written such a well articulated piece over a single weekend. She marked the cover with a √ and left a discouraging comment:In the future, I expect to read your own work. Our school has a strict plagiarism policy. I am not exaggerating. She was a bitter harpy.
To understand her, you must see for yourself. We must backpedal before we are free to run onward. Let me explain. When I was in the second grade I could outwit my parents with relative ease. I could checkmate the chess captain of the Royal Order of Dutiful Caribou in a matter of moves, armed with only my knight and queen. Of course, this was the Inland Empire, not St. Petersburg. Still, I was reading Tolstoy and Chekhov while my classmates were being put to sleep by their mother's voice and the rhyming verse of Dr. Seuss. Suffice it to say, I was a dispossessed child prodigy, almost fifteen years ago.
The formative years were good to me, at least in establishing the groundwork of literature and mathematics. Oh, how I loved solving derivatives and utilizing the quadratic equation that my mother, my poor mother in her community college calculus class, without my assistance, could not. Everything was simpler when I wore dolphin shorts and striped tube socks. In fact, I was not the run-of-the-mill savant. I was quite the opposite, content with my station. Sometimes I was able to pretend that I was like the neighborhood kids. We played Laser Tag and hide 'n' seek until the sun went down–once or twice. In the summer months I slept in the shade with my brother at my side. That is how I would like to remember it anyway.
I will recount a usual autumn day for you to read and consider. I woke up around five to entertain my mother, who always drank Yuban coffee with plenty of low-fat milk and heaping tablespoons of sugar. I once tried it without adding any milk and asked my mother, "How can anyone be foolish enough to drink this?" To which she replied, "Some folks need a strong drink to send them on their way." And I retorted, with my usual cynicism, "They just don't understand the nutritional value of milk or juice to complement a healthy breakfast. It's like you and Nana always say. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Black coffee is no substitute. Am I wrong?" "No, but it's more complicated than that. You'll understand when you're older."
When I was younger I believed that my parents did not expect a child of eight to understand the complexities of adult situations. However, I could comprehend rational explanations that were beyond the grasp of most children my age, and even many who were much older than me. Her response was an easy way of telling me to shut up. Being the obedient and well-behaved child that I was, I remained silent for a while, until a greater question came to mind.
I seem to have strayed from the topic at hand, dear reader, and should return to the pertinent details. After watching my mother drink two cups of coffee and prepare scrambled eggs and bacon, I would read for an hour or so. Although I was versed in the classics, I was especially intrigued by the sciences, or I should say, almost exclusively, astronomy. There was no man better to explain the nature of the universe than the brilliant Mr. Carl Sagan, who introduced me to physics and the cosmos. My mother was a fan as well, and while I believe that her mathematical shortcomings held her back in the pursuit of science, I lauded her in her attempts to understand the vast network of planets and star systems that he illustrated so clearly. It is also worth mentioning that she is the only one of my parents who could operate the VCR properly, and was responsible for videotaping all thirteen episodes of Mr. Sagan's PBS miniseries.
After reading an excerpt from an astronomy text, I flipped on the television to watch Scooby Doo, followed by either The Funtastic World of Hanna-Barbera or The Jetsons, depending on the day. At the time, I felt it necessary to engage in normal childhood activities. That way I could converse with my classmates and reduce the number of hours being bullied for my intellect. Nobody in my class appreciated the finer things in life, like the performing arts or the physical sciences. I had a particular fondness for Tchaikovsky and Baryshnikov. Field trips and the school orchestra were the only times that the district introduced high culture to the masses. And on the rare occasions that we would leave the school grounds, the insolent noise of the troop would prevail. The troublemakers would rather scream and shoot spitballs –- often in my general direction –- than watch an Edward Albee play at the repertory. As I sat there quietly, tolerating their juvenile antics with every last ounce of my patience, I began to pity their shortsightedness.
[It should be noted that from the time I was in kindergarten I have been enrolled in public school. Only in the two years before elementary school was I privately educated. That was at the esteemed Montessori Learning Center in Bakersfield, where I was at the head of the class in reading comprehension and arithmetic. While the others monkeyed around on the playground, I was building model airplanes and testing their durability. Granted, I may have benefited from my early studies, and a foundation rooted in motherly support, but one should not overstate the importance of those factors.]
Yes, I am 11; and yes, I understand where we come from in a biologic and taxonomic sense. I was six when I first witnessed the act of mating. Freud would call this the "primal scene" and relate all of my problems to that encounter. I am skeptical about this theory. As you will soon find out, there are other accidents that have had a greater impact on my ego than seeing reproduction in action. Though I must say, at the time it was a strange sight and seemed deviant as I watched from behind the curtains of their bedroom window. The words that I heard are not to be repeated here, or at home, as I would be punished severely with my grandfather's belt. When my mother gave me an offhanded lie about the origin of babies, I decided to find out for myself. On the fireplace mantle we kept a set of the 1987 World Book Encyclopedia. Unearthing the truth was not so easy. It required a study of anatomy and physiology. My research spanned "Volume 6: The Human Body" and "Volume 10: Reproduction." I learned a great deal about molecular and cellular biology thumbing through those tomes. That lesson sparked an obsession with the study of living organisms that would consume me for the next year. Then I went back to the stars.
In my ninth year I made two great discoveries. One was related to the work of the honorable Charles Darwin. As brilliant and methodical as he was, it seems that he was not revered by all people. Father Leary called me a heretic for believing his "unsubstantiated theories." To which I replied, "But Father, is there anything wrong in recognizing natural selection as a hereditary process? Genetic mutations are clearly represented in humans as well as first order primates." "You have either been possessed by some dark magic or been told outrageous half-truths," he said. "I am merely reciting what I have gathered from my deep love of science." "You are easily fooled, my young lad. It is well known that Mr. Darwin was driven by the occult, and made it his life's work to slander the church. Religious scholars have proven time and time again that his findings were doctored and fabricated. He, like you, had a very fanciful imagination." "I find this hard to believe, Father. My encyclopedia states otherwise. In the biography section…" "You read too much. It is not healthy for a boy your age to stay indoors for such long periods of time. I presume you are going stir-crazy. I suggest you go outside and play with the Stanley twins." "But Father, I get the recommended amount of sunlight and physical activity every day." "Run along, son, I have services to attend to. Tell your father that I must speak with him after mass on Sunday." "Yes, Father." I knew this meant I had once again overstepped my bounds and feared the worst.
My father was an usher at the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd, where I attended Sunday school every week, and sometimes the parish priest joined us for dinner. If I were to offend the venerable priest in any way I expected to feel and hear about it from our family patriarch. On Sunday mornings, this same man would dress us up in penny loafers and blue sport coats –- the ones with brass buttons on the sleeve — because in his words, "a respectful family wears respectable clothes on the Sabbath." We wore name tags on our lapels, emblazoned with the crest of our church so new parishioners would know who we were. My father stood under the enormous entryway, greeting people and handing out the day's readings. He also passed around the engraved silver collection plate. I was sent with my brother upstairs to the parochial classrooms. They were decorated with cutouts of the apostles and friendly shepherds, herding the gentle sheep with their goldenrod canes. While I knew the adornments were there to create an atmosphere of calmness, I found them distracting and kitschy. As for the teachings, I am familiar with the fabled stories of the old and new testaments, but I was bored with the group readings, and the demeaning nun who monitored our class. In retrospect, I think she was jealous of my shrewd deductions of the holy writ. What was simple and obvious to me could not be seen by her or the other children, as she was rather dull and they were only acting their age. It was not a rare morning when she would nearly boil over with frustration and say, "Go downstairs and sit with your parents! You're purposely ruining our discussion with your blasphemy." Each time I walked out, the same wondering faces gaped at me, and the mischievous boys stuck out their tongues.
I apologize for that extended digression. I wanted to say something about Sunday mornings that was completely unrelated to my daily routine. On the usual morning that I was describing earlier I would awaken well before my younger brother, Carter. He would either come into the kitchen (unwashed and smelling of body odor) to steal a roll from the bread basket or our mother would wake him with a gentle smack on the behind. He would whimper and, frequently, protest with flailing arms and legs. Our mother responded by dragging him into the bathroom by the ear. With one hand on the shower knob and the other in a chokehold, she would fling him into the tub. He squirmed like a fish out of water, trying to wriggle his way out of her clutch. But she always had a tight grip on his neck, because she was very conditioned from regular aerobic workouts and tussles with our father. It looked like a professional wrestling match gone awry. Neither of the contestants wanted to give up, though my brother was certain to lose. She would grind her teeth and pull his hair –- dirty tactics — while he wrapped his arms around the toilet seat, maintaining his position for as long as possible, his feet and the bath mat sliding on the wet floor, until finally he was lying on the ground, which meant he had surrendered for the time being.
Standing in the shower, he would refuse to wash himself, bringing her nearly to tears. "Carter, if you don't clean and scrub all of that muck from your filthy body, I'll wake your father and tell him that you refuse to follow my directions." "I hate you," he would always say. And I would unfailingly respond, "He doesn't mean it, mother." I would often stand in the doorway to watch their clash. "This doesn't concern you, Eliot. Go back to the TV room." Obedient, I would march right back into the family room and plop down on the shag carpet to watch the remainder of my show. Sometimes Carter would come in dressed and other times he was dripping wet, naked, or even back in his pajamas. I won't speak of the times that he came in naked, when my father would wake up early to our mother's shouting.
If Carter was feeling right, he would come in dressed appropriately, and my mother would drive us to school in the boxy maroon minivan. On a good day we were out the door and on our way before our father could be heard milling about the bedroom. In the van we would listen to my mother's cassette tapes. She had a fondness for folkies, singer-songwriters like Carole King and James Taylor. I knew the words to every song on Tapestry and Sweet Baby James. An interesting side note is that Carole King, who is a magnificent songwriter, originally penned the lyrics and music for "You've Got a Friend," which was also a hit single for James Taylor. I believe that I am the only 11-year-old in America who knows this fact, which I learned from reading the liner notes. When our father was in the car, he would try and subvert her influence by putting in Twisted Sister or Ratt. That would last until she heard profanity, and she would immediately hit eject. Then she would pull the tape out and wave it in his face. She would say something like, "Don't ever become rock stars, boys," and eye us in the rear view mirror.
Our town was a safe middle-class community, reminiscent of Bedford Falls or Mayberry, and we could stay out until dark without fear of being kidnapped. When I looked through the window of the minivan on a cool autumn morning, past the strawberry fields that ran along the highway, everything in sight was calm and wide open. I remember the faces of the boys and girls of the school safety patrol, wearing red polyester jackets with whistles slung around their neck as they guided the young ones at the crosswalk. Our mother dropped us off curbside, gave us a kiss on the cheek and pulled away, waving through the driver's side window. We walked together over the cracking cement grounds of the schoolyard until we reached a point where the paths to our classrooms diverged and Carter's eyes met mine with their usual hopelessness, and they said to me, "Please don't go." And I answered with my silent eyes, "Everything will be all right."
As I mentioned earlier, I was an astute pupil, and far ahead of my classmates. Despite my pleas, my father refused to have me promoted to high school, so I was given purportedly advanced exercises and sent to the dimly lit back room to study behind closed doors like a disavowed stepchild. Once or twice a day they let me out of my cage for a rudimentary lesson in life science or physical education. At the end of said break I would ask to return to my studies and the teacher would give an obligatory nod. The only redeeming features were the Apple IIe's where I spent many hours playing Oregon Trail and Math Blaster.
During recess, some of the boys in my grade would verbally and physically abuse those who they perceived to be weak, especially yours truly. Out on the hot blacktop, their fists were matched by my encyclopedias, and many times I sent them home crying. But I cannot tell a lie. They stole an average of four dollars a week from my pockets and threatened me with torture were I to report their thuggery. I found refuge far off the playground under a fir tree, where I was always joined by Carter. We would spend the quarter hour playing Gin Rummy or planning an elaborate treehouse. Freedom only lasted until the bell rang, however. At the second toll of the bell Carter would ask me not to leave again and I would tell him that we would meet during lunch, and then I trotted back, so as not to be late and rebuked. As I walked away I could see Carter, trudging and slowly making his way across the yard. "Hey, Carter. Don't be late. You can't afford another call home," I would call. But he would just shrug and carry on at the same pace.
School went on regularly after that. I spent most of my hours alone in the back room, the teacher not knowing what else to do with me. Our mother picked us up where she dropped us off, under the watchful eyes of the crossing guards and bus drivers. We drove across the plains and as the rows of crops whizzed by their angles appeared to shift –- vertical, diagonal, horizontal — over and over again. That illusion always fascinated me, but my imagination halted when we pulled into the driveway on Fuller Street. On some days, Carter would resist leaving the van and my mother would have to forcibly remove him. I am not sure why he was so disobedient.
A Winnebago was parked on blocks in the side yard of our humble home, covered by a tarpaulin. When our parents were out, Carter and I would pull back the big blue sheet and we would pretend to go on a family vacation, playing dual roles of ourselves and our parents. Our father never wanted to leave Bakersfield anymore, and saw no use for the languishing motor-home and its flat tires; the Winnie never left the yard after Carter was born. Fortunately for us, he was too lazy and stone drunk to find the time to sell it. His general malaise was like an inadvertent gift to us.
On the hull of the RV there was a tall and narrow screen door with a springy hinge for those who vacation in the mountains, to ward off the swarms of wasps and gnats. They were attracted to the kitchenette, which was equipped with two electric burners, a microwave, and an icebox. There was even a portable black and white television set that my father had won in a raffle. He used to hang out in the Winnie, watching television and drinking Hamm's. All of these amenities were useless to us, however, because without the key to the ignition we could not turn on the electricity.
The Winnie was a sanctuary when our father came home late, after a bad day at work. Bad days, and I use the phrase as a euphemism, seemed to be attuned to the lunar cycle. He would come home once a month, step on a haphazardly placed toy truck and shout obscenities. Whoever was in the closest range of his fury was the one who would be subjected to his wrath. If I were the one to hear the tires roll in late I would dash into the kitchen and tell Carter to hide. On cue, he would duck out the back door and flee to a friend's house down the street. I would try to outsmart or reason with my father. Reasoning never worked, but I did have a knack for convincing him that I had retreated to my bedroom, when in actuality I had the presence of mind to close the door, sneak out a window, and hide underneath a foldout loveseat. One time I stayed under there for five hours as my father sat above me guzzling Hamm's without the faintest idea that I was suffocating beneath him. We didn't dare share our secrets, everything stayed in the house, between the four of us. That is, until the events that landed me here, which I will recount in due time.
I have many stories that I could tell, but limited time. I will have to edit this draft if I am to submit this for a grade. One of the quintessential Sinclair stories, which also revolved around the RV, took place on my seventh birthday. Our parents went all out that year. Streamers, kazoos, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, a piñata, trick candles, and above all else, a clown. Not just any clown, Phantom Phil. Phil was legendary in Kern County. He was the former apprentice of a renowned illusionist, but his career never took off. His left leg was noticeably shorter than his right and he refused to wear a high-heeled orthopedic boot to offset the limp. Audiences would never accept a disfigured magician yet he would not compromise.
I was not expecting such a grand affair. I was a birthday party minimalist, and would have been content with my family, a smörgåsbord, and an ice cream cake. But I admit that I was curious about this erstwhile illusionist, the MARVELOUS MAGUS, as his case denoted in stenciled block letters. Carter, however, was terrified of clowns, not because they were particularly frightening, but because he had an acute aversion to loud noises. The sound of a cap gun or a popping balloon would bring him to tears instantly. My mother and father knew this, we all knew this. His cry was a piercing scream, akin to Gunter Grass's Oskar losing his tin drum.
When Phantom Phil arrived my mother warned him about the balloons and asked him to leave them out of the magic show. Evidently Phil thought he was above taking anyone's stage directions. Thirty minutes into the party, before the performance began, he surprised one of the children with a neat balloon animal, a giraffe. When I saw Phil stretching the balloons I knew it spelled trouble. The giraffe didn't last long, as one child gripped its head and another its legs. Though the whip and snap of the rubber was not deafening, Carter was within earshot. He immediately bolted out of the room, swiped the keys to the RV and locked himself in. Everyone could hear him weep as we stood outside the door, begging him to come out, but it was useless. Eventually we left him alone and the party resumed, though I could not enjoy it. My father was furious with Phantom Phil, of course, and the ordeal became a spectacle. Enraged, he grabbed Phil by the clown suit and practically threw him out the door, and I had the misfortune of seeing him hobble back to his hatchback. It goes without saying that we did not get a chance to see if Phil could really perform magic. But if we had, I would have wished to see him make my father disappear.
Alas, the most memorable story is not a pleasant one either. I guess that's par for the course as they say. At one time there were family vacations and Sunday dinners and when spring came around my father would attend Carter's Little League contests. I never understood their shared interest in sports. They would go to minor league baseball games and watch "Showtime" with the Lakers whenever they had a chance. I gave baseball a sporting try. I sat on the bench with my teammates and attempted to engage them in the marvels of celestial bodies. In return, they spat sunflower seeds at me when the coach wasn't looking. When I offered the coach advice on techniques that I had gathered in Ted Williams' seminal The Science of Hitting, he said, "I'm the manager of this team. I played junior varsity ball in high school. I know the fundamentals that you need to be a winner." This was not altogether true, as we won two games in my only foray into organized sports. I suppose Carter and my father enjoyed the camaraderie of the game, or the simplicity of the pitch-hit-catch structure. I preferred to spend time helping my mother prepare tuna casserole. She would dart around the kitchen and listen as I sat on the counter and recited passages from A Brief History of Time. She could divide her attention six ways and never seem distracted.
My mother was strong, graceful, and decidedly quick-witted. She didn't have to say more than a sentence and everything could be expressed. She was a crusader for social justice and an outspoken advocate of gender equality. In the late sixties she published a number of articles on the state of women's correctional facilities and several pieces of literary criticism in existentialist fiction, which had seen a sudden resurgence; and as a mother, she still found time to write an occasional book review for Bakersfield's newspaper. Upon being introduced to my father, she told her closest friends that she was immediately drawn to their differences. He was working class, from a small mining town called Virginia City. Our mother had graduated magna cum laude from Harvey Mudd, while my father said he was born to be a construction worker. She wanted to start a family and he was a smooth talker. I believe that my mother was attracted to the idea of falling in love with someone from a completely dissimilar background, and he fulfilled that fantasy. In fact, he proposed to her in the most unlikely of places –- a bowling alley. Now that you know how they started, it would make logical sense to explain how it ended. I expect that the school counselor is aware of my story, and you have been at least briefly informed. This will clarify any rumors that may be circulating.
Before I moved to Palm Desert, the four of us were living comfortably in Rosedale, a suburb of northwestern Bakersfield. In 1988 it was voted as one of the ten most desirable places to live in the nation by a notable real estate magazine. There was virtually no crime and public schools had standardized test scores that ranked among the highest in the state. The Neighborhood Watch program was advertised everywhere, with orange and black warnings posted on streetlamps and stop signs — a shadowy man's profile with jagged features and a trenchcoat. In our conservative hamlet it was reasonable to believe that criminals always wore overcoats and low brims to hide their shifty eyes. The true offender looks nothing like this. He can easily be passed over as a reclusive neighbor or the seemingly harmless husband.
In the afternoon of the ides of January, while I was shelving books as a volunteer for the library, my father came home with the news that he had been laid off. He didn't give a reason in his testimony, but that was irrelevant. He was already three sheets to the wind when he arrived. In the living room, he found my mother sitting beside our neighbor, Mr. Salisbury. My parents' marriage was never stable from my perspective. She had repeatedly asked him to attend family counseling and he fervently refused, calling psychotherapy, "hogwash." I do believe that his anger could have been helped by insight therapy, even if I never told him.
From what I understand, my father staggered into the house and knocked over a potted fern. Having seen the look in his eyes countless times, I can imagine what his reaction would have been if Mr. Salisbury's hand had been on my mother's hand lap. The whole episode only lasted a few minutes. Our next-door neighbors heard raised voices followed a minute later by a piercing scream and four loud pops. When my father walked into the house and saw Mr. Salisbury with my mother, he assumed that they were having extramarital affairs. I cannot say why he came to this conclusion, but he admitted to doing so at the trial. He told the jury about the loaded Colt revolver in the bedstand and recreated the scene of the crime from the time that he walked into the house, entered and exited the bedroom, paced down the hallway into the living room, and fired two bullets into my mother's chest, then one into Mr. Salisbury's abdomen and one at a mirror above the couch. Within ten minutes the police and an ambulance arrived. They pronounced my mother dead after attempting resuscitation. Mr. Salisbury was rushed to the hospital and survived, only because of the rapid response and the way that the bullet entered his body. It missed his vital organs. My mother, on the other hand, was struck in the heart and a lung. The lung collapsed and cut off the oxygen to her brain. I spoke to the coroner about this after the trial. He was one of the witnesses called to the stand. When the police arrived, my father was sitting on the front porch and didn't say anything other than, "They're inside," before being handcuffed and escorted to the squad car. The revolver was on the living room floor where my father had dropped it. I did not see the room, and frankly, am relieved that I was safe in the aisles and aisles of bookshelves. When the detectives inspected the house they discovered Carter, cowering underneath our bunkbed. He was curled up and shivering and would not speak. Upon further investigation they surmised that he had been in the kitchen when my father came home and was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There was clear-cut evidence — a sweaty glass of low-fat milk and purple bread crumbs.
When the bus dropped me off three blocks from our house, I walked without stepping on the cracks in the sidewalk as I did every other day. I stopped before turning into the cul-de-sac because there were police cars blocking the driveway. The red and blue lights were spinning in the evening sky as I stood there wondering what had happened. I did not want to explain who I was to the police officer, so I stayed on the corner by the yellow yield sign and opened a book about the French Revolution. After a short while, a neighbor with a blind beagle asked me to come into their house because it was getting late. I complied and we ate dinner. Then she briefly told me what happened. As the story unfolded I became more and more anxious, because she paused and looked at her husband. The rising tension only made it worse when she finally cupped my shoulder and told me that my mother was dead. I began sobbing instantly, immediately realizing that the one person who understood me was gone forever. I couldn't stop quivering and asked to be excused when she tried to console me. Like an automaton, I scraped my plate into the garbage, rinsed it off and went to the first bedroom that I saw. I crawled into the bed, pulled the covers over my head and closed my eyes, but I could still hear them whispering.
The next morning I woke up in a king-size bed and asked where I was, and for a second I thought I was dreaming. The neighbor, who was not much older than my mother, told me that she was waiting for my grandmother to arrive. Soon after that I saw my grandfather's clunker parked on the sidewalk. Nana came over to me, gave me a long hug, and told me that I was going to live with her and Papa in Palm Desert for a while.
I was out of school for six weeks and thinking of my mother everyday. We went to the trial, which lasted three days. My father plead guilty and told the truth. I didn't have to speak at the trial, because I didn't know what really happened. We asked the judge not to give my father the death penalty, for my mother believed that it was inhumane. He was given a sentence of life in the California State Prison for first degree murder and the attempted murder of Mr. Salisbury, who was also at the trial, and sat in a wheelchair.
The court granted custody to my mother's parents, who are retired and have a one-story house on Chicory Street. My grandmother was the one who said we could go back to school. I don't know how I feel about a new school. I've also never been in a different school than Carter, so I'm a little nervous for him. It's almost midnight and I've been writing since morning with only breaks for lunch and dinner. I know that I've left out some important details, but this is what my memory has recalled today, so it will have to do.
A fine example of my endowment, I must say. It is definitely the work of someone far ahead of his peers. I think my elementary school teachers were jealous of my prowess. When did educators become interrogators? Kids in my class were eating erasers and I was being chastised for correcting the teacher's grammar. For god's sake, I had just been through something more traumatic than most people experience in their lifetime and she had the audacity to accuse me of plagiarism. I was too concerned with doing what was right to incriminate myself like that. I can admit now that I was a self-aggrandizing boy, a haughty child. But can you blame me? Children of that age don't know humility. They know show-and-tell. I was telling you that I could write in complete sentences by exhibiting a subject (I), verb (wrote), and direct object (the assignment). And what do argumentative nerds get? They get taunted by the popular students and occasionally smacked by their elders. I can thank my grandfather for that. He slapped me out of love, whereas my father was just a deadbeat. My grandfather gave the teachers permission to slap the back of my teeth-sucking head if I was out of line. They had to remind him that corporal punishment wasn't used in the classroom anymore. Traditional techniques that would adjust one's attitude had been reformed and replaced by Behavior Modification and Positive Reinforcement and other refined approaches from the era of self-esteem psychobabble. My grandfather assured them that this was not the case at home, and I seconded his motion. In dredging up the past, it's so easy to recall the painful moments, especially when they came with such regularity.
I need a back brace or I'll risk a herniated disc. Exercise always was my weakness. There were award ceremonies at my school for the Presidential Fitness Award (endorsed by Arnold Schwarzenegger) yet I can't ever remember being honored for my scholastic achievements. Thank you, George Bush. I'm glad you were able to reinforce the distorted values our great nation places on athletics. Excuse me for ranting, I must get back to work. There are boxes on top of boxes in this place. An old refrigerator that is too heavy to move sits in the corner. I'm afraid to open it because I have a feeling there may be a radioactive eggplant or a colony of yeast that has been incubating since the last supper.
In sifting through the remains of a warm and thoughtfully preserved basement-garage you will readily rediscover treasures that you thought were lost before the turn of the millennium. A spring-loaded He-Man action figure, family portraits from Olan Mills, yearbooks with loopy autographs, virtually anything can survive the shuffling entropy of many years of habitation. Why do we store our memories in crates and corrugated boxes that we will only chance upon in circumstances such as these? I had no intention of finding a complete set of 1987 Donruss baseball cards, yet here they are. And what do I do with them now? Do I sell them, as I had planned to when their value inflated to some unknown and arbitrary price? I'll put them aside for now. I will file them under "objects that have no practical value yet fetch considerable sums at trade conventions." Although, I am afraid that the thousands of dollars my grandparents invested in these collectibles will ultimately be abandoned at the estate sale. My childhood dream of selling such prized commodities for top dollar, as advertised by Beckett Monthly, will forever be dashed. I used to believe that one day in my distant adulthood I would walk into a hobby store, unload, and reap a fortune. My father told me to stand my ground, so I envisioned our negotiations as though I were bartering for a rug at a Moroccan bazaar. He said I should reject their offer if they lowballed me, then make them grovel. But what did he know? Still, his words seeped into my unconscious. I listened to everything, heard more than I was supposed to, and learned at a phenomenal rate. I was beyond retention at an early age, comprehending systems that were easier to explain with algebraic notation. When my father told me how to sell I took it as fact, and would mimic every word and intonation. I realized early that socialization and mathematics were quite discrete concepts. One I had mastered and the other was a work in progress. I tried acting in the manner of adults before grasping that I was not an adult.
That transition came gradually, amidst the turmoil of my family's dissolution. Carter took my grandmother's varicose hand and I walked on the other side of her with my hands digging in the trenches of my pockets as we descended the courthouse steps. It was our choice not to talk to him on the day of his sentence. I furtively glanced over my shoulder as we walked between the aisles of mahogany pews. He, in his orange scrubs, watched us as we left, and I could see the pity in his eyes. But he was a common criminal. My grandparents appealed to the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation to have my father transferred upstate and the petition was granted. In a surprising case of bureaucratic efficiency and humanity they sent him to San Quentin where he would keep long company with real convicts. Lifers. He would have plenty of time to become expert at whittling, shooting-the-moon, weightlifting. After that lingering glimpse in the courthouse neither of us saw him again.
In the days and then weeks between the arrival in Palm Desert and our return to school, my grandmother Alberta—affectionately known as Nana—nurtured us and found novel ways to pass the grueling days. In aging, I guess you learn how to fill the vacancies. She drove me to the public library so I could continue stuffing myself with facts and spoiled us with banana splits from Coolbert's, an ice cream franchise that was owned by a retired lineman nicknamed The Lumberjack (for apparent reasons). She practically pushed us out the door to splash around with all the unfamiliar swimmers and sunbathers at the recreation center's pool. With grandmotherly verbiage and conviction she said, and I quote, "a little freedom never hurt anyone." I knew that could not possibly be true, but I kept my mouth shut. It was the beginning of a transformative period that some call puberty. Not to cheapen Dickens, but it was mostly the worst of times. I had read about it in letter H of the encyclopedia: Human Development. Of course, my entrée into adolescence coincided with a catastrophic life event, which greatly complicated aspects of my psychosocial growth. I will give you an example.
I was urged by the school counselor to recreate my family with colored pencils. In the week after I started at the new school, the teacher thought it necessary to make a referral to the counseling office. The hallway walls were jack-o'-lantern orange and the industrial-grade carpet was in dire need of steam cleaning. In contrast, the counselor's office was brightly painted, well-lit, and inviting. It was completely devoid of the depressing air that emanated from the rest of the school's dismal décor. It was a memorable morning and I can recall our first conversation almost verbatim.
"Good morning, Eliot. I'm glad you came," the counselor said.
"The teacher told me to come and see you," I replied.
"Yes, I know. My name is Ms. Allen."
"Hello, Ms. Allen. Can you tell me why I'm here?"
"Your teacher thought it would be a good idea for you to come and talk to me. I understand you're new at the school and you've been through a lot lately."
"Are you referring to the fact that my father killed my mother?"
"Well, yes, partly."
"Then you are correct, although I think you're understating the gravity of my situation."
"You are a precocious one. I don't believe I've met a child your age with such a strong vocabulary."
"I'm probably smarter than you are, actually. I hope that doesn't hurt your feelings."
"I don't doubt that you are. And you can speak freely here. Whatever you feel like saying is fine. Everything you say in this room will stay between you and I."
"You said, 'everything you say in this room will stay between you and I.' You should have ended the sentence with 'you and me.'"
"Thank you for noticing. I stand corrected."
"It's okay, many people make that mistake."
"Well, now that we're done with the grammar lesson, why don't you tell me about yourself? What sorts of activities do you enjoy?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I'm curious and I want to get to know you better."
"I like to read. And I used to help my mother cook. I'm an amateur astronomer."
Ms. Allen scooted forward in the chair and interjected, "I also enjoy stargazing. What's your favorite constellation?"
"I especially like Hercules and Perseus," I glowed, hearing her take interest.
"Those are both difficult to spy. You must have a very keen eye."
"I have twenty-twenty vision, and an excellent telescope." I paused and cleared my throat. "Ms. Allen?"
"You don't have to talk to me like an 11-year-old." She looked at me quizzically. "I would prefer to be spoken to like an adult."
Smoothing out the creases in her knee-length skirt, she gathered her thoughts and then spoke to me with an even tone.
"I understand. I know you're extremely intelligent, but I also know that you're not an adult. Would you agree?" I sensed that she was being careful with her words, and tender. Though she was only a few years out of social work school, she was adept.
"Yes, that is true."
"While I agree that you are incredibly brainy, I can't treat you like an adult, because you're still a child. However, I can make a compromise. Would you like to hear it?"
I thought about it for a moment. When I was that age, and sometimes to this day, I considered responses while turning my head and digging my chin into my clavicle. "Yes, I would."
"I will try my best to talk to you in a tone that does not belittle your intelligence. In return, I would hope that you come and talk to me when you're feeling lonely, confused or just want to talk."
"I accept your proposition." We shook hands—hers ringed and fragile, mine stubby and pink.
"Great! Now, I have an exercise for you." She reached behind her desk and withdrew art supplies and construction paper. "I want you to draw me a picture of your family. There are no rules other than to show me what your family looks like."
I splayed the utensils she had given me to choose from and selected the slender colored pencils instead of the markers or crayons.
"Ms. Allen, I'm not a very talented artist. I prefer theater and photography."
"That's good for me to know. I have some other projects that we can work on together in the future. But I would like to start with drawing. Next time you can select the activity. Can we agree on that?"
"Okay, but remember that this is my weak point. Don't expect a Rembrandt."
"I promise I won't judge the quality. I'm more interested in how you depict your family."
I was taken with her tenderness. The protest was only to protect my fractured ego. I accepted the gentle assurance that she would withhold the harsh criticism. Then I went about sketching my family. On the left side of the paper, turned lengthwise, the Gangly Brothers stand next to my grandmother, who has her arm around us. She is beside my grandfather whose arms are folded, because he was constantly sullen. In the drawing we're outside of my grandparents' house, on the front lawn. The grass is a lime green line that stretches across the lower third of the paper. We aren't exactly stick figures as I may have implied. Our frames have the semblance of a body without the depth. And all our legs and feet are, for the most part, forked outward. Evidently I drew our caricatures with some sort of genetic malformation that forced us to stand bow-legged, resembling a family of penguins. Carter stands furthest to the left, his arms partially akimbo. He is the little teapot, I guess. Following the lime green line to the right of the paper is my mother's headstone. I should have drawn flowers to give it a warmer feel (although it must be warm outside, as there are no clouds and a blazing sun is creeping into the corner of the page. Yes, the picture is chock full of kid-art clichés. And yes, I was and still am a feeble artist, though Carter can draw quite well. On the far right is my father, grimacing behind the bars of a jail cell, which is clearly not drawn to scale. There is liberal spacing between my father and the headstone, and if I could have drawn him off the page, I would have. But that would have been an inaccurate depiction of my family, and I was exacting to a fault.
"Have you finished your drawing?" she asked.
"Almost," I answered, still shading the trees.
"It's nearly lunchtime and you've got to get back to class. Do you want to finish the drawing at home and tell me about it next week?"
"If I must," I sighed, though I was secretly grateful.
"Then I will see you next Wednesday, same time." She wrote the appointment in her book and escorted me out of the office.
Being there was a reprieve from the stultified classroom. I would meander afterwards, scuffling along the hallway ramps until one of the other teachers caught me and led me back. I expected to be welcomed with a rash of abuses from the fat, flat-headed Billys and Brads of the middle school world. The borderline cases paraded around school with minimal oversight. I found refuge with my books in a supply closet and became friendly with Kurt the custodian who smelled of turpentine and coughed compulsively. My initiation at the school, as I unfortunately recall, was miserable. And repeated requests to educate myself via the public library's catalog were vetoed unconditionally. I had no friends and Carter was elsewhere, a recurring theme I suppose. I walked a dry and barren mile under the scorching afternoon sun to reach the inverted driveway. The slant lent the yard its only shade. I often rested there, on the cement with my back against the garage door, reading bar-coded books. I needed the relief, because after my mother's death, coming home would always be a letdown.


text:
Q: maven testng project - after change testng.xml, it didn't changed when I executed from terminal I have a maven testng project, and I execute testng.xml file to run testng tests
mvn clean test -DsuiteXmlFile=testng.xml

Later, I changed some classes in testng.xml file, when I run it from eclipse it works as expected. But when I use the command to run the tests, looks like it still executed tests in previous version of testng.xml.

*

*I have tried mvn clean, and project clean. but still got same results.

Q: How can I fix this? what's the correct way to run it with mvn commands?

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


Ohana means family and family means... spending time and having fun together!
At BEST WESTERN Lake Buena Vista Resort hotel you and your family can relax together and enjoy all of our Disney Springs® hotels great amenities. From a heated pool to private balconies and complimentary transportation to and from the Disney theme parks, our Orlando hotel is the perfect spot to host your next family reunion. Our goal is to ensure that you and your family are provided with excellent service so that you can create memories that will last a lifetime! So, let's get the whole family together today.
From the communal shrills while atop the roller coaster to the collective awe on the Kilimanjaro Safari, connecting with your family at Walt Disney World® is easy. The Children's Activity Center provides things to do for the young tots in your group, while the rides and games throughout the parks are sure to be appreciated by all. With something for everyone in your family, you are sure to enjoy your time together exploring the magic of Disney.
While the twist and turns of the Disney rides are famous for attracting children of all ages, some attractions at Walt Disney World® also offer adults plenty of entertainment. Below are some of our ideas that are perfect for an adults only outing.


text:
Inequity in women's and men's tournaments is a serious concern.
Celeb Style: Ye's Red Wing Work Boots Are Discontinued, But You Still Have Options
Eswar Prasad
The teams had barely arrived in Texas when social media posts erupted with concerns about inequity between the women's and men's tournaments, pointing out that the women's weight training facilities in San Antonio were severely lacking in comparison to the men's in Indianapolis. The women's tournament features 64 teams, while the men's tournament features 68.
Ali Kershner, Stanford's women's basketball sports performance coach, shared a picture of a single stack of weights next to a training table with sanitized yoga mats on Twitter, contrasting it with photos of large facilities for men with towers of free weights, dumbbells, and squat racks.
Kershner tweeted, "These women want and deserve the same opportunities." "In a year marked by a struggle for equality, this is an opportunity to have a dialogue and improve."
Several of the best female basketball players believe it's more than just a bad weight room.
UConn freshman All-American Paige Bueckers said on an AP Twitter chat Thursday night, "We are all happy to be here and it took a lot of time for them to bring this all together." "It's more of a philosophical problem. It isn't just an issue in the weight room. The concern is with the inequity of the weight rooms. Another tweet about the swag bag has emerged. It's not just about the gym. It's the disparities and the better treatment that men receive."
Aliyah Boston of South Carolina agreed with Bueckers on the inequities.
She said, "The men have all in that weight room, and we have yoga mats." "How are we going to go about doing that? I'm glad we got some body wash, but they got an entire store."
Several top former college and current WNBA players quickly tweeted support for the women and criticism of the NCAA, and the current players received a lot of attention.
A'ja Wilson, who led South Carolina to the 2017 national championship and now plays for the WNBA's Las Vegas Aces, tweeted, "That NCAA bubble weight room situation is beyond disrespectful."
Lynn Holzman, the NCAA's Senior Vice President of Women's Basketball, stated that the governing body would work to improve the equipment available at the women's tournament as soon as possible. Due to a lack of available space in San Antonio, the initial setup was limited, with plans to expand once the tournament field shrank in the later rounds.
"We recognize that some of the amenities that teams would normally have access to were not available inside the controlled environment. This is partly due to a lack of space, and the original plan was to expand the workout area once more space became available later in the tournament," Holzman explained. "However, we want to be responsive to the needs of our participating teams, so we're working hard to improve existing resources at practice courts, including weight training equipment."
RESULTS OF THE COVID TEST
So far, the NCAA has administered nearly 2,700 tests, with only one positive result, which is a positive sign for the women's basketball tournament.
On a conference call with the media on Thursday morning, NCAA Senior Vice President of Women's Basketball Lynn Holzman revealed the numbers, but did not say who tested positive.
"According to the report I received this morning, close to 2,700 tests were conducted over the past two days, involving members of the travel parties, bus drivers, and staff, with only one confirmed positive test," she said. "It's a compliment to everyone who contributed to our championship. So, given the sheer number of people involved in this, I'm pleased with where we've gotten to today."
Holzman also said that all 64 teams announced Monday in the bracket have arrived safely in Texas so none of the replacement teams will be needed.
"We continue to emphasis the need for us to make sure we're conducting our championship in a safe manner," she said.
Everyone will continue to be tested daily.
PRESIDENTIAL PICKS
Former President Barack Obama picked Baylor to win the national championship this year beating Stanford in the championship game.
Obama had N.C. State and Maryland in the Final Four with the two No. 1 seeds. That would mean that the Terrapins, who Obama had picked against a few years ago in his bracket when his niece was playing for Princeton and they were tournament opponents, would knock off Dawn Staley's South Carolina team in the regional final.
On Twitter, Staley poked fun at Obama.
"(at)BarackObama" (at)BarackObama (at)BarackOb I'm telling you, (at)MichelleObama……clear it's you didn't consult her. We will forgive, but we will not forget. But you're still our guy."
To advance in the first round, Obama mostly chose the higher-seeded teams. He did predict that No. 6 Oregon would be eliminated by 11th-seeded South Dakota.
DEADLINES FOR SUBMISSIONS
The WNBA has set April 15 as the date for this season's draft.
To make themselves available for the draft, every eligible player must opt-in by renouncing their remaining intercollegiate eligibility.
If a player wishes to opt-in, he or she must email the league by April 1st. If a player is competing in the Final Four, she has up to 48 hours after the conclusion of her last game to notify the league of her intention to enter the draft.
Players who have reached the end of their college eligibility have previously been automatically entered into the draft. This became more of a problem this season, as the NCAA granted all of the players an additional year of eligibility due to the coronavirus pandemic.
Related Topics:indianapolisindianapolis 500indianapolis airportindianapolis indianaindianapolis newsindianapolis power and lightindianapolis shootingindianapolis starindianapolis weatherindianapolis weather forecastsan antonio apartment building firesan antonio newssan antonio newspapersan antonio power outagesan antonio riverwalksan antonio spurssan antonio texassan antonio txsan antonio weathersan antonio zootexastexas a&m footballtexas footballtexas holdem onlinetexas holdem pokertexas longhornstexas maptexas power outagetexas roadhousetexas weather
The week begins with March Madness.
Here's How to Know if an Online Casino Is Legit
My self Eswar, I am Creative Head at RecentlyHeard. I Will cover informative content related to political and local news from the United Nations and Canada.
Police: Caseyville robbery suspects wanted for violent crimes in 3 other states
2 killed in fiery Texas interstate crash involving a school bus
Top 7 Advantages of Texas Longhorn Cattle for Ranches Today
Halloween Hate Crime: Black Teen In TX Attacked With A Stun Gun By White Classmates In KKK Costumes
Get More Than Cheap Group Health Insurance Quotes in Dallas Texas From Your Health Insurance Broker
St. Louis County Police find Texas teen abducted by her mother last week
Mahesh CK
When people think about the way in which online casinos operate and take their cues, they often assume that it's all down to the casino sites leading the way. They often make the mistake of thinking that online casino bosses make all the decisions about what areas to focus on. But the reality is that it's more of a two-way street – and many online casinos have changed not because of top-down decisions but as a consequence of bottom-up pressures for an influx of new players. This blog post will explain how this has happened.
Game choice
Perhaps the main way online casinos have had to react to the arrival of a mass-market level of demand for casino games is by expanding the range of available game choices. Previously, many online casinos would only offer a small roster of predictable and well-known games, such as poker. Now, it's eminently possible to find over 50 varieties of the same table game at the same casino!
Another way in which casino companies have responded to shifting demand is by improving user experience. This is particularly noticeable when it comes to the phenomenon of mobile casino games, which – as sites like Mobile Casino Service show – are very popular and are also well designed.
The rise in demand has forced the hand of many online casinos because it has meant that they must start offering excellent user experiences in order to retain custom. With a rise in custom has come an increase in providers, and good design and user experience is one way to differentiate yourself against the competition. In practice, this takes the form of acceptance of multiple payment methods, intuitive design and high-definition graphics, and more.
Finally, online casinos have found that an increase in customer demand has been both a blessing and a curse when it comes to marketing and promotion. In many ways, of course, it's a great thing for online casinos that they can enjoy such high levels of demand – and they've certainly responded to the arrival of a mass-market by using advertising techniques such as content marketing.
However, the rise in interest in the services of online casinos and similar services like sportsbooks has also led to some such establishments worrying about the risk. More prominent advertising, for example, means more risk if an error is made when it comes to stating regulatory caveats required by the authority in the online casino's country.
In short, online casinos are clearly more embedded in the landscape of consumer demand than some market watchers give them credit for. Previously, online casinos were something of a niche service, with many people avoiding them altogether. But as this blog post has shown, the arrival of a mass-market has changed that completely.
There are several places in the United States where there is no professional sports team. In other words, a state does not have a team that features in a professional sports league, which includes the MLB, NFL or NBA. From Alabama and Connecticut to Kentucky and Hawaii; the public in these states are without a team they can call their own.
But, there is one state in particular that people feel should have a professional sports team. We are talking about Virginia. Areas of the state have a good popularity and there are several bases where a sports team could thrive in the professional leagues. Often, the market has been focused on Washington DC and there are many teams here. But, there is still room for Virginia to enjoy its own professional sports teams. Let's take a look at spots that could be their home.
First of all, let's talk about Norfolk. This is a city in Virginia, which might be one of the best places for a professional sports team. It has a population of more than 240,000, as well as having a naval station. But this is not just any station; it is also the home of the biggest naval seaport in the world. There would be a lot of excitement here if there was a professional sports team to support. From people from Hampton Roads to all of the military personnel here, there is a fanbase just waiting for a professional team they can get on board with. But, in the meantime, you may have to amuse yourself by betting on other sports teams around the country. You can do this at a legal online sports betting platform like Unibet Virginia for example.
Let's not forget to talk about the capital city of Virginia. We are referring to Richmond. This is a city that is home to over 225,000 citizens and it is one of the oldest places in the country. There is a lot of history here and this includes having a role in the Civil War. A lot of people like to visit Richmond, as well as many of the state's population living here. Already, we can see how well-supported Richmond Flying Squirrels are, so it would be interesting to see a professional sports team here. They could be very successful given the population and visitor rate to Richmond.
Next on the list is Virginia Beach, another popular destination. It is not every day that you can say a professional sports team's stadium is located near a beautiful beach. But, this would definitely be the appeal if this location decided it was time for a franchise to move in. There are a lot of tourists that come here and having a sports team could be an attraction in itself. What's more, there are a lot of restaurants and local bars that would benefit from having sports fans coming here. So, everyone would win even if it was not on gameday.
The sports betting market has grown to become one of the most profitable in the gambling industry, raking in a whopping $85 billion in just one year. This number is expected to climb significantly in the future, thanks to advances in modern technology, as more bettors choose to place wagers on their favourite sports via online sports betting software.
Customers are taking notice since sports betting is now easier and more convenient than ever. Sports betting, like any other industry, is always evolving. Here are a few major themes that would lead to the upliftment of this unstoppable sector in the coming years.
Globalization has become increasingly significant! Audiences from all over the world, fans from all over the world, leagues from all over the world, and the media from all over the world! Nowadays, everyone and everything is linked! Borders are no longer important because the world is at your fingertips. Many people are able to work where they desire. All major sports have gone worldwide, whether it's the Champions League, Formula One, or golf.
In a nutshell, the consumer, the media, the rights holders, and the advertisers are all going worldwide. A global reach is required to stay on top, and I am confident that this trend will not fade away quickly.
Integration of sports betting and casino
Punters may now enjoy both the excitement of betting and the mystique of a casino on the same platform thanks to innovation and inventiveness in merging casino software solutions with betting platforms. In areas where sports betting is permitted, video screens can be utilised to improve gaming tables or make sports betting more convenient for the gamblers all over the world.
Many software vendors will be able to meet the changing wants of numerous gamblers with this brand new material. Since casino games such as blackjack, baccarat, and poker may be played on the same platform as sports betting.
Real time betting
Another game-changing development in sports betting is live betting, which has already established itself as the most popular online betting activity. Players can now gamble on a specific game or match while it is still live and in progress. Players may now enjoy the thrilling sensation of minute-by-minute developments affecting their odds in real-time thanks to this new improvement in sports betting.
In essence, live betting allows bettors to put additional bets in the hopes of winning during a game. This differs from traditional betting, which is typically done before the game or match begins and does not allow for additional bets once the game or contest has started. Players who are watching the game can now increase their wages based on how the game is progressing, increasing their chances of winning. With several leading sportsbooks offering many live betting matches daily, live betting has become one of the most popular ways to wager on sports.
To help handle online transactions, blockchain technology eliminates the need to deal with any fiat currency or banking institutions. Payments are not only easier and faster with cryptocurrency, but they are also safer and more private than ever before.
Another big advantage of using cryptocurrencies on sports betting platforms is the lack of transaction fees, which allows bettors to make as many daily transactions as they want for free. This is unquestionably advantageous to sports bettors. Cryptocurrencies will undoubtedly become extensively recognised at online betting sites in the near future, as one of the best improvements in modern gambling.
Betting from hand-held devices
Anyone may wager on their favourite event with mobile sports betting at any time of day or night, from anywhere there is light. The mobile betting business has developed at an accelerating rate in recent years, eating into the earnings of both offline and online betting. People can use their mobile phones to deposit and pay for their bets using a variety of deposit and payment methods. With 5G technology on the horizon, mobile sports betting is predicted to take up in the future.
Virtual and augmented reality are being adopted.
The acceptance of VR and AR is not to be overlooked. Fans may become their favourite athletes by using VR and AR! They will be able to experience what it is like to be a part of a match and will become more immersed in the game. Simply pointing their iPhones in the direction of a player will supply them with the essential info and metrics. Remember, this is just the stadium experience; there is so much more!
The awakening of eSport
eSports betting is a relatively new betting market that has exploded in popularity in recent years. Electronic sports, or eSports, are primarily video game contests played by professional players or teams, as the name suggests. Due to streaming sites like YouTube and Twitch, which allow fans to watch events live, eSports has gotten a lot of attention in the previous five years.
In addition to simply watching, bettors can place wagers on the outcome, with a variety of betting options and sub-categories to pick from. eSports will most certainly continue on its path to becoming one of the most lucrative gambling sectors in the world, based on the prevalence of live streaming.
The sports betting industry is modernizing, and with it, the sports fan, thanks in large part to the convergence of technology and the gambling business. While the article above focuses on a few of the trends, there are many others that have contributed to the changing landscape. And, more crucially, this tendency will only continue, stretching the boundaries of creativity and imagination while bringing in even more change. Simply said, the old ways are no longer valid, and there is no turning back.
News30 seconds ago
Celebrities2 mins ago
News12 mins ago
News1 hour ago
St. Paul man gets probation for beating and robbing passenger having a seizure on Green Line
Celebrities4 weeks ago
'RHOC' Star Noella Bergener's Estranged Husband Fires Back
Police say man in red stole from St. Paul church offering plate, then asked for money
Chicago Bears add at least 2 more candidates to their search for a new GM and coach. Here's the latest as a new cycle of firing — and hiring — starts in the NFL.
Nuggets searching for upgrades on the wing, backup center before trade deadline, sources say
Marijuana, dating apps, driver's licenses: New Colorado laws go into effect Jan. 1
HEALTH4 weeks ago
Bitcoin3 weeks ago
Stellar Processes 1.8 Billion Transactions, Was 2021 Its Best Year Ever?
Broncos podcast: Evaluating GM Geoge Paton's options in the search for Denver's next head coach
Aquaman Director Wants to Show More Underwater Realm in the Sequels
WATCH: The Curse of La Llorona Trailer will give you shivers
WATCH: The Possession of Hannah Grace New Trailer of Sony Films for Horror Flick
WATCH: Glass Official Trailer #2 has arrived
WATCH: Pixel 3XL First Look leaked before official Google launch event!
WATCH: Warner Bros drops new Aquaman Extended Trailer!
Is Sony's Venom bad? Early reactions are in!
Halloween is going to open big at the US Box-Office!
Watch Super Smash Bros Ultimate Nintendo Direct
Fat Cutter Drink for Quick Weight Loss | Fast Weight Loss Tips with Cumin & Carom Seeds Water

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Glabrous tree, 10-20 m tall, to 40 cm dbh; stems terete, grayish, the nodes somewhat to conspicuously swollen, the branching mostly dichotomous. Petioles 1-5 mm long, ± terete or flattened on upper surface, sometimes roughened; blades oblong-elliptic, gradually long-acuminate (the acumen sometimes downturned), broadly to narrowly acute to very weakly attenuate at base, 7-16 (20) cm long, 2-5 cm wide, markedly bicolorous, both surfaces dull, the upper surface with sunken midrib, the lower surface and midrib prominently punctate, the margins weakly revolute; lateral veins 2-6 mm apart, obscure, with a collecting vein 2-3 mm from margin, the reticulate veins very obscure; new flush of leaves ± maroon. Flowers few to several at leafless, swollen nodes; pedicels 2-5 mm long, the bracts solitary or paired, borne apically, ± round or ovate to ± acute, pellucid-punctate, ciliate, usually closely appressed to the hypanthium; flower buds globose to obovoid, ca 7 mm long; calyx completely closed in bud, splitting ± irregularly, 2-5-lobed, the lobes rounded to acute at apex, 3-3.5 mm long, persisting in fruit; petals 5, ± rounded, concave, inconspicuously ciliate, white, ca 5 mm long; stamens numerous; stamens and style ± equaling petals; style glabrous, narrowly tapered to apex; ovules numerous, flattened and reniform, less than 1 mm diam. Berries globose to depressed-globose, 2-3.5 cm diam, green tinged with red (probably also becoming completely red) when mature; seeds usually 2, horseshoe-shaped, ca 2 cm long and 3 mm wide. Croat 16213.
Apparently rare, in the old forest; known from the vicinity of Zetek Trail 300-400, where seedlings are common. Mature fruits have been seen on BCI in July. Both flowers and immature fruits are seen elsewhere in Panama in August. In Belize the flowers are seen in May and mature fruits in August and November. Owing to its unusual C-shaped embryo, which lacks a hard bony testa, it is possible that the species does not even belong in the genus Psidium (R. McVaugh, pers. comm.). Panamanian material differs from that of plants from Belize in having shorter pedicels and calyx lobes that are essentially glabrous inside rather than strongly pubescent.
Fruits on Lao & Holdridge 194 (Salúd, Colón Province) were heavily infested with gall-forming insects, which caused the fruits to be somewhat lobed.
Guatemala, Belize, and Panama. In Panama, known from tropical moist forest on BCI and from tropical wet forest in Colón (Salúd).


The Show Must go on karaoke video originally performed by Queen. Music Licensing, Backing Tracks, Karaoke available at http://www.singsongsmusic.com . Buy SBI Karaoke Online at http://sbikaraoke.com - custom discs and downloads.
GTA 5 online - Let's go Maroc-Style!
Should I Stay or Should I Go? karaoke video originally performed by The Clash. Music Licensing, Backing Tracks, Karaoke available at http://www.singsongsmusic.com . Buy SBI Karaoke Online at http://sbikaraoke.com - custom discs and downloads.


text:
Q: What do the batteries actually do to the electrons? I am plagued by this simple question that what force exactly causes the motion of an electron in the middle of a lattice of electrons of a wire?
a. Is it an electric field created inside a wire due to battery?

b. Or is it that the initial electrons at the ends of the wire are pushed/sucked by battery which in turn push/suck more electrons right to the middle of the wire.
My bet is that second option is the major player.
All help is appreciated.

A: I would say it is both! Because of the abundance of electrons, the electric field at the battery pole/boundary, at the instant of turning on the switch (t=t0), is quickly (within a few Debye lengths) screened and cannot possibly reach the electrons further down the wire. However, the electrons at the vicinity of the pole that do feel the effect of electric field reposition themselves (pushed/pulled by the force), creating electric dipoles (by partnering up with the positive nuclei), so that the original field can further penetrate into the wire. This reconfiguration of the charges mediates the electric field through the metallic wire and happens very very quickly when the circuit is formed (switch is turned on). So you see, the electrons do push each other, but only through the field they themselves create. It only takes a tiny fraction of the electrons (small polarization density) to establish the field. This is no other than the subject of electric field in a material medium by the way. The only difference being usually they do the time-independent treatment whereas I believe you are asking about the time-dependent aspect of it. The timescale all this happens is $\epsilon/\sigma$ where $\sigma$ is conductivity and $\epsilon$ the permittivity of the medium.


text:
Q: C++ Discussion: Use of =, {}, and () as initializers, Which one should I use? While reading the C++ Core Guidelines by isocpp I came through this section. I have seen these methods in some of the C++ code I have read so far. For example: the () have been used while initializing data fields in the constructors initialization list even for primitive types while I also seen it being used locally. Some use the {} for initialization of variables. While others use this =. I don't know what is the difference between them. I mean do they achieve the same thing and are just different styles or they have different meanings. Can anyone explain!

A: You may be interested in a recorded talk about this subject - of the recent history of making uniform initialization "work" in C++ (11 and later):
CppCon 2018: Nicolai Josuttis "The Nightmare of Initialization in C++"
Some bits from the end of that talk:

*

*Google, in their Abseil initiative, rejected trying to "convert" people to consistent use of curly-brace initialization. They therefore stick to adopting/recommending equals for "direct" initialization and parentheses when the initialization actively applies some logic. Nicolai disapproves of this approach.

*Nicolai suggests: Make the effort to change our habits, and prefer curly-brace initialization. It is better now than it used to be.

PS - This talk may also be of interest:
Core C++ 2019 :: Timur Doumler :: Initialisation in modern C++
it is more about surveying the intricacies of the different kinds of initialization (and there are quite a few!)

A: The difference between = and braces in an initializer is pretty much non-existent. If you run into a difference, you're doing something weird or on a pre-C++14 compiler.
The main difference between {} and () is that {} doesn't perform implicit conversions, such as non-explicit converting constructors and conversion operators, changing between signed and unsigned types, and widening or narrowing integer and floating point widths. Because of this, the general advice I've heard is to prefer {} whenever possible, to avoid unexpected type conversions.

A: The generalized use of curly braces {} was introduced as part of C++11 standard. The important property here is that narrowing conversions are not allowed for {} initialization. e.g.
double d = 1.7789856453427678;
int a{d}; //Compile time error - value of d will not fit in a
int a(d); //ok - a is 1
int a = d; //ok - a is 1

Thus the braced {} initialization is a preferred method to write more robust code.


Four Portland Community College instructors have been chosen by a regional learning organization to internationalize their classes.
Peter Gramlich has internationalized the course "Sustainable Building Strategies," which focuses on creating buildings that minimize the impact on the environment.
The Northwest International Education Association (NIEA), made up of public and private institutions of higher education in the Northwest, has awarded Peter Gramlich (Architectural Design & Drafting), Barry Hawkey (Business), Alissa Leavitt (Health) and Rachel Siegel (Photography) mini-grants to internationalize their curriculum. The grants are intended to assist faculty in designing new offerings, making comprehensive revisions to existing courses, or adding modules to existing classes.
Sums of the grants range from $500 to $1,250 to develop new courses with a global focus and create a replicable international activity for their students. Last year, PCC became an NIEA member institution with the college's Director of International Student Services, Allison Blizzard, being named to its board of directors.
For several years, PCC has offered the Internationalization Initiative to provide opportunities and services to help the college community develop the ability to communicate, understand and analyze critically its place in a complex and interconnected world. The steering committee that oversees internationalization frequently promotes funding opportunities for faculty and programs.
Usha Ramanujam, business administration instructor and the chair of PCC's Internationalization Steering Committee, along with Blizzard, encourage all PCC faculty to apply for these grant opportunities.
Siegel is using her "Digital Media & Photography" class at the Sylvania Campus to discuss international photographers and explore how portraits affect social change. In her "Introduction to Digital Photography" class, students take part in the project "Faces of Change" to look at their own communities and use portraits of people within them as a way to talk about issues like racism, immigration, and borders through their cameras' lenses.
"I had seen an interesting photo exhibit and wanted to put the idea in my classroom," said Siegel, who has taught at PCC for 10 years. "I was inspired by an exhibit by American photographer Fazal Sheikh at the Portland Art Museum called 'Common Grounds,' where he photographed international communities and documented the lives of immigrants and refugees.
Siegel has bachelor's degrees in Peace Studies and Art from UC-Berkeley and a master's degree in Art from the University of Buffalo. In addition, she serves on PCC's Women in Arts Committee, helping to bring influential women artists to Portland.
The class she has internationalized gives students the basics of digital photography, as well as helps them view subjects they photograph through an international lens. Siegel plans to present on how she developed the class to other instructors, in hopes of inspiring and sharing the internationalization efforts with them.
Gramlich, an architectural and design instructor, has internationalized the course "Sustainable Building Strategies," which focuses on creating buildings that are sited, designed, constructed, operated and maintained for the health of the community, and that minimize the impact on the environment. The course covers population densities, climate change, and conservation of natural resources, and looks at established systems in other countries that the U.S. could learn from.
Because the class is specifically designed to study architecture and urban planning in relation to the impacts of climate change, urbanization, density and migration, Gramlich hopes to capitalize on the natural crossover with other PCC programs like Environmental Science. These opportunities, along with the diversity of his students (in a recent section, more than half originated from other countries), create a rich, internationalized learning environment that benefits all students.
The native Oregonian and PCC alum internationalized her class "Food Systems & Public Health" by adding new modules on the topic of "slow food" and using Italy as a case study.
Leavitt, who is a Master Certified Health Education Specialist and a personal health instructor at PCC, said slow food is an international grassroots movement and cultural philosophy concerned with local and sustainable food, nutrition, hunger, and community.
In the first part of the course, students explore the sustainability dimensions of how food is produced, transformed, distributed, prepared and consumed. Students discuss and evaluate how food systems influence global health and economic issues. In addition, she will coordinate a tasting lesson for students to learn and prepare slow food meals together in the state-of-the-art Foods & Nutrition Lab at the Rock Creek Campus. Students will be invited to share recipes from their culture as they discuss how to develop solutions to challenges in the food system.
Interested in Italian culture, Leavitt has been studying the Italian language and recently returned from Terra Madre, a bi-annual international gastronomy exhibition held in Turi.
Hawkey, who is a business administration faculty, is internationalizing his "Social Media Marketing" class. He's adding content around international social media platforms, such as QZone, VK, Mixi, and Weibo, that students from the United States may not be familiar with.
In addition, Hawkey is asking his students to explore the social and ethical ramifications of China's pilot Social Credit Score Program, which intends to publicly display mandatory scores for each citizen based on their financial history, online purchases, legal history, voting records, tax payments, and social media posts.
The instructor, who started teaching at PCC in 2010 and is currently senior project manager for innovation at Epiq Systems, said these issues are important for students to learn. Even small companies that have international sales over the internet will need marketers familiar with international social media platforms, he said.


Medical Records – I just read that Huping Zhou, a cardiothoracic surgeon, was sentenced to four months in jail and a $2,000 fine for looking at patients' health records without permission or reason. Apparently, laws are getting stricter for health care employees who access records without permission.
That's one less thing to worry about when it comes to the medical field becoming more electronic-based.
A major concern among patients in the health care field is their privacy. As medical records become accessible (and only accessible) via a computer system, hackers are always a concern, along with the easy access of records that health care employees have.
American Medical News reported that this was not an isolated incident and happens all the time, but charges and laws are helping prevent this and fine, fire or jail perpetrators. If you have concerns about your privacy, talking to a member of your health care facility that you trust is a good first step.
Click here to see about qualifying.
Medical Records and Post by Kate Valdovinos.
SilverCensus is an unbiased senior living and health services resource where consumers are educated on options, facilities & rights. Our services are completely free for seniors and their caregivers as well as Hospital Case Managers & Social Workers who are committed to proper discharge. Clients include assisted living residences, rehabilitation facilities, skilled nursing homes, home health care agencies, HUD senior housing & independent living communities. We also provide free VA Aid and Attendance assistance for qualified Veterans and their spouses. Our Care Managers are available at 888-776-1311 or through the web at: SilverCensus.com. Your online integrated health care marketing experts. A SilverCensus Goliath Company.


Can I pay for my order with Purchase Order (PO)?
We accept school issued purchase orders, a promise to pay within 30 days of receipt of the merchandise.
Your P.O. may be rejected if any or all of the required information is missing.


vlbrown is passionate about great design and excited to work with you contact us.
Call 678-561-4103 or Click on contact button to your left and lets start on the path to making you shine!
without saying you're needs are our primary focus. we make clients shine! vlbrown looks forward to the opportunity to show results with your next project. So click the contact button below let's get started!
Programs Used // Adobe Photoshop, Adobe Illustrator, Adobe InDesign, etc.


ⓘ Free UK Shipping on this item (excludes some Highlands and Islands).
Delivery of this item is free within the UK mainland (excludes some Higlands and Islands). If other items are added to your basket that are not offered with free shipping then a delivery charge may apply.


The weekend 31th August to 01st September we celebrate LISTA BIRD FESTIVAL with party and activities all weekend!
- Team competition around Lista. See as many species as possible in Farsund municipality. Maximum 4 persons pr. team. To know more about it you can send us an email.
The Danish field ornithologist Klaus Malling Olsen , who is active since the late 1970s, comes to Lista. He is widely regarded as the world's foremost Gull expert. His previous books include "Terns of Europe and North America", "Skuas and Jaegers", "Gulls of Europe, Asia and North America" and the recently published in 2018 "Gulls of the World: A Photographic Guide". This evening he will talk about "Gulls actual to Norway with special attendance to Yellow-legged and Caspian Gull".
- Counting competition, questions and then the award of the Norwegian champion in birdwatching. There will be some rare, easy and difficult questions for determining a winner among the three best teams from the Bird-Race. The winner receives a gift certificate of kr. 3000 from Nature of Fritid nature shop!!
-See how we ring the birds!!
- Children from 5 yeard old. Several activities.
- The tour takes place in areas associated with a protected area. Possibility of renting binoculars (limited number).
- Natur og Fritid, Lista Bird Observatory's shop will be opened. You can buy: binoculars, guides, T-shirts, etc.
- Open lighthouse and Lista Visitor Center, with shop, coffee and ice-cream!