There is a serious housing crisis happening in many cities around the world. But the solution is a respect for property rights, not higher taxes or more money.
When I balk at taxes, the first line of defense is always something with the greatest utility like roads. No one ever brings up cronyism and pocket lining, prohibitionist policies, and war. Why would they? It's damning. Why aren't people talking about how money is thrown at problems the way a rich dad tries to make his troubled son's problems "disappear"?
The US is hurting at every level. But the solution isn't money. And the solution isn't MORE government. In fact, those solutions are very economical and require little to no effort on the part of elected officials.
One of the big issues is homelessness. If you recall, Seattle tried to push through a "head tax" that was supposed to help the city's homeless.
It was almost immediately overturned because Amazon, the city's largest employer, expressed some serious acrimony toward that saying Seattle has a spending efficiency problem.
They aren't wrong. Homelessness isn't caused by large businesses setting up shop and creating demand for property. Homelessness is caused by insufficient supply of property. You can see this in Hong Kong, but you won't see this in Tokyo. Why? Because when the state controls supply, people suffer. Tokyo is about twice the size of Hong Kong with roughly twice the population. But Tokyo keeps its property values relatively flat, while people are paying through the nose for a veritable shoebox in Hong Kong.
What explains a housing crisis in Hong Kong is what explains housing crises around the world: government control of private property.
San Francisco has 18,443 people per square mile population density, while Tokyo has 14,339 per square mile. Not a remarkable difference, and certainly not a difference warranting such a huge disparity in property values.
Part of San Francisco is already built on landfills so real estate expansion isn't really an issue insofar as simply growing the square mileage of the city. But what happens when developers try to go in and create more supply to meet demand? Activists demand an evaluation on the environmental and CULTURAL aspects of the city! I think they are likely referring to that nasty thing known as "gentrification".
San Francisco wants to follow in Seattle's footsteps and just passed a measure to tax high grossing employers 0.05% on their revenues. Not their profits… their revenues. So, before they make payroll or pay their light bills or even their rent, they need to pay the city of San Francisco to fix the homeless problem.
"Proposition C would raise up to $300 million a year, nearly doubling the city's current annual $380 million spending to combat homelessness, from a total city budget of $10 billion.
"With an estimated early 2017 population of nearly 1.64 million, SF and San Mateo counties will issue one permit per 358 or so residents this year, if McLaughlin's predictions hold true.
Compare this to Austin, Texas, which comes in first on the Trulia rankings for permit performance. The larger Austin metro area has just over 2 million people, and McLaughlin anticipates 29,872 permits, one per 67 residents or so.
Paying more taxes to supposedly help the homeless stands no chance of actually helping the homeless since that doesn't create more housing. More housing has been offered and fought off by council members and city planners time and again.
They are calling this the "perils of prosperity". What a load of bunk. Cities like San Francisco and Seattle woo these large corporations to come or stay in their cities to bring jobs and prestige, but fail to provide the infrastructure needed to handle that prosperity? Then have the audacity to say these businesses created these problems and should bare the financial responsibility of fixing them?
Proposition C came highly endorsed by CEO of Salesforce.com Marc Benioff, but with no endorsement from the mayor, London Breed, and staunch opposition from Twitter CEO Jack Dorsey. The mayor is a Democrat and opposed this because it lacked accountability and consensus.
Opponents of the measure say the vote failed to get the two-thirds needed to ever see a dime of that tax money. Why? Let me preface this by saying I have NO idea how this proposition passed in California, BUT: Proposition 26 was based in November 2010 and is an amendment to the California State Constitution which requires a supermajority of two thirds vote to pass ANY increase or additional fees, taxes, or levies.
It's unclear if this supermajority requirement applies to both citizen and elected official initiatives, but we will soon find out. A separate Proposition C passed in June 2018 leveled a commercial rent tax on landlords to pay for Childcare and Early Education.
In the end, the issue of homelessness shouldn't come down to legal technicalities. It should come down to private property rights, and the respect thereof. So long as government controls property rights, you will have housing crises like you see in Hong Kong, San Francisco, New York, and Los Angeles. And no amount of taxes and money is going to fix a problem that is logistical at its very core. The sooner city planners and officials understand this, the sooner affordable housing can make its way back into these overcrowded cities.
Many of the world's leading economists have put this subject very simply, and might I quote Richard Wolfe: "…it's simple folks, we've built it wrong." I question the concept of development in the first place. We could really go down the rabbit hole on this subject, but doesn't it simply come down to sheltering our persons and goods? I mean, really, haven't we been doing this for tens of thousands of years? Why aren't we looking at history to spell out our future? Are you ready?…it's because Modernity and Development are the machines that only know two things: move foreward, and don't look back! The opposite of DE-velopement is EN-velopement . It implies containing, simplifying, holding and covering. Humans are the only species on planet earth that are restricted from walking onto any piece of land, propping up a dwelling and getting on with living their lives. …without the threat of imprisonment…imprisonment!
Who abolished this highly successful, conceptually simple, self empowering and historically viable way of housing humans beings? And how did "we" lose our direction and give up our most elemental right to supply ourselves with a roof, walls, water, heat and light?
Some countries and jurisdictions have figured it out. Others are painfully detached from the realities of economic cause and effect. Whether it's property or even a business, Americans can witness what it is for others around the world just start a business or build a home with little to no barriers to entry, while in the Land of the Free, we're left to wait in lines for permits and licenses. How did making a basic living become so complicated and controlled?
Nobody seems to acknowledge that high housing prices are a prime contributory factor to homelessness. I used to live in the S.F. Bay Area, where housing costs have gone from "steep" to "astronomical" in recent years. Reality check: MOST people don't have plum jobs at Google, Apple, Sun, or whatever… so they don't earn a six-figure income (or anywhere close). The result is that hoards of Bay Area residents have to fork over 75% (or more) of their take-home paycheck for rent! I blame this crap on greedy real estate investors who have been hyper-speculating for decades. (While I believe in the concept of private property ownership, a sane society should have a limited appetite for these sorts of speculators.) And yes, both people & businesses are leaving in droves… for good reason!
It ultimately comes down to supply and demand. I lived out there about 12 years ago, and there was NO chance I could live there without a roommate. Even now, I couldn't. I think making $170k/year is considered "low income" by SF standards. I don't think there's anything wrong with people buying high and selling high or renting high. If the supply is limited to such a degree that the market will bear that out then so be it. Where I take issue is when competition and new suppliers are chased out or indefinitely waitlisted. The city is preserving a monopoly of sorts on housing and that's how you get what they have now. The cities really shouldn't be controlling the valve for supply of real estate. But they are so preoccupied with "gentrification" and "cultural preservation" that they allow the NIMBYs to simultaneously complain about the cost of housing and limited amounts of it, while likewise appeasing their protest of allowing a developer to come in and build. Can't have it both ways.


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© Mr. Stevo
Two Days (Or, The Joys Of Being On Television)
By Louis E. Bourgeois • January 2010
I didn't want to go, but my fiancée, Cora, insisted it would be good for me. She and I hadn't been apart for more than a few hours at a time since I'd left the hospital, where my left arm had been removed after a car accident. Now I was to spend the weekend at a crippled-children's camp. At nineteen I would be one of the oldest ones there, and I wondered why they were still calling me a "child." But that's not why I was reluctant to go. I simply didn't want to be away from Cora for two days. That's all.
Dust stirred high in the air as Cora's blue Fairlane sped down the dirt road of the camp, which was specifically for children who were missing limbs. Admittedly it was a beautiful place: rolling hills, still ponds, a stone bridge over a stream, pheasants and peacocks sunning themselves in the cool March air. It was hard to believe we were only twenty minutes from the suburban nightmare of Slidell, Louisiana.
One reason I'd agreed to attend the camp was because Tulane University in New Orleans had asked me to go. Some people there had gone to a lot of trouble to manufacture me a ten-thousand-dollar prosthetic arm, but I had rejected the prosthesis — not medically, but on a much deeper level: I didn't like the idea of being half man, half machine. Besides that, it was just plain clumsy to use, like having an elephant trunk strapped to my left shoulder. The plastic arm made me feel like more of a freak than having no arm at all, so I decided just to let my left sleeve blow empty and get on with life.
And before I'm condemned for being ungrateful, let me say that I'm quite appreciative that anyone bothered to lift a finger for me at all. I didn't know these people at Tulane, and yet they went to all this trouble to help me get back to normal. What they couldn't possibly have guessed is that I'm too stupid to learn anything that isn't me. In many ways I'm too stupid to be a cripple, for it takes great intelligence to be maimed — that is, incredible willpower and impossible mental endurance, attributes that I lack. Fate, or God, or chance, or whatever it is that controls our lives certainly made a wrong choice when he/she/it decided to mark me for radical amputation.
There were about fifty children at the camp and a dozen or so assistants, therapists, and counselors. I tried very hard to fit in — well, not very hard, but I did try. I could not compete with the other campers' optimism and sheer glee for life. The longer I stayed away from home — that is, away from Cora — the worse it got, because I knew that beautiful, long-haired Cora was roaming all over town with God knows whom, doing Christ knows what.
I was on a basketball team for about five minutes. One of the assistants witlessly pitted the legless against the armless on the court. My age and height made me stand out, but I had sucked at basketball even when I'd been a whole person, so I just walked off. No one said anything to me. I headed toward the woods and crossed the stone bridge. It was so beautiful it almost made me cry, knowing that my life from then on was going to be hard, hard, hard. Too bad the bridge wasn't high enough to throw myself from.
I know you want me to describe the amputated children in detail at this point, but I really don't feel up to it. And I'm not sure I believe in exploiting people for my own literary purposes. What's important is that I didn't feel connected to them in any way. My whole life had been one big mess up to that point, and I had never fit in with any social group. I spent most of my time at the camp roaming the forest by myself, while the other cripples were apparently following the camp's program step by step. At the end of the weekend they were going to leave rejuvenated and ready to face life's challenges with a new bag of survival tactics. Because I'm ignorant, I rebelled against the whole concept of rehabilitation. I'd had enough of people telling me what to do: at home, in school, in hospitals. Besides, I couldn't get my mind off Cora's sweet naked body — nor off one of the blond assistants; I'd never slept with a blonde and was obsessed with finding out what it would be like.
I continued to spend time alone in the woods, walking, masturbating, and looking at birds. I tried to fish, but I hadn't yet learned to tie a fishing knot with one hand. I still can't, not even with a vise grip to hold the hook in place. Certainly someone at the camp could have taught me, if I'd taken the time to ask.
I do remember talking to two other cripples. One was a heavyset, freckle-faced eleven-year-old boy who'd lost his left arm when he'd grabbed a live electrical line lying across his backyard after a tornado. I noted how goddamn smart he was for an eleven-year-old. Perhaps it wasn't intelligence he had so much as wisdom, a dark wisdom. It wasn't anything he said in particular, just a sense of knowingness in his voice, an eerie resignation, a fatalism, if you will. It was like hearing someone in his fifties or sixties speak from this little kid's body. His maturity was undercut at moments by a rotten cynicism that offended even me. We talked for over an hour, and I swear by my own personal Jesus that he ended every other sentence with "Yeah, but who cares. Nothing at all matters in the long run. We'd all be better off dead."
I also talked to a fourteen-year-old boy who didn't have any arms. His head was enormous in proportion to his shriveled-up body, and his legs were extremely thin, the thinnest legs I've ever seen on anyone. They reminded me of an eagle's talons. But his toes were as dexterous as fingers, and I once watched him dress himself from head to foot. It dumbfounded me to see him do that. I could never learn to do that and wouldn't want to, even if I didn't have any choice. I long ago vowed that if anything ever happened to my good arm, I would gas myself.
The armless boy said he wanted to go to the university and study to be a psychologist. "I probably have a keener insight into life than most people," he explained, "because I'm constantly aware of myself every second I'm awake. If you don't have arms, how can you fail to understand the mind?"
Sixteen years later I still don't quite know what he meant.
Almost done, dear reader. I'll just finish up by explaining the subtitle of my essay: Several New Orleans television stations sent reporters to the camp at the weekend's conclusion. I guess the news crews needed to fill their feel-good-story quotas so they could get back to reporting the more sordid details of life. I was wearing a maroon T-shirt cut just below my chest (my stomach was still hard and flat), faded bluejeans, and cheap red tennis shoes. Right before everyone began packing to go home, there was one last activity: the Great Egg Race. Every camper held a plastic spoon in his or her mouth, and then an assistant placed an egg in the spoon. We all lined up side by side and were told to run as fast as we could without dropping the egg. I remember saying to one of the therapists that I felt like some kind of duck without wings, but he encouraged me to do it anyway.
Later that night Cora and I watched the footage of the Great Egg Race on the ten o'clock local news. To be precise, we were watching WWL Channel 4 out of New Orleans. We sat with our mouths agape as we saw me run across the screen with the spoon sticking out of my mouth and the egg barely keeping its place. It was the longest thirty seconds of my life. I crossed the finish line first with dozens of amputees of all races, ages, and sizes behind me.
I was the winner of the race, and it almost destroyed me.
A week later Cora packed her things and left me.
One should say, "Good," to everything.
"Two Days" is reprinted from The Gar Diaries, by Louis E. Bourgeois. © 2008 by Louis E. Bourgeois and Community Press, www.communitypresshome.com.
Louis E. Bourgeois
The Good Earth?
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


HR Consultant/Business Partner. Working for an award winning HR Consultancy based in Brighton. This role will work with a team of HR Consultants to deliver HR support for retained clients as well taking on ad-hoc and project basis. The team predominately works with SMEs c50-100 staff in London and across the South East. You will need to be able to advise and support the STM and Board on all people matters.


THIS WEEK I had the opportunity to attend a presentation hosted by the just-now-forming Conscious Capitalism Colorado Chapter. The speaker was Martin Bjergegaard, co-author of the new book Winning Without Losing.
What a great and inspiring hour! I immediately bought the book.
Martin's message is the same as how he's built his businesses: By focusing on quality of life, quality of leadership, and leveraging his considerable passion.
I really like the style that the authors use in this book: It's a whole bunch of simple but powerful concepts – ones which are easy to grasp but fundamentally change the nature of what you do.
This book is targeted primarily at new startups, where you're mostly starting out with a clean sheet of paper. But I find that the core ideas really apply to anyplace where you're trying out something fresh, even if it's a small department inside some large company.
You can do good no matter what your situation is. You can always be a leader if you choose to be.
I'm particularly interested by the authors' focus on the leadership team. They have had great experience with starting first as friends, and with taking amazing amounts of time to ensure that their values are aligned. Business values, personal values – it all intermingles.
So if you want an infusion of great new ideas, check this out. You'll be inspired.


Jan Fields, Business Executive and former President of McDonald's USA. Her first role at McDonald's was as a crew member.
"Remember that your reputation is everything. You build your personal brand through everything you do, whether big actions or small decisions, and that brand will stay with you throughout your career."
"Have patience –- you're building the foundation for a lifelong career. I would tell myself that the skills and lessons I was learning at that time would be invaluable in the future. I didn't realize that was what I was doing and simply wanted to hurry it all up. I know now that it's like building a house: the stronger the foundation, the higher you can go."


The attorneys at HMBR defend clients in both private antitrust litigation and litigation brought by the U.S. Federal Trade Commission (FTC) and the Department of Justice (DOJ). We also represent clients facing antitrust investigations by the DOJ, the FTC and the various state departments authorized to conduct these types of government actions. HMBR lawyers have actively worked on antitrust matters for many years and our attorneys have prior, hands-on experience serving as federal prosecutors.
At HMBR, we work with our clients to find the most positive and cost-effective methods to resolve government investigations and antitrust litigation. We are keenly aware of what is at risk for our clients and develop strategies designed to terminate government investigations as early on as possible in the process. When litigation cannot be avoided, our lawyers have the trial experience needed to aggressively defend our clients in federal and state court and in antitrust arbitrations. We also provide targeted advice to clients on post-judgment remedies and enforcement, including divestitures.
Defending a multi-hospital system and its affiliated physician network in a case involving allegations of price fixing. These charges were brought by a large national health plan which sought over $250 million in alleged antitrust damages and equitable relief. Following a full trial on the merits, the arbitration panel dismissed all claims against the hospital system and the physician network.
Represented a multi-hospital system and its affiliated physician organizations in an anti-trust investigation conducted by the DOJ as a clinically integrated network and successfully resolved the investigation without any formal civil complaint being filed.


The Nursery Department welcomes children from age 2 up to 6.Our qualified staff offer a safe, caring and stimulating environment for children to learn and develop in. We encourage active learning through play, enabling our children to grow in confidence and succeed in future learning situations.
The preschool curriculum is relevant to the children's needs and prepares them for future school year. The children are taken through Literacy and Numeracy lessons. Our activity based lessons, give the children the opportunity to actively participate in class. The teachers observe and respond appropriately to children's needs as a result of being aware of how children develop and learn.
The six areas of learning help our teachers plan the learning environment and activities to provide the children the opportunity to develop competencies and skills.
During the IPC lessons, the children are taken through various themes which help them to understand the need to become aware of the world around them and develop an international mind-set alongside their own nationality. Themes such as All about me, Family and Friends, Feelings, Shapes, Colours, Hats, Animals, Transportation, Thanksgiving, Clothing, Houses and Homes, Food, Weather, Community Helpers, Health and Safety, Insects, Pets, Dinosaur, Sand and Water, etc. are treated.
The pupils embark on field trips to acquire more insights into a particular theme being treated in class. Children visit places like the Airport, Lake, Zoo, Farm, Supermarkets, hotels, restaurants etc.
Learning atmosphere is an important factor in a student's conducive study. The campus provides learners with a serene, comfortable and green environment for maximum well-being. Our architecture is unique, and the school has the following resources at your child's disposal. Facilities such as the Computer laboratory for computer lessons, the Art room for Arts classes, library, sick bay and a beautiful playing ground.


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WHAT ARE EXECUTIVE FUNCTIONS?
It is difficult to find an exact definition of executive function deficits. However, they are believed to underlie numerous, if not all, psychiatric disorders in young people and adults (Carr-Fanning, 2012).By their very definition they are the brains ability to regulate itself.
The concept of executive function is neuropsychological in origin, moreover, by definition it refers to the brains ability to regulate itself. In order to function, humans use internal mental processes (e.g., attention, memory, planning, etc.) to adapt to the demands of their environment (Eyesneck& Keane, 2007).
Over the past few decades research into the causative factors in ADHD has blossomed, and our understanding of the neurological basis and the cognitive deficits associated with them has emerged.
ADHD is now attributed to an atypical balance in the neurotransmitters (brain chemicals) responsible for regulating the prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for higher cortical (cognitive) functioning, also known as executive functions. While an exact definition of executive functions is debatable, in general, they are considered to be higher cognitive processes which control an individual's ability to attend in a persistent way to a task, and organize behaviour in the pursuit of long-term goals (Dawson &Guare, 2004; Hart & Jacobson, 1993; Weyandt, 2005; Willcutt, Doyle, Nigg, Faraone, Pennington, 2005).
EXECUTIVE FUNCTIONS:
Mental Flexibility
Thomas Browns (2004) vividly constructed metaphor provides an illustrative example for executive function defects in those with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), with their function being likened to or represented as the 'conductor' of the "symphony of the brain" (p. 22).
Both the brain and an orchestra contain a number of individual parts which may be viewed as functioning separately. For example, the brain is made up of numerous different systems which operate as semi-autonomous structures, such as memory, attention, emotions, and so forth. Whereas, the former includes processes such as memory, attention, and emotion, while the latter components include drums, violins, and pipes. The conductor of an orchestra is much like executive functions, not in control of how each functions, but responsible for their activation, regulation, and integration as a whole. Brown noted that, "Without a good conductor the symphony will not produce good music …" (2004; p. 23) nor would the brain be able to effectively accomplish tasks.
MODEL OF EXECUTIVE DYSFUNCTION
Russell Barkley (1998, 2006) breaks executive functions down into four areas:
Self-regulation of affect, motivation, and arousal
Nonverbal working memory
Internalization of Speech (verbal working memory)
Reconstitution (planning and generativity)
BARKELY'S (1998) MODEL:
Internal Monologue
However, he maintains that ADHD is predominantly associated with deficits of response inhibition, also known as self-regulation or self-control.
Thomas Brown (2006) has proffered another influential model which breaks executive functions down into six different "clusters", which work together in various combinations. Unlike Barkley's emphasis on self-regulation, Brown does not suggest that one of these clusters characterises ADHD more than any of the others.
Organizing, prioritizing and activating for tasks
Focusing, sustaining and shifting attention to task
Regulating alertness, sustaining effort and processing speed
Managing frustration and modulating emotions
Utilizing working memory and accessing recall
Monitoring and self-regulating action
BROWN'S (2004) MODEL:
It is important to note here that while the concept of executive functions are interesting and a good body of findings implicate them in ADHD and numerous other condition, their definition, measurement, and role in behaviour and adaptive functioning is complex and not fully understood (Fletch, 1996; Willcutt et al., 2005).
EMOTIONAL DYSREGULATION
A key difference between Brown and Barkley's models is how they deal with affect, especially emotional dysregulation.
While the DSM-IV does not contain any criteria related to what Paul Wendler (1995) calls "affective lability" (e.g., board or demoralized mood swings, irritability, low frustration tolerance, outbursts of anger, or uncontrollable excitability), it is frequently seen in individuals with the condition. Indeed, some argue for its inclusion as the third core construct of ADHD (Kooji, 2011), alongside 'hyperactive-impulsive' and 'inattentive'.
Discussion does not permit a comprehensive account of these issues, but it is important to note that Brown suggests people with ADHD feel more intensely while Barkley suggests they feel the same as everyone else, but they cannot inhibit their responding to those feelings. Brown acknowledges that response-inhibition is also an issue.
EXECUTIVE FUNCTIONS, SOCIAL COGNITION AND BEHAVIOUR
According to Russell Barkley (1998) observed "ADHD is not a problem of knowing … it's a problem of doing what you know …" (p. 16).
In the opinion of Zacks and Tversky (2001) "the human mind has a gift for bringing order to chaos …" (p. 3). However, as Hallowell and Ratey (2001) suggest, the ADHD brain is the disorganized brain, possibly explicable, by absent or faulty executive functions or the conductor of the symphony of the brain (Brown, 2004).
It may be that these young people have the knowledge or skills required to function appropriately. However, they may experience significant difficulties in the moment monitoring and interpreting their environment, and also inhibiting emotional responses and selecting the appropriate response in the moment (DuPaul& Stoner, 1994; Tannock, 1996; Young et al., 2005). However, it would explain why children often reporting knowing what the 'should' have done upon reflection (e.g., Kinsbourne, 1989).
EXECUTIVE FUNCTIONS IN ACADEMIA
CYP spend a significant amount of their daily functioning in educational settings with teachers and peers (Houghton, 2006).
In order for attainment (i.e., actual learning) to take place, the pupil must possess the intellect, foundation skills (e.g., verbal comprehension is a prerequisite of reading), and behaviours related to academic performance. It is important to distinguish between attainment (acquired knowledge, curriculum criterion mastery, etc.) from achievement, exam results. A comprehensive account of the issues which executive function deficits would play at each of these stages is beyond the scope of discussion, sufficed to say, there are numerous and significant.
Authors of the article: Kate Carr-Fanning and Conor Mc Guckin, the School of Education, Trinity College Dublin, 2012.
previousDiagnosis and Assessment of ADHD
nextMultimodal Treatment for ADHD Across the Lifespan


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Kevin Garnett Tells Dan Patrick His Grandmother Pulled A Gun On Recruiter
Sports Radio News
Garnett famously made the jump from high school straight to the NBA in 1995. That doesn't mean that college basketball programs didn't try to change his mind before it was too late.
Getty/Mark Sagliocco
Kevin Garnett is making the media rounds these days. He is promoting his new memoir KG: A to Z: An Uncensored Encyclopedia of Life, Basketball, and Everything in Between.
Garnett famously made the jump from high school straight to the NBA in 1995. That doesn't mean that college basketball programs didn't try to change his mind before it was too late. He writes about the recruiting process in the book and shared some of the illicit benefits he was offered at that time with Dan Patrick on Friday on FOX Sports Radio.
Patrick asked point blank what Garnett was offered by various recruiters.
"A lot of cash, for my mother and my family to have better opportunities, to meet some of the most powerful people in the world, whatever that meant," Kevin Garnett answered.
He then shared a story that certainly one recruiter will never forget. Garnett's mother sent him to live with his grandmother during his senior year of high school. She was worried both herself and her son were being overwhelmed by the attention of college recruiters. Garnett's grandmother didn't believe all attention and offers were good things.
"I had a certain recruiter come see me and he offered me some cash in front of my grandma," Garnett told Patrick. "She went and got a shotgun. She told me to always set the tone with people that you can never be bought, because if you can be bought once, you can be bought always."
Kevin Garnett (@KevinGarnett5KG) tells some stories about the things he was offered during the college recruiting process… One including his grandma taking out a shotgun during a visit. pic.twitter.com/IOHu0TdMxy
— Dan Patrick Show (@dpshow) June 4, 2021
He tried to gloss over the story like it was no big deal. Dan Patrick wouldn't let that fly. He asked Garnett how the recruiter reacted to the shotgun.
"I had to tell him to get his bag and get the hell up outta here, or else him and his bag were never gonna make it outta here," Garnett answered.
No names were used. Kevin Garnett said that the recruiter is still active in college basketball. They even cross paths occasionally and Garnett says he always offers a wink when they do.
Related Topics:Barrett Sports MediaCollege BasketballDan PatrickKevin GarnettRecruitingsports radio
David Kaplan To Join Chicagoland Sports Hall of Fame
Peter Rosenberg Releases Debut Album
"25% of the people who voted in our poll and said they admire and respect Reid more than Sirianni, you 25% have not been paying any attention for years."
As Super Bowl LVII approaches, many storylines have emerged. One includes Chiefs Head Coach Andy Reid facing off with the team he coached for 14 years, the Philadelphia Eagles. Reid is a beloved figure in NFL circles, but 94WIP morning host Angelo Cataldi couldn't hold back his disdain for the coaching legend.
On Tuesday morning, Cataldi mentioned he couldn't believe Reid was so highly regarded in NFL media circles. The longtime host said Reid was never truthful during interviews.
After playing clips that included Reid saying the Eagles "were a good team" and how the Chiefs "would need a good game plan" to grab a victory, Cataldi took issue with the generalities Reid spoke with. When asked what he expected from an NFL head coach, Cataldi compared Reid to current Eagles head coach Nick Sirianni.
"I was expecting something like Nick gives me every time," Cataldi said. "I hate Reid 'cause he never won me the Super Bowl, I hate Reid that it took him six years to get there, it took Nick two, and I hate Reid because he never bothered to share a damn thing. If you're out there, with 25% of the people who voted in our poll and said they admire and respect Reid more than Sirianni, you 25% have not been paying any attention for years."
Cataldi — who admitted "I don't like the man, and I've never liked the man" — said he received more than 300 emails about Reid, noting he didn't realize he was "widely regarded as the all-time Andy Reid critic" in Philadelphia.
The 94WIP host added listeners will not hear the voice of the "phony, fraud" Reid any longer on his morning show.
"I do not control the other dayparts here. I don't control the newsroom. I'm done playing anything said by Andy Reid. 'Cause I learned over 14 years it's a waste of time."
"He is the manager that takes your ideas and then sends them up one level without any attribution whatsoever."
Seth Payne cannot say he wasn't warned. When Ross Tucker joined Payne and Pendergast on Sports Radio 610 in Houston earlier this week, the seven-year NFL veteran told Payne that his take was so good that he would be stealing it.
"You know what, Seth, that is a great point that I am going to use the rest of the week in all my media stuff," Tucker said when Payne suggested that the Philadelphia Eagles "earned" an injury to the San Francisco 49ers' quarterbacks by taking advantage of poor blocking schemes that included using tight ends to block NFL sack leader Hasson Reddick.
A listener named Burch tweeted evidence to Seth Payne of Ross Tucker following through on his promise.
"If the rest of you out there can be more like Burch and let us know when people are stealing our good takes, they can have our bad takes," Payne's morning show partner Sean Pendergast said on Tuesday morning.
The duo then played the audio, which they said appeared to come from an unidentified CBS show. In it, Tucker says that the Eagles "earned those injuries" and used tight ends being assigned to block Reddick as his justification for the take.
"I think it's pretty obvious what kind of a boss Ross Tucker is, like what kind of a manager," Payne said. "He is the manager that takes your ideas and then sends them up one level without any attribution whatsoever."
Ross Tucker is no shortage of platforms to spread the take around. He is on multiple Audacy sports talk stations during the football season. He also makes regular appearances with Dan Patrick and SiriusXM as well as hosting his own podcast.
"This is what you get from these Princeton types," Payne said of being ripped off. "This is how they get where they are in the world."
There were questionable calls — both made and not — that played into the eventual outcome of the AFC Championship Game. Cynics have pointed to the officiating in the game's final quarter as proof that NFL games are fixed. On 670 The Score, Mully & Haugh praised Pro Football Talk's Mike Florio for his response to those accusations.
"I always assume it's incompetence and not corruption," Florio said when asked about whether or not the league purposely got the matchup it desired. "The NFL does not rig its games. I will say that loudly, and I will say that clearly. Sometimes I will add 'because I don't think the NFL would be sufficiently competent to rig its games if it wanted to. That's why I think they don't even try."
Florio then added that being lied to all the time doesn't mean you're being lied to all the time, adding that the NFL does need to be proactive against games being fixed, rigged, or altered after the expansion of legalized gambling.
Later in the program, Mulligan and Haugh returned to the discussion about whether or not a conspiracy was at play when Mulligan levied his praise for the Pro Football Talk founder.
"I thought Mike Florio handled that very well," Mike Mulligan said. "They're too incompetent to have a conspiracy. It's true!"
When asked about whether the NFL would actually want to alter the outcome to pit the Chiefs against the Eagles, Haugh said it's just not realistic.
"That's a leap you can't make. It's not logical. It's logical to think the referees stink and their incompetent," David Haugh said. "They have proof of that. To me, it's a bridge too far to say they wanted a certain team to win because it makes a better matchup or its better for the league. That, to me, makes no sense and is based on no fact at all."


"A clergyman who oversaw a children's home where abuse took place in the 1970s and 80s `never once` reported staff to police, he said in a newly-discovered interview."
"The Reverend Nicolas Stacey said children could be `manipulative` and make false claims, in the 2006 tape."
"Mr Stacey was a director of social services in Kent at a time when girls were drugged and abused at Kendall House in Gravesend."
"He died in May 2017 aged 89."
"A review published last year found that girls at the home, which was run by the Church of England, were routinely drugged, locked up, and sexually abused..."
"The Kendall House inquiry found that drugs were administered in doses exceeding usual prescribed adult levels to control girls' behaviour, placing them in a constant stupor..."
"The recording, first made public in 2012, was discovered in British Library archives by a former Kendall House resident and abuse survivor, Teresa Cooper..."
"Ms Cooper added: `There might potentially be hundreds of allegations and victims facing the serious consequences of injustice based on the unfounded judgement of those meant to protect children`."


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Home AKB48 Frustrated AKS as SUPER AKB48 CHINA will not happening
Frustrated AKS as SUPER AKB48 CHINA will not happening
Some time ago, AKB48 fans in China made a scene with a photo that displays the contents of a letter from AKS spread in social media of China. The letter was not directed to Shanghai Siba but to AKB48's promotional company in mainland China 'AKB48 China (Holding) Limited'.
Both AKS and AKB48 China have announced the formation of a new sister group to be based in Shanghai.
The announcement of the audition has been described on AKB48's official blog (26/10/2017) that the new sister group AKB48 CHINA will be held later this year. However, until this December there has been no sign of forming a new group in China.
Although many contra related this new group in fact the company that cope AKB48 is insisted to form a group by giving audition audition through to 2020. In the letter seen AKB48 CHINA allowed to hold auditions from August 1, 2017 to July 2020.
AKB48 fans in China argue that AKB48 China does not want the formation of this group too soon because there is still SNH48 GROUP with its strong idol market. They assume AKB48-CHINA just wants to focus on AKB48's promotional business in mainland China.


text:
Conjunctions:55 Urban Arias
The City in the Light of Moths
Tim Horvath
The projectionist's heart broke as the spool of the film he was screening snapped, sending a thousand frames rocketing through the room. But we have elided crucial moments: the groping for scissors; the hands, known for steadiness, atremble; and a last look through the thick glass before the lunge. The first cut missed but the second connected, and then he'd watched the life exit slowly, like some enemy combatant dying in his arms, so close he could taste its breath, watch last prayers sputter on its lips.
He'd imagined innumerable iterations of this, foiling terrorists and rescuing his block, no, the whole city. In his imaginings they charged in in ski masks and released the radioactive xenon that glowed inside his projector, or forced him at gunpoint to put on their radical film, or one where the screen would go blindingly bright at some point, scorching every retina in the room as if they were all standing at White Sands, unprotected, followed by a sonic boom that would shred their tympana. His fantasies expanded and contracted but inevitably wound up with him as the guest of honor at some gala, Inez's thin fingers entwined with his own under the table, "Wesssss …" engulfed in applause.
Now he gazed down into the theater that stretched out below, "the canyon," they called it, as if it had been shaped by wind and water and time, the backs of heads anthropomorphic rocks. The rocks were looking back up at him. Instead of irate cries, an eerie silence welled up, a thin veneer over a thousand sighs. He could win them back, he thought. Some down there knew him, some loved him, maybe not in the way he loved Inez, but still, the word suited. It would take, though, a move as boldly restorative as this was destructive, and as he glanced down he could see the film was even now tumbling into the room like floodwater.
Wes was required by law and by the powers vested in him as a projectionist to get another film flung up there as soon as possible. An audience in the lurch, in cinemus interruptus, would grow restless quickly. Uncountable other films commanded the sides of buildings for twenty miles. If he was lucky they'd pick themselves up and march out, grumbling and shaking their heads, some to return never, none happy. His wall might get its first mark, and Hatcher would rail at him: "Wes, what were you thinking, this ain't the boondocks. The Historic District. Diplomats, power players. At a debut, no less."
But darker possibilities loomed. The rowdy, the addicts—all it took was one or two, plus swirl in a couple of drinks—who might come right to the door, and let's say they began pounding and yelling about tearing him apart limb from limb? He gripped the scissors tight. It wouldn't be the first time a projectionist had been treated to vigilante justice. Technically outlawed, such violence was, but judges tended to look the other way, as if they themselves were watching a film on the wall opposite. Case in point: that dude over in District 4.1.5.E who'd twisted the lens so that the film was flipped on its side, but still, these things happen, except that out of spite or obstinacy or simple boneheadedness, he'd refused to right it, sinking deeper into his lip's curl when the boos and hisses reached fever pitch, and then when they'd yanked the bench slats out of the pavement and torn off the iron rests for battering, he'd still refused to right the film or even admit any wrongdoing. When they'd finished with him he'd been rearranged so that it was said that from that point on he would look at the world ever sideways.
Wes had always blamed the projectionist, but now he felt a shudder of empathy. Things happened fast. He thought of the opening of The Wild Bunch—lazy western town, women and children parading and singing down the dusty street. You knew it was about to be bad, but not how sudden and thick the blood would spurt. He reviewed his options. Under normal conditions he could change a flat in under a minute. Its seal broken, the emergency reel would hold him till he could get to the archives, and he had another film to change down the block, but he still had thirty-eight minutes to get to that.
But he stood paralyzed, stunned, not even sure whether he'd just seen what he thought he'd seen. Maybe he'd conjured the whole thing? Had that even been Inez up there?
Inez came home exhausted every evening these days, eyes bloated and hair mussed as she slipped past him into the tight apartment and made for the couch. Her stockinged feet pointed at where some ottoman ought to sit as she swigged her cognac and coke down to the ice in the imitation snifter, while he sipped coffee and geared up for his own shift. No, she didn't really want to talk about her day. No, nothing was different, nothing she could pinpoint. They were putting her on more projects, true. She was competent, had proved herself, and now they had her editing like three or four things at a time. She had to work through lunch and mind her crumbs at the console. She stayed late. This was how things happened, how you got shunted up the ladder. It was happening. At once she was editing a documentary about people obsessed with hats, a murder mystery about a surgeon whose twin brother has slain him and taken over his office, and a comedy with indie leanings about anarchists in love.
Such gear switching was inseparable from what she loved about the job, what she loved about Palamoa. Why they stayed—born there, they'd been suckled alike on celluloid, barely blinked a blink without a film in their peripheries. (Film, went the song, you long, blinking train.) Till he was three, Wes had fallen asleep each night with Mothlight flickering against his ceiling: semitranslucent red-pink wings that burst into petals and veiny leaves and ramifying shapes that then broke apart into a red-pink snow, all of it fluttering above him gentle as a blanket. Brakhage, the incantatory name of the filmmaker he'd later learn from his mom, just as he'd learn that she always knew he was asleep when his cries faded and she could still make out the faint crackle of silent film wending its way.
Hard to picture Inez as "Julia" then, hard to picture her milking and bailing, sidestepping shit amidst the grunters and lowers on her family farm in what were then Palamoa's outskirts. She still rose early. Everything else had shifted: Now where her farm was were the cineburbs, and Inez turned heads (human, not livestock) in stunning strapless things and camisoles you had to study closely to tell if you were seeing through them, while the handsome barn, a five o'clock shadow of paint peel, had itself made an appearance in several films. As kids do, she'd plotted escapes—New York, Ganzoneer, any elsewhere—and somehow gotten sucked right into the city's center.
Once Palamoa had drawn ships and sailors eager to reverse scurvy and celibacy, rushing headlong for the inland markets, for memories and paid oblivion. While they got off their sails got replaced: The Palamoans redid ships from top to bottom, but it was sails that built her, giant factories attiring ships in blaring new canvas. Today's waterfront shimmered, lobster boats sharp hued, whitecaps whispering of depth, but for the cameras, really. Wes and Inez, like many young couples, lived out by the factories, taking advantage of the laughable rents and cheap eats. As they walked past the old buildings they could hear the outsized machinery churning out screens, and a figure of speech had it that you could still cross an ocean with a Palamoan sail.
Inez must have seen things as malleable to infinity. Why scrub plates and ruin skin, when, with a slight rearrangement, you could put their dirt-bedeviled state at the front of the reel and their squeaky virginity at the end? Something like this must have been her thinking. How else could she justify such blatant neglect, like she couldn't see the piles she was leaving, the clogs she caused?
Wes cleaned up after her in those early days, not begrudgingly—it was her he was cleaning up for. And it was a novelty to him—he'd always prided himself on his disheveledness, his clothes creases that blurred into rumples, scornful of those who cared about such things. He was gawky and had to duck under low-hanging doorways; his glasses were scratchy, and he projected for parties and knew where to score if he didn't already have the substances you wanted. He was a hipster. His tattoo was unique. It ran up his right arm, like something in Sharpie, a hunter done in a few strokes, sneaking up on a bright red bison. When he showed it to Inez, she traced it as if she might feel the pigments.
"Is it static?"
Wes had smiled. It looked static, all right. The renderer, a friend from the art school Wes had dropped out of, had done it seamlessly; even Wes couldn't tell where skin became screen. He twitched and she gave a little gasp as it activated, and the hunter pursued the bison, who snorted comically twice and then ran into a cave. The skin blacked out until, with a blast from the hunter's torch, light returned. The punch line was the bison posed against the wall of the cave, holding preternaturally still, blending in perfectly with the paintings of animals already there. It was gorgeous, actually, this last scene, worthy of the Lascaux artist him or herself.
"Wow," she said. "Play it again, Wes."
After he did, she pulled up her own shirt to reveal hers, not animation but black and white on the center of her back, her family's farm somewhere off in the country done as a home movie, retrochromed to look older than it was, her grandfather holding up a fish, languorous cattle in a field. It was tasteful, and the bump of her spine, jutting in the middle and stretching the screen in odd places, only added to the charm. It made his feel like an amateur sketch. Everyone had heard the stories about tattoos jarred into motion in the act of lovemaking, the lover helpless to turn them off, and he wanted this, now, to be the case for them, and, reaching out to caress the bump, could see her tattoo refract onto his fingers, felt himself connect to her then, something that could still happen, then.
And now he took deep breaths and strategized as to how to buy himself some time. Stress he was used to … they'd cut back—the economy, everyone hurting, probably inevitable if you could play reality backward as he did sometimes just messing around in the booth, but regardless, positions had been cut, and now Wes often did the work of, by his calculations, his gripe-boasts to Inez, two or three men— he says men even fully cognizant that there are fantastic women projectionists, Daniella Riordan, need he say more, though it wasn't all that common, convention no doubt instead of anything deep down in the helices. Say "projectionist" and, as with "doctor," the synapses summon up a male.
He's no doctor, of course, neither the prestige nor the pay nor, indeed, the malpractice, though they treated him and the MDs and the shrinks as equals at the mandated trainings on cinaddiction. He still wasn't sure where he stood on the controversy. Nervous systems so enmeshed with films that they were needed? Ask him before that party and you might've gotten a different answer. Some artsy guy whose name he can no longer call up goes to a film-free party and gets stuck in the bathroom, don't ask how, and in there he just goes haywire, hyperventilating and rolling on the floor. When they pry open the door, his eyes are husks of glass, face flaring red, and his fists—these he'll never forget—clenched so that his nails leave indentations in his palms. Random frat boy makes the mistake of suggesting he just have a drink and chill out. It takes six to pull the addict off him, face bloodied, and to drag him out to the quad where something is showing. In minutes, he's calmer than a monk. Before that Wes'd been one hundred percent sure it was all mind, but the single incident brought matter neck and neck. It was a weird thing culturally. You could still joke about it but a growing number got classified and wore the wrist chains and took offense if you made light. Still, that's what the emergency reel was for. By law and as a precaution, he needed to get something up there, and so, for the first time in his career, he reached for the bright red wheel.
Wes and Inez stayed in spite of what the world had to say about them, how it typecast them, the Palamoans—gluttonous image ingesters, perpetual dupes, back floaters in a lotus sea. Get a few drinks in her and Inez fired back, a side of her that drew him originally. He loved to sit back and listen: Yeah, navel gazers and deadheads, like you're not going to find those everywhere? Come on, could we possibly be any more disillusioned? We gaze at more navels—see more, experience more. Innies? Outies? (She'd lift up her own shirt at this point to reveal her own adorable outie.) Tonight if I want to I can see a film about gay Indians or the sex lives of Mongolian sheepherders. I mean, everywhere people eat, shit, fuck, and live their little lives, but we … we live across history. We know elsewheres. He dug that she really did want to learn about all of those things, then, at least.
In soberer states, she'd extemporize about how Palamoans knew exactly where the cogs of illusion meshed and where the seams flickered by undetected, how life could be adjusted with the efficiency a tailor takes to a suit: a few seconds trimmed here, an inversion or two, a telling juxtaposition, voilà. Other cities may have known the wrath of monsoon and hurricane, but in Palamoa it was film, film coming down in torrents and pouring onto cutting-room floors, and it could unleash as much havoc as a force of nature, could sweep you away if you weren't careful, leave you stunned and shell-shocked on your porch, wondering what had hit you. If anything, the Palamoans were consummate realists: none of that romantic crap for them, no waiting for rescue, no delusions of being on some grand hero's journey. Their only deity was the mise-en-scène, the frame—the smudgy/hyperlucid/eclipsed/doub/led/fickle frame—that ushered in and closed out, made for happening and nonhappening. The line between abject cowardice and awe-inspiring courage might have everything to do with the frame and nothing at all with your heart. But, Gunther might have posed, what if you were outside the frame? Did you even exist then?
Inez could talk a streak, but for a while she shared her innermost thoughts only with Mervich, Henry H., who'd attained some celebrity with Reintegration Therapy, taking the splintered, shattered heap that contemporary life foisted on you and making you whole, gluing you back together. Guy's all the king's horses, Wes had thought. The treatments, from what he could gather, involved cooking and consuming a steady supply of veggie burgers sold by Mervich himself (they looked like Martian rocks) and taking long, hot baths. Mervich was a millionaire and was seeing Inez thanks to one of her work connections. But she swore by him. That went on for several months, and then one day his fees shot up inexplicably. From that day forward Mervich's name was non grata around the apartment, and Wes wondered but didn't pry, sure she would share when she was ready, but that was never to make it into the frame.
"Into the frame"—yes, metaphors froth in his consciousness up there in the booth. Things can get slow; once he's seen the feature for the fifth time, even at a remove—muffled audio, twice reflected in the double-paned glass—his mind does some odd turns. So, for instance, the give-out reel and the take-up reel move at the same time, but never at the same speed or in the same direction. When the film is starting out, the front wheel spins rapidly backward, and the lower one advances slowly forward. As the film progresses, they switch roles, so that by the end the lower reel is zipping along and the top one has slowed down. But there's that moment—an instant, technically—the absolute midpoint, when the reels, spooling in opposite directions, must be, laws of physics, rotating at the exact same speed. As that instant is perceived it is already gone. The screen betrays nothing; only the one in the booth could know.
And isn't this he and Inez? In mind and body, they occupy almost separate realities. When she is working, he is sleeping in or running his errands, and when she gets home he's headed out the door to project. Hours later he'll stagger in, hopped up on cola and movie candy, or maybe his late-night perambulations have brought him to a peaceful place and he can simply steal under their sheets and listen to her breathe. Only at extremely rare moments are they precisely synchronized. And even then, opposites in so many ways.
Who, he wonders on occasion, is the one in the booth?
The projectionist's nightmare: He is not in the booth. Well, then, the booth—who's manning it? The film running, the booth empty. Where is he? Mired in vague dream coordinates. And the film is hurtling toward its end, which he senses, viscerally as you might intuit the imminent death of a loved one many miles distant. Shit, shit. Running and running, he can't get there, anywhere. The booth stays empty.
In a snap, he was no longer in the booth, the emergency reel up and doing its job. He'd already lost part of his audience, but a sizable number were sticking it out. He'd always wondered what the red reel held, secretly hoping it would be Mothlight. It wasn't—it appeared to be a history of film and the city: scene from Cinema Paradiso where old Alfredo rotates the projector's beam out into the square. Voice-over: "… which some would call Palamoa's moment of conception." Cut to: workers hammering sail on a mast. Scratchy jazz, herky-jerky motion. The stilted quality of a flipbook, its charm. Talk flanked by quaint quotation marks. Pleats, dames.
"Thanks for your patience!" he called out, stepping onto the floor. "A first time for everything! Please enjoy the show while we work out the technical difficulties upstairs!" Should've been wittier, he thought, should've been Wes-ser, called the backup reel the reserve grapes, thrown in some innuendo about the busted sex scene. He was still way out of sorts, though. Anyhow, he could already see them sinking back into their benches, settling into a story that they could never get too much of.
But instead of returning upstairs he slipped away, crossed the street, and ducked into a hidden alleyway. He felt the liberation of a kid playing hooky. On the next block, something epic, Russian, wintry was showing, and beyond that? It was a funhouse, only a funhouse asked of you a single mind state, that peculiar to funhouses, whereas Palamoa demanded a continuous pivot, a peering into the pockets of life as they turned themselves inside out one by one. The films were free, of course, to Palamoans. It had been written into the city charter at the Dimming: They'd never charge their citizens— what next, tax their moonlight, nickel-dime them for the evening breeze?
The breeze, faintly briny, buffeted him along now as he walked. As a teenager he must've covered every block at least once. Ever revising his route, its logic. He'd do this time-travel thing, careful not to repeat any era, meandering through history decade by decade. Chaplin bumbling around inside the house teetering at the edge of a cliff in The Gold Rush→ the dank, misty tunnels below LA in He Walked by Night → the binocular dance of voyeurism of Rear Window → The Apartment's sadlovely rows of corporate futility → the stills at the peerless opening credits of The Wild Bunch → the purple ambush at the close of Vagabond→ Pulp Fiction, any scene, really, but most of all the car, the car, the car → City of God's featureless roof rows, sizzling tempers—he could gallivant over a century, cover the planet in a single swoop. If he timed it right he could hit most of his favorite scenes. It felt like being on a jet plane and watching a continent pass underwing—desert, mountains, lake, city, coast. Going in reverse had its own pleasures, and if you picked your route wisely you could find your way back to the Lumière brothers and Muybridge's horse levitations, which felt akin to catching a glimpse of the Big Bang from the Hubble.
Usually there was no method to his travels beyond serendipity and his nose, free-floating in the zero gravity of visual possibility until something caught him and held him in thrall and denuded him of time and place. Sometimes hormones overcame him and he'd find himself down by the river amid the blocks of warehouses no one had bothered tamping up the paint job on. X-town, where the moans and grunts, feigned and surely some genuine, of couples and threesomes and beyond, would've carried for miles, but were mercifully drowned out by the sweeping sound tracks of less prurient walls. The streets here, darker, cloaked the pedestrian in anonymity, but once he'd spotted one of his teachers there, a Mr. Youngman. Youngman had nodded but said nothing, as if to suggest some shared understanding, some masculine code, though from that day on they averted eyes in the halls.
Past X-town sprawled the Memorial District, a veritable city unto itself. Here they showed solely home movies of the dead, and it was transfixing simply to stand here, taking in snippets of life, candid moments—a steaming blueberry pie outheld, a frilly bikini making its beach debut, gentle ribbing about an old clunker. Only the wealthy got their own walls; for most, an hour if they were lucky, and you learned to time your paying of respects, developed a fondness for the spirits who shared that brick space with your loves. Visiting his own dad's four-minute, thirty-seven-second wall, he'd been struck at various times by:
—his dad's gangliness as he held Wes aloft at the beach and did voice-overs of some encounter between Wes and a dauntless gull
—how even in this joy his expression was sad, as if he knew
—though they never spoke, the mourner who came after him, a woman whose age he could never place, who'd lift her black veil only in the blank seconds before her own father or husband came on, then lower it immediately after, like a curtain
—the awareness that the moths who'd brought him such comfort as an infant had been dead, allowed to live again only as long as the film played
—the notion that one day the Memorial District would run out of walls.
Now he crossed in front of some fire-spitting cyborg that appeared to be taking on a meteor shower with its fists, and he was filled with a surge of pity for the genre junkies, strung out on one block, the ones who OD'd on these sci-fi films nightly, or who dieted on a steady intake of chick flicks, or those who pitched camp on Lynch Row, imbibing Mulholland Drive for time umpteen (by sheer repetition it would come to make sense and ordinary vision go bent and surreal). Even now he would cross midstreet if he got too close to the horrormongers, their eyes fat with blood like sated ticks, their ears echo chambers of screams, their skin scabrous. They looked like they'd come right off the screen and would keep coming at you. A bit wiser than his teenage self, he realized that many of them scraped by as extras by day and just didn't bother stripping off their makeup.
That you could live here and know only your own kind, rarely venturing beyond your own neighborhood … it amazed him, peripatetic who assumed that the city was sprawled out for him, a thousand gifts waiting for his tearing hand. Nowadays, he shuttled mainly between two booths, but at his core he was promiscuous, wanting it all. With films, that is; no such temptation with women, eyes for Inez alone, minus the occasional glance at a union meeting toward Daniella Riordan.
No question this walkout would cost him. His job was probably history. Maybe he could plead with Hatcher, but likely not. At the intersection he paused at the "Don't Walk" clip with renewed appreciation for the footage of the guy waiting at a corner, his comical watch consultation and eye roll. More than a minor celebrity, "Don't Walk Guy" was an existential hero. His "Walk" counterpart, who burst blithely into the intersection, was tougher to find abiding human connection with. When his clip came on, Wes simply crossed.
No, there was no going back. The very thought should have been terrifying, maybe a little exhilarating, but all he could feel was numbness. No longer was he that teenager. He wanted the allure of what beckoned around the corner, but could only feel Inez's image behind, before, around him, her pale body, expansive, folded over edges, rooftops, fire escapes, exposed from angles that only he and a couple of others had ever laid eyes on, till now.
He rehearsed what he might say, tried out lines. "If you'd only told me …" "One nude scene, no big …" "So I'm a stepping stone …" "I feel …" "Fuck …" Outrage felt warranted but pointless. Saintly understanding rang hollow. Blood pounded in his skull. Maybe what cinaddicts felt, withdrawing. He felt his mental screen fracturing: It split, splintered—quadrants, ninths, shards. In one corner he had her by the wrist, in another stared her down, insouciant in the face of her confession; in one they were figuring things out. In one scene he entered, drew, and fired three bullets into her chest and watched the sheets absorb her blood, and in another he let her discover him screwing Daniella Riordan in his booth; in one he was loading his stuff onto a moving truck and in another he had her hauling hers up and in another she was weeping and begging forgiveness and in another she was even now with him, the other one—another begging— he who'd been visible mere moments ago on his own screen, a place as intimate in its way as his bed, and Wes recognized him at last, some producer she'd introduced him to once. Now he replayed the scene, foreign shadows slithering across her body's dunes, but this time his own entered and intervened, and she clutched at the sheets in the universal gesture of the caught, and the film went on with him in it but he couldn't see what happened next.
He needed a blank wall. A wall without image was a wall wanting image was a wall potentially anything. A wall was a screen was naked was stripped down was calling, calling for colored ions to dance up and down it, lick it caress it make love to it. Behold the naked wall. The wall without image, rare enough in Palamoa that it bore an element of eros, like women's flesh in Muslim countries. A wall was a wrist, an ankle, a filament of flesh, an object of longing and craving, something with which one might have a brush but never possess.
The rain felt well timed, bracing. Maybe he'd been dozing through the relationship of late. Dots were there for the connecting. All along, he should have foreseen her betrayal. Clues peppered everything down to their jokes, obvious jokes, obvious clues. He, she claimed, was the stereotype of a projectionist: aloof, holding himself at a distance, never taking action, never revealing anything significant about himself and projecting—of course—onto others: accusations, quibbles, warts—able to see himself only via others. And he played into it, too—"Or maybe I'm just projecting here," he would say, rolling his eyes at the lameness even while conceding its likelihood.
No kid dreamed of becoming a projectionist. It was akin to dreaming of becoming the person who cleans the space suits. Nah, the kid wants to be the astronaut, free-floating from a tether, waving to the marble world, next in peril, oxygen dwindling, some critical part burned to a crisp and the world holding its breath. The kid wants to be aboard the Apollo 13, second wants to be the actor, third to direct it, fourth do the makeup, fifth to hold the lights, tied with fifth to screen the film, tied with fetching water for the actors.
Always, she'd assumed she'd wake up next to a filmmaker someday, thought this whole projecting gig was one long temp job. And for a while he'd talked about going back to school. But it hadn't happened. Over time he'd come to embody projectionism, fused with his projectors in a sort of Buddhist oneness. Some might have been ashamed of the job, but not Wes. He embraced it, went as far with it as you could go. Not just anyone could land a job at 1.2.1, right smack downtown against the smooth side of an old granary with the antiquated equipment, antiquated except that it was the only stuff that could really do the job, which he'd tell you about if you had an hour and nowhere to be. Did you know there were anywhere between three and nine (nine!) reels that had to be loaded on to get through the film? Did you know those things weighed ten pounds, that he had to carry six at once sometimes; who needed a gym? Or that Wes had two blocks and had worked five once when some exotic flu was going around? Anyone could operate the digital stuff, be a robot like the automated system they tried to replace them with every few years, but it took a special breed to do what Wes did. He mixed films into one another like a DJ, blending them together, running closing credits into opening ones, dissolving like his hands were acid. One night he took a nature documentary and draped it, like sheer fabric, over a thriller about investment bankers. The sharks, gray apparitions too long deprived of sun, wended their way through cubicles as if the office had just that day filled with water. Was that plankton in the vending machines? Marvelous.
Word got around—Wesley was one to watch. He fancied himself a grandmaster with chessboards lined up and down, snot-nosed prodigies from all nations put in their places as he slid his retinue of warriors and church officials around the board. Or a Vassilonian chef who juggled several complex dishes at once, undaunted by the dozens of burners. His mom boasted about him to her bridge club, that he had a girlfriend and a lease, and assured him that his father would've been "busting his buttons." The only ones he couldn't seem to dazzle were the only two he wanted to, Inez and Gunther. Dissolve into
Gunther. They are kids, still, on the tracks. They are, what, nine? Ten? In his memory it is a single, long take, the day endless, tracks extending through industrial complexes and abandoned fields and farmland, the ties never letting you settle into an exact rhythm, the boys hatching schemes for derailings, robberies, and kidnappings of secretly willing ladies.
Gunther grabs his shoulder. "Stop."
Between ties, they pause, listening. Wes hears nothing. In the distance, the blocky yellow lights of warehouses and streets, not the single white one growing closer.
They walk on, Gunther chanting some hip-hop tune of his own devising.
Wes knows even then that Gunther wants the actual train, the giant projectile of steel bearing down on them. He knows Gunther will bail from the rails but wants the blowback of air, his clothes billowing outward, his hair splaying, intimations of death and danger. Wes wants these things but does not. He wants Gunther to like and respect him and hang out with him. He wants to go to movies with Gunther, but Gunther does not like to go to movies. Gunther likes girls, real ones.
Flash forward to full-grown Gunther, an avowed, unabashed anticinemite. "Just wait," Wes's mother had insisted, "he'll come around," which he'd always believed, but lately he'd begun to concede it might never happen. Gunther was staunch.
It was something of a cliché: You'd go anticinemitic in college and then become some industry clone a year after graduation. There were, too, the older ones who predated the Dimming and still spoke nostalgically of before, right up to the citywide debates that trialed their tongues and brought forth arguments of such verve and eloquence they were sure they'd triumph. But the darkness had gone forward. Some had had the wherewithal to leave, but for others where would they go; how would they relearn the topos of sidewalk and curb, find an edible knish, decent shoes, and so they stayed on, their grumbling a steady soundtrack even as film lashed at their laundry lines, and it was fortunate that many were hard of hearing and kept to their apartments.
Gunther was old at heart, Wes's mom said, but Inez begged to differ, saying rather that he'd never grown up. Like Wes, he'd been steeped in film from the womb, his mother one of the balloon-bellied who spent hours of her pregnancy under the endlessly looping sonogram in 2.5.6. Just being there, the scientists told them, brought the unborn bliss, for they would sense always a womb that limned the world.
Gunther and Wes had played on streets that were studios and sets and theaters. How, then, to account for his demurral, his stoic resistance? Some wanted the zoning laws to be stricter, wanted to preserve some streets as oases of contemplation (as if there weren't contemplative films. See Fog Line, see Tarkovsky passim). But Gunther wanted it gone, all of it.
Of course he and Inez butted heads. He'd stare into his plate when Wes tried to bring them together; "Dinner with the Dim," Gunther had dubbed it. He'd held his tongue, at least, refraining from accusing her of "nocturnocidal tendencies," part of his larger rant about how the wholecity was an anthill of cinaddicts, not just those with the wrist chains.
"It was like I wasn't even there for your asshole friend," Inez told him that night. "Your nut case, paranoid recluse of a friend. I don't get it. I don't understand the basis of your friendship. You're going in opposite directions in life. I hope."
"It's largely racquetball based these days," Wes told her, which bore some truth. Play they did, though ball whacks were interspersed with confidences and discussion of Deleuze.
She shook her head. "This boy loyalty, I don't get it. If you were brothers it would be one thing. Tell him to grow the fuck up."
He had the sudden urge to see Gunther, wanted his ear, wanted to talk to someone who'd known him since they were measured in inches. Maybe Gunther could offer something, make it go away. He changed course, ducked into another alleyway, little more than a crevice. Gunther's neighborhood was riddled with these narrow old- city vestiges, too close quartered to squeeze films into. They were sanctuary for the Gunthers and, if you believed certain newspapers, terrorist breeding grounds. It was the most ethnically mixed part of Palamoa, neighborhoods that huddled close and went dark early. He hadn't memorized the way but remembered a temple and a botanica, and if he could find one of these he knew he could find Gunther's.
Oh but the darkness was a balm. At that moment he would've stepped straight into another one of Gunther's meetings. The pitchest black he'd ever been in. Literally they'd led him underground, blindfolded, far enough down that street noise receded entirely. Somewhere in the city's guts. It was cold, and even when his eyes adjusted there was nothing upon which to anchor his vision. That was the idea: light purge. They sat in silence for a while. He heard his own breath, no other, and felt attuned to the slightest twitchings of his brain. An ululation arose, followed by something hornlike, and then, one by one, like surfacing orcas, the voices broke:
" … out of a hundred … maybe twelve to pursue further, two of whom said they might come not sure if they're among us right now."
"One is."
" … helped a seventy-two-year-old move to New York."
" … alongside scientists on studies of lungs and particulate matter."
" … book, Palamoaization and the Posthuman due out next year from … University Press … academic respectability … infiltrate the higher institutions of learning … the classrooms."
Drawn originally by curiosity, Wes knew Gunther wanted to win him over to the whole shebang, including the orgy at the end, nakedness, and exploration of touch that shrugged off gender or orientation or background or number involved. Thankfully Gunther had warned him; Wes pictured Gunther himself reaching for him, or returning to daylight not knowing, and so he had opted out of this part of the night, which was fine. Plus he'd just started dating Inez at this point and had no intention of cheating on her.
"It's not even sexual, really," Gunther had insisted. "It's a bracketing out of everything that Palamoa stands for and embracing all that it rejects."
"Sure, not sexual." Wes wondered whether Gunther had really deluded himself so thoroughly in the name of disillusionment.
Maybe he and Inez just needed to get away more. Inez had accompanied the higher-ups to a couple of festivals as part of her job, but the only trips they'd taken together were to Colorado, where Inez's parents had retired after the farm sold. They'd flown into Denver a year into their relationship, made a vacation of it. Altitude or psychosomatic reaction, the first couple of days for Wes were a continuous migraine, everything too sharp, vertiginous. The third evening he strode into a moment as incontrovertible as déjà vu. They were on some street in Lodo closed to traffic, and after dinner and drinks they strode by a Cuban place where a live band out front blared a sweet old mambo, trumpets darting around a sultry crooner. A few feet ahead of Wes, a woman sashayed in a tight black dress, the correspondence between her movement and the sound track so exact he was spellbound, and he wanted to point it out to Inez, who, to his delight when he turned, herself looked like a screen star. She'd been watching with him and declared, "You want her," and he'd tried to convey what he'd experienced but she wouldn't hear of it. "You're human," she said. "It's OK." Then, suggestively, "Make it up to me later."
As they'd gone on arm in arm by the light of the closed shops, headed back toward their hotel, the windows arranged and decorated to snare attention, lit to magic, he had the sense that he was watching a film slowed down, frame by frame, and a further epiphany came on, something that couldn't be confused with sexual desire as easily as a woman's swaying. It was something like: Every city desired to be Palamoa, to be at once frame and light and motion. Palamoa itself, possessing all of these, was yet unsatisfied, for it in turn desired to be a single film that encompassed all, an ideal one that ran through all projectors at once, infinite, one that you would clip at intervals only so that you could splice more, newer footage into the old. He felt that if he could've only expressed this he would've endeared himself to Inez forever.
Maybe he should've called first, was his thought as he rapped Gunther's knocker. Gunther opened the door enrobed, like someone just awakened. For a bachelor he lived well. His unshaven face and the extra pounds, Wes supposed, would not be liabilities in the dark. Gunther always had some blue-haired chick on his arm, some girl who'd quiver, electrified by his "opiate of the masses" talk. Usually the relationship lasted till the girl wanted him to move away from Palamoa, and Gunther steadfastly refused, citing Socrates-like noblesse oblige.
"Shouldn't you be at work?" Gunther asked. Wes caught alcohol on his breath mingled with something from the kitchen that had once been in the sea.
He explained it to Gunther—what he'd seen, how he'd killed the film.
"You're sure it was her?"
"Positive. I doubted it at first. I made sure."
"A telltale birthmark? A chipped tooth?"
"It was her."
"Come in."
Within, sure enough, was the girl du jour, her hair not blue but the ripped T-shirt and spiderweb stockings and the Che button and one with a red slash through a film icon.
"My oldest pal," Gunther introduced him, and then, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe it, "a projectioneer."
"Hey, man, I don't judge," said the girl, whose name turned out to be Aurora. "You're just the hands of the system, anyway, not even like the kidneys, much less the brains."
"No offense."
"Sorry," she said. "You've had a rough night. Let me kick you when you're down."
Gunther spooned him some grilled scallops over salad and poured him wine, then launched into his spiel. Of course Inez had cheated on him. She was cheating on herself, living in a world of simulacra piled atop simulacra, nothing underneath, no foundation but for her makeup, sleeping her way to the top, but, as in an Escher, the top was the bottom, she was just a product of her society, her episteme, etc., etc., etc. Wes knew he should feel grateful but the rhetoric felt canned—he wanted something about Inez and only Inez, something that would make him hate her and leave the rest of the world unaffected.
"Frankly, no woman's worth losing your job over." It was Aurora.
Gunther nodded in agreement. This took him aback. He'd been sure Gunther was going to seize the opportunity to recruit him for the cause. And he was on the brink of signing on for the anticinematic resistance himself, ready to plaster a wall, to disrupt a screening, to grope and be groped in the dark.
Aurora went on. "How long ago did you leave? How quickly can you get back?"
"I don't know …" He, always vigilant about time, having lost it. Had it been an hour?
"This 'backup reel' is still … backing you up?"
"Maybe," said Wes, on his feet now.
Gunther sounded righteously aggrieved now. "Are you going to allow her to ruin your life, take away your means of production?"
At once he felt lucid, poised, coiled. To have allowed her betrayal to steer him astray, how foolish.
"I should go back, shouldn't I?"
"Can you?"
"It may be too late. They may have shut me down."
"OK," said Gunther, pursing his lips. "Look. Here's what we do. Youcut the film, right? No, the film was already cut. A small-scale civil disruption. Our ensemble, we'll own up to it. I'll make the call. We do that, you know. Monkey wrenches in the works. Switched reels, power outages … hasn't happened to you yet, has it?"
In Gunther's eyes he could see that all this time he'd protected, spared. "No, it hasn't," he said as Gunther and Aurora stood there and waved him, parentally, off into the downpour.
He had braced himself for almost any eventuality, but not the one he found: both films still going—as if he'd never left. Methodically he switched the other film on the next block, then headed for the booth where he'd done the deed. He threw his full weight against the door to jar it open. Within was bedlam, since the first projector, never shut down, had been unspooling film all the while, hemorrhaging it onto the floor and the counters and every available inch—tentacles and tendrils of film curling and extending from floor to ceiling, a morass he could wade through, feeling it shudder beneath him. Like a drunk who stumbles across a highway unharmed, the film seemed to have avoided passing in front of the second projector's lens. Thus it hadn't eclipsed the other, had in some mysterious fashion altered nothing, and the crowd—the seats were still mostly full—watched on, blissfully ignorant. He tugged at random strands, knots, pulling on them and holding them up to the light. None yielded Inez. He could make out a house, some establishing shot, a strange beauty in its sheer repetition.
Releasing it, he flicked the switches, and both projectors fell silent. Soon enough this would become a crime scene. Maybe Gunther had already called, the authorities on their way. His time was waning. He flipped on the streetlights and could see their faces—Again?—and, film trailing behind him, he hoisted the giant reel and carried it down the stairs into the canyon.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "we're all the victims of a minor disaster tonight." He urged them not to panic. The anticinemites, it would appear, had struck. He searched their eyes for fear, rage, but found none, so, emboldened, he went on. Maybe they could help him find the spot where the film had been torn asunder. Together they could salvage it, reconstruct it. Maybe, he heard a new intensity infuse his voice, they could stand up to whoever had done this, show the film, damn it, through to its end. Wordlessly, then, they began to rise to their feet, some quicker than others, and reach out, tentatively at first, then with growing resolve, for the film, each of them taking a small strand, positioning their fingers carefully, pinching at the edges. To disentangle it they had to spread out, and the line that began to form went in both directions, up the stairs, down the block. He could envision a whole new way of watching a film, walking beside it, even zooming along at twenty-four frames per second—what a ride that would be! Their arms were outstretched: matronly women, businessmen with sleeves rolled up, a woman in a wheelchair, familiar faces and new ones, arms with wrist chains and bare ones. Even Gunther, it struck him, could get behind this. In the lamplight, they resembled nothing more than mourners bearing aloft a long, winding casket. All films, he thought— everyone—should be held like this once. Eventually they'd locate the end, the fatal wound, and remembering as much, he made himself slow in his movements, as if he might prolong this forever, might never find Inez, might instead slip inside one of the intervening frames and dwell there indefinitely, unknowing.
Tim Horvath is the author of Understories (Bellevue), which won the New Hampshire Literary Award, and Circulation (sunnyoutside).


text:
Subaru Was Overlanding Before it Was Cool
Some brands are just now leaning into dedicated off-road models fueled by the rise in the popularity of the outdoor lifestyle.
By Bryan Campbell
Right now, there's an undeniable swell in the popularity of overlanding, recreational off-roading and adventure in general. At any given motorcycle expo, almost every brand is showing off its new scrambler, dual sport or adventure bike. On the four-wheeled side of the industry, if the SUV, pickup truck or even the wagon in a manufacturer's lineup doesn't have a version that can tackle a rocky road and take you that much further, it's almost written off.
Programs like Backcountry Discovery Routes — an initiative to let off-roaders and adventurers explore the natural beauty of our country's national parks and forest using as few paved roads as possible — are seeing massive growth and expansion because people are demanding it. How else are people supposed to cover their shiny new off-roaders in a fresh coat of dirt, dust and mud? Professional off-road racing is benefiting too. But where brands like Ford, Chevy and Ducati are just now leaning into more dedicated off-road models fueled by the rise in the popularity of the outdoor lifestyle, Subaru has been doing it for decades.
Rally racing has had its ups and downs in this country. Depending on who you talk to and what decade you reference, rally racing, like the type of events the American Rally Association puts on — where small hatchbacks, sedans and vintage cars go from one gravel and dirt trail to another seeing who can finish in the quickest time — either feel like a national pastime or are nonexistent.
Bill Stokes, Subaru Motorsport Manager, wants to use the current overland craze to boost the sport's popularity and, at the same time work with overland enthusiasts to help open up more land for recreational off-roading. "We're hopeful we can find some way of distributing the series so more people can find out about it and watch it and work with the organizers to achieve that." And as far as expanding where the ARA can hold events? Well, the types of fire roads and forest service trails the overlanding community loves so much are ready-made rally stages too. "There's this whole movement for people to go out and use these roads for UTVs; therefore, its easier to then say 'hey, we want to use these roads, but we're also going to drive cars on them as well.' It's a natural fit."
Subaru's relationship with adventure and rally racing is more than just marketing, says Stokes. "To be involved in rallying as a manufacturer, there has to be a product to sell that makes sense in that environment. And we're seeing more rally fans getting involved in more overland-style vehicle modification. There are more folks seeing the adventure angle of rallying and appreciating it for what it is, so we see a lot of support from a grassroots level." And where motorsports tend to attract a niche crowd, the rally racing-overland relationship is more inclusive. "It doesn't just fit for our performance owners; it caters to all of our outdoor adventure-focused owners. It's just more of a fit now than its ever been. Even if we're racing the WRX sedan, people show up with Crosstreks, Outbacks and Foresters, so it makes a ton of sense to continue to support the sport."
Justifying the Most Expensive Subaru Ever is Actually Pretty Easy
More From Interviews
Time Traveling with Aaron Rodgers
Rob Dyrdek Is Driven by the 'Joy of Creation'
Rapper Aminé Has Always Known About Arc'teryx
Leatherman CEO Ben Rivera Loves Customer Feedback
Michael Strahan Talks Mornings, Makeup and More
Neil deGrasse Tyson Talks Watches, UFOs and Space
Marques Brownlee Talks Success, Stardom and Tech
Nick Offerman and Lagavulin
'Ham' from 'The Sandlot' Will Live on Forever
The Secret to Better Skin Is in Your Kitchen


text:
<?php

namespace Suplink\LinkBundle\Controller;

use Symfony\Component\HttpFoundation\Request;
use Symfony\Bundle\FrameworkBundle\Controller\Controller;

Use Suplink\UserBundle\Entity\User;
Use Suplink\LinkBundle\Entity\link;
use Suplink\LinkBundle\Form\LinkType;

/**
 * Link controller.
 *
 */
class LinkController extends Controller
{
    /**
     * Lists all Link entities.
     *
     */
    public function indexAction()
    {
        $em = $this->getDoctrine()->getManager();

        $entities = $em->getRepository('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link')->findAll();

        return $this->render('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link:index.html.twig', array(
            'entities' => $entities,
        ));
    }

    /**
     * Finds and displays a Link entity.
     *
     */
    public function showAction($id)
    {
        $user = $this->get('security.context')->getToken()->getUser();
        $em = $this->getDoctrine()->getManager();

        $entity = $em->getRepository('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link')->find($id);
        $query = $em->createQueryBuilder();
        $query-> select('count(stats.id)');
        $query->from('SuplinkLinkBundle:Stats','stats');
        $query->where('stats.link = :total');
        $query->setParameter('total', $id);
        $number = $query->getQuery()->getSingleScalarResult();
        $entity->statistic = $number;

        $week = $em->createQueryBuilder();
        $week-> select('count(stats.id)');
        $week->from('SuplinkLinkBundle:Stats','stats');
        $week->where('stats.link = :total');
        $week->setParameter('total', $id);
        $weeknumber = $query->getQuery()->getSingleScalarResult();
        $entity->week = $weeknumber;
        if (!$entity) {
            throw $this->createNotFoundException('Unable to find Link entity.');
        }

        $deleteForm = $this->createDeleteForm($id);

        return $this->render('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link:show.html.twig', array(
            'user' => $user,
            'entity'      => $entity,
            'delete_form' => $deleteForm->createView(),        ));
    }

    /**
     * Displays a form to create a new Link entity.
     *
     */
    public function newAction()
    {
        $entity = new Link();
        $form   = $this->createForm(new LinkType(), $entity);

        return $this->render('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link:new.html.twig', array(
            'entity' => $entity,
            'form'   => $form->createView(),
        ));
    }

    /**
     * Creates a new Link entity.
     *
     */
    public function createAction(Request $request)
    {
        $entity  = new Link();
        $form = $this->createForm(new LinkType(), $entity);
        $form->bind($request);

        if ($form->isValid()) {
            $em = $this->getDoctrine()->getManager();
            $currentUser = $this->get('security.context')->getToken()->getUser();
            $entity->setUser($currentUser);
            $em->persist($entity);
            $em->flush();

            return $this->redirect($this->generateUrl('suplink_link_dashboardpage'));
        }

        return $this->render('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link:new.html.twig', array(
            'entity' => $entity,
            'form'   => $form->createView(),
        ));
    }

    /**
     * Displays a form to edit an existing Link entity.
     *
     */
    public function editAction($id)
    {
        $em = $this->getDoctrine()->getManager();

        $entity = $em->getRepository('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link')->find($id);

        if (!$entity) {
            throw $this->createNotFoundException('Unable to find Link entity.');
        }

        $editForm = $this->createForm(new LinkType(), $entity);
        $deleteForm = $this->createDeleteForm($id);

        return $this->render('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link:edit.html.twig', array(
            'entity'      => $entity,
            'edit_form'   => $editForm->createView(),
            'delete_form' => $deleteForm->createView(),
        ));
    }

    /**
     * Edits an existing Link entity.
     *
     */
    public function updateAction(Request $request, $id)
    {
        $em = $this->getDoctrine()->getManager();

        $entity = $em->getRepository('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link')->find($id);

        if (!$entity) {
            throw $this->createNotFoundException('Unable to find Link entity.');
        }

        $deleteForm = $this->createDeleteForm($id);
        $editForm = $this->createForm(new LinkType(), $entity);
        $editForm->bind($request);

        if ($editForm->isValid()) {
            $em->persist($entity);
            $em->flush();

            return $this->redirect($this->generateUrl('suplink_link_dashboardpage'));
        }

        return $this->render('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link:edit.html.twig', array(
            'entity'      => $entity,
            'edit_form'   => $editForm->createView(),
            'delete_form' => $deleteForm->createView(),
        ));
    }

    /**
     * Deletes a Link entity.
     *
     */
    public function deleteAction(Request $request, $id)
    {
        $form = $this->createDeleteForm($id);
        $form->bind($request);

        if ($form->isValid()) {
            $em = $this->getDoctrine()->getManager();
            $entity = $em->getRepository('SuplinkLinkBundle:Link')->find($id);

            if (!$entity) {
                throw $this->createNotFoundException('Unable to find Link entity.');
            }

            $em->remove($entity);
            $em->flush();
        }

        return $this->redirect($this->generateUrl('suplink_link_dashboardpage'));
    }

    private function createDeleteForm($id)
    {
        return $this->createFormBuilder(array('id' => $id))
            ->add('id', 'hidden')
            ->getForm()
        ;
    }
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub