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Homethe good doctorThe Good Doctor Season 5: Preview on Episode 18! - WATCH
The Good Doctor Season 5: Preview on Episode 18! – WATCH
This new and emotional season is ready to return every week to give us a thousand emotions. What's happening in episode 18 of The Good Doctor Season 5, entitled Sons, airing May 16, 2022 – Let's give a look together at some preview for the episode!
The Good Doctor Season 5×18 Sons: Synopsis!
ABC has released a synopsis for episode 18 season 5 of The Good Doctor. Let's find out what will happen.
"Sons"– Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. Wolke's parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of "The Good Doctor," MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (TV-14, V) Watch episodes on demand and on Hulu the day following their premieres.
Synopis
"Sons" was written by Jessica Grasl & Nathalie Touboul and directed by Steven Paul.
Promotional pictures
ABC hasn't released the promotional photos for The Good Doctor 5×18 yet. We will added them as soon as they will available.
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) FIONA GUBELMANN
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) NOAH GALVIN
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) NOAH GALVIN, KATHE MAZUR
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) BRIA HENDERSON
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) KATHE MAZUR
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) GIACOMO BAESSATO
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) TROY MCLAUGHLIN, RICHARD SCHIFF
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) GIACOMO BAESSATO, NOAH GALVIN
THE GOOD DOCTOR – ÒSonsÓÐ Shaun and Lea make a big life decision and are pleasantly surprised by the support they receive from their friends at the hospital. Meanwhile, when Dr. WolkeÕs parents show up with a revelation, Asher struggles to accept that he and his father may never truly understand one another on the season finale of ÒThe Good Doctor,Ó MONDAY, MAY 16 (10:00-11:00 p.m. EDT), on ABC. (ABC/Jeff Weddell) RICHARD SCHIFF, FREDDIE HIGHMORE
Promo for The Good Doctor Season 5x 18 Sons
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The Good Doctor Season 6: Preview on Episode 12! – SYNOPSIS
Monday TV Ratings: The Good Doctor held steady


ECCLESIASTES 6:10 KJV "That which hath been is named already, and it is known that it [is] man: neither may he contend with..."
7All the labour of man is for his mouth, and yet the appetite is not filled. 8For what hath the wise more than the fool? what hath the poor, that knoweth to walk before the living? 9Better is the sight of the eyes than the wandering of the desire: this is also vanity and vexation of spirit. 10That which hath been is named already, and it is known that it is man: neither may he contend with him that is mightier than he. 11Seeing there be many things that increase vanity, what is man the better? 12For who knoweth what is good for man in this life, all the days of his vain life which he spendeth as a shadow? for who can tell a man what shall be after him under the sun?
That which hath bene, is named already, and it is knowen that it is man: neither may he contend with him that is mightier then he.
That which is, has been named before, and of what man is there is knowledge. He has no power against one stronger than he.
That which is hath already been named; and what man is, is known, and that he cannot contend with him that is mightier than he.
Whatsoever cometh into being, the name thereof was given long ago, and it is foreknown what man is; neither can he contend with Him that is mightier than he.
6:10 Is named - This is added as a further instance of the vanity of all things in this life. That which hath been (man, who is the chief of all visible beings) is named already, by God, who, presently after his creation, gave him the following name, to signify what his nature and condition was. Man - A mortal and miserable creature, as his very name signifies, which God gave him for this very end, that he might be always sensible of his vain and miserable estate in this world. With him - With almighty God, with whom men are apt to contend upon every slight occasion, and against whom they are ready to murmur for this vanity, and mortality, and misery.


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Q: Create a vector to shoot a projectile at angle of cannon I need to set a projectile in motion doing this (Box2d):
projectileBody->SetLinearVelocity(b2Vec2(shootVector.x, shootVector.y));
I know the angle (it's the rotation angle of the cannon), and I'm sure it's simple to create shootVector given the angle but I can't figure it out. I know tan(angle) = y/x.
CGPoint shootVector = (???, ???);

A: Assuming angle of the cannon is from the x axis:
CGPoint shootVector;
shootVector.x = velocity * cos(angle);
shootVector.y = velocity * sin(angle);

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


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Eustis és una població dels Estats Units a l'estat de Maine (EUA). Segons el cens del 2000 tenia una població de 685 habitants.

Demografia
Segons el cens del 2000, Eustis tenia 685 habitants, 302 habitatges, i 170 famílies. La densitat de població era de 6,8 habitants/km².

Dels 302 habitatges en un 26,2% hi vivien nens de menys de 18 anys, en un 44,4% hi vivien parelles casades, en un 8,6% dones solteres, i en un 43,4% no eren unitats familiars. En el 32,1% dels habitatges hi vivien persones soles l'11,3% de les quals corresponia a persones de 65 anys o més que vivien soles. El nombre mitjà de persones vivint en cada habitatge era de 2,27 i el nombre mitjà de persones que vivien en cada família era de 2,9.

Per edats la població es repartia de la següent manera: un 24,4% tenia menys de 18 anys, un 7,6% entre 18 i 24, un 28% entre 25 i 44, un 26,6% de 45 a 60 i un 13,4% 65 anys o més.

L'edat mediana era de 40 anys. Per cada 100 dones de 18 o més anys hi havia 101,6 homes.

La renda mediana per habitatge era de 28.000 $ i la renda mediana per família de 35.000 $. Els homes tenien una renda mediana de 27.614 $ mentre que les dones 21.111 $. La renda per capita de la població era de 13.274 $. Entorn del 7,7% de les famílies i el 14,3% de la població estaven per davall del llindar de pobresa.

Referències

Comtat de Franklin (Maine)
Entitats de població de Maine

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


I have been struggling with combing my two favorite ways of making art- watercolor and oil painting-for three years now.
There are many reasons I have wanted to do this but at he top of he list is that we've all gotten so used to seeing color through a back lit screen that there's an expectation of brightness in order for color to visually satisfy.
It's hard to get that kind of intensity in oil paint.
The Golden Paint Company has a new line of watercolors called QOR that are as bright as you get and I've enjoyed the results I've gotten with them.
So far there isn't any work that I'm aware of that combines these two mediums in an archival way.
I like that kind of challenge.
Working in a way that's technically difficult gets me to really concentrate which just plane make the work better.
My long term technical advisor Martha Bergman, formally of Gamblin Paints, has been hugely helpful with advice and general cheering on.
One of Martha's suggestions that been HUGE is to paint on Terraskin, a paper made of Gesso.
My long term framer, Eric Gardner, has helped me work out the technical glitches of glueing the Terraskin onto panels for a great painting surface that handles both mediums beautifully.
My long term use of chemically melting cold wax into Galkyd Lite has helped seal the surface, protecting the watercolor from the elements.
Finally, finally, the paintings started to work in a way I hope they would.
This is especially sweet after much disappointment and cast aside work.
My Portland dealer Charle Froelick even had to tell me last fall, hat he wasn't relating to what had been coming out of my studio.
Charles and Froelick Gallery director Rebbecca Rockom have now made two studio visits to see my latest progress.
They've recently chosen these four of the newest watercolor/oil work to be shown in a colorful summer group exhibit along with headliner Japanese artist Risuko Ozeki.
I will have my own exhibit of the watercolor/oil work in October, 2018.


text:
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import 'fetch';
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export class TestApi {
    heading = 'Loading from API';

    constructor(http, config) {
        http.configure(c => {
            c.useStandardConfiguration().withBaseUrl(config.baseUrl);
        });

        this.http = http;
    }

    activate() {
        return this.http.fetch('values/5')
            .then(response => response.text())
            .then(heading => this.heading = heading);
    }
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


Accutek, Model AVF6-2, automatic, stainless steel 6 head piston filler. Rated from 5 to 20 cycles per minute with number of containers – depending on materials, application and machine configuration. Stainless steel contact parts. Fill range of: 20 cc to 3785 cc with proper change parts. Equipped with 42" diameter disc unscrambler with variable speed control, 4½" wide x 120" long plastic delrin product conveyor with Bimba indexing, 24" long x 20" wide x 18" deep product hopper, (6) 60cc. piston pumps with fill accuracies of ± 0.5%, (6) ¼"OD diving nozzles (both change parts per application) and drip tray. Control panel has touch screen HMI and on / off switch. System includes a 4½" wide x 120" long Delrin discharge conveyor and 42" diameter disc accumulation table.


We are truly lucky to live near beautiful bodies of water, from lakes to rivers to ocean. It's the perfect place to try a new water adventure. We can get you started with the very cool opportunities below where you can grab a tube, hop in a sailboat or dive in with scuba!
The Delaware River is our own natural treasure. We all know its fame concerning George Washington. But did you know it's the longest un-dammed river in the United States east of the Mississippi? That's 330 miles of natural wonder. And three-quarters of the non-tidal Delaware River is now included in the National Wild and Scenic Rivers System. We are so lucky to live near such a wonderful opportunity for outdoor adventure. One of the most relaxing and family-friendly ways to experience our river is by kicking back and relaxing in a tube.
Hop on a tube, raft, kayak or canoe and enjoy a scenic, fun and refreshing 3-4 hour trip down 5-6 miles of the river. The trip includes lazy stretches with Class I rapids (beginner level) along the way. To make your trip as easy and enjoyable as possible, Delaware River Tubing offers free parking, shuttle service and key check (it's no fun to lose keys in the river). In addition, every trip includes a free meal from The Famous River Hot Dog Man on the private, exclusive Adventure Island during your river adventure, where you can eat mouth-watering island BBQ on picnic tables in the water!
What started as a small river outfitter with 5 canoes in 1967 has blossomed into a booming family business offering 6 different styles of kayaks (including Tandem and Ocean Kayaks), 5 different styles of tubes (including double tubes), whitewater-rated rafts and Classic Olde Town Canoes. This vast selection is guaranteed to make any water adventurer happy. At the end of your 2, 3 or 4-hour float, enjoy a delicious meal at Red Mushroom Cafe on-site. What a great way for families, friends and groups to stay cool and enjoy the outdoor sun.
Sailing is an invigorating experience. There's nothing quite like the sound of the sails billowing in the wind, the feel of the breeze on your face, and the sight of your boat slicing through the water. To many, it's more than just a sport - it's a lifestyle. With so many beautiful bodies of water in our region, it's the perfect place to take up this exciting sport!
Learn how to be the captain of your own sailboat - and to American Sailing Assocation standards to boot! Nockamixon Sailing School is made up of renowned, ASA-certified sailing instructors with US Coast Guard captain's licenses, ensuring the finest instruction available. Classes are taught on Lake Nockamixon, a wonderful place to learn to sail, with no big ships to dodge and with clean, safe water. Learn how to handle a 20-30 foot sailboat here, and then a 30-50 foot sailboat at their sister schools in the Chesapeake Bay or Virgin Islands. Take the entire series and get certified to bareboat charter in destinations all over the world! Here's your chance to start close to home without having to spend money on time and travel.
You don't have to live in the tropics to enjoy scuba diving! We have many opportunites right in our area to learn how to dive and take short trips to experience a whole new world under water. Not only can you one-up your friends on social media with your dive pics, but you can also explore parts of the world not many get to see.
You don't have to go far to become a certified scuba diver! Scubadelphia offers instruction from beginner through advanced levels including handicapped scuba, dive masters, instructors and technical divers. Classes are taught in a local pool, or can be private in your own pool. Open water classes are taught at local Pennsylvania lakes including Dutch Springs in Bethlehem. Once you're feeling confident, join them for a trip to shipwrecks in New Jersey, or hop down to North Carolina, Florida or the Caribbean! They even take exotic trips to Indonesia and Maldives. If you just want to "dip your toes" into the experience, they offer a Discover Scuba Diving program every week at their pool so you can try it out with no large commitment. Dive in!


REST logs are viewable from the Applications page by clicking the clipboard next to the REST timestamp.
The REST logs show every endpoint call within the past 24 hours.
To see how many times a certain endpoint was called, click on a row to toggle the detailed view.
Any server errors will display as separate rows but will share the same table.


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The Body is Not a Natural Home
Emma Eisenberg recommends Chaya Bhuvaneswar's new short story about a young man in Bombay trying to find a life for the body he's been given
AN INTRODUCTION BY EMMA EISENBERG
Jump to Story
Issue No 331
Written by Chaya Bhuvaneswar
Recommended by Emma Eisenberg
How do we escape what keeps us unfree? Our sex, for example, or our gender. "You find out where gender is," writes Kate Bornstein, author of Gender Outlaw, "and then you go somewhere else."
The titular narrator of Chaya Bhuvanswar's "Jagatishwaran" — Jagat, for short — is unfree. He's constricted by his time and his place and his family and his mind; he is suffering some unnamed mental illness, or those around him believe he is. But he does not die or leave or scream, nor does he submit. He paints and writes and smokes after everyone else has gone to bed, and listens to a secret radio and reads imported copies of The Herald Tribune. In sum, he goes somewhere else. Jagat's world is muffled, it is low, it is in the corner, he tells us, "I swallow the different tastes in my mouth, remembering the salt hoarded in my room from the kitchen in newspaper packets." Jagat uses four wood screens to literally shield his body from the garden and from the eyes of the family, particularly the father, who doesn't understand why he can't just man up, buck up, get a job, get a car, marry some woman. Nothing huge comes to a head for Jagat, that's the very point — he's just trying to go on without giving in. The central question and experience of this story is the extent to which Jagat's strategy of going somewhere else preserves his true self over the course of a lifetime that does not belong to him.
Bornstein also has a lovely term — "splattering" — which she uses to name the feeling that floods us when two of our contradictory identities or ways of being in the world come up against each other in a single moment. In "Jagatishwaran," we follow the lead up to and the aftermath of the departure of the narrator's sister's from the home; we see all of the ways that her leaving shifts the family system. Jagat's secret inner world is suddenly pressed up against the outer world, and we watch him splatter. His niece and his sister exist in a world where tenderness and glasses and books are available, a world only available to women, it seems, and we watch his longing to live there. As he searches for peace in the exterior world, one that constantly criticizes him, he finds little ways and places to feel at home in his body, to enjoy the physicality of living — the tranquility of his small room, the food and taxis of his city. The only place he can be his whole self is where he is alone. Bhuvaneswar invites us to know that, and also to watch the splattering, which might become its own beautiful world.
– Emma Eisenberg
The Third Rainbow Girl
Chaya Bhuvaneswar
Short stories and novel excerpts by the most dynamic voices in contemporary literature delivered to your inbox every Wednesday.
"Jagatishwaran"
by Chaya Bhuvaneswar
In the back of the house there is a corner room that does not open onto the lush and well-tended garden. Its shutters are eyelids opening and closing with the wind. Light comes in small beams from the courtyard where pots are being washed. A woman is sweeping dirty water away from the steps outside the window. At a certain spot behind the empty teak wardrobe that barricades the door, all noises from the courtyard and the kitchen it adjoins are muffled by thick wood. Crouching there, it is not possible to hear the women shouting at each other, mistress to servant and back again, scolding and fretting, cramming the small house full of nervous life.
Flat on my stomach, facing the wall, I can look at my paintings. They are vivid miniatures, set low, near the molding. Their tiny faces sport green Kathakali dancing masks, leering with painted lips and yellow hair like aging American starlets, their glossy eyes faded. My paints have dried in large, expensive tubes littered on the floor, strewn in the dust along with tiny sable brushes that were once a woman's accessories. The mirror on the wall is British, cracked and decadent looking with too many faded gilt curlicues around it. Amid old newspapers and combs black with hair dye, I keep my shaving kit, and my traveling case. The mirror, like the room, is dark. When I look into it I see the sweat on my forehead and chin and wonder how it remains in the air-conditioned coolness.
I shelter myself from the house with second-hand screens, four of them, made of wood that looks better for the dust on it, less costly and more secure. I write after the others have gone to bed, hiding my diaries and papers during daylight hours. Sometimes their faces flash by me in the darkness, as if they were peering in rudely through a space between the screens. Only the visitors are overcome by curiosity; the niece from the States who looks at me with her little cat face, jeans curving around soft hips; my sister the doctor, talking about leper colonies at tea, bringing medicine and the toasters when she comes, making the house smell of Ben-Gay and bread. Even the trees in the garden move away from the house, as if in disgust. The living room is brightly lit behind embroidered cotton drapes. On each evening of her stay, from behind the screens, crouching. I hear the news on television and listen to loud, excited voices talking above it, nearly drowning it out. The niece is always quiet when her mother and my father shout about corruption and bribery or point to picket signs and angry crowds when they appear on the old-fashioned screen.
No one in this house knows that I listen to a radio hidden in my room, and that I read imported copies of The Herald Tribune. Or that I spend the money given to me by Father on tobacco, and go to the same place almost every afternoon with my pockets bulging. Nixon, Watergate — my sister doesn't know how much I know, how much I hold fast in my memory from those times. Imprisonment, Emergency. Who wouldn't have been paranoid then? But it's my sister who's the smart one, the doctor lady. She thinks of us as dull-witted rice-eaters, waiting for her borrowed, Anglo china plates and blue jeans, silk ties and pantyhose, perfume in fish shaped bottles, white linen napkins and forks — so we won't eat with our hands — expensive bolts of brilliant cloth,smelling slightly of glue, precious… "The exchange rate is wonderful," my sister remarks, at least with the grace to laugh uneasily. Once she brought paints on a visit — "Padma picked them out specially," she explained, handing over a shiny gift-wrapped box. Padma's gift. They are beautiful and useless now. Exotic.
I don't voice my opinions anymore because I know they only pretend to listen, looking at me as if I still ranted and raged as I did in the early days of my illness. Break down. Maybe schizophrenia, all his ranting…I can hear them whispering, concerned. The cleaning woman who goes everywhere, poking into wardrobes for silk pieces and loose change, cleans carefully around my teak screens, never daring to touch anything behind them. On trips to the kitchen to fill my coffee mug, I watch her slowly moving and she peers at me, afraid. That's what the barricade is there for.
From behind the screens I can smell food from the kitchen, the smell cleaving to the carpets, damp, stronger than the scent of leaves and sweat from the courtyard. The old man calls me "demon" when he sees me eating, muttering as if I were still a young child and he were bending over my pillow promising candies in my ear. I am his youngest son; years and years ago he called me "eyes" in Tamil, which meant I was the dearest. Then in school I didn't turn out like his nine good children, neither physicist nor lawyer, neither doctor nor engineer. I got sick, I remind him often, just before my college exams. I got very ill, it was terrible. First tuberculosis, then something else, something in my head. I was in pain, for pity's sake. It became too late, impossible to work. To do anything but sit or stand very quietly, in peace, left to myself. I've tried to explain. "But you're a grown man now," Father says in disbelief, "and that was years ago." He talks about my hair and the sweat on my face, jabbing at my clothes, fuming, gesticulating, until my mother stands between us, the veins bulging in her frail hand on his arm.
Mother used to come at night, years ago, before I put up the screens, to ask how I was, but now she's afraid. Once I pushed him hard, not her, never her, and I felt disgust at his shriveled skin, his nasal voice, always skeptical, his tiny well-read eyes like an elephant's, nearly blind but remembering everything.
On some evenings when the house is empty my father and I sit in the library pretending to read, not looking at each other, crickets caught between the pages of old books, gray moths appearing from the bare bulb on the ceiling as if by spontaneous generation. He taps his cane as he turns the pages, licking his soft, wrinkled thumb as he lifts the corners like a toady hidden in reams of office paper, calculating newborn deaths and taking bribes. I stare at him first if he's been bothering me that day. "Have you taken your medicine?" he asks in English. Patrician, concerned, I am silent. In the dim light he can see the outline of my face, my bones almost his bones, my hands threatening. "Don't hit me," he says, as a warning, though I never do, and he knows it. It has become an evening ritual, more honest than prayer.
When my sister comes in the summers there are annual rituals — special prayers, more sweets, more garlands lying on the puja-room floor or hung in glossy pictures of the gods. She calls for the barber to come in the evening. He does his work squatting on the steps leading out toward the blue main gate of the house, never coming in the house. He squints up at the dimming sunlight and tells my sister's son to hold still — he uses scissors and a gleaming old fashioned razor. The little boy shakes his head no, rubs his soft, protruding belly and laughs. Once I watched from the doorway, making him laugh even harder by imitating the girlish, feline sounds of his voice, until my sister stood in front of me and edged the door nearly closed. "Leave him alone, he'll get himself cut," she muttered quietly, not looking up at my face. I stared at her as she turned away, aware of the fresh smell of her hair and clothes. "Why don't you take a bath," she advised, watching the boy, her shoulders tensed until I moved out of sight.
The large book cases in the corridor between my room and the puja-room are opened in the summers for my sister's daughter. Her back pressed against the wall, eyes fish-flat behind thick glasses, she reads old books, like Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyyat, in the failing light. "Conserve your eyes," my father says when he passes on his way to prayer, rapping on her glasses with a finger. He adds with an old woman glimmer in his voice, "Near-sightedness is a reading disease." She puts the book down, covers her face with her palms for a moment and laughs, as if pretending to put her eyes away.
When she was younger, she asked me all kinds of questions about Indian politics, Shakespeare, the price of sandalwood soap in villages, why I had painted on the walls. She would nod calmly at the answers and say little. She would lean against the door of my room near the book cases, staring like a pretty cat with blue-black eyes and secret thoughts. "Don't bother Jagat Mama," my mother began to say, when the girl grew older, and she nodded as if she understood. "Leave Padma alone," my father said once, stopping me on my way out from taking salt from the kitchen. Now with her large feet in new American tennis shoes, with her hidden breasts and her delicate neck, she only glances at me now and then with that same mute questioning look, grown-up ivory jangling at her wrists.
When my sister comes every summer, Father comes out of his room to talk to her. My niece and mother smile and whisper to each other as my sister talks about San Francisco, New York, Santa Fe, the old man repeating the names, drawing them out with his proud camel lips. My sister doesn't know that I've seen the names in books, in the paper. I've heard them pronounced properly on my secret radio. They talk about the days she has left in India, counting up the brief nights and muddy afternoons watched from the window of the genteel Ambassador car, traffic stopped for thin men driving even thinner cows across the road and being photographed by the niece's new expensive camera. I listen to them without hearing words, staring from behind my book at the faces. I am quiet in my dusty chair, sitting away from the soft light that hangs over the center of the room. Crickets chirp near my ear on the window, the light bounces off the limbs of a black dancing Shiva that has been placed on top of the television set. I watch their faces as they think about the tiny airport, old man and woman pressed against a large window with other damp cotton cloth-wrapped bodies, looking out at the plane with tiny windows about to take off. Men in white, Western style uniforms will dot the runway, red English and Hindi letters juxtaposed on glossy machine white wings. Before leaving the house they will pray, jeans and mustard seeds packed, my niece and sister looking awkward in new saris. They will mix languages in a sad babble of exclaiming. When my parents cry they look like blind newborns, skulls soft and nearly bald, features melting so that the sharp creases of age grow mild and nearly invisible.
In the early afternoons, after lunch has been cleared away, I sit in the dark room near the door, listening to the servant wash pots outside; my travel kit propped on my knees. The women sleep lightly in a cool room, the door closed, the light soft on their thick eyelashes. I close my eyes, waiting, wondering if the old man is too tired to watch me. He asks me questions like a child. "Where are you going? Where do you go in the afternoons?" When he has not eaten well he demands, "Why don't you go get a job, demon, if you feel strong enough to go out every day?" He combs back his few strands of white hair, crackling them with static and impatience.
He follows me to the main road only on dry afternoons. I sense the gate swinging open again behind me. I hear my father softly complaining to stray dogs. "That man shoveling dirt over dead bodies is better than you," he said once, when he saw me stop to look at a young man with dirt on his teeth. "He's working at an honest job." I made no answer, walking on as if he were a beggar I heard whimpering in the street. My father continued. "He isn't draining the life out of his parents." I took longer strides that day, aware that my breathing was strained, aware of the wind pressing against my back.
In the afternoons, I lose him easily in the crowd, when we get to the rikshaw stand where drivers are always waiting. He follows me only to demonstrate that he can, I suppose. The effort of the gesture is enough. He turns back without running after me, wiping his high forehead with a white handkerchief my mother ironed herself, and slowly starts the walk home. Chewing paan and leaning on his auto-rikshaw, the driver watches the old man as I climb into the back. The driver is a young boy who comes to the big house in his rikshaw on some evenings, waiting by the blue gate to take my sister and niece to the bazaar. He notices the flowers in my niece's hair, glancing down at her soft brown fingers gripping the bar against his warm back before asking where to go.
The driver doesn't need to ask where I am going. Like all auto drivers he is careless, even dangerously fast. I can barely see the road from the tear in the plastic sheet that serves as a door. I grip the metal bars tightly, knuckles showing white, tasting the potatoes and rice I ate before I left. I am thrown forward when the driver stops for a person or an animal. I swallow the different tastes in my mouth, remembering the salt hoarded in my room from the kitchen in newspaper packets. I imagine the peppermint taste of the crushed medicine my sister bought for me this time, which my mother will soon start mixing in the salt. When I fell ill again last year, Father cried on the phone to my sister long distance. No doubt the connection took hours to get, with long silences and wrong houses woken up somewhere in the middle of the night by a sudden ceaseless ringing. After the phone rang in the right house, darkness here and light there, Mother excited and barely whispering, "It has come, it has come," in girlish Tamil — I could hear my sister loud and soothing, yelling calm assurances through the static.
The women stand in the doorway as the rikshaw pulls up, watching for me and tittering slightly. They've never asked my name, but they know who I am. I wear dirty orange kurtas like scarves around my neck and knotted around my waist so they will set me apart from other men. They speak to me in more measured voices. I pay them well with Father's money. They don't smoke cigarettes in my presence, though they accept the tobacco I bring for them with gentle smiles and nods, hiding their eyes. I have seen each one of them with mouths wiped clean of paint, hair loose and smelling of hibiscus, laughing at their children and stroking black kajal on their babies' eyelids. My face is dry when I lie on their cotton sheets, gather up the hems of their thin embroidered saris in my hands. The sweat disappears from my chin and my cheekbones, though the rooms here are warm and the breeze is barely stirred by low ceiling fans.
At times I stay past the late evening, missing dinner at home but not needing to eat. I stay for the morning, sensing the presence of women waking and stretching their smooth, bare arms in flats above and below me, hearing children fighting downstairs as if they whispered in my ear, and the dogs from the street below as if from a great distance away. I hear bangles jingling from downstairs where sugar in coffee is burning, the smell stronger passing from the downstairs windows to where I stand on the sturdy balcony, waiting for the night to pass into morning, listening to the woman in the room behind me as she unwinds the sari from her slender hips.
The balcony is made of slate gray concrete that, where chipped away, looks like the softened surface of stone dancers in northern temples, with faces torn away by harsh, factory polluted wind. There is a thin black railing that stretches out in a winding pattern of water snakes around the balcony, with the thick slabs of concrete rising up from the base like graceless fingers pointing up much higher than a small child's head. I have seen the children often play up here; I have heard their laughter as I stood waiting. There are spaces between the thick slats for their small brown faces to look out.
At night most people in Bombay and all the big city-villages far from here throw dinner parties, and use their balconies to hear moonlit fake American music with evening-gowned, light-skinned ladies beside them. Here the smells below the balcony predominate: corn cooking in street fires, pigs nudging garbage, incense burning in a window, cows leaving holy excrement for fuel, autos letting off fumes while drivers gossip, smoke and count money. But there is nothing at all to see on the urchin-abandoned street until just before the sun rises.
The paint on the railing is chipped away in places, showing metal that glows underneath in the dark like sudden fireflies. The rest of the railing is slowly revealed by the dim progress of morning, until the full, unblanching sunlight hits it, is seized by it, and is made burning black. But there is no hint of that when the early morning buses approach the street empty, pausing until the motor scooters have passed and the factory workers have disappeared inside, five to a bus seat and some hanging on the railing above, peering through small windows. Their faces can barely be seen from the balcony, but when they smile their betel-stained teeth gleam.
For an hour between the departure of the buses and the appearance of wobbling rice-flour faces and flower design on the ground of the balcony, new smells of clarified butter and talcum powder twist out from the room inside, lingering after those smells have been replaced by cooking green beans, tiny pickled mangoes, and saffron-flavored rice. A woman's acrid sweat tinges the stone as the seven o'clock sun approaches. I avoid her eyes as she moves about next to me, hiding my eyes with a hand, staring down at the loud crows beating their wet wings below to drive the garden awake.
There is a child's school uniform draped over the side of the railing which never dries completely. Several small pictures have been inserted in the slates of the balcony; the expectant face of the goddess of learning, a bubble-gum wrapper full of salt, and a much-handled picture of an erotic couple on the porch of the Temple of the Sun torn from a tourist magazine. At times, I finger a worn Vishnu prayer book with doodles that blind the serpent upon which the god is resting. I picture the old man praying under his breath at the tea table. The balcony is an unsmiling witness, uncritical save for an occasional blast of wind or smog that it harbors which ruffles my hair suddenly.
And the trees outside the balcony, not whispering like pines in a Canadian forest, not readying themselves to scatter and blush like New England trees after the first spring respite from the cold? There may be trees like that in white winter resorts at hill stations, modelled after slick postcards, but here the trees are lush and solitary. There is one great and rustling tree, tropical, green, shimmering and wild, never cut back from the balcony so that on certain nights it sweeps drying cloths with branches like fingers gesturing and rolling a cigarette. "Isn't that a banyan? Or perhaps a neem?" I imagine an American accented voice saying, pointing at it, as young hippies stand on the balcony and marvel at the rustic charm of the street. A washerwoman stricken with typhoid in some rainy night has been seen crouching down next to the trunk outside the main gate, looking up warily at the balcony and the people.
I know there will be no dinner parties here, and music that issues from the room opening onto the balcony — a woman singing in Hindi about a god being mistaken for a deer — is often quickly and abruptly ended. But there will be moonlight. Peace in the leaves of the tree and the awkward protective slats of the balcony after screaming fights about men, the price of school books, the length of a child's new frock and the rust on the body of a new black bicycle. Its wheels are closely entwined with the circle designs of the black railing of the balcony. Leaning forward in my seat, I remember my father named me Jagatishwaran, "lord of worlds", holding me aloft.
In the darkness approaching I look at the ground, peering down through the slats, seeking out the sudden fireflies, the lighted tiny lamps in the windows, roadside meal-fires in the street. But there is nothing to look at in the twilight except the feeling of night itself in the slammed doors and fading child-shouts on the street below. The promise of moonlight contains the promise of the burned incense and rice-flour tracings that I will see there again in the morning, after the view and the objects of the street calmly and fatalistically appear.
One evening when I return to the house it is the end of the rainy season, nearly time for my sister, who is so adept at comforting, to leave here for her American city. They have all gone to the market again. A pink carnation has budded, tender, in the box of green placed outside the front door. I crush a few petals underneath my tongue, wondering why they are not sweet, sucking them like candy, resisting the dank smell that permeates the unlit rooms. Even the maid servant has finished for the day. She will return in the morning to clean pots and thalis piled high in the stone sink in the courtyard, excavating soap and dishrags as if they were moist treasures.
I sense dust on the covers of old books in the corridor, their pages crumbling — a good wind would blow away the words, the fine English print. I wonder if the old man would even mind that only husks were left if every one of their pages were gone. I run a hand along the old curved spines lined in neat rows before opening my door.
It's darker here than in the rest of the house, though there is a small kerosene lamp burning. "You'll set a fire," the old man always says to me. "Use the good American fluorescents." I can see my niece's hair gleaming in the light, near my paintings, her head bent forward. She sits cross-legged on the floor, old books lying open all around her. Her back is to the door, her wide shoulders relaxed. The room smells of turpentine. "Near-sightedness is a reading disease," I say, in my best grandfather voice.
She turns quickly, her eyes solemn, hiding something in her hand. The dust makes her cough. She smiles when she recovers herself. "Look," she says, opening her hand. I look away from her, afraid. There are pictures of stone Cholas maidens in a few books left carelessly open, revealing contemplative moon-faces, wide hips and shoulders, girl-breasts, gray and perfect in relief. "Please look," she says again. I see the brushes in her hand. There are caps on the clean tubes of paint now, a water jar on my dreams, a tiny palette made of wood. "It's carved," she says, smiling. There are drop cloths on the ground, as if my work could begin at any moment. She is silent, drying off the last delicate brush with her long fingers. "Why?" I ask, not exactly unkind.
"They are gifts from me," she says. The teak screens are closer together than before, as if they have been gently moved aside and then carefully eased back into place, order preserved. She drops the last brush into a child's pencil box on the floor, probably her brother's. The paintings are brighter in the lamplight, the smiles on the mask still lewd and masculine. The wall above them is blank, expectant like Padma's face. "Please get out," I tell her. She takes off her thick glasses and wipes the sweat from the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are distant, as if she were listening to crows settling on the roof for a moment.
"Have you seen this?" she asks, holding up a book and pointing. A woman smiles in black and white, her hips exaggerated, legs strong, arms bent with hands pointing upwards, fingers curled. We stare for a few moments, meditating. "I know all the hand gestures mean something," Padma says, her voice soft. She adds excitedly, "Some of the dancers in this photo are wearing Kathak masks like the ones in your mural." I look away from her at the dresser, at combs and open bottles of hair dye and smile furtively. The book in her hand was once before in this room, on that dresser, open to the picture of a woman balanced on a tiny demon's back, vanquishing greed with her graceful stomping feet. I had made marks on the pictures of the dancers. In a notebook hidden under the bed there are line-drawings of masks, of temple-dancers — all useless, exotic and beautiful.
She stands up, the book still in her hand. I gather the others, shutting away the orange colored abstract Ganeshas, Rajput miniatures with black staring beetle eyes, Nataraja dancing on the top of a temple, trapping gaudy life between the fading covers of old books. She takes them from me, brushing my hands with her smooth child fingers. Her hair has come undone from the effort of the afternoon; suddenly I feel ashamed. I promise to work on my paintings again, and her eyes open wide with pleasure. When she smiles like my mother I look down, unable to thank her. "You know, I may be in love," she blurts out, pausing at the door and balancing books on her hip, trembling slightly. "Uncle, please don't tell." She disappears behind the screens. In the dark somewhere the town is closing, and my sister will come soon.
In the morning, I watch my niece, waiting for clues. She is quiet as usual, setting off on long walks when the women are bathing or asleep, or hiding by herself in the garden, reading secret letters. "When she was small she was afraid of snakes," my mother says fondly, waiting for the vegetable seller with his cart and watching Padma move a chair behind the trees. My father retreats to a back room with a book, preparing for abandonment as my sister packs and talks to her husband on the phone. She does her packing everywhere as usual, suitcases open on the floor and in the landings, saris and scarves mingled in radiant profusion, lists made on crumpled envelopes and pieces of newspaper. Sometimes Padma swings on the gate with young children or waits while they play, serene and maternal. "Only one more trip to the market," my sister promises, when she sees Padma waiting at the gate for the auto-rikshaw. When he finally arrives, her smile is pure and flushed, the twilight settling on her neck. Her mother waits in the rikshaw as Padma slowly gathers up her full skirt using both hands. "Don't forget to lock the front door," my sister tells me, and I nod, dutiful. Padma's hair is loose and long enough to fall in front of the cold metal pole that separates the driver from his passengers, her black curls helpless, streaming down as the rikshaw jerks forward. Strands of Padma's hair are crushed between the pole and the driver's back, tickling his bare skin through the white cotton shirt. "You're imagining things," my sister would say, if I described it. Her voice would be angry. On trips from the square with the driver I say nothing, watching him in the rear-view mirror until he turns once, his eyes full of laughter, stopping for an old woman who's wading with difficulty between animals and bikes. He is young, I realize, like my niece. We wait. "My name is Ramdas," he whispers in Hindi, like the medieval bard by the same name. Then he looks ahead again, lurching forward quickly before anyone can cut him off, because the old woman is safe now, after all. He resumes hurtling onto my usual, my only, destination.
Months later, standing on the balcony in the early afternoon while there is still light, I read Padma's letter. It is the first time she has written to me since she was young, when she held onto the gate like a child, waiting only for her mother. The letter is new but is already faded, crumpled, sent by air-mail on cheap blue aerogram with wispy ballpoint pen handwriting like mine. "Uncle," she wrote, after some grown-up pleasantries. "I thought of you when Ramdas told this to me."
'Wild-eyed, blacker in your brows than crow-black nights, your legs are twisted into heavy branches, rivers fallen in your tangled hair. You take me up into the dance, your arms taut with the tiger-tooth bracelets. I was silk-clad and pale in the incense-burning light. Bells and gongs clamoring, emptying my mind of fear, I forgot that you had burned the body of the god of love when he teased you with his beauty.'
A man puts washed clothes on the balcony, nodding politely, cutting the cloudless sky into dark, wet shapes. A bottle-green sari mingles sinuously with the shining body of black lattice. The dark green is flecked with gold crisscrosses and flanked by deep yellow borders of crushed silk ending in tangled threads. It is faded with many washings, a pleasure gift when there was no chiffon to turn the eye away from grandmother cloth. I put my face up against it, as if smelling my mother.
Days after waiting on the balcony, I stay at home, away from the women. It is the day my niece Padma has been scheduled to leave. There is no time for argument or recrimination — every member of the household strains in silence under heavy suitcases, loading two taxis. The taxi-drivers are fed, given tea, made to engage in small talk and polite price-negotiation. Sweating, I look in my room and see that the paints are just where Padma has left them. I wipe my face with a damp cloth, staring at the mirror and feeling impatient. To go to the airport, I will have to bathe. My face is dry in the bathroom mirror, even with steam rising from the walls. Turning from her post beside the window, Padma smiles when she sees that my hair is washed and combed. There is a red tear-drop in the center of her forehead. Her hair is bound in rose and daisy petals like a bride's.
Padma's hands are soft, pressed together. She prostrates herself before the old man, then the old woman, her mother looking on. They touch her smooth hair with approving, wrinkled hands. She eludes them by promising to be back in half an hour, walking quickly down the street. Her mother sits on the front steps, saying nothing as Padma's younger brother plays in the driveway. He giggles, imitating me as I describe the route the taxi-drivers should take with my hands. The old man stands behind my sister, hands resting on her shoulders, little eyes squinting in the light.
In the taxi I sit in front with the driver, next to my father. His elbow is sharp in my side when the driver makes a wrong turn. When we reach the airport early he wilts, no longer angry. He waits before opening the door, trapping me inside the car for a long moment. My mother's voice is unnaturally bright as she adjusts the back of my shirt collar, her hands shaking a little. "Appa," my sister says softly, when she helps him out of the car, easily bearing her weight.
The airport is crowded, hot, inefficient. There are nuns everywhere. "Oh, don't sneer at everyone," my sister says, her voice matter of fact, before she takes her place in line with Padma. I help the taxi drivers load suitcases onto a cart, which is then wheeled to the tiny airplane and loaded on by men who soon become tiny dots in the distance. I put change in vending machines, buying copies of the Times, bottles of Limca soft drinks. My father, rooted firmly to the earth like some ascetic waiting for a boon, says nothing. He stands in one spot as people push past him impatiently.
Padma and her mother become dots too as the line of passengers moves toward the runway. We wait at the large glass, looking out, old man and woman waving, bodies pressed against tall windows, straining hard to see. Long after Padma and her mother are hidden from view, we stand there and move into ourselves, imagining trays of candy and bright-painted stewardesses, hearing the canned Ravi Shankar music, breathing the sweet, stale pressurized air that must be coursing through the plane at that moment.
Weeks later, in my sanctuary with Padma's neat letter in my hand, I breathe easily, wondering at the purity of polluted air.
"Ramdas said you were named after Shiva. I miss you. Please write soon, and paint. Your loving niece," she has written, printing her name at the end in round childish letters. I turn the blue leaf over in my hand, looking at the address of my father's house…Jagatishwaran, Padma has printed before it, with no last name, only lord of worlds.
A woman stealing up soft behind me, having first turned to the radio in the room below, places her hand on my neck, her lips soft on my cheek. I put Padma's letter in my pocket, thinking of how I stood in the airport, watching the old man and woman stare out the window as the plane began to move. As we watched it take off I had moved close behind my father, bracing myself against his sobs, my hands steady on his bony shoulders. "Let's go home," my mother said, fumbling for a handkerchief. They looked up at me as if they were children, Father's eyes almost erased by tears. "Please get the taxi, Bhuvan," he had said, calling me by name.
Now, here on the balcony, I feel bare female arms around my waist, woman-soft while a radio plays a song below. My hands on hers, flat against my stomach, we brace each other gently, waiting for dark to settle on the street.
"Jagatishwaran" by Chaya Bhuvaneswar appears in the collection White Dancing Elephants published by Dzanc Books, and is reprinted here by permission of the publisher. Copyrights © Bhuvaneswar 2018. All rights reserved.
Chaya Bhuvaneswar is a physician, writer and PEN/ Robert W. Bingham Debut Fiction Prize finalist for WHITE DANCING ELEPHANTS: STORIES in 2019, which received the Dzanc Books Prize and was included in Best Books for Kirkus Review 2018 and several other lists. Her work has appeared in Tin House, Narrative, Electric Literature, The Millions, Joyland, Large Hearted Boy, Chattahoochee Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, The Awl, and elsewhere, and was selected for inclusion in Best Small Fictions 2019.
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Recommended Reading is the weekly fiction magazine from Electric Literature, publishing here every Wednesday morning. In addition to featuring our own recommendations of original, previously unpublished fiction, we invite established authors, indie presses, and literary magazines to recommend great work from their pages, past and present. Sign up for our Recommended Reading newsletter to get every issue straight to your inbox, or join our membership program for access to year-round submissions. EL's literary magazines are supported in part by the Amazon Literary Partnership, the New York State Council on the Arts, and the National Endowment for the Arts.
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Home > Artists > Counts IV, The
North Carolina of the mid-'60s was not known for its embracement of long-haired, loud garage rock. But that hardly stopped the Counts IV, a pack of rockin' ex-servicemen from Seymour Johnson Air Force Base. Short of scoring their absolutely scarce singles, this is the place to hear their '66 garage workouts including the incredible "discussion of the Unorthodox Council."
Counts IV, The - Discussion of the Unorthodox Council / Spoonful / It's All Over Now, Baby Blue 7" EP
Item #: SEP 179 -
Goldsboro, North Carolina's solitary claim to sixties garage-rock fame is the legendary Counts IV. Joe Booher (lead guitar, vocals), Al Peluso (bass, vocals), Don Roof (rhythm guitar, harmonica, vocals), and Rick Turner (drums) had previously waxed the swingin' frat-rocker "Listen to Me" on JCP Records (in '64, when several members of the band were still enlisted at local Seymour Johnson Air Force Base).On the astounding '66 recordings collected here, however, the pounding rhythms were now...


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NFL franchise owner, 87
By Sean Gregory Dec. 19, 2012
Tony Tomsic / Getty Images
After Art Modell, the former owner of the Cleveland Browns and Baltimore Ravens, bought the Browns in 1961, he became a hands-on boss. Back then, owners rarely chimed in on draft picks. Modell, who died of natural causes at 87 on Sept. 6, was different. He often clashed with coach Paul Brown, for whom the franchise was named, and fired him after two seasons. "You cannot just show up on Sunday with scotch in your hand and say, 'I'm an owner,'" Modell once told NFL Films. "You've got to work the business."
Thanks in part to Modell's moxie, football is the most popular — and profitable — sport in the U.S. He negotiated the NFL's first national TV contract and pushed the idea of a Monday-night game. He championed revenue sharing, which let teams from smaller markets stay competitive. He was a pioneer.
And yet he died a pariah. When Modell moved the Browns to Baltimore after the 1995 season to play in a shinier stadium, Cleveland turned against him. He had stolen its team. More than 15 years later, the trauma is fresh: the Browns had planned to recognize Modell's passing at a game but then canceled at his family's request. They knew it would get ugly.
This text originally appeared in the Sept. 24, 2012 issue of TIME magazine.
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Hœnheim (en alemán: Hönheim) es una localidad y  comuna francesa situada en el departamento del Bajo Rin, en la región de Alsacia. Tiene una población de 10.726 habitantes (según censo de 1999) y una densidad de 3.136 h/km². Forma parte de la Eurometrópoli de Estrasburgo.

Hoenheim


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Home Sports Men's Basketball Lecomte represents Big 12 in 3-on-3 tournament
Lecomte represents Big 12 in 3-on-3 tournament
Ben Everett
Senior guard Manu Lecomte heads for the basket in Baylor's 75-50 win over Kansas State on January 20. Baylee VerSteeg | Multimedia Journalist
By Ben Everett | Sports Writer
While the rest of the college basketball world was focused on the Final Four over the weekend, Baylor men's basketball senior guard Manu Lecomte laced up collegiately one last time to compete in the inaugural 3X3U National Championships in San Antonio.
The event, held at St. Mary's University, consisted of 32 Division I Conference teams of senior college basketball players competing against each other in 3-on-3 half court basketball games played to 21 points.
Each player was nominated by the 3X3U selection committee, composed of college basketball media members from various outlets and organizations.
Lecomte, Iowa State guard Donovan Jackson, Oklahoma State guard Kendall Smith and Texas Tech forward Zach Smith represented the Big 12 Conference at the games.
The No. 1-seeded Big 12 squad competed shorthanded, however, as Smith injured his ankle in practice on Thursday.
The first two days of the championship consisted of pool play. The Big 12 joined the Southwestern Athletic Conference, the Big Sky Conference and the Colonial Athletic Association in Pool 1.
On day one, the Big 12 and SWAC opened the event, and while Jackson scored the first points of the entire event, the SWAC came away with the 21-11 win.
Later in the day, the Big Sky dropped the Big 12 to 0-2 with a 21-14 victory.
To open action on Saturday, the Big 12 faced the CAA with the threat of being knocked out of playoff contention. The CAA dominated, 21-8, to eliminate the Big 12 from playoff contention and end their run at the inaugural 3X3U National Championship.
Men's basketball student manager Drew Mastin attended the event, and, despite the Big 12 team going winless, said it was good to see Lecomte play one more time.
"It was fun being there and seeing him suit up with guys he's played against the last few years," Mastin said.
The Big 12 players missed out on cash earnings by going 0-3 in the event. Each pool play, quarterfinal and semifinal win paid out $1,000, and the team that won the championship received $50,000.
Mastin said the teams received bags of cash when they won, which made for a fun celebration and laid-back environment.
"Throwing bags of cash at the teams when they won was really fun to watch," Mastin said. "The tournament was really well done because they clearly put thought into it without taking themselves too seriously."
The Big 10 team comprised of Ohio State forward Jae'Sean Tate, Purdue forward Vincent Edwards, Minnesota guard Nate Mason and Indiana guard Robert Johnson won the event with a 21-13 championship game win over the Big West.
Bears propel selfless attitude on national stage
Victory tastes sweet; Bears beat Ole Miss 21-7 to win Sugar Bowl
No.7 Baylor at full strength for Sugar Bowl showdown versus No.8 Ole Miss


Conventional Buoy Mooring (CBM) or Multi Buoy Mooring (MBM) is an offshore offloading solution used in moderate environment near to shore. CBM / MBM is a simple and reliable solution to import crude oil, refined petroleum products or LPG from a shuttle tanker to storage tanks or a refinery. This configuration consists to a steel pipeline connected to the onshore installation, a Pipeline End Manifold (PLEM) and a flexible submarine string on the seabed. Up to 20 meters water depth, the Tanker is moored using anchors and mooring buoys. The submarine line is lifted from the seabed by the tanker and connected to the manifold for the offloading operation. From 6" to 16" with a rated pressure up to 25 bar, Trelleborg proposes a full range of submarine hose type qualified according to OCIMF GMPHOM 2009 guidelines.


text:
Q: Unable to receive proper UDP packets using SSDP I'm trying to implement a very simple SSDP functionality into my android app taken from here.
My application sends some UDP packets containing a relevant M-SEARCH message to the broadcasting address without any issue. The problem is, I should be getting a proper response back from other devices that's running a UPNP server. For some reason, I'm only receiving the exact same packets back I sent from my android device.
MainActivity.java
@Override
    protected void onCreate(Bundle savedInstanceState) {
        super.onCreate(savedInstanceState);

        WifiManager wm = (WifiManager)getSystemService(Context.WIFI_SERVICE);
        WifiManager.MulticastLock multicastLock = wm.createMulticastLock("multicastLock");
        multicastLock.setReferenceCounted(true);
        multicastLock.acquire();

        setContentView(R.layout.activity_main);

        ((Button)this.findViewById(R.id.btnSendSSDPSearch)).setOnClickListener(this);
    }

@Override
    public void onClick(View v) {
        switch (v.getId()) {
        case R.id.btnSendSSDPSearch:
            new Thread(new Runnable() {

                @Override
                public void run() {
                    SendMSearchMessage();
                }
            }).start();

        default:
            break;
        }
    }

private void SendMSearchMessage() {

                SSDPSearchMsg searchContentDirectory = new SSDPSearchMsg(SSDPConstants.ST_ContentDirectory);
    SSDPSearchMsg searchAVTransport = new SSDPSearchMsg(SSDPConstants.ST_AVTransport);
    SSDPSearchMsg searchProduct = new SSDPSearchMsg(SSDPConstants.ST_Product);

    SSDPSocket sock;
    try {
        sock = new SSDPSocket();
        for (int i = 0; i < 2; i++) {
            sock.send(searchContentDirectory.toString());
            sock.send(searchAVTransport.toString());
            sock.send(searchProduct.toString());
        }

      while (true) {
            DatagramPacket dp = sock.receive(); //Here, I only receive the same packets I initially sent above
            String c = new String(dp.getData());
            System.out.println(c);
        }
    } catch (IOException e) {
        // TODO Auto-generated catch block
        Log.e("M-SEARCH", e.getMessage());

    }

SSDPSocket.java where the UDP packet transmission is actually done
public class SSDPSocket {
    SocketAddress mSSDPMulticastGroup;
    MulticastSocket mSSDPSocket;
    InetAddress broadcastAddress;

    public SSDPSocket() throws IOException {
        mSSDPSocket = new MulticastSocket(55325); //Bind some random port for receiving datagram
        broadcastAddress  = InetAddress.getByName(SSDPConstants.ADDRESS);
        mSSDPSocket.joinGroup(broadcastAddress);
    }

    /* Used to send SSDP packet */
    public void send(String data) throws IOException {
        DatagramPacket dp = new DatagramPacket(data.getBytes(), data.length(),
                broadcastAddress,SSDPConstants.PORT);

        mSSDPSocket.send(dp);
    }

    /* Used to receive SSDP packet */
    public DatagramPacket receive() throws IOException {
        byte[] buf = new byte[1024];
        DatagramPacket dp = new DatagramPacket(buf, buf.length);

        mSSDPSocket.receive(dp);

        return dp;
    }

    public void close() {
        if (mSSDPSocket != null) {
            mSSDPSocket.close();
        }
    }
}

SSDPSearchMsg.java for constructing SSDP Broadcast string
(Probably unrelated to the problem I'm experiencing but just in case)
public class SSDPSearchMsg {
    static final String HOST = "Host:" + SSDP.ADDRESS + ":" + SSDP.PORT;
    static final String MAN = "Man:ssdp:discover";
    static final String NEWLINE = System.getProperty("line.separator");

    int mMX = 3;    /* seconds to delay response */
    String mST;     /* Search target */

    public SSDPSearchMsg(String ST) {
        mST = ST;
    }

    public int getmMX() {
        return mMX;
    }

    public void setmMX(int mMX) {
        this.mMX = mMX;
    }

    public String getmST() {
        return mST;
    }

    public void setmST(String mST) {
        this.mST = mST;
    }

    @Override
    public String toString() {
        StringBuilder content = new StringBuilder();

        content.append(SSDP.SL_MSEARCH).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(HOST).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(MAN).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(mST).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append("MX:" + mMX).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(NEWLINE);

        return content.toString();
    }
}

SSDPConstants.java
public class SSDPConstants {
    /* New line definition */
    public static final String NEWLINE = "\r\n";

    public static final String ADDRESS = "239.255.255.250";
    public static final int PORT = 1900;

    /* Definitions of start line */
    public static final String SL_NOTIFY = "NOTIFY * HTTP/1.1";
    public static final String SL_MSEARCH = "M-SEARCH * HTTP/1.1";
    public static final String SL_OK = "HTTP/1.1 200 OK";

    /* Definitions of search targets */
    public static final String ST_RootDevice = "St: rootdevice";
    public static final String ST_ContentDirectory = "St: urn:schemas-upnp-org:service:ContentDirectory:1";
    public static final String ST_AVTransport = "St: urn:schemas-upnp-org:service:AVTransport:1";
    public static final String ST_Product = "St: urn:av-openhome-org:service:Product:1";

    /* Definitions of notification sub type */
    public static final String NTS_ALIVE = "NTS:ssdp:alive";
    public static final String NTS_BYE = "NTS:ssdp:byebye";
    public static final String NTS_UPDATE = "NTS:ssdp:update";
}

I also made sure that the manifest includes relevant permissions:
 <uses-permission android:name="android.permission.INTERNET"/>
<uses-permission android:name="android.permission.CHANGE_WIFI_MULTICAST_STATE" />
<uses-permission android:name="android.permission.ACCESS_WIFI_STATE" />
<uses-permission android:name="android.permission.ACCESS_NETWORK_STATE" />

I'm testing the app on an actual device, not on emulator.
Any assistance would be appreciated.
Edit upon comment:
Multicast itself should work without issue. I've downloaded an app called BubbleUPNP to test the SSDP functionality. Sure enough, wireshark properly captures all messages sent from the phone to the broadcasting address in SSDP Protocol:
M-SEARCH * HTTP/1.1

Man: "ssdp:discover"

Mx: 3

Host: 239.255.255.250:1900

St: urn:schemas-upnp-org:service:AVTransport:1

And the response
HTTP/1.1 200 OK

ST:urn:schemas-upnp-org:service:ContentDirectory:1

USN:uuid:d5829e90-73ce-4213-9ad1-4e75dbdd0232::urn:schemas-upnp-org:service:ContentDirectory:1

Location:http://10.175.95.4:2869/upnphost/udhisapi.dll?content=uuid:d5829e90-73ce-4213-9ad1-4e75dbdd0232

OPT:"http://schemas.upnp.org/upnp/1/0/"; ns=01

01-NLS:05f3dd08b4b4b5aafa1fe983fa447f49

Cache-Control:max-age=900

Server:Microsoft-Windows-NT/5.1 UPnP/1.0 UPnP-Device-Host/1.0

So yeah, this is without a doubt, an implementation issue. Nothing wrong with the device.

A: Weird. I fixed the issue but I'm genuinely not sure what made it work.
Here are some changes that I made:
Instead of assigning a fixed port, I made it dynamically allocate an available port.
public class SSDPSocket {
    SocketAddress mSSDPMulticastGroup;
    MulticastSocket mSSDPSocket;
    InetAddress broadcastAddress;

    public SSDPSocket() throws IOException {

        mSSDPSocket = new MulticastSocket();
        broadcastAddress  = InetAddress.getByName(SSDPConstants.ADDRESS);
        mSSDPSocket.joinGroup(broadcastAddress);
    }
...
}

I also changed the M-Search message structure, including its order.
public class SSDPSearchMsg {
    static final String HOST = "Host: " + SSDPConstants.ADDRESS + ":" + SSDPConstants.PORT;
    static final String MAN = "Man: \"ssdp:discover\"";
    static final String NEWLINE = "\r\n";

    int mMX = 3;    /* seconds to delay response */
    String mST;     /* Search target */

    public SSDPSearchMsg(String ST) {
        mST = ST;
    }

    public int getmMX() {
        return mMX;
    }

    public void setmMX(int mMX) {
        this.mMX = mMX;
    }

    public String getmST() {
        return mST;
    }

    public void setmST(String mST) {
        this.mST = mST;
    }

    @Override
    public String toString() {
        StringBuilder content = new StringBuilder();

        content.append(SSDPConstants.SL_MSEARCH).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(MAN).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append("Mx: " + mMX).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(HOST).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(mST).append(NEWLINE);
        content.append(NEWLINE);

        return content.toString();
    }
}

And everything suddenly works. Why it works is beyond me. My previous implementation follows the SSDP protocol as far as I can tell.

A: On possible answer is that you may have an "old" device.  Apparently multicast (from Java) is broken before Android 2.3.7
Reference: https://stackoverflow.com/a/9836464/139985
Another possibility is that it is a device-specific problem; e.g. like this: https://stackoverflow.com/a/3714848/139985.  (I'm not saying it is that specific problem ...)
Another is that multicast is disabled in the kernel configs: http://code.google.com/p/android/issues/detail?id=51195
It seems like there are a range of different causes for multicast not working on various Android devices ...

A: I followed your code and change some words to upper case. It works.
static final String HOST = "HOST: " + SSDPConstants.ADDRESS + ":" + SSDPConstants.PORT;
static final String MAN = "MAN: \"ssdp:discover\"";

Don't need to change the order in MSEARCH message.


1997 993 C2, all stock. Purchased from SC 2004, 16k miles, and now resides in CA. 2004 discovered the rack-n-pinion steering had a leak. Handling was superb, tracking, etc..2012 now have 25K miles. Decide to resolve RnP steering issue and was informed by many shops the best was to purchase a Porsche rebuilt RnP from Porsche Germany. The shop was highly recommended, as they Race the 993 and know them inside and out. After replacement and alignment, the superior handling performance is now gone. In a straight line the car snakes down the highway at times. At times the car unexpectedly lunges right or left while the steering is going straight. The car is no longer firm with the highway, The steering takes more effort than before. Question is, is there a Serial number on the Porsche re-manufactured RnP steering. My concern is the shop may have used my purchased RnP in one of their race cars and installed a used one from their cars. Is there a way to trace the SN# from Porsche to the shop and see if the one I purchased is actually on my 993. I have only been to the shop once. I have the highest regard for the shop, but my quoted price was $1200 under everyone else. Driving the 93 is no longer a Pleasure. Is the issue with the RnP or in the wheel alignment. Any help/insight or guidance is appreciated.


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Finalist for 2013 and 2016 Annual Illinois Family Business of the Year Award Loyola University Chicago, Quinlan School of Business.
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The Flavors and Fragrances Market has encountered significant development over the recent years and is anticipated to grow tremendously over the forecast period. The demand for flavor and fragrances has altogether ascended as it is a fundamental segment in different consumer and packaged merchandise. Including fragrance into different items gives a fresh scent that can either be of assortment of fruits to flowers or essential oils. The favor and fragrance market is anticipated to develop at a tremendous rate over the upcoming years.
Fast development in industrialization over the globe has driven the development of enormous generation of scented or enhanced items, for example, processed beverages and food, personal care products, soaps, detergents, household cleaners, and oral cleanliness items. Additionally, rising interest for regular ingredients over countless that could drive the interest in the flavors and fragrances market. Then again, fluctuating costs of raw material are foreseen to hinder the interest in this market.
Asia Pacific captured the dominant share in 2014 based on revenue. Developing monetary improvement in rising nations like China and India are viewed as in charge of the predominance of Asia Pacific.


(2) electrometrically, with a polarographic D.O. meter.
Because of the difficulties involved with the Winkler titration method, almost all laboratories use D.O. meters for performing the BOD test.
D.O. meters can be temperamental devices. To be accurate, D.O. meters must be calibrated before each use, preferably close to the time that they will be used to make measurements. Calibration is typically done using the theoretical dissolved oxygen value of saturated air, after correcting for variations caused by temperature and atmospheric pressure.
To obtain the accuracy required for the BOD test, an atmospheric pressure reading from an accurate (calibrated) barometer should be used to obtain the theoretical dissolved oxygen calibration value. This is different from the "altitude correction factor" which is acceptable when calibrating field D.O. meters, but the high degree of accuracy required demands it. Be aware that laboratory barometers should be calibrated against a local airport barometric reading, but the airport reading must be converted to a true barometric pressure that has not been adjusted for altitude.
BOD incubators look like refrigerators, but they actually can heat or cool as needed to maintain an inside temperature of 20º C +/- 1º C. Good laboratory practices dictate that the incubator temperature should be carefully determined and recorded at least two times a day for the entire incubation period. The thermometer used to measure the BOD incubator temperature must be calibrated against a thermometer certified by NIST at least once a year. If the temperature inside the incubator goes above 21º C or below 19º C at any time during the incubation period, the test is invalidated and the results cannot be used for reporting purposes.
Microorganisms metabolized Glucose (a simple sugar) very rapidly and at an unpredictable rate. Glucose that has been stabilized by the addition of Glutamic acid is metabolized by microorganisms at a steady rate. Because of this, GGA can be used as a BOD standard. [Remember, a standard is a substance whose chemical constituents are very accurately known]. Carefully weighing 150 mg of dry Glucose and 150 mg of dry Glutamic acid with an analytical balance and making it up to exactly one liter with pure water will yield a BOD standard.
A 2% dilution of this standard (6 mL in a BOD bottle) will result in a BOD of 198 mg/L. If the BOD of the standard is close to 198 mg/L, we assume that the measurements of the samples were accurate as well. The tolerance for the GGA standard is 198 mg/L +/- 30.5 mg/L.
In order to ensure that BOD tests are providing reliable results, a GGA standard must be run at least 10% of the time along with samples. If the GGA standard does not fall within the tolerances, the entire set of BOD sample data associated with the failed GGA standard becomes invalid (the sample data is thrown out and cannot be used for reporting). If one GGA bottle is within the tolerance and one is out, the data can still be used.
Because of the consequences of failing the GGA standard, most laboratories run GGAs with every sample set that is analyzed. This way, if the GGA fails, only that sample set is invalidated, as opposed to invalidating several weeks of data (if the GGA is run infrequently).
Even with all of the previously discussed quality control measures, the BOD test typically has an accuracy of +/15%. Because of this, it is important that externally supplied standards be analyzed at least annually to ensure that the level of accuracy being delivered is acceptable. Externally supplied BOD standards can be purchased commercially.


text:
Computing/Microchips
Another "missing" component could revolutionize electronics
A new theory predicts the existence of an electronic device that works like an inverse transistor. It could make circuits, smaller, faster, and less power hungry.
Emerging Technology from the arXiv archive page
Back in 1971, Leon Chua, a young electronics engineer at the University of California, Berkeley, began working on a fundamental mathematical framework for electronics. His theory was based on the relationships between charge, current, magnetic flux, and voltage and the way these electromagnetic quantities vary as they pass through the basic circuit elements of resistors, capacitors, and inductors.
A current passing through a resistor creates a voltage. For a given voltage, a capacitor stores a certain amount of charge. And a current passing through an inductor generates a magnetic flux. But Chua saw that something was missing—a relation between charge and magnetic flux.
He posited the existence of a device to link those two quantities, which he called a memristor, but he thought little of it for more than 30 years. Then, in 2004, researchers at Hewlett-Packard's laboratories announced that they had created a memristor and that it had the extraordinary ability to store information without using power. It was like a resistor with memory.
Since then, this team and others have packed memristors into chips to simulate, among other things, the way the human brain processes information. And other researchers have begun the search for memcapacitors and meminductors, analogous versions of the other passive electronic components.
This story raises an interesting question. Are there other electronic elements still to be discovered, and if so, what would they do?
Today, we get an answer thanks to the work of Sungsik Lee at Pusan National University in South Korea. While Chua focused on passive electronic components such as resistors and capacitors, Lee has studied the properties of active electronic components such as transistors. He says he has identified another gap—and that the missing device, if it can be built, will have profound consequences for the future of electronics.
Lee's reasoning focuses on the most prominent active electronic device: the transistor. It has an output that can be switched by a current or voltage input. In other words, a transistor is a way of switching current on and off.
But there is no comparable device to switch a voltage. He sets out to describe such a device.
Transistors take an input signal and transfer it to the current output, rather like a variable resistor. Hence the name—a combination of "transfer" and "resistor." By contrast, the device he imagines would transfer an input signal into a voltage output, like a variable capacitor. So Lee calls it a trancitor.
He goes on to suggest how it might be used. One obvious application is to pair a trancitor and a transistor to create circuits that are far simpler and more energy efficient than existing designs. For example, Lee shows how it would be possible to create a simple voltage amplifier using a single trancitor and a single transistor. By contrast, a conventional version of this circuit requires four transistors.
Lee goes on to simulate such a circuit and says the result is smaller, less power hungry, and faster than conventional transistor-only circuits.
That has significant implications for electronic devices. Transistor-trancitor circuits would take up significantly less room, use less power, and work at higher speeds than conventional circuits. "Trancitors would bring a new paradigm of electronics," says Lee.
But there is an important unanswered question—how to build a trancitor.
Lee says his new device could work by employing the well-known Hall effect, which produces a voltage across a conductor when a magnetic field is applied in a direction perpendicular to the current. But how this could be exploited on a nanometer scale in CMOS-compatible circuits isn't clear.
Today's electronic circuits have been optimized over decades, so any new device would have some catching up to do.
One reason Chua's memristor took so long to find was that the material properties that allow it to work can be manipulated only on an atomic scale. So there was no way of making one efficiently until relatively recently.
The Hall effect certainly works on the scale of subatomic charge carriers. So all we need now is some enterprising electronics engineer to find a way of building a trancitor and putting it to use.
Ref: arxiv.org/abs/1805.05842 : A Missing Active Device—Trancitor for a New Paradigm of Electronics
Emerging Technology from the arXiv


text:
role :app, %w{deploy@192.168.33.10}
role :app, %w{deploy@192.168.33.11}
role :app, %w{deploy@192.168.33.12}

# role :web, %w{deploy@192.168.33.10}
# role :db,  %w{deploy@192.168.33.10}

# Extended Server Syntax
# ======================
# This can be used to drop a more detailed server definition into the
# server list. The second argument is a, or duck-types, Hash and is
# used to set extended properties on the server.

server '192.168.33.10', user: 'deploy', roles: %w{app}, my_property: :my_value
server '192.168.33.11', user: 'deploy', roles: %w{app}, my_property: :my_value
server '192.168.33.12', user: 'deploy', roles: %w{app}, my_property: :my_value

# Custom SSH Options
# ==================
# You may pass any option but keep in mind that net/ssh understands a
# limited set of options, consult[net/ssh documentation](http://net-ssh.github.io/net-ssh/classes/Net/SSH.html#method-c-start).
#
# Global options
# --------------
set :ssh_options, {
  keys: %w(/home/krakatoa/.ssh/id-rsa),
  forward_agent: true,
  auth_methods: %w(publickey)

  # password: 'vagrant',
  # forward_agent: true,
  # auth_methods: %w(password)
}
#
# And/or per server (overrides global)
# ------------------------------------
# server 'example.com',
#   user: 'user_name',
#   roles: %w{web app},
#   ssh_options: {
#     user: 'user_name', # overrides user setting above
#     keys: %w(/home/user_name/.ssh/id_rsa),
#     forward_agent: false,
#     auth_methods: %w(publickey password)
#     # password: 'please use keys'
#   }


text:
Medvedev wins over Aussie crowd in win over Dutch opponent
MELBOURNE, Australia — As Daniil Medvedev sat courtside trying to re-hydrate during a changeover, an image of nine-time Australian Open champion Novak Djokovic flashed up in the stadium behind him.
It was in the third set, and it was like the absent No. 1 was looking over the shoulder of the player who is effectively the No. 1 seed at the year's first Grand Slam tournament.
Medvedev, who lost last year's Australian Open final to Djokovic but avenged that with a victory over the Serb for the U.S. Open title, reached the fourth round for the fourth straight year at Melbourne Park with a 6-4, 6-4, 6-2 win over Botic van de Zandschulp.
The 25-year-old Russian was a conspicuous fan favorite on Margaret Court Arena, too, two days after being unsettled by the boos and jeers of a parochial crowd on Rod Laver Arena when he ended the run of mercurial Aussie Nick Kyrgios.
He was critical of a lack of respect in that match – mostly about the noise between first and second serves – and this time offered some relationship advice to the crowd.
"Every good relationship must have its ups and downs," he said in his on-court TV interview, explaining that he planned to be back on court quite often in the future. "I hope it's going to be more good times than bad times, otherwise it doesn't work."
Medvedev later clarified he didn't have a problem with the Australian crowds and had been fully expecting to have them against him when he played Kyrgios – just not while he was in his service motion.
"The other night I was playing against an Australian player, very electric Australian player," he said. "After the match, I think it was, yeah, straightaway pretty actually fun for everybody.
"That's how I felt, and I didn't see actually a lot of let's say negative reactions."
Medvedev avoided a showdown with Djokovic after the world's top-ranked player had his visa canceled and was deported on the eve of the tournament for failing to meet Australia's strict COVID-19 vaccination criteria.
He also avoided another match against an Australian in the fourth round when wildcard entry Chris O'Connell lost to Maxime Cressy 6-2, 6-7 (6), 6-3, 6-2.
Cressy's win means there's two 24-year-old Americans who'll be in the fourth round of a major for their first time.
No. 70-ranked Cressy is in his fourth Grand Slam tournament. No. 20-ranked Taylor Fritz finally made it in his 22nd attempt, with a 6-0, 3-6, 3-6, 6-4, 6-3 win over No. 15 Roberto Bautista Agut, and said it "means a ton."
"I mean, it's huge. Like after that match I was almost close to like tearing up a bit," Fritz said. "It seems stupid, because so many people have made the second week of Slams but it's just, like, eluded me for so long.
"I never doubted it would happen," he added, "but I definitely, definitely was getting sick of playing, you know, Top 4 player for the opportunity every time."
Fritz will next play fourth-seeded Stefanos Tsitsipas, a runner-up at the French Open and semifinalist in Australia last year, who fended off Benoit Paire 6-3, 7-5, 6-7 (2), 6-4.
No. 9 Felix Auger-Aliassime progressed with a 6-4, 6-1, 6-1 win over No. 24 Dan Evans, winning 14 of the last 16 games.
On the women's side, two-time Grand Slam champion Simona Halep is into Week 2 at Melbourne Park for the fifth consecutive year after a 6-2, 6-1 victory over Danka Kovinic.
She'll be joined by second-seeded Aryna Sabalenka, who advanced with a 4-6, 6-3, 6-1 win over No. 31 Marketa Vondrousova.
A contender for the No. 1 ranking – Sabalenka can potentially overtake Ash Barty depending on results here – the 23-year-old from Belarus admits her serve is still a work in progress.
The match started ominously, when Sabalenka had two double-faults and was broken in the first game.
But unlike the previous round, when she had nine double-faults in her first two service games and 19 in the match, the semifinalist last year at Wimbledon and the U.S. Open managed to almost halve that glaring statistic.
"I'm really happy right now," Sabalenka said, laughing, in her on-court TV interview. "Mostly I'm happy I made only 10 double-faults."
It's something she'll be working on ahead of her next match against No. 115-ranked Kaia Kanepi, who has reached the quarterfinals six times at Grand Slam events – but only once since 2013 and never in Australia.
In other third-round matches, 27th-seeded Danielle Collins of the U.S. rallied from a set and a break down to beat 19-year-old Clara Tauson 4-6, 6-4, 7-5. She'll next meet No. 19 Elise Mertens, who advanced 6-2, 6-2 over Zhang Shuai. No. 7 Iga Swaitek, the 2020 French Open champion, beat No. 25 Daria Kasatkina 6-2, 6-3.
None of the other players remaining the women's draw has won as many tour-level titles as Halep's 23.
Halep's next opponent will be Alize Cornet, who celebrated her 32nd birthday with a 4-6, 6-4, 6-2 victory over No. 29 Tamara Zidansek, a 2021 French Open semifinalist.
Cornet followed up her upset of No. 3 Garbine Muguruza by reaching the fourth round at the Australian Open for the first time since 2009.


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19 April 2019, 18:55 Died on level 273 by Elitek Charlover.
15 April 2019, 16:32 Died on level 268 by a draken spellweaver.
14 April 2019, 22:03 Died on level 268 by Vamagroth.
13 April 2019, 19:57 Died on level 266 by Seven and a draken warmaster.
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text:
Q: Setting Team City Build Agent Port Number in Marathon Trying to deploy a teamcity build agent on the Mesosphere Marathon platform and having problems with the port mappings.
By default the teamcity server will try to talk to the teamcity agent on port 9090
Therefor I set the container port like so :
"containerPort": 9090
However when I deploy the teamcity agent container, Marathon maps port 9090 to a port in the 30000 range.
When teamcity server talks back to the container on port 9090 it fails because the port is mapped to 30000.
I've figured out how to get this dynamic port into the teamcity config file by running the following sed command in the marathon args :
"args": ["sh", "-c", "sed -i -- \"s/ownPort=9090/ownPort=$PORT0/g\" buildAgent.properties; bin/agent.sh run"],

When the container is spun up it will swap out ownPort=9090 for ownPort=$PORT0 in buildAgent.properties and then start the agent.
However now that the agent is on port 30000 the "containerPort": 9090 is now invalid, it should be "containerPort": $PORT0 however this is invalid json as containerPort should be an integer.
I have tried setting "containerPort": 0 which should dynamically assign a port, but using this value I cannot get the container to start it just disappears straight away and keeps trying to deploy it.
I log onto the mesos slave host and run docker ps -a I can see the containers ports are blank :
CONTAINER ID        IMAGE                    COMMAND                CREATED             STATUS                       PORTS                     NAMES
28*********0        teamcityagent            "\"sh -c 'sed -i --    7 minutes ago       Exited (137) 2 minutes ago                             mes************18a8

This is the Marathon json file I'm using and Marathon version is Version 0.8.2 :
{
    "id": "teamcityagent",
    "args": ["sh", "-c", "sed -i -- \"s/ownPort=9090/ownPort=$PORT0/g\" buildAgent.properties; bin/agent.sh run"],
    "cpus": 0.05,
    "mem": 4000.0,
    "instances": 1,
    "container":
    {
        "type": "DOCKER",
        "docker":
        {
            "image": "teamcityagent",
            "forcePullImage": true,
            "network": "BRIDGE",
            "portMappings":
            [
                {
                    "containerPort": 0,
                    "hostPort": 0,
                    "servicePort": 0,
                    "protocol": "tcp"
                }
            ]
        }
    }

}

Any help would be greatly appreciated!

A: Upgrading from Marathon Version 0.8.2 to Marathon Version 0.9.0 fixed the issue, using settings "containerPort": 0, now dynamically sets a port properly and the container starts up and the teamcity server can now communicate with it.


Bill Cooper, Mystery Babylon - Hour 2 - The Sun of God.
This is the complete series. All music has been edited out of this version. This practically have no influence on the understanding of this series, and will save you hours in the end. Originally the series is 43 hours long, but with removed pauses, and removed talk about out-dated meetings, I have saved you around 4-5 hours.
Apart from that, nothing has been touched, and is presented here as it was in The Hour of The Time radio show, hosted by William (Bill) Cooper.
You might want to keep a pencil and paper to hand. Try to listen to all the lectures in order. Otherwise you will fail to fully comprehend latter episodes .
It's hard to explain what it's all really about, but all you have to do to find out, is watch it all in it's entirety. You will not regret it.
Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for "fair use" for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research."
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