text:
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
<layout xmlns:android="http://schemas.android.com/apk/res/android"
        xmlns:app="http://schemas.android.com/apk/res-auto"
        xmlns:tools="http://schemas.android.com/tools">

    <data>

        <import type="android.view.View"/>

        <variable
            name="viewModel"
            type="io.rmielnik.toast.login.LoginFormViewModel"/>
    </data>

    <android.support.constraint.ConstraintLayout
        android:layout_width="match_parent"
        android:layout_height="match_parent"
        tools:context="io.rmielnik.toast.login.LoginActivity">

        <EditText
            android:id="@+id/loginField"
            android:layout_width="0dp"
            android:layout_height="wrap_content"
            android:layout_marginEnd="24dp"
            android:layout_marginLeft="24dp"
            android:layout_marginRight="24dp"
            android:layout_marginStart="24dp"
            android:layout_marginTop="16dp"
            android:enabled="@{!viewModel.inProgress}"
            android:fontFamily='@{"BloggerSans"}'
            android:hint="Type your username"
            android:inputType="text"
            android:text="@={viewModel.login}"
            android:textStyle='@{"Medium"}'
            app:layout_constraintHorizontal_bias="0.0"
            app:layout_constraintLeft_toLeftOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintRight_toRightOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintTop_toBottomOf="@+id/spinner"/>

        <EditText
            android:id="@+id/passwordField"
            android:layout_width="0dp"
            android:layout_height="wrap_content"
            android:layout_marginEnd="24dp"
            android:layout_marginLeft="24dp"
            android:layout_marginRight="24dp"
            android:layout_marginStart="24dp"
            android:layout_marginTop="8dp"
            android:enabled="@{loginField.enabled}"
            android:fontFamily='@{"BloggerSans"}'
            android:hint="Password goes here"
            android:inputType="textPassword"
            android:text="@={viewModel.password}"
            android:textStyle='@{"Medium"}'
            app:layout_constraintHorizontal_bias="0.0"
            app:layout_constraintLeft_toLeftOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintRight_toRightOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintTop_toBottomOf="@+id/loginField"/>

        <Button
            android:id="@+id/button"
            android:layout_width="wrap_content"
            android:layout_height="wrap_content"
            android:layout_marginEnd="8dp"
            android:layout_marginLeft="8dp"
            android:layout_marginRight="8dp"
            android:layout_marginStart="8dp"
            android:layout_marginTop="16dp"
            android:enabled="@{loginField.enabled}"
            android:fontFamily='@{"BloggerSans"}'
            android:onClick='@{(v) -> viewModel.logIn()}'
            android:text="Login"
            android:textStyle='@{"Bold"}'
            app:layout_constraintLeft_toLeftOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintRight_toRightOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintTop_toBottomOf="@+id/passwordField"/>

        <ProgressBar
            android:layout_width="wrap_content"
            android:layout_height="wrap_content"
            android:layout_marginEnd="8dp"
            android:layout_marginLeft="8dp"
            android:layout_marginRight="8dp"
            android:layout_marginStart="8dp"
            android:layout_marginTop="16dp"
            android:visibility="@{viewModel.inProgress ? View.VISIBLE : View.GONE}"
            app:layout_constraintLeft_toLeftOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintRight_toRightOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintTop_toBottomOf="@+id/button"/>

        <Spinner
            android:id="@+id/spinner"
            android:layout_width="0dp"
            android:layout_height="wrap_content"
            android:layout_marginLeft="24dp"
            android:layout_marginRight="24dp"
            android:layout_marginTop="32dp"
            android:enabled="@{loginField.enabled}"
            app:layout_constraintLeft_toLeftOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintRight_toRightOf="parent"
            app:layout_constraintTop_toTopOf="parent"
            app:selectedValue="@={viewModel.greeting}"
            android:layout_marginStart="24dp"
            android:layout_marginEnd="24dp"/>
    </android.support.constraint.ConstraintLayout>

</layout>

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


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text:
Q: main(String args[]) already defined in class i have been trying to create a little java program that all it does is allow the user to select a txt file and then to print out the file to a printer,
below is the code : i have tried to compile it but i get the error  main(String args[]) already defined in class, this code was working before i added in the top piece of code that allows the user to select a fie, also will what i am trying to do even work ? all i am trying to do is print to a printer the contents of a txt file then ill be done :)
import java.awt.*;
import java.awt.font.*;
import java.awt.geom.*;
import java.awt.print.*;
import java.text.*;
import java.io.*;
import javax.swing.*;

public class PrintText implements Printable {

    // Below the code will allow the user to select a file and then print out the contents of the file
    public static void main(String[] args) throws IOException {

        //selects the file
        JFileChooser chooser = new JFileChooser();
        chooser.showOpenDialog(null);
        File file = chooser.getSelectedFile();
        String filename = file.getName();
        //System.out.println("You have selected: " + filename);  testing to see if file seleected was right
        String path = file.getAbsolutePath();

        //Reads contents of file into terminal
        //FileReader fr = new FileReader("filename");
        // FileReader fr = new FileReader("D:/Documents/" + "filename"));

        FileReader fr = new FileReader(path);
        BufferedReader br = new BufferedReader(fr);
        String mText;
        while((mText = br.readLine()) != null) {
            //Displays the contents of the file in terminal
            System.out.println(mText);
        }
        //fr.close();
         }

        //private static final String mText =
        //    "This is a test to see if this text will be printed "; //This works perfectly fine

        private static final AttributedString mStyledText = new AttributedString(mText);

    /**
     * Print a single page containing some sample text.
     */
    static public void main(String args[]) {
        /* Get the representation of the current printer and
         * the current print job.
         */
        PrinterJob printerJob = PrinterJob.getPrinterJob();
        /* Build a book containing pairs of page painters (Printables)
         * and PageFormats. This example has a single page containing
         * text.
         */
        Book book = new Book();
        book.append(new PrintText(), new PageFormat());
        /* Set the object to be printed (the Book) into the PrinterJob.
         * Doing this before bringing up the print dialog allows the
         * print dialog to correctly display the page range to be printed
         * and to dissallow any print settings not appropriate for the
         * pages to be printed.
         */
        printerJob.setPageable(book);
        /* Show the print dialog to the user. This is an optional step
         * and need not be done if the application wants to perform
         * 'quiet' printing. If the user cancels the print dialog then false
         * is returned. If true is returned we go ahead and print.
         */
        boolean doPrint = printerJob.printDialog();
        if (doPrint) {
            try {
                printerJob.print();
            } catch (PrinterException exception) {
                System.err.println("Printing error: " + exception);
            }
        }
    }

    /**
     * Print a page of text.
     */
    public int print(Graphics g, PageFormat format, int pageIndex) {
        /* We'll assume that Jav2D is available.
         */
        Graphics2D g2d = (Graphics2D) g;
        /* Move the origin from the corner of the Paper to the corner
         * of the imageable area.
         */
        g2d.translate(format.getImageableX(), format.getImageableY());
        /* Set the text color.
         */
        g2d.setPaint(Color.black);
        /* Use a LineBreakMeasurer instance to break our text into
         * lines that fit the imageable area of the page.
         */
        Point2D.Float pen = new Point2D.Float();
        AttributedCharacterIterator charIterator = mStyledText.getIterator();
        LineBreakMeasurer measurer = new LineBreakMeasurer(charIterator, g2d.getFontRenderContext());
        float wrappingWidth = (float) format.getImageableWidth();
        while (measurer.getPosition() < charIterator.getEndIndex()) {
            TextLayout layout = measurer.nextLayout(wrappingWidth);
            pen.y += layout.getAscent();
            float dx = layout.isLeftToRight()? 0 : (wrappingWidth - layout.getAdvance());
            layout.draw(g2d, pen.x + dx, pen.y);
            pen.y += layout.getDescent() + layout.getLeading();
        }
        return Printable.PAGE_EXISTS;
    }
}

Below is the renamed version, however i am getting a new error message : cannot find symbol variable mText
and highlighiting this line of code :
    private static final AttributedString mStyledText = new AttributedString(mText);

improved code :
    import java.awt.*;
import java.awt.font.*;
import java.awt.geom.*;
import java.awt.print.*;
import java.text.*;
import java.io.*;
import javax.swing.*;

public class PrintText implements Printable {

    // Below the code will allow the user to select a file and then print out the contents of the file
    public static void main(String[] args) throws IOException {

        //selects the file
        JFileChooser chooser = new JFileChooser();
        chooser.showOpenDialog(null);
        File file = chooser.getSelectedFile();
        String filename = file.getName();
        //System.out.println("You have selected: " + filename);  testing to see if file seleected was right
        String path = file.getAbsolutePath();

        //Reads contents of file into terminal
        //FileReader fr = new FileReader("filename");
        // FileReader fr = new FileReader("D:/Documents/" + "filename"));

        FileReader fr = new FileReader(path);
        BufferedReader br = new BufferedReader(fr);
        String mText;
        while((mText = br.readLine()) != null) {
            //Displays the contents of the file in terminal
            System.out.println(mText);
        }
        //fr.close();
    }

        //private static final String mText =
        //    "This is a test to see if this text will be printed "; //This works perfectly fine

        private static final AttributedString mStyledText = new AttributedString(mText);

    /**
     * Print a single page containing some sample text.
     */
    static public void printer(String args[]) {
        /* Get the representation of the current printer and
         * the current print job.
         */
        PrinterJob printerJob = PrinterJob.getPrinterJob();
        /* Build a book containing pairs of page painters (Printables)
         * and PageFormats. This example has a single page containing
         * text.
         */
        Book book = new Book();
        book.append(new PrintText(), new PageFormat());
        /* Set the object to be printed (the Book) into the PrinterJob.
         * Doing this before bringing up the print dialog allows the
         * print dialog to correctly display the page range to be printed
         * and to dissallow any print settings not appropriate for the
         * pages to be printed.
         */
        printerJob.setPageable(book);
        /* Show the print dialog to the user. This is an optional step
         * and need not be done if the application wants to perform
         * 'quiet' printing. If the user cancels the print dialog then false
         * is returned. If true is returned we go ahead and print.
         */
        boolean doPrint = printerJob.printDialog();
        if (doPrint) {
            try {
                printerJob.print();
            } catch (PrinterException exception) {
                System.err.println("Printing error: " + exception);
            }
        }
    }

    /**
     * Print a page of text.
     */
    public int print(Graphics g, PageFormat format, int pageIndex) {
        /* We'll assume that Jav2D is available.
         */
        Graphics2D g2d = (Graphics2D) g;
        /* Move the origin from the corner of the Paper to the corner
         * of the imageable area.
         */
        g2d.translate(format.getImageableX(), format.getImageableY());
        /* Set the text color.
         */
        g2d.setPaint(Color.black);
        /* Use a LineBreakMeasurer instance to break our text into
         * lines that fit the imageable area of the page.
         */
        Point2D.Float pen = new Point2D.Float();
        AttributedCharacterIterator charIterator = mStyledText.getIterator();
        LineBreakMeasurer measurer = new LineBreakMeasurer(charIterator, g2d.getFontRenderContext());
        float wrappingWidth = (float) format.getImageableWidth();
        while (measurer.getPosition() < charIterator.getEndIndex()) {
            TextLayout layout = measurer.nextLayout(wrappingWidth);
            pen.y += layout.getAscent();
            float dx = layout.isLeftToRight()? 0 : (wrappingWidth - layout.getAdvance());
            layout.draw(g2d, pen.x + dx, pen.y);
            pen.y += layout.getDescent() + layout.getLeading();
        }
        return Printable.PAGE_EXISTS;
    }
}

A: This error is exactly what it says: you have two main(String[]) methods. You can only have one method with a given name and signature in each class. So you'll have to fix your code in some way that makes that hold. (I.e. rename one of the methods, for starters.)

A: A main method starts like this:
static public void main(String args[]) {
...
...
}

The main method is the entry point to your application. You should only have one so that your application knows where to start.
You currently have of these methods, which is why your application won't run.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


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Superconducting heterostructures fabricated from oxide superconductor YBa2Cu2O7-delta and a composite ferromagnet La0.7Sr0.3MnO3/SrRuO3 interlayer and Au/Nb counter electrode were studied experimentally. Superconducting current was observed at magnetic field H raised up to 2000 Oe, which is greater than saturation magnetic field of manganite La0.7Sr0.3MnO3 (of order 100 Oe) and greater by a few orders than the value of magnetic field corresponding to penetration of one magnetic flux quantum. Microwave measurements of integer and half-integer Shapiro steps in conditions when relatively low external magnetic fieldH < 30 Oe was applied showed that the second harmonic in the current-phase relation of superconducting current becomes as big as the first harmonic. Fourier analysis of I-C(H) dependence allows extracting the components of fractional periods in I-C(H) function that also confirms a deviation from the sinusoidal current-phase relation. The obtained experimental data are explained by theoretical models that predict a huge enhancement of the second harmonic of the spin-triplet component in the superconducting current. The current-phase relation could be controlled by an external magnetic field, changing the directions of magnetization in the composite bilayer ferromagnet, which is inserted between two spin-singlet superconductors.


Should 'stand your ground' change apply to older cases?
It took days to figure out where all the bullets flew when a man licensed to carry a gun exchanged shots with a masked 16-year-old boy and killed him on a busy street in Oak Park last year. Investigators counted about a dozen shell casings outside a bank on Madison Street, according to police reports….


text:
Preserve: Perhaps
Anthony Carfello
The previous Preserve texts can be read here and here.
Esther McCoy, the chronicler of Southern California modernism, once described a first meeting between the architect César Pelli and Pauline Schindler, the "petulant mistress of the famous Kings Road house," following a lecture at SCI-Arc in the mid-1970s.1 Upon introduction, Schindler began a rebuke of Pelli's recently completed Pacific Design Center (PDC) building, already then known locally as the "blue bombshell" or "blue whale." She complained about the 750,000-square-foot showroom complex being entirely out of scale with the abutting low-rise West Hollywood area. Pelli conceded the point, but added the fait accompli that scales were destined to transform—i.e., grow rapidly—as the cost of land rises.
By that point in time, McCoy and Schindler both were intimately familiar with "scale generator[s] rather than ... follower[s]"—to borrow McCoy's description of the PDC in Progressive Architect2—and the declarations of "inevitability" that follow once the forces of financial speculation push such scale shifts ahead and set new definitions for highest and best use.
Down Melrose Avenue to the east, the Los Angeles Unified School District (LAUSD) had owned the architect Irving Gill's Walter L. Dodge House on North Kings Road from 1939–67. Completed in 1916 and considered by scholars to be a crucial link between Mission Revival and the West Coast's take on the International Style, Gill's masterpiece had been turned into a historical document of the West Hollywood of yesteryear in just two decades—much like Schindler's own house to the south—due to L.A. County's population and development boom of the 1920s. Environments designed for the outskirts of downtown quickly had been swallowed into sprawl. A failed plan to convert the Dodge House—a concrete, proto-modern mansion—into a high school was followed by two decades of intermittent and half-hearted uses of the publicly owned edifice. Concurrent with a 1964 zoning change on Kings Road from single-family to multi-family, LAUSD deemed the suddenly exponentially more valuable than before property to be surplus and put it up for sale, giving rise to one of the area's first modern preservation initiatives.3
Even though the Dodge House represented the first of North Kings Road's artistic "residents"—followed by the authors Theodore Dreiser and Aldous Huxley, Josef van der Kaar's Rootenberg House, and the performers and activists contributing to the avant-garde scene cultivated by Schindler—it was clear that preservation was a tall order. Nevertheless, the dwelling's reputation was revived and its place in history fortified via McCoy's spearheading of the Citizens' Committee to Save the Dodge House, rallying for support throughout the mid- to late-1960s with a wide-reaching letter-writing and outreach campaign, including a film she produced in 1965 to raise awareness.4 Schindler contributed to the effort, too, alongside the likes of the architectural historian Lewis Mumford, the Museum of Modern Art curator Ludwig Glaeser, the prolific Southland bank designer Kurt Meyer, and the default modernist laureate of L.A., Richard Neutra, who warned that anything other than preservation of the Dodge House would "become an epic and international scandal."5
Following the duplicitous 1950s in Los Angeles, which saw the urban removal of Bunker Hill and the swindling of the Chavez Ravine neighborhoods of La Loma, Palo Verde, and Bishop, few thinking Angelenos could still harbor illusions that demolitions of houses for subsequent developments in increasingly costly sections of the region implied any benefits for working-class communities. In line with the original idea of using the Kings Road structure for education, there was enough square footage in the Dodge House to accommodate several potential activities, though no prospective venture with cash in hand sought anything other than demolition and market-rate apartments until financier Bart Lytton took possession in 1967. Known for replacing the Garden of Allah hotel on the Sunset Strip with Kurt Meyer's zigzag-roofed Lytton Savings, the bank baron proposed to preserve the house while surrounding it with dozens of residential units. Those plans were scrapped as Lytton went bankrupt. The deed was passed to the Torrance, CA–based Riviera Management Company, who maintained the preordained scale shift and swiftly demonstrated that the Dodge House was no longer "useful" by bulldozing it early one rainy morning in February 1970.6
In her eulogy for Gill's creation, Ada Louise Huxtable wrote in the New York Times that the demolition was indicative of the state of American real estate, "a profession which finds itself, in its growing battles with the public conscience, increasingly without respect or credence." Underlining the motivation for altering scales in the built environment for any readers needing the extra hint, she included the brief afterword: "Who cares, with a pocket full of money?" The privately owned apartments that supplanted the Kings Road landmark opened in 1973, every bit as lucrative as intended. In 1984, the City of West Hollywood was incorporated, partly, in recognition of tenants' rights and the importance of controlling rents—the 194 units were converted to luxury condominiums7 soon thereafter, further changing the terms for profit.
A small memorial relief and plaque in Kings Road Park—the sliver of municipal space remaining from the land owned by the public school system for nearly thirty years—is the only lasting physical presence of the Dodge House since it became a "real estate investment," per Huxtable's caption for a photograph of the architecturally significant rubble. Dating from 2009 and produced by Brickstone Studios as a public art project, this low wall, similar to those marking archaeological sites of previous settlement, is all that is left to suggest that the location as it is was ever in question.8
Photos and caption from Ada Louise Huxtable, "Blue Monday in Los Angeles," New York Times, March 8, 1970, D23. Top: Walter L. Dodge House, Marvin Rand (c. 1930s) for Historic American Buildings Survey/Library of Congress; Bottom photo: Dodge House in the midst of demolition, photographer unknown (possibly Harvey Steinberg), 1970.
Everyone in the above recount is now dead and the stretch of Kings Road between Melrose Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard that they knew is long gone, with one exception. Fresh memories of the Dodge House's dedicated defenders motivated Pauline Schindler to take charge of preventing her own influential home from becoming a pile of real estate investment after she passed away. Built in 1921–22 by her ex-husband, the Austrian émigré architect R.M. Schindler, and considered to be the first truly modern house, she anticipated that the unscrupulous specter of acquisition nonetheless would descend at the first opportunity. Simultaneous with the César Pelli tête-à-tête, she was laying the groundwork for preservation of the parcel so as to keep it available to the cultural producers who had frequented the location throughout her decades in residence. She succeeded (by way of the Friends of the Schindler House who took possession in 1980) and the dwelling since has survived multiple West Hollywood scale changes, never facing destruction or its own impending eviction.
The myth that cityscapes in the United States undergo drastic changes as part of "natural" cycles has an impressive lasting power regardless of how regularly and repeatedly it is proven to be a scam. Whether it be recent hyper-gentrification or midcentury urban renewal, one always finds someone standing to gain telling those who will lose that there is nothing to be done to counter the winds of change or sands of time or turning of the page, etc. Despite the explicitness of real estate turning cities into ceaseless (rigged) competitions, the expectation persists that the side with the lower odds will always just forfeit the game. Developers and investors continue to be surprised if not affronted when communities, especially ones contending with their own dismantling, tell them that they would prefer not to have their contributions.
My interest in exploring whatever possibilities for spatial justice might be extracted from existing practices of historic preservation has been rooted in the fact that the campaigns and debates accompanying the "saving" of a building are one of far too few venues where the favored team occasionally can be seen on the defensive. As unambiguous challenges to a status quo that does not care about anyone's sudden alienation from familiar environments, organized preservation efforts actually can prompt direct, public conversations in ways that feel increasingly harder to come by in the era of hedge fund landlords, shell companies, and LLCs. While the cheaters frequently prevail, the underdogs have notched enough victories—and taken control of enough narratives—that there is perhaps an underutilized potential for preservation to pivot and become a useful contributor to today's perpetually growing housing and right to the city movements. Or at least the overlaps between the two endeavors have kept my mind open to the possibility.
Scholars and practitioners have encouraged a shift from the preservation of historic buildings to the preservation of places and spaces for some time, in part influenced by moving past the myopic tendencies that have made the discipline complicit with elitism and filled with barriers to entry, especially for BIPOC histories.9 Exacting standards of material integrity have too often connected preservation in the popular imagination with historic districts full of property value obsessed NIMBY homeowners. Adjacent to that might be the impression of contemporary adaptive reuse, usually found rebranding commercial buildings to manufacture and sell suburban fantasies of bohemian life at the expense of bordering working-class neighborhoods. By and large, though, the approximately 15,000 historic house museums in the country10 comprising much of the public's interaction with preserved locations privilege architectural masterpieces or the estates of deceased wealthy white people, bringing preservation organizations to the same questions of relevance that many museums face: Whose stories are told, whose are ignored; can engagement last beyond the tourist's visit; what does the in-person experience offer that cannot be found elsewhere in the attention economy?
That said, a great deal of these extant notable buildings in the U.S. still enjoy their continued existence thanks to what is at its core an antagonism toward remorseless property development, albeit one that sprouts from self-regard. Preserved structures persist due to both a refusal to be deemed obsolete in a society where every square foot is subject to new and nonstop exploitation and an unwillingness to go on participating in the risks built into the market. More often than not, unfortunately, those adversarial foundations become enveloped by egocentrism and are consistently and quickly forgotten in favor of emphasizing the specific history represented. Certainly, this is fostered in large part by a project's sustainability planning and the ongoing fundraising needed for conservation—patrons, foundation representatives, and government officials need to be shown time and again why that place is important to insure against new hazards. At its worst, though, this leads many preservation organizations to exude an exclusionary air of "got mine, fuck you"—if it is not about their property's appreciation it is not about them. The real estate prospector who would dare threaten their site is seen as suspect and harmful, but the rest elicit only shrugs or "thoughts and prayers." An even more common result of this inward focus is that a municipally or nationally sanctioned historical significance is conveniently utilized by those same developers who would have swung the wrecking ball if they could, but in lieu of demolition have adapted to advertising the proximity to a landmark as a way to inflate prices. This then makes it easier for the organization to solicit contributions, as they can point to their own recognition as a "cultural asset," leading the initial hostility to morph into an implied partnership.
Do successfully preserved locations such as those thousands of historic premises and house museums across the country instead owe something more to the communities around them? Absolutely. From greater commitment to protecting the legacies of marginalized Americans to more inclusive approaches that expand what is preserved, other models are needed to ensure that preservation does not continue risking total insignificance by keeping too narrow a focus, and many practitioners are dedicated to the various forms that must take.11 Here, I imagine that a common characteristic of the discipline of historic preservation, refusal, might be deployed for purposes of general anti-displacement along with classic heritage conservation.
Aerial view of the Kings Road House, 2014, digital video still from drone footage by Refik Anadol. © MAK Center.
Buildings once facing demolition, destruction, or dereliction carry on standing after broad outreach, outpourings of statements testifying to their importance for the fabric of the city, and multi-level coordinated pushback through formal and informal channels, making them the estranged cousins, so to say, of tenants associations, legacy business programs, and anti-gentrification organizers. Different addresses notwithstanding, preservation fights and anti-eviction protests are part of the same ecosystem of resistance to capitalistic domination of space. There can and should be an expectation that these more comfortable survivors of real estate pay it forward and engage habitually with those dedicated to similar struggles against being told by outsider investors that they have overstayed their welcome in their own home. It is a choice between demanding equity or standing aloof to the rampant devastation that will only exacerbate as property predators descend upon violently vacated apartments, foreclosed houses, and boarded-up storefronts in the wake of the COVID-19 pandemic.
Recently, architects, curators, designers, and preservationists launched an impressive and fast crusade to aid the Corita Art Center at Immaculate Heart High School in Hollywood in pressuring L.A.'s Cultural Heritage Commission to grant monument status12 to the endangered building across the street that once housed the artist Sister Corita Kent's studio. Currently a dry cleaners, the former workshop was imperiled by plans for a new parking structure. Dozens upon dozens of impassioned enthusiasts called, emailed, and Zoomed, imploring for the protected designation and reminding the commission that only three percent of the city's landmarks are connected principally with women.13 It was a success, and the studio was saved. Three weeks earlier, it was local residents, housing activists, and the neighborhood institution Eastside Café who mobilized in order to reclaim a handful of the over one hundred empty houses owned by the California Department of Transportation in El Sereno. Homeless parents and children moved indoors for Thanksgiving. Within hours, these new tenants were brutalized and dragged back outdoors by a platoon of California Highway Patrol officers.14
I suggest that it should not be a false equivalency to ask why preservationists and preservation organizations could not be as involved with this action as they were with Sister Corita's former studio. Here, once again in Angeleno history, Latinx families were being told that their time in the city had expired and that they do not make the decisions affecting their neighborhoods. It is akin to the kinds of external control over fate that motivate preservationists in much less life-and-death situations. The same participation methods as the Cultural Heritage Commission meetings were available for those who could not be present physically to vocalize their disapproval, from contacting the offices of Governor Newsom or Councilmember Kevin De León to signal boosting online and contributing donations (not to mention that the first highly publicized reclamations in El Sereno already had occurred in March,15 offering plenty of time for interaction before November). Yet this effort at the preservation of community attracted no historic preservationists or representatives of Historic-Cultural Monuments on the Eastside or elsewhere. Not even the fact that the area contains enough enduring examples of Southern California domestic vernacular architecture to comprise an entire historic district was enough to pique the interest of any antisocial, building-centric purists waiting on the sidelines to be convinced, demonstrating exactly the indifference inherent to the stereotype of the WASPy preservationist and the detached historic site.
It is possible to envision that the methods of advocating on behalf of Sister Corita's studio could be applied elsewhere: this was efficient and vehement bottom-up organizing. Why should it not be directed to more radical ends to fit disastrous times? For example, the Downtown Crenshaw group in Leimert Park is working right now to purchase the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Mall, a streamline moderne shopping center that has been a nexus point for the district and the surrounding Black and Brown communities of South L.A. since the late 1940s. The organizers have successfully blocked pending sales of the neighborhood hub to the out-of-town, Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump–affiliated CIM Group and LIVWRK/DFH Partners while agitating for the beloved beacon to be turned over to a representative coalition of local investors. Classic preservation of place and heritage on one hand (undeterred by the 1980s-era additions to the complex); anti-displacement strategizing on the other.16
Even though Downtown Crenshaw is not a preservation entity per se, they are effectively achieving the relevance preservationists are seeking. Compare that with the Los Angeles Conservancy, a nonprofit dedicated exclusively to preservation. They set a well-meaning and pragmatic precedent this past year for preservationists to put their skills to work raising awareness of small businesses confronting the possibility of closure after decades of service. The stewards profiled plenty of establishments, no matter the integrity or renown of their buildings, and encouraged take-out orders to help keep numerous neighbors afloat. Nevertheless, the GoFundMe, Change.org, and cash mob models predate the emergencies of 2020 and have proven insufficient to date for discouraging the vultures from circling. The immediate resolutions help, but do not undo the systemic rot.
Might there be a more holistic approach for transferring preservation's fundamental refusal of removal to more diverse related causes? A "solidarity preservation" might see historic preservation destinations becoming resource centers and info shops, offering trainings and courses in navigating governmental and legal systems, playing host to grassroots organizers' fundraising events, serving to connect those entangled in different battles in different areas, conducting teach-ins about land use law, and on the whole serving—i.e., solidarity, not charity nor hierarchy, and definitely not an individual's project—to equip people with more of the tools and network needed to combat erasure.17 While communities in crisis are already providing this for themselves, à la Downtown Crenshaw and tenants unions, preservation has strategy and experience to contribute, especially when it comes to myriad forms of agitprop expressing how the problems around one building are the problems of the entire city.
Such repurposing is a necessity for preservation's own survival, but be aware that such a dreamy reorientation would only be possible if preserved locations embrace and became steeped in the spirit of dissent that has enabled their present. Imagine visiting the mall thirty years after Downtown Crenshaw successfully purchases it and not finding any reference to or hearing any mention of the struggle that kept the center community-oriented—that is analogous to the experience at too many preserved points of interest, especially those regularly welcoming a public. What this does is perpetually undercut the fact of open conflict with real estate speculation that has been inseparable from the practice of historic preservation in the United States since even before the loss of New York's Penn Station in 1963. In turn, the dastardly developers are able to treat each preservation initiative as a one-off inconvenience rather than an existential menace that could proliferate—even though every successfully saved place is a denial and denunciation of their business. Any unionist would recognize the scenario: organizing with other sectors, preservation could contribute to a formidable bloc, but alone it is easily neutralized. If the losses of 2020 cannot inspire preservation to remember where it came from, then the next attempts to champion a prized piece of history will be disregarded, even more so than they are now, by those devoted to extinguishing other growing threats.
This proposition stems from a missed opportunity for solidarity.
Pauline Schindler's former home on Kings Road in West Hollywood was restored throughout the 1980s to return the redwood, glass, and concrete residence to its condition upon completion in June 1922. The house's flattening of traditional hierarchies, slab-tilt construction technique, open floor plan, and elimination of the distinction between indoor and outdoor space introduced an entirely new vocabulary to regional architecture, though its design was also heavily influenced by the activity that would come to define the site. A "cooperative dwelling for two young couples," the Kings Road House would become a center for radical political organizing and arts throughout the 1920s, frequented by avant-garde composers and performers alongside activists and attorneys for progressive causes. More than anything, it was a headquarters for the spirit of experimentation intrinsic to modern architecture, music, and their overlaps with leftist thought.18
A partnership with the Austrian Museum of Applied Arts (Museum für angewandte Kunst [MAK]) launched the MAK Center for Art and Architecture in 1994, which presents dozens of exhibitions and events in and around the house each year. From 2009 to 2019, my job was to produce them. While the MAK Center program has been dedicated to the same unconventional exploration that defined the half-acre lot in the 1920s, in terms of art and architecture, the actual house's preservation is quite standard. A knowledgeable team of conservators—the Friends of the Schindler House—continually maintain and rehabilitate the structure in minute detail, as funding permits, with the intention of keeping things as they once were even though the parcel now clings to its spot in the middle of a condo canyon.
Kings Road House, 2014. Photo by Joshua White. © MAK Center.
Conventional practices notwithstanding, the MAK Center actively has tried to disassociate from the notion of the historic house museum, precisely because of the standoffish navel-gazing tendencies observed in too many such organizations across the country. The goal has been that Schindler's house holds on as a place in the world of today for connecting with contemporary concepts and conflicts, not a time capsule with docents in period dress. Program participants have discussed everything from photography to migration stories to critical theory to social and spatial practices to prison abolition to criticism of the Japanese government's response to the rebuilding of the Fukushima area after the Tōhoku tsunami to countless other topics including, discernibly, modernist architecture around the world.19
The program has "thought globally," if you will, but looking back I ruminate on the ways it has "acted locally." While many of the projects and topics have originated from various contemporary art and architecture discourses that naturally overlap with Angelenos' concerns, there indeed have been efforts to relate the historic place with immediate community dialogues. In 2003, the MAK Center openly criticized the plans for Lorcan O'Herlihy Architects' Habitat 825 condominiums next door, a luxury development encroaching upon the house and masquerading as a solution for a densifying city. How Many Billboards? Art In Stead in 2010 joined Kings Road with twenty-one different zones around central L.A., in part to highlight the dominance of advertising in the built environment. The 2011 exhibition Sympathetic Seeing: Esther McCoy and the Heart of American Modernist Architecture and Design told the exact story above about the demolition of the Dodge House and its ripple effects for preservation on the street and in the region.
Yet the MAK Center never touched upon the unfair eviction in 2013 of Irv's Burgers one block north on Santa Monica Boulevard, which shuttered a neighborhood icon. Built circa 1946, the walk-up food stand once was one of hundreds of quick dining options found across the Southland in the pre-McDonald's era. First operating as Queen's Burgers, the prototypical roadside shack was taken over by Irv Gendis in 1970 and then operated by the much-adored Susan Hong since 2000, withstanding waves of neighborhood change to end up one of the last Route 66–era businesses on this stretch of the Mother Road.
Queen's was a hangout for the likes of John Cassavetes and Shelley Winters in the 1950s, and then—because of its late hours and proximity to venues and the Sunset Strip—became a fixture of the overall L.A. music scene of the 1960s and '70s, counting Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Jimi Hendrix as regulars. It was so much a quintessential American burger joint that it made the perfect visual accompaniment to Linda Ronstadt's 1978 album Living in the USA, showing the "first lady of rock" at Irv's counter as dusk falls over the busy West Hollywood streets.
Linda Ronstadt, Living in the USA album, inside sleeve, 1978.
Celebrity aside, the structure serving as home to Queen's/Irv's was nondescript until similar ones started to vanish. The architect is unknown and its style is simply North American mid-twentieth century commercial. But as the City of West Hollywood, which was incorporated in 1984 as a haven for LGBTQ+ and Russian Jewish communities of renters, became a primarily white and wealthy one in the 2000s, where the majority now earn over $100,000 annually20 and therefore can absorb the loss of cheap eateries, Irv's was threatened with exactly the kind of dispossession that accompanies gentrification elsewhere.
In 2005, when the owner wanted to demolish the structure and erect a Peet's Coffee, Irv's became a typical preservation cause célèbre, with the "Burger Brigade" campaigning on behalf of both the business and the building, lobbying the city to declare 8289 Santa Monica Boulevard a Local Cultural Resource and preventing destruction to the furthest extent usually to be had in Los Angeles County (by way of complicating the demolition permission process). MAK Center played no part.
The city agreed to preserve the building; the business was left to fend for itself. Once Irv's was deemed stable, however, the battle against avarice turned to congratulatory measures like installing historical markers and framing the burger stand as a kind of archival document rather than an innocent victim of real estate. As is common with commercial investment properties in changing areas, the owners—The Standard Oil Investment Group (at the time headed by the fashion designer Marc Bohbot)—would not offer Irv's a long-term lease. Unsurprisingly, in 2013, Hong received a 67% rent increase and the individual David vs. individual Goliath narrative was reborn rather than any wider querying about who has the right to stay in West Hollywood and who does not.21
Advocates pointed to Irv's many links to Hollywood history and American mythos while others claimed that the "eyesore" was an unnecessary burden on the property owners and their ability to fill the adjacent parking lot with a new beach-themed (sand included) restaurant. A street emphasizing consumption and tourism was no longer accommodating to a utilitarian operation. Another scale shift had occurred, a new version of the same omnipotent economic presence that MAK Center and the Kings Road House and hundreds of blocks around the county know all too well.
Irv's was kicked out and the Beach Nation bistro repurposed its remains as part of its kitchen before closing just three years later. Today, the landmark is part of a restaurant called Conservatory. While the same historic preservation marker as the one in front of Pauline Schindler's house sits outside, the diner's corpse is given the Weekend at Bernie's treatment and used as a cafe.
Top: Conservatory, 2020. Photo by Anthony Carfello; Bottom: Signage designating two City of West Hollywood Local Culture Resources.
Exiled from its home of over six decades, Irv's reopened in a newer storefront space down the road at the corner of North Laurel Avenue, hanging on for a few more years until closing permanently in November 2018.
The possible expansion of focus for historic preservation sites that was sketched above—with the already preserved redeploying resources to the yet to be saved—is informed unmistakably by the ways in which the MAK Center program could have performed during this exact displacement but did not. In retrospect, I wish we had. The organizational experience, audience, and network were all there to share in camaraderie with Irv's as a co-equal historic part of the urban fabric that was being cut away and discarded before our eyes.
Irv's Burgers as a landmark, top, as a real estate investment, below.
The realization in hindsight has been that MAK Center was not seeing itself and its origins in the burger shack. In somewhat literal terms, the architect and author Charles Moore had described the Kings Road House as "a real shanty" in his 1984 guide to L.A., but the kinship of two gathering places safeguarding their rightful territories as living history should have been undeniable. I reckon that the airs of being a "masterpiece" could have caused the same nearsightedness as the typical historic house museum in the case of some of the more conservative preservationists in the Schindler orbit, but those directing MAK Center program activities customarily steered clear of insularity.22
Locations are contextual: as the geographer Doreen Massey writes, their definition "does not have to be through simple counterposition to the outside; it can come, in part, precisely through the particularity of linkage to that 'outside' which is therefore itself part of what constitutes the place."23 At many times before the food feud, there had been no trouble understanding the MAK Center's office as also being determined and interpreted by way of other spaces. Preserved houses in L.A. by modernist peers Richard Neutra, John Lautner, Gregory Ain, and others were highlighted annually; connection with central Europe was built into the institution's administration; off-site projects by collaborating artists intertwined the Kings Road House with myriad other addresses; and the organization owns two other R.M. Schindler–designed buildings in two other neighborhoods. Rapport with Irv's—as people affirming place, not only the structure at 8289 Santa Monica Boulevard—no doubt would have been reasonable.
Pacific Design Center and Hugo's Plating, 1997. Photo by Patrick Downs/Los Angeles Times via Getty Images.
Maybe the program and conservation simply had gone too long enjoying the privilege of not needing to understand itself as also being a defensive project against financial scale shifts. Another shack/shanty that was still close at hand in West Hollywood when the MAK Center began—Hugo's Plating Company—spent a quarter century in exactly that need, living a both/and existence of being a business with a specific purpose and a representation of the past being present. A metal-plating shop for reconditioning home fixtures, Hugo's inhabited an aging cottage that already had spent over fifty years on a 1,750-square-foot lot on Melrose Avenue next to a former railroad switching yard by the time agents of the forthcoming Pacific Design Center (by César Pelli) tried to purchase it. Archetypal holdouts and thus also a default preservationists (for a stretch of time at least), owners Emma and Otilia Diaz remained steadfast for twenty-five years in their refusal to consider selling, no matter how much the upscale development offered. The massive merchandise mart was built anyway, with a horseshoe rampart of tall Ficus plants to hide the supposed blight from the eyes of its chic customers.24
Day in and day out, proprietor Hugo Castaneda could be found out front or among the "vats of heated nickel, brass and copper that bubble[d] away"25 in the shadow of the sleek blue whale taunting from above and in the wake of the changing scale that Pelli foretold.
Hugo and the Blue Whale, c. 1988–89, video still.
"It's getting to a point where you're seeing nothing but concrete and glass ... and all the little people are just getting pushed out. Where do they go?" asks one of the interviewees in David Bret Egan's Hugo and the Blue Whale, a twelve-minute vox pop–style student documentary aired in 1990 as part of PBS's POV series that collected reflections on the relationship between Hugo's and the PDC.26 Subjects addressed the changes illustrated by each, and opinions differed as to which building was the actual eyesore.
In 1997, Castaneda was forced into retirement after the Diaz sisters raised the rent and then quickly sold the thirty-five-foot-long property to the PDC. It was instantly demolished. For a period, though, a physical space representing an era in the history of West Hollywood stayed put—the next generation could see it, whether to appreciate or disparage—just like the Kings Road House, just like Irv's Burgers. But now even more like the Dodge House, as only articles, photos, and a short film remain.
Perhaps with the sensibility of mutual support recommended—being sisters in arms with neighbors needing to stay conscious of their potential displacement—more guidebook editors would see it as absurd to list the Kings Road House and PDC as being architectural allies only because both fall within the relatively tiny 1.89 square miles of West Hollywood. Along with most other preserved locations around the U.S., Schindler's house is open for visits only because it had the support needed in order to make itself useless to real estate. The real kindred spirits are those at risk of disappearance. Continuity comes with an obligation to rally for those bracing the scale shifts ahead with less secure footing. There are many Irv's Burgers in our midst.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Jones Dairy Farm is an American, privately owned food company that produces a series of meat products, including breakfast sausage, ham, Canadian bacon, breakfast bacon, scrapple, and liver sausage. The company was established in 1889. The Jones family has owned and operated the business since its establishment by Milo C. Jones.

History
In 1832, Milo Jones, a government surveyor, moved from Vermont to Fort Atkinson, Wisconsin, with his wife and two children, to establish a traditional dairy farm. This small family farm produced primarily cheese, but also raised pigs for their own consumption. In 1849, Milo C. Jones was born and soon joined his family in working the farm. At the age of 35 the younger Jones developed rheumatoid arthritis and was unable to continue working on the farm, however in 1889, with the family facing financial difficulty, he decided to begin a sausage-making enterprise in the family's cheese room using his mother's traditional family recipe that had been brought from Vermont. Milo Jr.'s sausage production technique was unique at the time: instead of pork trimmings, he made his sausage using ham, loin, and shoulder cuts.

Milo Jr. began selling his sausage to Wisconsin grocers, neighbors and friends, but quickly expanded into large markets, such as Chicago, New York City and Boston, and began delivering product by rail. Unlike most sausage makers of the day, Milo advertised heavily. This advertising originated with direct mail, and expanded to national magazines like Saturday Evening Post, Literary Digest and Good Housekeeping as early as 1903.

Jones Dairy Farm established a number of industry firsts. In the 1920s Jones was the first meatpacking company to quick-freeze sausage, which allowed shipping throughout the United States and abroad without the need for chemical preservatives. The company was also the first to introduce a line of fully cooked breakfast sausage and one of the first to offer a "light" breakfast sausage product. Jones also became one of the first meatpacking companies to operate a modern bacteriological laboratory on-site to monitor and test food safety. The company is one of a handful of companies (and the only privately owned company) that meets the standards of the American Association for Laboratory Accreditation, a nonprofit public service dedicated to the formal recognition of testing laboratories, inspection bodies and proficiency testing.

After Milo C. Jones Jr.'s death in 1919, he was succeeded as president by his daughter, Mary. She was followed by her nephew, Alan Jones, in 1960 and then by his brother Edward Jones in the 1970s. Alan's son, Milo C. Jones III became president in 1983. Edward C. Jones, Jr. (son of Edward) became the seventh president in 1995 and his son Philip Jones, the great-great grandson of company founder Milo C., became president and CEO in 2001.

Location
Jones Dairy Farm is set on  and encompasses the factory, crop fields, and the original farmhouse where Milo Jones I settled in 1843.

On December 27, 1978, the property, except for the modern plant, was listed on the National Register of Historic Places. This includes the old post and beam barn built around 1839, a greenhouse built in the 1840s, and the horse barn built in the mid-19th century. Also included is the farmhouse begun in the 1840s and expanded in the 1860s, 1910, and 1922, the sausage kitchen added in 1907 (designed by D.I. Davis and Associates of Chicago), a Colonial Revival house built by one of the Jones sons in 1897, and another built in 1930.

Products
In addition to the original breakfast sausage recipe, which has remained unchanged since 1889, Jones also produces hams, bacon, Canadian bacon, liver sausage and scrapple for both retail and foodservice customers. These are sold both in traditional supermarkets and grocery stores, as well as by special order from the company's website. Jones Dairy Farm owns scrapple producers Habbersett and Rapa.

Sponsorships
Jones offers a number of products certified gluten-free by the Gluten-Free Certification Organization, a program of the Gluten Intolerance Group, of whom they are a sponsor. Jones also promotes awareness of celiac disease by sponsoring the Celiac Disease Foundation and is a benefactor member of the Celiac Sprue Association.

In 2015, Jones sponsored an annual scholarship for culinary students at Pennsylvania College of Technology.

References

External links

Jefferson County, Wisconsin
Meat processing in the United States
American sausages
Farms on the National Register of Historic Places in Wisconsin
1889 establishments in Wisconsin
National Register of Historic Places in Jefferson County, Wisconsin

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


The trails are closed during wet conditions. Visit urbantrailco.com/status/ for updates.
This is a rocky descent from Marty's Woods down to Maccochaque, which then continues on southward to eventually exit the woods to Powerline, which can connect you back up to the top near Fisher Park TH Connector. The latter part of this was added in 2017 and provides a nice alternative to riding all the way up Powerline.


A 33-year-old man in Portland was arrested earlier this week at an area Toys R Us for, get this, attacking shoppers with a lightsaber. Seriously.
Police arrived at the store after receiving a 911 call about a guy swinging a lightsaber at customers with absolutely no motive. Hmm, perhaps he'd just seen Episode I: The Phantom Menace for the first time? That'd be enough to make anyone rage.
The cops attempted to subdue the man, but he wasn't having any of it - he's a man of the dark side now! They even tried to tase him, but he was able to knock one of the wires away with his lightsaber to render it useless.
Eventually, cops wrestled the man to the ground the old-fashioned way, arresting him and then taking him to a local hospital for psychiatric evaluation.


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text:
Q: How to get unique variant option2 values in Shopify I'm trying to create a section inside the product page where the user chooses a color of a shirt (as well as the size)
I learned that to get separate values for variant options, I should loop through the variants and get variant.option1 for the first option and variant.option2 for the second option.
However, it's rendering each option multiple times since there's a combination (small + red, large + red, hence renders red twice, for example)
How can I render each color once? uniquely?
Also, if anyone could get me a template I could use that renders multiple variants, I'd really appreciate it. Help online is barely available for Shopify.

A: Use uniq
{% assign options = '' %}
{% for variant in product.variants %}
    {% assign options = options | append: ',' | append: variant.option2 %}
{% endfor %}
{% assign options = options | remove_first: ',' | split: ',' | uniq %}

{% for option in options %}
{{ option }}<br/>
{% endfor %}


text:
Change For Good » Jordi Cortes
All posts by Jordi Cortes
Final year student of Development studies and International Relations, interested in gender inequality, human rights and development. Big fan or Harry Potter, there is nothing like magic.
Vietnam: By Jordi Cortes
Global Citizens
Travelling to Vietnam is an exciting opportunity, not only from an academic point of view but also from a cultural perspective. With a population of over 90 million people, Vietnam has shift from a centrally planned to a market economy,…
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text:
Q: Use additional Latex packages for math expressions in RMarkdown `output = "html_document"` I`m aware how to use additional Latex-packages for pdf-format output from .Rmd files using
---
header-includes:
   - \usepackage{mathtools}
---

in the YAML header.
However, this does (of course) not work if one specifies output: html_document.
---
output: html_document
header-includes:
   - \usepackage{mathtools}
---

Using additional Latex-Packages could be of interest for output: html_document, too - especially in math expressions (MWE below)
---
title: "MWE"
output: html_document
header-includes:
   - \usepackage{mathtools}
---

## Use "Defined by" Symbol

$$sin(x) \coloneqq \frac{opposite}{hypothenuse}$$

A: MathJax offer a number of extensions, and there are third-party extensions as well. If your desired package is not available in this way, then things get difficult.
Simple commands, such as \coloneqq, can be recreated using \newcommand. The simplest way is to add these via the include-before option. Using your MWE with a solution from Mathematics Meta SE, one gets:
---
title: "MWE"
output:
  html_document: default
include-before:
- '$\newcommand{\coloneqq}{\mathrel{=}}$'
---

## Use "Defined by" Symbol

$$sin(x) \coloneqq \frac{opposite}{hypothenuse}$$

Output:

Background
RMarkdown is build around pandoc, which performs most of the format conversions. Pandoc creates PDF via LaTeX (by default), and will simply include any raw LaTeX commands which are given in the source. When seeing \usepackage{mathtools}, the package is not parsed, but the command is simply added verbatim to the intermediate LaTeX.  However, when exporting to HTML, it wouldn't make sense to pass through LaTeX commands, so any such command will simply be omitted from the output, so any \usepackage in your document won't effect the HTML output.
Alternative solution
If you are using very complex LaTeX-packages, then you could consider setting up a complex pipeline to still use it: E.g, one could use a pandoc filter to extract all equations, compile each equation as a separate document, and then convert the resulting PDF to SVG. Finally, that SVG can then be included in the HTML output.  This is non-trivial and probably not worth the effort.  A similar approach is recommended to include TikZ pictures.


text:
WHAT WE PLAY FOR
by Jackie Sizemore
From Fall 2017
Summer in the suburbs meant Tamara and I spent a significant part of our free time mowing our parents' lawns, leaving hidden pockets of long grass. I kept asking for a pool, one of those giant plastic tubs that sit in the yard. I dreamed of all the grass I wouldn't have to cut. My mom said a pool was a waste of money.
"Marni," she would sigh. She always sighed my name, dragging the 'a.' "Summer is what, two, three months here?" Then she'd give me a dollar for the pool at the park. She'd switched to the hospital's night shift so we'd have a bit more money, but that also meant she was always cranky. So I spent most weekends at Tamara's because her dad worked for the county court and she had a hot tub and all the public pools were too cold anyway.
Tamara and I were eager for eleventh grade. At our school, junior year was the big divider. If it wasn't clear already what people were going to do with their lives, it would be then. Vocational classes or college prep, those were the options. Tamara kept saying I should do the hair program but I was too scared to commit. I like dying my hair different colors, I'd say. Not those little highlights like Tamara did in her wide, curly hair. Mine was pink then, butI was thinking about trying purple next.
"Haven't you seen Grease?" I'd ask Tamara. "I'd be like Frenchy, the beauty school dropout after fucking up some nice lady's perm."
Tamara said I pretend I don't want things when I think they aren't going to work out. Also, I'd heard the hair program kids spent a week learning different ways to part hair on their faceless mannequin heads. I was like, how hard is it to move a part from the middle of someone's head to a zigzag on the side?
One night in July, I remember the streetlight was glaring in my bedroom window keeping me awake, so I texted Tamara all these crazy questions. The big ones of life. Like, what does it all mean? Life sucks and then you die she'd written back. Should I marry a rockstar? Only as a back-up plan. Want to go to Warped Tour at the end of the month? Let's take the van.
Except it wasn't really her van, it was her older brother Ryan's.
If Tamara and I ever wanted to go somewhere, Ryan offered to drive. It wasn't like he was busy with anything. But he could have blasted music in his room, or gone on his computer, or whatever else he did at home. Tamara said he did shrooms once but I didn't want to believe her, so I didn't. Drugs were another weird divider at school. There were plenty of people who smoked pot, or stole beer from their parents for parties, but anything beyond that was seen as pretty out there by most of us. I mean, I knew the guy who was going through his ecstasy phase, grinding his teeth through music class, or the girl who bumped into trash cans at lunch and said excuse me. I was a little more worried about her. Ryan didn't seem like the adrenaline junky type, or the bored type. He was naturally chill. He didn't need drugs to make him more interesting, and I didn't want to imagine him swapping high stories with the teeth grinder.
Ryan had graduated from our high school two years before, which makes it sound like he wasn't that much older than me, but he was a super-senior, and I was young for my grade, so we were four years apart. At Tamara's house, I would always put my backpack by everyone's shoes and listen to Ryan's speakers vibrate the ceiling. In ninth grade I looked in his room when he was out back. The walls were dark blue with posters sticky-tacked around. There was one from Clockwork Orange, all artistic, a big eye with fake lashes and that droog hat.
Whenever Ryan said he could drive us somewhere Tamara asked if he was sure. He'd tell her not to be a brat. Sometimes he'd change to a better black T-shirt. But we'd all meet in the van, Tamara in the passenger seat and me on the far left side of the row seat. He took out the back row because there were never actually seven passengers. One time I said he should put a couch back there and he said it was a good idea. Whenever I rode in the van I was in charge of pulling the thousand pound door shut. It was sticky and I'd have to pull it back and forth until it finally came loose. Ryan always waited a bit before asking if I needed any help, but I wanted to look strong so I'd say no.
Sitting right behind him in the van, I was the closest I could be to him. I think he knew that. That summer, Tamara and I were on a horror movie streak, which was stupid because we spent half the movie with our hands over our eyes asking each other Is it safe yet? Is it over? Sometimes I'd catch him looking at me in the rear view mirror as we rolled down Main Street to the video store, or maybe he was just driving. It was hard to tell. I'd test myself with how long I could meet his gaze, feeling sick and excited and hungry all at the same time. He'd put his hundred CD book on his lap and flip through, like he was deciding what to play for us. The van only played tapes, but he had a tape that connected to a CD player. After a few sleeves, he'd slide a CD out and say, "I think Marni wants something angry," or "I know what Marni wants to hear," and it was always Korn. I know they got really cool a few years ago when nu metal was in, and their newer stuff doesn't have the same punch, but it's what I wanted to hear. In the light blue van with the sliding door that stuck and Ryan's eyes looking back at traffic or maybe at me, I wanted it so loud that my toes bumped off the floor of the van. So loud that I could hold the metal rings in my ears and feel the bass buzz so low it wasn't even a note.
But I was never alone with Ryan. Any time we talked Tamara was right there. Which was fine, I mean, he was her cool older brother. But what if he was looking at me in the mirror on purpose? At the time I felt like nothing could ever happen with him. All I know is, that summer, I found myself wondering more and more about him. Like if Tamara suddenly had to go somewhere and Ryan was in the backyard and he'd be like we should have done something sooner and then we'd tear at each other's clothes underwater while the hot tub bubbled around us. I'd get these thoughts even when I was supposed to be hanging out with Tamara. What kind of friend was I, dreaming up alone-scenarios with her older brother?
The Sunday before the Warped Tour concert, I woke up early so I could mow the lawn before it got too hot outside. Then my mom woke up and got mad because apparently the grass was short enough already and now I might have killed it. The lawn was a war I could never win. My usual Sunday would have been hanging out with Tamara, but she was busy. Ryan slept in late on Sundays anyway. So I was wasting time on my computer, scrolling through a website of the world's most elaborate pools when Logan, the thrower for the track team, messaged me asking what I was up to that day. I said nothing so I'd sound cool. His mom decided to go on a last minute vacation with her boyfriend so he had the house all to himself. I knew what he meant––if I went over we wouldn't have to pretend-watch a movie in the basement. I was curious about what I might get away with without being watched by any parents, but there was only one thing I hadn't done yet and I'd already decided I wasn't losing my virginity to a thrower. For sure. I'd only hung out with Logan a few times after school. Nothing serious. Definitely driven by boredom. Definitely just hanging out, and certainly not my boyfriend.
Before that summer hit, Logan started finding ways to talk to me about homework. Then he asked what I liked to listen to, and ended up snagging concert tickets to the Deftones. After the show he slouched forward to kiss me and I couldn't think of a reason not to kiss him back. He seemed like a quiet-weird guy, not someone who was going to give me any trouble with feelings and shit. All he did at the concert was the sway-and-grind dance. That's what Tamara called it. But I made him dance behind me so I didn't have to remember him being there if I didn't want to.
He opened the door to his house wearing his uniform of black on black. Pink Floyd played in the background, and he was in this pseudo-depression because who doesn't get a little sadder listening to The Wall? He led me upstairs by the hand, which was strangely sweet of him. His hand was sweaty and hot, but I didn't want to pull away and get mopey. At his door, I danced my toes across the line of carpet separating his room from the hallway.
"You can come in, I'll put on some other music," he said. He put The Wall away and slid Dark Side of the Moon out of its cardboard cover. The record player clicked back on. His mom had written her last name across the rainbow shooting out of the prism on the cover, which kind of ruined it. The needle rolled across the scratches. I remember telling myself that I was there to hangout and not have to worry about someone's parent walking in. Odds were Logan wasn't going to get another weekend with the house to himself, so I figured after this my quota for messing around would be satisfied for a month or two, and I could ditch him, once and for all.
Logan was good looking, I told myself. I'd never seen him without a shirt on because he was self-conscious of his lack of abs, and I'd only felt him on the outside of his jeans. He sat down on his bed, patting a spot next to him. The whole bed moved in a wave.
"Yeah, it leaks. I change the towels out though," he said.
"You sleep on a wet bed?"
"It's good for me. Keeps me tough."
It was weird, I'll admit. But I'd already biked all the way to his house. I anchored myself to the wooden frame and tried not to lean on the mattress. A poster of four girls' asses with each Pink Floyd cover painted across their backs hung beside me. My mind spaced out to Pink Floyd harmonizing about lines on a map when I felt Logan's hand sliding down my waist.
"Oh, right," I said.
He licked my neck and tried to bite my ear but he bit my earring instead. I said ouch so he'd know not to try that again. Back to my neck, then my collarbone, my shoulder. Improvement for sure. I stood so he could pull my jean shorts down. He left them around my ankles, which I thought was quite rude. I had one foot free when he tugged my hand back toward the bed. We sloshed back and forth, kissing. Cold water seeped through the green towel and into my shirt. I imagined how I would tell all this to Tamara later and smiled to myself over how funny it would be.
"I've got stuff," he said.
"I'm kind of cold," I said. But when I sat up he was holding a plastic grocery bag with a box of condoms in it. His smile was confident but his eyes looked about twelve years old.
"I figured, house to ourselves, you could stay the night and…"
"You think I'm having sex with you?" I'd already asked myself my standard question: Can I live with losing it to this one? Logan was a no, so it was a no. I pulled my shorts back up and buttoned the front quickly.
He wouldn't stop moping about it, of course. He'd already told his friends, he'd bought the condoms just for me, he really liked me.
I compromised. "I'll give you a blowjob, but that's it." I knelt on the floor so I could roll my eyes without him seeing.
Logan sat back into his leaking waterbed, his hands unstable against the waves. His legs were that sickly white that hasn't seen the sun, even though it was summer. He rolled up his T-shirt at the bottom so it wouldn't get in the way. It was a good thing he was so small, otherwise the waves might have popped him against the back of my throat and made me gag. I had a steady rhythm going but his thighs weren't twitching, and his hands were busy balancing himself on a mattress made of water. Worse, he wasn't making any noise at all. Like I was a mind reader or something. It's got to be soon, I kept thinking.
"I can't come from these," he said.
"What?" I stopped and held him to the side like he was a cell phone and I was talking to somebody in another room.
So to recap, I was on the floor with rug burns on my knees, freezing in my wet shirt, giving some guy action that he hadn't really deserved. Meanwhile, he was vacillating between showing how pissed he was that he wasn't getting laid––like he even knew what that meant––and putting on a show of how much he felt for me.
I got off my knees. He stared at the ceiling trying to look dramatic as I fixed my T-shirt facing away from him. Walking out of his house, I thought of the perfect way to text Tamara about it: Have sympathy for my sympathy blowjob.
The next day was Warped Tour. Tamara and I consulted on our outfits via text because we wanted to look equally punk but not matching. I decided to wear white because most of the other people would probably wear black. Out-punking the punks. My hair was freshly blue due to a jolt of hair-spiration from the night before. My fishnets matched the dye perfectly. At some terrible morning hour, the van coughed a hello from the street.
"C'mon, sucker!" Tamara waved me over.
Goddammit, I thought. But I forgave her. Her hair was up in twisted-bun pigtails, and her best pink spike-studded bracelet popped against her golden skin. She never burned like I did.
In the car, I wondered if Ryan knew what I'd been up to with Logan. I didn't think it was something a sister gossiped about to her brother, but I didn't like this sudden feeling of worrying about it.
"Did you do anything fun this weekend, Marni?" Ryan said.
Tamara laughed.
"Nothing worth remembering," I said.
We drove out of the suburbs listening to slow electronic music, some DJ I'd never heard of. The world moved in slow motion, people drove to work at the beat of our music. Nobody talked, not wanting to break the spell. The houses got bigger and the space between them spread farther and farther apart. I remember a shell of a barn collapsed on one side with a red X spray-painted across the front. Lawns turned to farms and then back to grass plots with white "For Sale" signs shoved into them. I was glad to escape, fully ready to slam myself against other punks.
Ryan made sure the music played loud enough to give us a proper entrance to the amusement park. It was the only place big enough to host six stages of bands at one time. I could see lights flashing and roadies doing sound checks. Way in the distance, the rollercoasters launched half-empty cars and the pirate ship reached its highest point before swinging back down. I watched a bunch of kids pile out of an actual mom-van. They got in line without looking back. Their mom looked exhausted, and I pitied all of them. I swung the van door shut and hurried to the clustered line of people. Tamara and I stood close to each other and pointed out the best and worst outfits.
"Tight red pants, 11 o'clock," I whispered.
She pretended to look at her phone in Mr. Red Pants direction. "Nice. Oh unfortunate goth dye job at four. See the stains behind her ears? She probably doesn't even know."
"Well, she'll see it in a mirror at some point." I laughed.
Tamara and I spent the morning kicking our legs and arms out at the small stages. The Canadian ska bands and punk groups looked like guys from our high school. By noon, a blue line of sweat ran down my neck. I wished I had washed my hair a few more times so the dye had set.
With hours of dancing to go, I figured we'd better rest up. We lay on an open space of grass outside a covered concert pavilion while a band set up, or broke set, it was hard to tell. All around us, small pockets of punks fixed makeup and adjusted boots. One of the morning stage bands wove through the grass, handing out pins and flyers. I remember they walked with the most attractive member in the lead. Marketing, I thought.
"Check out those dudes, hitting on twelve year olds to sell their CDs," Tamara said.
"Ah fame." I gestured theatrically. "Is it already too late for us?" I'd been complaining of break-out bands with ages closer and closer to ours.
"I don't know," Tamara said. "It's hard to guess their age with all that eyeliner."
"Well I hope they are really, really old."
"They're probably Ryan's age." Tamara assessed the band members, who had wandered downhill to play with a baby wearing Converse and a Ramones T-Shirt.
Ryan wasn't that old, plus he'd only graduated high school a little bit ago. He had his own space in Tamara's house and I knew he cooked dinner sometimes. I asked Tamara if she thought Ryan was still figuring things out.
"Figuring out that he's kind of a loser?" She laughed. "At least you and I have plans. You'll be a hairdresser who sells jewelry on the side, and I'll go to high school part two and get one of those certificate things."
"You mean hair artitste!" I shook my blue hair at the sky.
"Well Ryan needs to get going already. It's like he's never thought about what he wanted to do with his life. He even had an extra year to think about it. But my dad says as long as he doesn't see him on the other side of the court room, he doesn't mind supplementing his slug life."
Tamara kept leaning forward slightly like she was expecting something from me. I knew what my role was. I was the best friend so I was supposed to join in. Tamara wanted to complain or have a mean-session against her brother, which I would totally understand. Except it was Ryan.
We wandered around looking for a band to watch. We thought we were pretty into the punk scene, but the truth was, we only knew half the bands. A Hare Krishna guy in an orange toga handed me their book in front of a slushie stand, but I didn't take it because I didn't want to carry it around the rest of the day. Then I heard a sound I couldn't place. Tamara said it was bagpipes so we ran towards it. The audience was packed tight except at the very front where a group of beefy guys with fraying jean vests had formed a circle. But instead of a mosh pit there were three girls doing Irish step dancing. The crowd's attention kept switching between watching the girls and watching the band, all while clapping in rhythm. The song ended in a flurry of instruments and I realized there was a woman playing a violin in the band. Cool.
The violin hummed quietly and another song began. A man sang softly, like how I imagine a pirate on a ship would sound as he was rallying the crew after they lost someone at sea. He was all "m' boy," and I was like "what?" but I loved it. The drumbeat sped up and the bagpipes got louder and I felt a hole in my chest fill up that I didn't know was empty. The music burst in a crash of cymbals and guitar and mandolin. The girls in the circle started up again, their arms stiff at their sides and their fleet flying like fucking Riverdance. We reached the circle and one of the vest dudes let out a "whoop!" I spun circles and grabbed one of the Irish dancing girls who looked more Italian to me. Tamara bounced on her toes behind the edge of the circle but she joined in with the clapping.
We danced there until the sun cast a pink tone to the dust on everyone's shirts and shoes. The last show of our day was Rancid, which seemed like the most old school punk we could get our hands on, but of course now I know better. Tamara wanted to get really close to the stage this time, so close that her pictures would show all the wrinkles on the band's faces. The crowd was stacked along a slightly sloping hill. The smell of sweat and pot hit us in waves. We pushed through one person at a time. I'd had my fill of fun, and honestly would have been happy watching from somewhere in the middle. But we kept going. Sometimes I had to wait while Tamara squeezed between two sweaty guts to catch up with me. We'd just started descending on the hill when we heard someone nearby shouting "princesses." I turned around and saw a giant meaty man in a cut-off shirt and cargo shorts. He had his hand wrapped around Tamara's arm.
"The punk rock glitter squad! Such lovely, young. . . "
A roadie walked toward the microphone and the crowd, launching the crowd into a sheep-like cheer. The roadie waved and spoke mic checks into the microphone like he was an actor in the Shakespeare movie we'd watched in tenth grade.
"Stop it," Tamara said. The man ignored her.
"A little sticky, eh?" He squeezed her arm. "Are you excited for Rancid, princess?" The man howled like a wolf. "Yeah! Out come the wolves!" That's when I noticed he was swaying. He steadied himself on Tamara's shoulder. She froze. I could feel her leaving the crowd and hiding inside herself.
I tried to yell at him to let go of her, but the roadie's self-indulgent guitar solo drowned me out . People standing close by threw sideways glances our way, but no one was going to help. I pushed my way back to Tamara.
"You fucking creep, get off her."
"Ho! That's some mouth for a princess," he said. He uncoiled his arm from Tamara and reached for my face.
"Don't touch me either." I slapped his hand away. People turned towards the three of us. Someone yelled, "Yeah get him!"
The man stared at his hand like he was still registering the slap. He didn't seem to have any friends around. I wished that they would show up and haul him away. Then I realized they might be as bad as him, and un-wished that thought. The man smiled, wrapped his arm around Tamara's chest and cupped her boob.
I'm not sure what I did next. Tamara said I screamed a bunch of nonsense and threw my whole body toward him. When he fell to the ground, I stood over him pointing and yelling. "You think you can just get what you want? She's wearing a T-shirt and that means you can touch her boobs? You're a creep, a poseur, you probably don't even like punk music!" This was the ultimate insult my mind could come up with. Our mini-audience agreed, and vocalized their support.
"My bad, my bad." The man held his hands in front of himself, flailing like an upside-down turtle. He wobbled to a crouch before standing. In his drunken mind, he must have sensed the vibe turning against him. "Warped Tour, woo!" He shook his fist, "Oi!" Some cheers responded from a distance, but they weren't close enough to see what was happening. He stumbled off towards the stage.
Tamara gripped her camera tightly. I pried one of her hands loose and led her back out of the crowd. We needed fresh air, a breeze, and an absence of drunk dudes. Four guys walked on stage, but we were so far away they looked like mowhawked stick figures to me. The crowd clapped, yelled, whistled, and surged to the front. We took refuge behind a waist-high wall separating the seated audience from those who wanted to stand and dance.
"You okay?"
"Hey, we're finally seeing Rancid. They're all the original guys too. I know they're going to play 'Time Bomb' for you, like, for sure."
Rancid closed the show with an encore of our favorite song, which Tamara bounced along to. We followed the river of people out of the stage area and into the amusement park itself. We rode rollercoasters and gravity defying rides until Tamara felt like herself again. The park closed, and our skin shone under the fluorescent lights with layers of sunscreen, sweat, and anger. We knew we had it pretty good, but it was fun to be pissed. We people-watched from a stone wall facing the parking lot, the cement cooling our fishnet thighs while we waited for our ride home. Like an idiot, I'd forgotten to put sunscreen on my legs and had a crisscross shaped sunburn.
The bass line of a Korn song droned from the parking lot. I was buzzed on hunger and burnt-out on sun. I thought about wrapping my legs around Ryan in the front seat of the van. We walked through the row of other teenage punks waiting for rides back to the suburbs, or the city, or the farm, wherever they came from. We all looked the same so it was hard to tell.
"How's my little anarchist?" Ryan asked Tamara through the open window.
"Less Than Jake was awesome this morning, so you were totally wrong," she said.
"Did you see The Causalities like I told you? Wait you guys saw ska bands?" They bickered back and forth while I tugged the V-neck of my shirt down just right.
As we drove back through the one-lane roads, I felt our energy slip lower between the empty spaces of an electro-duo's breakbeats. Ryan rested his arm on the door, driving lazily with one hand. Tamara fell asleep against her seatbelt. When Ryan noticed, he pressed the volume down, shaking his head at his sister.
Before I lost all my nerve, I wrote a message on the back of a receipt with a black marker from my purse: Call me if you want to do something about this.
At the street in front of my house, Tamara woke up and looked through the pictures she'd taken with her camera. I slid over to the middle seat.
"You need help getting out?" said Ryan.
I pressed my note onto his thigh and strong-armed the door open like I knew what I was doing. Tamara never even looked up from her camera screen.
Halfway through junior year, my friendship with Tamara fell apart. Turned out we each thought we were the one working harder to keep the other happy. After a series of handwritten notes and one final coffee shop sit-down, we decided to hang out in different circles. I got my guidance counselor to place me into the hair program starting in the spring. I figured it couldn't hurt. It wasn't like I was signing a contract to go to real hair school or anything.
Over winter break, I disappeared into my room and my computer. My mom was happy that I was finding direction, and probably pleasantly surprised I'd cut the umbilical with Tamara. I was digging through the state university art department's program trying to figure out the differences between their degree options when Ryan called.
He didn't stay on the phone too long. There was too much for us to say and finding the right words to begin seemed pointless. I told my Mom I was meeting up with some friends and drove her car to the coffee shop. His van was already in the slush-covered parking lot. Its tailpipe spouted a cloud of smoke into the night while the van shuddered. I parked a few spots away by a light post, unsure of my next move. I remember pushing my hands to my chest trying to tell my heart to calm down. I took one last look in the mirror to make sure my makeup hadn't melted off my face before stepping into the cold.
The driver side window rolled down and I heard the faint noise of music. Snow settled on my coat and caught in my hair. My cheeks were hot and cold at the same time.
"You want to go somewhere?"
"Sure." The confidence I'd felt on the phone was wavering. What was I going to say? What would he tell me? At the time I felt, whatever happened, nothing would be the same between us. A small part of me worried this would be a one-time thing. Another part of me wondered why I was even worrying about that.
"Cool, come on in," he said.
I walked around the back of the van.. The passenger door opened easily. I tried to hop up into the bucket seat as smoothly as possible. The van was dark inside but I could see Ryan's face from the faint glow of the tape player. The music was different from what I'd heard outside his window. I kept my eyes on the floor, concentrating on the rhythm. Then I recognized it, one of Korn's slower songs. I looked up and Ryan was staring through me. He opened his mouth to speak then shook his head, smiling.
"What?" I said. Had I done something stupid already? There was nothing I hated more than seeming young.
He reached across the space between our seats for my hand. I jumped, hoped he didn't notice, and then remembered I still had my puffy gloves on. I pulled them off and let his hand find mine. Sweaty hands or not I was going for it. I shifted in my seat and leaned toward him. His other hand brushed through my hair and cupped the back of my neck.
"You're full of surprises, you know that?"
I jammed my armrest back and leaned in. "You know it."