supposed to hang up now Dunant was fickle and immediately realized that Taber arranged for human interception Siegel hit him on the phone. Taber aware of. We do it the way we do now, Dunant said as he walked out of Siegel apartment with Paschal. Siegel realized what our method might Liquid Nitrogen Male Enhancement mean. He now knows Dunant extraordinary ability. A few weeks after Siegel received the information, one day he received a call from Dunant, the first time Dunant had spoken to him on the phone. Dunans voice sounded terribly familiar on the phone. Suddenly Siegel breathed in. He remembered, and he remembered that autumn night, he walked into the bedroom, looking out the window of the playground, when the phone rang, he picked up the handset. Is Marty Siegel Asked one voice, Liquid Nitrogen Male Enhancement Have you received my letter It was this voice that ruined his life. Dunant is Bill. About two weeks after Mr. Bouskeys investigation was announced, Milken sought Jim Dahl again. Dahl still does not understand what exactly Liquid Nitrogen Male Enhancement Millikens Liquid Nitrogen Male Enhancement gourd is selling. All he knew was that Milken spent most of his time with his brother Lowell after he Liquid Nitrogen Male Enhancement last talked with Millkenn in the restroom. You need to find a lawyer, Milken whispered to Darr.


Extremely well presented three bedroom link detached bungalow situated within the well serviced popular village. Modernised and tastefully refurbished throughout by the current owners this superb bungalow boasts a log burner, luxury bathroom, generous conservatory with glass roof, garage, ample parking and gardens.
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Yesterday, Jharkhand born Dhoni has created a history in Indian cricket. After Kapil Dev, Dhoni has brought the world cup to India after a gap of 23 years. He brought the name of Jharkhand in world media more than any one else does after the creation of new state Jharkhand. So, Jharkhand state government has introduced the highest award in the state called 'Jharkhand Ratna' for the first time and that will be presented to Dhoni on the 7th foundation day celebration of the Jharkhand state on November 15 at Ranchi (capital city of Jharkhand). Jharkhand Government is being very soft towards sports person as in last month it has already introduced 2 percent reservation in state government jobs. And, also sports are being mandatory in Jharkhand schools up to higher secondary level. Its great turning towards sports talents promoting policy since, Jharkhand is supplying the top level players in India's national Hockey, Archery and Cricket teams.
Even after a big political instability and non-efficient ministers some of the good policies are coming up in state but, due to improper implementation and clearance or transparency in system it has been matter of discussion and debate such as Domicile Policy. In my personal view it has nothing wrong if government wants to give preference to local people in 3rd or 4th class state government jobs. But, still its not perfect policy because, everyone whose family's real estate/property/land/ homes has been in state since 1932 can get advantage of this, no matter either s/he is rich or poor economically. So, basically it should be targeting to economically suppressed class regardless of their caste or community or religion.
In case of so called outsider (often termed as Diku in negative sense) in state. No one residing in state is outsider as long as s/he stayed there for couple of years and adopted the local things (culture, language & food etc.) and settled there. They (who came in Jharkhand in search of job/occupation/ business and settled down) shouldn't have to feel rivalry to state's original and suppressed class population either it's belong to Tribals or Non-Tribals. Jharkhand State has got 29 percent tribal population, that's really a big figure compare to other states of India. And of-course yes, we have to give preference to our 'economically suppressed class tribal populations' and who are on the verge of extinct such as Birhor tribe. We Jharkhandi should really have to feel proud that - we got 32 types of tribes in our state and their rich culture. Our all efforts should be propelled to save our rich heritage and history otherwise, it would be only found in places like British & American Museums. Being a true Jharkhandi, we all should have care for our mines, minerals, forests, industries, tribes as well as up coming tinsel towns talents. If you don't then, please don't say yourself a Jharkhandi and don't associate your life with Jharkhand.
Jharkhand is basically a small state and it has been a biggest mineral bank of India, as per data till 1980s Jharkhand (South Bihar, in undivided Bihar) was contributing 60 percent in overall national minerals production of India that comes to now at approx. 40 percent. Jharkhand has many industrial cities and sub-urban areas called as tinsel town naming - Bokaro, Dhanbad, Jamshedpur and Ranchi, are the home of many technical and educational institutions, that produced the huge numbers of well-known politicians, Bollywood/TV actors, IAS and IITian (engineers) and business management people. But, our national media hardly try to catch-up that above and on the other side some commercial media houses has been keen on selling negative image of our places. During latest England tour, when Indian Cricket team went to watch 'Chak De India' movie at Manchester, that time Jharkhand born cricket star Dhoni certainly wouldn't like to saying Ho-Ho by Jharkhandi Sporty Girl in reply of all questions in that movie. This might be ignored by many people or taken as healthy source of entertainment. But, it's not healthy at all anyway, if something slap on your origin/identity or misrepresent it and at last, why should be 'funny media selling item' on the name of our state? They (media houses) are never missed to say entire state as Naxal effected but, have they ever brought the broadcasting of real faces of state based naxalism? Obviously, it's hard for them to go in dense forest to capture naxal life rather than capturing street lynching by mob in Bihar and broadcasting again and again.


Whether you love them or hate them, insurance brokers are a permanent part of the financial services landscape. The business is by no means glamorous but does present an opportunity for the long-term investor.
The trend of consolidation in the insurance industry is likely to continue. Brokers like Marsh are well placed to navigate this changing environment to the benefit of their clients.
The need for effective risk management and risk consulting will continue to grow as companies expand, new regulations for doing business are put in place, new threats abound (cyber especially) etc.
The promise of emerging market economies remain.
The Company's business model is capital light, scale-able, highly cash generative, and benefits from long-lasting customer relationships.
In addition to rising dividends (covered by CFO), MMC frequently acquires its own shares and were it not for EPS growing at a sharply higher rate than the decline in shares outstanding, I would be skeptical.
Insurance brokerage is still a fragmented industry ripe for consolidation. The Company has been an active participant in this trend but has also been able to grow its top line organically.
MMC stock is down about 8% for the year, is currently trading at a forward PE of 15.45 times, and boasts a dividend yield of 2.2%.
What do you think of Marsh & McLennan Companies as a long-term hold?
← New Page Added: Where Are They Now?


SAN FRANCISCO (MarketWatch) -- Handleman Co. hdl said Wednesday after the closing bell that it has changed its business arrangement with Kmart, now a part of Sears Holdings Corp. SHLD, +0.15% Handleman said it will continue to provide category management and distribution to about 1,070 Kmart stores. Another supplier will provide music to Kmart's remaining 400 stores. In addition, Kmart will assume responsibility for the performance of in-store merchandising in all of its stores. Troy, Mich.-based Handleman said it expects its annual sales to be reduced by about $50 million because of the changes in its business arrangement with Kmart.


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Read a sample from WILD AND WICKED THINGS by Francesca May
The Great Gatsby meets Practical Magic in this lush, decadent gothic novel where a young woman gets swept into a glittering world filled with illicit magic, romance, blood debts and murder.
Rumour had it that Crow Island was haunted by witches.
As I saw it for the first time, I understood why. People said the witches who had first discovered the island lived on in the bodies of the crows that flocked on every street corner and bare-branched tree. They flew high above as the boat drew closer to the shore, a constellation of black stars against the bright summer sky.
Tucked away beyond the murky water off the east coast, the island's crescent-moon shape gave it the appearance of a curved spine, a body curled secretively away from the mainland. Yet up close the properties, built to resemble American plantation houses and crumbling Georgian manors, dispelled this illusion of secrecy. They loomed large, like spectral grey sentries guarding their land.
On Crow Island, people had whispered to me back home, real magic lurked just below the surface. Wealth seeped from the place like honey. They said that it had a reputation, that here the law looked the other way.
My mother hadn't wanted me to come, but I had pleaded, surprising both of us. It was my father's final request, which felt vital somehow, and I was compelled in a way I never had been before. He had wanted me to do this, to travel to a place I had never been, to sort through and sell his belongings, although I had hardly known him. And I had thought I could do it. I thought, at least, I should try.
I was no longer sure. I had never been away from home, had never slept anywhere but the squat back bedroom in the little stone terrace house I shared with my mother. The thought was both light and sharp. I inhaled a lungful of the salty ocean air, which tasted different here than it did back home, and reassured myself that I could be brave. Crow Island might be haunted, but it couldn't be much different than the rest of England had been since the war, life trudging on despite the ghosts. I would be fine.
In the harbour the final traces of Whitby drained away: here was no Mam to guide me; there were no familiar street corners to remind me of sunny afternoons with Sam and Bea; there was not even to be the routine of the shop, of cosy evenings by the fire or Sunday afternoons visiting the gallery in town. It was an unwritten story. I had never had so much freedom, or felt so timid.
There was a car waiting for me by the harbour office, a swanky hayburner unlike anything I'd ever dreamed of driving, with a paper slip bearing my name tied to the steering wheel. I approached hesitantly, placing my palm flat against the sun- warmed metal. It felt, for a second, like I could feel the heartbeat of the island, the same thundering under my skin I sometimes swore I could feel when I scavenged shiny polished stones on the beach back home. I pulled my sweating palm back and glanced around nervously.
The harbour had long since emptied and I couldn't see another soul. The office loomed ahead, its windows mirrored by the sun. In the letter I had received before leaving I'd been told I would have to go inside to collect the key for my father's car, but some force held me locked in place. It wasn't the office itself that scared me, more the idea that once I had the key—what then?
I stood for a minute watching the occasional cloud scud across the dark glass of the office windows. Two minutes. Five. My thoughts trickled towards my father. I should be more upset by his death, but I was almost indifferent. Perhaps I was being harsh, perhaps he had loved Mam once, but she had never said. She had shed his surname as if even the suggestion of his love was painful for her. I almost preferred to think that he had never loved her. After all, what kind of man would abandon his wife and newborn daughter for an island? Still, this was my inheritance—money that could mean everything for Mam and me.
The sun beat down on my shoulders and I was hot and impatient with myself. Sam would have thought I was silly. Bea would laugh if she saw me. But Sam wasn't here and Bea was probably still angry with me. My irritation grew. A roaring sound began inside my ears, the same sound I always heard when a panic came on—like ocean waves. Like drowning. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight, blocking out the sensation of swirling water that clogged my mind.
"Are you . . . well, miss? Do you need a doctor? Papa says it looks like you might faint."
A girl of no more than ten had appeared, red- haired and freckled, wearing a grey smock. Concern etched her forehead. I must have been standing here for longer than I'd thought.
"I'm—a little lost," I said, fumbling for an excuse. "I think this is my car but I don't have the key . . . ?"
The girl's face sagged in relief and she snatched at the handwritten slip tied to the wheel plus the paper I handed her, my own messy scrawl in the margins of the note my father's lawyer had sent me. When she returned them, it was with a small key ring, which she thrust at me.
"Thank you," I managed, finally able to breathe.
The girl disappeared as quickly as she'd come. I gazed at the car for a moment more, remembering the illicit runabouts in Sam's dad's jalopy. I'd hated them at the time but was glad now, although I was worried that it would be harder here than roaring along the winding, empty country roads at home.
I didn't want to think of Sam, or of home, and that spurred me into action. I threw my meagre belongings into the car, and once I was on the road it came back to me little by little. It was easier than I remembered, or perhaps the car was simply better. The air tasted of tree sap, the future shimmering ahead like a mirage in the heat.
The reality of Crow Island stretched and grew around me as I drove, lavish houses making way for smaller dwellings as I headed away from the harbour, and quiet, crooked streets peeling off the main road through the town known as Crow Trap. I took in the freshly whitewashed shops and the bright, shiny windows. I hadn't seen such a lush air of festivity since the parties we'd thrown after the armistice. The bunting was fresh and neat, fluttering between lampposts, and the children who ran in circles outside the small bakery wore clean aprons and shoes.
It was beautiful, and yet I couldn't help the nervous way my palms itched at the sight of the wooden boards outside shops peddling Genuine Palm Readings and Holidaymakers' Charms for Good Fortune, and at the windows that offered a glimpse of trailing greenery, framing small signs that proclaimed the vendors' license to advertise faux magic.
It had been this way since the prohibition began after the war. Licenses, posters, and provisos, silly games that danced on a knife-edge as far as the law was concerned. Back home I hardly thought about magic except to avoid the advertisements at the back of the newspaper where faux mediums passed public messages to the great beyond. In Whitby there wasn't much cause for meddling with magic, real or otherwise; most people barely had enough money to put food in their bellies, never mind extra to waste on trifles.
And it wasn't worth the risk.
Mam always said that real magic was cunning and it was best to steer clear. Fake magic was a joke, a party trick for rich people who had nothing better to do, so it was best to steer clear of that too. Her most well- worn bedtime caution over the last two and a half years was the story of a girl in York, Bessie Higgins, who'd been hanged for selling poppets that turned out to have dried monkshood in them, although she'd sworn she had simply picked the weeds near the river.
There must be more to Bessie's story, but talking about magic had always made Bea act foolish, so we never did.
Magic seemed different here. The licenses and advertisements were light, funny. These signs offered a glimpse into the future instead of the past. Perhaps the rich could better enjoy the soft scares of make-believe fortune-telling, since they hadn't lost as much as the rest of us.
I counted seven of the island's famous crows as I headed back towards the coast. They were perched on rooftops and in trees, one more on the pinnacle of a lamppost, her beady eyes and sharp little beak shining in the May morning sun. I acknowledged each one under my breath like a prayer, the hazy words of a half- remembered poem in the back of my mind.
One for malice,
Two for mirth . . .
The stretch of coastline where I'd rented a house for the summer was a jungle of grand houses and sprawling estates, the odd cottage like mine annexed from wealthy land a long time ago. I drove down roads shaded by hedgerows growing verdant and wild and speckled with dark thorns. It was a relief to easily find the cottage, nestled less than five minutes' slow drive away.
It sat atop a sloping lawn, surrounded on three sides by so many trees you could hardly see the sky, or the ocean, or anything but tangles of green. At the back of the cottage the lawn dipped until it fell away into a sandy stretch looking out to the North Sea. I'd used some of my new inheritance for the privilege of being able to see water. That was why outsiders came to Crow Island after all, wasn't it?
There was a man waiting for me outside the cottage when I arrived. He was tall and broad shouldered with greying rust-coloured hair and a cheerful, ruddy face. He smoothed the jacket of his mmaculate herringbone suit and smiled.
"You must be Miss Mason," he said, shaking my hand warmly as I climbed out of the car. "Your father spoke very highly of you. My name is Jonas Anderson—it's a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm very sorry about your father. Such a shame to have lost him so unexpectedly."
This was my father's lawyer. The man he'd left in charge of his estate. He was the one who had written after my father's heart attack and begged me to come. It's what your father wanted. The only thing he asked for. He was the one who had given me an advance on my father's money—for the cottage. I hadn't expected him to be here, and his presence made my muscles bunch nervously.
"Mr. Anderson," I said, smoothing my hair flat under its scarf. I didn't like the idea that my father had spoken about me at all when it hardly seemed like he'd remembered I existed, but I tried to keep that from my voice. "How nice to see you in person—but I'm here so early. I thought we weren't scheduled to meet until next week."
"No, but I wanted to, ah, welcome you to the island," he said, still smiling. "I wanted, really, to make sure you found the car without trouble, and the cottage . . ." He pointed vaguely. "I was surprised you chose one over here, but I can understand why. It's lovely, isn't it? Anyway, I know it can be daunting to find your feet in a new place. Especially one like this." He gestured at a single crow that had perched itself comfortably on the bonnet of my car. "So, if you need anything, you mustn't hesitate to let me know. Particularly if it's about your father or his things. We were good friends, you see. I'm sure you must have questions, though I understand if you're too overwhelmed today. I thought perhaps that was why you came early. I can try to speed through the necessary paperwork, but I'm more than happy to give you this week to get settled if that's preferable."
I blinked away the unexpected tightness in my throat at his kindness and nodded as he talked, allowing myself to settle into this new world and agreeing gratefully to keep in touch. Once he was gone I slipped into the cottage, shutting out the sunny warmth to set about unpacking my few belongings.
Now that I was alone, the cottage seemed big and rambling. Frivolous. It wasn't like it was even my money I was spending yet. It was strangely quiet too, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the distant rush of the ocean and the caw of a crow. And there was a different quality to the quiet; it felt like the blackest part of a shadow, coiled and waiting.
I had never been alone like this before. I had spent all my early years with a gaggle of other neighbourhood children, Sam and Bea and a snotty girl called Margot at my heels as we ran and played in the streets behind my mother's chocolate shop. Later, when Sam was gone, I had Mam and Bea, and then Mam. What would I do with all this space? I could walk from one side of the cottage to the other without tripping over Mam's knitting basket or having to slow for Tabs and her kittens. I could swing my arms and not hit a single thing if I wanted to. I didn't want to.
I wasn't sure I wanted to be here.
Until Sam was deployed I'd never thought about leaving Whitby. After he left I thought about it constantly. I was still trying to convince my mother to let me sign up to nurse when we found out he'd died. Just—died. Gone.
It felt like a warning. This is what happens when you dream. This is what happens when you get ahead of yourself. For two years Bea and I hardly spoke of him, and when we did we pretended that he was still away, travelling the world and collecting experiences he would bring home to share with us. He never came home. And when Bea had left last spring—when she'd come to this very island—without saying goodbye to me, it felt like I was doomed to lose everything, each part of me slowly chipped away until there was nothing left.
I stayed with Mam, pretending I was content. I did what it felt like I should do, going through the motions like no war had ever happened. How was my loss any different from anybody else's? My life became a pattern of dance halls on the weekends, more out of obligation than anything else, and the shop during the week. Trips to the gallery and the dull excitement of a new sewing pattern. Mam never said so, but eventually she expected me to marry. It had been four years since Sam died, and my inevitable future grew closer every month. I couldn't put it off much longer.
And then . . . ?
That was the part that scared me. The picture of a life already lived, so predictable I could write it point by point in my journal and tick it off. Marriage, babies, hard work, and never enough money to stretch . . . The problem was, as much as my father's death felt almost like a windfall, coming to the island scared me too.
Standing here, in this cottage that wasn't mine, I told myself it didn't—couldn't—matter that I was afraid. This felt like my last chance to change my path; I needed to grasp it with both hands, pull the opportunity up at the roots, and carry it with me, ready to plant, or else the life back home was all that waited for me.
It seemed like fate that Bea was here. I'd been thinking of her a lot since I set out on the ferry, wondering if she'd truly missed me like her letters said. Whether she was still angry with me. The hole she'd left in my chest ached. If only we could be friends again—true friends—maybe I wouldn't feel so lonely.
Bea and I had been so close, once. Both of us had grown up without fathers, although hers had died when she was just a baby, and we often joked that we were fierce enough not to need them. It felt strange, after all our jokes, all the secret longing we'd hidden behind our bluster, that I was here today because of my father.
Perhaps he had hoped coming to the island would be good for me. Perhaps he had hoped that the island would jostle my soul and wake me from a slumber he recognised—that it would cut this stunted part of me free. Perhaps he hadn't thought of how it would affect me at all. I wasn't sure which possibility I liked the least.
The late-afternoon air in the cottage was loaded with my questions. I wanted to know about his life, about his friends, his work, and his hobbies. I wanted to know why this place had captivated him so much that he had left us without a second thought. And most of all, I couldn't stop the small voice in my head that asked the same thing I'd been returning to for weeks—at home, on the boat, seeing that shiny car for the first time . . .
Why now? Why had my father only wanted me to come to Crow Island once he was dead?
The moon rose whole and bright like a shiny coin. I made a pot of honey tea and carried a cup out onto the shining blue lawn. The sound of the ocean was loud in my ears. I would never be able to sleep, missing the snuffling sounds of Tabs and the kittens at the side of my bed, the distant rhythm of my mother's snores. Instead I stood and inhaled the new, fresh scents of the wild garden, knowing Mam would love them. She'd always wanted a big garden where she could grow roses, magnolias, geraniums . . . a dream I hoped my newfound money could soon accomplish.
From my spot on the lawn I could see the ocean spread so far ahead it became the sky. The noises were of nature, rustling leaves, flashes of white that were rabbits darting between the trees near the cottage. Back home I couldn't remember the last time I had been outside alone at night, felt the silver light of the moon on my shoulders and the crown of my head.
I sipped from my cup and allowed my thoughts to drift, dwell- ing on the stronger teas and tinctures we'd had when I was young. Blackcurrant and licorice tea for vivid dreams, ginger root and angelica for luck and protection. I recalled the pink, foamy tea Bea's mam had served us once—rose hip and cardamom laced with the barest whisper of hemlock. We'd lain together under a canopy made of old bedsheets and told each other stories for hours, not growing tired until the sun was almost cresting through Bea's window.
It unnerved me how easily we had been led back then, how cushioned we had felt, lulled by the tea's charm. Magic had once felt like fun, before we understood what else it could do. It unnerved me more how I still missed the teas and the exotic chocolates that could make your heart race with joy, the subtle spice in a freshly baked carrot cake; I knew what they did and a deep part of me still longed for them, or for how it had been before everything changed. These days you were lucky to even find fresh lavender, never mind anything dried or sweetened. Ever since the prohibition it had been harder and harder to find things to calm your nerves, anything to alter your mental state at all.
I didn't mean to wander from the lawn. At home I would never have allowed myself to leave the safety of the house this late without a friend. I left the back door open as I carried my cup down the slope until my feet were buried in the cold sand of the beach. I just wanted to escape the thoughts that had followed me from the boat to the harbour and the house. Thoughts of what I'd have to go back to once the summer was over, ghosts that stalked me everywhere I went.
I cradled the steaming cup in both hands. The ocean was black and so still it was like a dark pane of glass reflecting the moon. It reminded me of the stories of the witch's black mirror, of how heathens had once used a surface like this to see the future. The thought made the hairs rise on my arms and I shoved it away. Real magic like that, the kind of magic that made witches different from regular people, was the reason we had the prohibition—not because of fancy teas and fortune-tellers but because of the abuse of raw power that had turned boy soldiers into killing machines.
I walked along the beach, blindly drawn onwards by the whisper of the tide. Another crow flew overhead—no, it was a group of them, five or six flocking to the trees around my neighbour's house, their wings beating in time with my heart. I closed my eyes, draw- ing the sound into myself, and felt an old familiar tumbling deep in my belly, like the flash of fear when you miss a step and your death hovers.
I paused, waiting for it to pass. It happened sometimes, often when I was by the ocean, a dizziness that I usually put down to the cold. Only this night was balmy, the wind faint, and when I opened my eyes the feeling hadn't entirely vanished.
I heard laughter. Music. I turned, straining my ears away from the ocean. The sound of the party grew louder. The noise I had mis- taken for belonging to Crow Trap was coming from only a little way along the beach, on the left in the direction the crows had flown.
I heard the sultry swing of jazz, string music and brass and sing- ing too. There was the chink of glasses, a lone voice followed by a chorus of laughter. I clutched the lukewarm cup and followed the sounds along the beach, where I passed a little dock, sand glittering at the edge of my neighbour's lawn. The house caught my gaze and I was drawn like a moth.
It was a beautiful cacophony of grey stone, silver in the moon- light, the many windows twinkling with hundreds of electric lights. The house was bordered at the back by swaying pine trees, and I thought I could make out an old oak with low branches, a swing dancing in the faint wind.
It was already late but it sounded like the party was still young, the noise only growing as I stood, my feet ensconced in cool sand. I listened to the music swell as the laughter took on a wild edge. I could just make out the distant hum of an engine and then louder, raucous shouts of welcome from closer to the house. A tugging sensation began in my chest, the kind of longing I hadn't felt in years.
This house, unlike my little cottage, did not simply allow its lawn to become beach to become sea. Instead, there were elegant steps that shone white leading up to a beautiful fountain, bubbling away beneath statues of women with dark feathered wings—like the island's crows. I followed the sound of the trickling water, careful to stay on the sand, where I was sure I wouldn't be seen, hidden by a stone wall and the trees between the beach and the lawn. I perched by the wall for a moment, not brave enough to get any closer.
Through the gaps in the trees to the left of the house I could make out the smudged shapes of people, the noise growing as more guests arrived. The women wore sleek, stylish dresses in gold and pink, white and royal sapphire blue; some were dressed in jewel shades that seemed to blend into the dark so all I could make out was the way the moonlight glinted off flutes filled with what looked like champagne, their costume jewellery glittering as they danced and sang. Their laughter was raw, yet somehow honeyed, tinged with abandon. One of the women wore a stylish beaded turban around her hair, and she and a man in a black suit rushed for the swing attached to the oak tree, flinging themselves into its seat. The woman screeched as the man pushed the swing higher and higher, the branch groaning while somebody else clapped.
I ducked farther down behind the stone wall, inching my way along towards the steps at the back of the house. My heart hammered in my chest, stomach churning with a mixture of fear and— want. I knew what kinds of people these were.
They were rich. The kind of Crow Islanders I'd heard rumours of, who didn't care if they got caught "promoting witchcraft" and slapped with a hefty fine. I doubted they noticed the cost, which made me think of my mother again, and how she'd almost lost the chocolate shop that had been in our family for six generations when the law changed and she could no longer include the K-class magical herbs in her prized jasmine-lemon white chocolate truffles. There was anger beneath my fear, but I didn't leave.
I reached the pillar at the bottom of the stairs, where I was safely hidden from sight, keeping most of the guests behind me. I placed my cup of cold tea on the closest step, my hands shaking with sudden nerves. I wasn't sure why I was hiding, except for the single irrational fear that if somebody saw me they might ask me to join them. They might think I was one of them. And I wasn't.
Deep down I was also afraid that I would want to say yes.
I turned, about to leave when I caught sight of a partygoer exit- ing the back of the house, where a porch jutted over the grass. They stepped from darkness into glittering night, just a shadow at first, which made me think of the crows that had flown overhead, and the dizziness returned. I squinted, peering through the darkness to make out the ghostly arms of the house fading off to the left and right. On the porch there was a flickering electric lamp that shed an eerie purple glow.
My eyes were drawn to the light—and to the figure as they came to rest just beneath it. They were tall, lithe, with the easy movements of the rich. Despite my reservations I couldn't help myself, creeping farther up the steps to be able to see better. They had an air of boredom, but they stared out to the ocean in a way that almost seemed hopeful, body alert, searching the black water for an answer.
There was a flicker of light and smoke as a cigarette flared to life, briefly illuminating the figure's face. Narrow chin, sharp cheekbones. Wicked eyes that sparkled like dark gems. Lips . . . lips curved like a Cupid's bow.
The woman wore a man's white suit, crisply tailored to her slight curves. I blinked, but I couldn't erase her face from my mind. A trembling started in my chest—coming from my fluttering heart.
The woman shifted, taking a long drag on her cigarette. The purple light overhead wavered and the shadows lengthened, catching in the slickness of her dark braid, making her suit stand stark against her olive skin. She was magnetic.
An unravelling started inside me—no, an uncoiling. A buzz of panic whipped through my limbs. My pulse began to thunder; it was as if the longing that had pulled me here was tangible, a pin right through the centre of my heart. It was somehow both pain and plea- sure. I backed away, grateful for the silent sand, and hoping for the party behind me and the waves lapping on the shore to drown out the fear that rinsed through me.
I wondered if the woman was my neighbour, or just a guest. I wondered if the purple light had some sort of significance, or whether it was a trick of tired eyes. I wondered if she always wore such masculine clothes. My cheeks burned and I pressed my icy hands against them, ready to laugh, ready to forget the whole thing had ever happened.
Over the last few years I had learned that the best time to practice magic was not at midnight like my aunt had always said; the true witching hour was the morning after a party, any time after the last straggler passed out in the fountain and before eight o'clock.
I had taken to setting up my altar in the attic long before the others were awake because it was easier when I didn't have to answer questions. In the beginning I'd shared every story with them, linger- ing on the details I'd gleaned while Nathan made tea or breakfast. If an appointment had been resolved in one sitting, as they so often were, I'd enjoy explaining the clients' faces when I'd told them to swallow a spoonful of honeyed wine spiced with verveine for peace or wild garlic for protection. I asked Isobel to help me find the best herbs for my spells, because she always seemed to know not only which worked best, but how to combine and mix for a better result. I always allowed them to examine my recipes, making suggestions or jokes, although I often ignored them.
These days things were different. Two drops of blood and a concoction I could fit into a vial smaller than my thumb or I wouldn't take it on.
I couldn't.
Nathan and Isobel could never know how bad it had become, how the blood in my veins was growing thick and tired, how my magic sometimes felt cracked and dry like a cursed riverbed. I flexed my hands instinctively, drawing the nails into my palms and measuring the weak throb of my pulse.
For my final of last night's clients I used an old recipe of my aunt's, bastardised by years of Cilla's tutelage. I measured out eight drops of lavender oil, a thimbleful of dried ground yarrow, two big sprigs of fresh rosemary, and wax from a red candle, which I mixed with a single drop of blood pricked from the end of my finger, two pinches of grave dirt, and a healthy sprinkle of salt. The herbs made a faint hissing sound as I stoppered the vial and sealed it with more red wax.
Two drops of blood would have been more effective, three better still, but one would have to do. My aunt would have been disappointed if she could see me relying on such a base kind of magic— but she wasn't here.
The pull of the magic as the blood dried on my fingertip was familiar. The pain that roared up my arm and into my chest was new. It faded fast so I ignored it, tidying up the last of the cuttings and the fresh herbs.
The sun had already been up for a couple of hours and the sky through the attic window was clear and startlingly blue. At the peaked window I peered out to where the gardens joined the ocean. Beyond, on days like today, you could see the northern point of the island, a hump of houses that sometimes flickered white as the sun caught their bright stone facades.
Not for the first time I allowed my thoughts to stray to the light on our porch, purple and distinctive. I wondered if she might be out there on the northern point, if my imagination had not run wild with the scant details she had left me. If she might be able to see the light and know I was still looking for her.
My gaze moved to the back lawn, shaded but gold dipped at the edges, where three—no, four—guests were draped under a big old oak whose cover had protected them from the worst of the damp night.
There were three women and a man—I recognized none of them—curled together against the dawn chill, sleeping deeply. They were all young, beautiful strangers dressed in bright party garb, their headdresses sparkling, their peacock and dove feathers wilted and crumpled. One wore a gown crafted from gold scales, shining even in the shade of the tree, and another was barefoot, no shoes in sight. It might be hours before they woke, yet. The kazam had run dry at just gone three, but Isobel's latest mixture was certainly potent.
I pushed away from the window, rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, and set to my other work. Downstairs, glasses filled with colourful dregs littered every surface, new rings staining Cilla's antique wooden sideboards, which I marked with indifference. Cigarette ashes overflowed the gilded porcelain trays, and I was certain I'd find spilled tobacco in the creases of the upholstery. I started with the glassware, my thoughts turning to last night, to another success. Echoes of laughter had filled the hallways, the ballroom, the fullness replaced by a ringing emptiness in the light of day. It had been a party that rivalled all others. There had been a cacophony of noise, the heat of bodies crushed against one another, the light of a thousand twinkling electric stars. The house had flamed; the liquor had flowed: kazam and kyraz; gin and amber whisky; pink champagne with bubbles so soft they were like a thousand tiny kisses on a welcoming tongue. The whole of Crow Island had known about the party.
I hadn't invited them, but it seemed like the whole of Crow Island had come.
Except for her.
I forced the thoughts away as my mood darkened and scrubbed the bar in the parlour harder. I was still there when Nathan stumbled down the last flight of stairs and through the grand archway, his brown hair mussed and his sleepy face drawn. His presence was like a blanket and my resolve threatened to unravel. I wanted to tell him everything.
"Oh good," I said before he could speak. My voice was tight but I didn't care. Nathan would understand if he knew. He would comfort me. I couldn't face it. "Now that you're awake you can go and get rid of those stragglers on the And when Isobel gets up, tell her she needs to go lighter on the poppy petals next time."
I could smell Nathan's particular coffee-and-cinnamon scent as he wandered slowly through the parlour, picking up two glasses I'd missed on the mantel and returning them to the bar.
"You're lucky she brews it for you at all," he said. His tone was light but I knew an admonishment when I heard one. "You know how she feels about all of this. I'm sure she'd much rather us drink the lot."
I threw down the cloth and marched over to the large bay win- dow that looked out over the front lawn sloping towards our gravel drive. The sun was bright and hot and I leaned against the sill for a moment, my blood settling slowly like silt on the bottom of a river. Just that small morning magic had left me drained.
"You're right, love. I didn't mean anything by it."
"Of course you didn't. I know you're always beastly after a party, so I won't hold it against you." Nathan grinned, clinking the two glasses together, miming celebration, but the sound was empty. Then he sighed, suddenly serious. "Look at us, darling, we're work- ing ourselves to the bone. We should get more help than just the waiters. Or maybe we should take Isobel's advice and reconsider the parties altog—"
"We've had this conversation, Nathan," I said, not turning from the window. "Isobel has her clients and I have mine. If I choose to charge them, and how I choose to invite them to the house in the first place, is up to me. Besides, it's not as if the parties are just for attention."
Nathan laughed incredulously. "Aren't they entirely about attention?"
I gripped the sill, forcing my knuckles to whiten, watching the blood drain from them and thinking of last night, of all those people, all that magic in this house. A success. And yet still, a failure. "You know it's not that simple. We don't want the attention of every- body. We want—her."
Nathan said nothing to that. He was partly to blame. If he'd kept an eye on her—if he'd only done as I'd asked—we wouldn't be in this position. Never mind if I hadn't done the unthinkable in the first place.
The sound of a door slamming somewhere outside startled me. Nathan heard it too, abandoning the dirty glasses to come and see. The trees between our house and the annexed cottage next door were thin and spindly and we peered for a better view.
"That cottage has been empty for months. I wonder which mis- guided soul has taken it on this time. Haven't they heard about the raging heathens who live here?" Nathan smirked. "I hope they like noise."
A woman left the cottage and walked towards a cream coloured motorcar. She was young and fine boned, her golden hair wrapped up in a loose knot. She moved cautiously, with a measured kind of grace, like a cat weighing her surroundings.
Nathan kept speaking, but I couldn't hear him over the sudden, foreign roaring sound in my ears and a wrenching feeling deep in my chest. I recalled a similar moment last night, when I'd been standing on the porch and watching for signs of life in the grand houses on the northern point. It had felt, for a moment, like being stung by a bee. Sharp, painful. After a moment it grew dull, the ache moving towards my heart, the faint sound of the ocean ringing in my head. I'd assumed it was the debt, and ignored it.
I clenched my fingers tight as a new sensation washed over me; it was akin to being swept by a wild gust of ocean wind, bitter and raw. It was fear mingled with a strange kind of longing. When I blinked I saw darkness and ruby flowers, three pairs of crows' wings, flapping madly, damp earth under my fingernails, my veins tinged black by the sluggish slip of my blood.
Without thinking I bit down hard on my tongue and threw up my mental barriers, grabbing the slippery feeling and hauling it down into the recesses of my chest, where it hid, cowed by the iron tang of my blood. Distantly I recognized the normal sounds of life as Nathan spoke again about the cottage, the woman, about the guests still sleeping on our back lawn, and eventually another voice joined his, thick with sleep.
"Here you two are." Isobel, her dark ringlets still bundled in an old silk scarf of Cilla's, headed for the window. She wore a pair of shorts under a nightshirt, the collar slipping off one shoulder. In her hands she held two steaming cups of coffee, one of which she immediately thrust at Nathan. I forced myself to look away as the blond woman next door climbed into the cream car. "What are you two gawking at this time of day? Did somebody do something foolish on the lawn last night? Is it a big horrible mess? If it is, I absolutely will say I told you so."
I took my coffee from Isobel, grateful I didn't have to reply. It was weaker than the kind Nathan made, which was always dosed with cinnamon and strong enough to stand a stick up in. As the car pulled away the feeling in my chest dulled, a faint roar of surf in my ears as my heartbeat returned to normal.
"Em's mooning over the new neighbour." Nathan sipped his coffee, his face the picture of innocence. "Probably about time she got a new hobby."
"Who?" Isobel asked, craning her neck.
"Gone now, darling. You slept too late and missed all the fun.
She's some pretty young thing."
"It's a pity it's not some strapping man for me to flirt with," Isobel teased. Nathan's cheeks coloured and he slapped away the long finger Isobel wagged as she continued. "An extra pair of strong, sturdy hands certainly wouldn't go amiss around here."
"I wish you two would make yourselves useful instead of teas- ing each other," I said churlishly. "Or teasing me. I'm too tired for this." I turned fully away from the window, planting my feet firmly. "You"—I pointed at Nathan—"need to get those hangers-on off the back lawn or so help me I'll lock the greenhouse and overwater all your plants. And you"—I turned to Isobel, who raised an eyebrow in challenge—"what on earth did you put poppy petals in the kazam for?"
Isobel looked surprised, letting out a bark of laughter. "You mean why did you use the syrup I specifically told you not to use, which was labelled For Isobel, when you made the wine? The wine I told you not to brew yourself? I told you that syrup was for my work, not yours. Serves you right for thinking the world revolves around you. And now you owe me, dearest, because that batch took me two weeks to make. So I suppose I shall have to ask you kindly to spend some time helping me brew another one."
I rolled my eyes at her smile, but I was glad for Isobel, who always felt like a tall tree to shelter beside—even when she was bawling me out. Perhaps especially when she was bawling me out. I was always grateful for Nathan's gentle warmth, but Isobel's love felt like a firm pair of guiding hands. I wondered, just for a second, whether they would simply be grateful when I was gone.
I followed Nathan and Isobel farther into the house as they carried on bickering, about the booze, about the parties, about me and my clients. I followed them away from the cottage and the woman.
Away, too, from that tugging feeling, still there, deep down inside me, which felt like a warning.
Francesca May grew up in the middle of England where she spent her childhood devouring fantasy books and brewing potions in her back garden. She currently lives in Derby with her family, three giant dogs and two black cats. By day she works as a bookseller at Waterstones. By night she accidentally kills every house plant she touches and writes novels about gothic mansions, witchcraft and queer love.
"Brimming with romance and gilded with danger, Wild Wicked Things is a heady, lyrical gem of a book" Hannah Whitten, New York Times bestselling author of For the Wolf
"Viciously enchanting, with a spell woven onto every page. Francesca May has given us a cast of wild and wicked women who dare to hold a mirror to the darkest, and most tender, parts of our souls. I couldn't get enough!" Heather Walter, author of Malice

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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Semi-finals hit fever pitch
NEW VENUE: Ballandean will host the semi-finals this weekend after Tenterfield played host in last season's deciding matches. Matthew Purcell
23rd Aug 2018 8:00 AM
FOOTBALL: For the first time in the club's esteemed history Ballandean hosted last season's grand finals.
They'll back it up this weekend as they welcome player's from six clubs in this year's Football Stanthorpe major and minor semi-finals.
"Teams that finished one and two on the ladder will play on Saturday for the right to advance directly to the grand final on September 8, while the loser will have to play the winner of the Sunday games.
"Sunday will represent the teams that finished third and forth on the table with the loser finished for the year," Ballandean Football Club president Neil Newman said.
"All games are scheduled to start at their normal times, but it's worth noting that all games need to have a winner so extra time and penalty shoot-outs may be required to find a winner and therefore games may run late.
"With the likelihood of rain, we'll be looking at having marquees set up similar to last year's grand final to offer spectators shelter from the elements. We can assure you that our canteen will be providing our usual range of hot food and goodies to keep everyone fed and warm on the day," Newman said.
Games on Saturday will start at 10.30am with Inter taking on Ballandean in the Fillies.
Inter will head to the semi full of confidence, having topped the table and been largely untroubled this year.
Later in the day the Ladies will kick-off at 2.40pm. City, under Lydia Barker, have been one of the surprise packets of the year after a disappointing 2017.
In the day's big contest, home side Ballandean will take on last year's grand final winners, Stanthorpe United, in the A-grade.
United dropped points in only one game this season, on August 4 against their semi-final adversaries.
Ballandean will be without John Spiller, but will take confidence and home ground and spectator advantage into the clash.
The club will do it all again on Sunday, with Carlton and City's Fillies starting off the day.
"We wish everyone a safe final series and may good football be the winner," Newman said.


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The Academy provides space and opportunity to experience and to learn. Visitors are invited to develop knowledge and competences, to use them and to share them. Likewise, there is space and time for thinking, to challenge habits and beliefs.
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The Dawn is a newsletter of Americas and all the continents. http://www.thedawn-news.org/ It is coordinated by Resumen Latinoamericano (digital medium and newspaper headquartered in Buenos Aires) and the Secretariat of the Coalition of ALBA's Social Movements.
In this RSA Animate, renowned academic David Harvey asks if it is time to look beyond capitalism towards a new social order that would allow us to live within a system that really could be responsible, just, and humane? This is based on a lecture at the RSA (www.theRSA.org).


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»Where there is nothing, everything is possible. Where there is architecture, nothing (else) is possible.«
Blog Lens 02 Dec 2015
Gesche Würfel's photographs of New York Basement Sanctuaries
1 / 15 "untitled 3 (gym)" (All photographs: © Gesche Würfel)
2 / 15 "untitled 5 (flowers)"
3 / 15 "untitled 11 (chair)"
4 / 15 "untitled 24 (the kiss)"
5 / 15 "untitled 35 (dog)"
6 / 15 "untitled 42 (shopping cart)"
7 / 15 "untitled 51 (tropics)"
8 / 15 "untitled 52 (steps)"
9 / 15 "untitled 55 (Beethoven)"
10 / 15 "untitled 56 (Jesus)"
11 / 15 "untitled 57 (cage)"
12 / 15 "untitled 61 (Paris)"
13 / 15 "untitled 62 (curtain)"
14 / 15 "untitled 63 (Manhattan skyline)"
15 / 15 "untitled 67 (jaguar)"
With our December 2015 issue dedicated to all things storage, the relationship between storage spaces and personal identity is what led us to Gesche Würfel's photography of the shrine-like basement spaces created by building caretakers in New York City. The German-born photographer, who has a background in urban planning, spoke to uncube's Fiona Shipwright about her "Basement Sanctuaries" series and carving out a little bit of heimat in the midst of the metropolis.
For our European readers who may not be so familiar with the term - what is a building "super"?
In New York, every building with more than nine units is required to have a "superintendent" either living on the premises or not far away. The superintendent takes care of the building, makes repairs, keeps things clean and they also communicate between the tenants and the management company or the board, if the building is a coop.
How did you come to discover these visually arresting, but highly secluded spaces?
When my husband and I went apartment hunting in Washington Heights, in the very north of Manhattan in 2010, we would always ask to see the basements. This is something he insisted on as he knew that you can judge the quality of a whole building from the basement. So I got to see these really amazing spaces that I otherwise would never have access to without living there. Normally we think of basements as dark places that you don't want to go to but these places were very inviting. I visited about 30 for the project and it was clear that the supers had put in a lot of effort to make the spaces look the way they do. The super usually not only works but also lives in the basement, often alongside the boiler room and perhaps a workshop too, but there are also communal spaces such as the building's laundry room. So they want to make it look nice for themselves but they also want the tenants to feel at home when they see it.
The photographs document incredibly intimate looking spaces yet the supers themselves are absent. Did you meet them?
Yes, I did. When I came to put the series together in a book I did ask to include images of each of the supers but not everybody wanted to be photographed. I think they were happy that I was undertaking the project because their job is not so highly regarded and a lot of people look down on it. But actually, in terms of what they do – fixing things, mechanical skills, construction skills – you actually need a lot of expertise. It was always really nice to talk with them, they were pleased that there was interest in their work and the spaces they had created.
Seeing this collection of images from all these different buildings, making yourself at home in the basement seems a widespread practice – is that the case? Is there an expectation that all new supers will create this kind of space?
Yes. In many cases the supers maybe started out as handymen working under former supers, so they got an introduction that way. I found it interesting investigating it as a "tradition". I particularly tried to find women in the job; I found three but one didn't want me to photograph her space, one didn't want to be photographed for religious reasons and the third woman said on the day she was due to be photographed that she wasn't feeling comfortable with the way she looked. I thought that was a bit sad actually. But in seeking these women out I did get sense of how difficult it seems to be get established in what is considered a "man's world". It's also often a job tied to families, that passes from father to son – but not father to daughter.
"untitled 52 (steps)"
The spaces marry the functional with the poetic spheres of "the everyday". As cities grow ever denser and architects increasingly talk about hybrid spaces, do you think the supers are somehow a little ahead of the game?
In combining living and work spaces? Yes, I think so! When I was working on this project, I was very interested in looking at the spectrum of public and private space it covered – the private, public, semi-private, semi-public. I think it can also be tough for the supers; they cannot easily "retreat" from their work precisely because that's where they live as well.
You graduated in urban planning before you studied photography and urban cultures. How has that influenced your practice?
It has had, and continues to have, a big influence on my work. I am interested in how humans react to the environment but also how the environment reacts to humans. I think you can see it in all my work, in all the spaces I have documented in various different projects; there is always some kind of sociological element to it.
Given our current issue entitled "Storage" we've been thinking a lot about the relationship between storage spaces and identity. Your work seems to be a personal example of this, depicting places within which identities are quietly eking out – or claiming – a space within a huge metropolis. Do you think that is a conscious process or a by-product of the function of storage?
I think it's a little of both. The supers tend to be migrants, especially from the Caribbean or Latin American countries; they used to come more from Eastern Europe but it's changing now. They find ways to bring their home country into their space, by, for example, putting up pictures on the basement walls that depict scenes of their old homeland – in the photographs you can see images of Mexico and various scenes from the Caribbean. It's a way of bringing your previous home to your new home. On the other hand though, some of the items in the basements were left behind by former tenants after they moved out, so it was interesting to see they way these things are appropriated into the "identity" of the spaces.
You published this body of work in book form in 2014. Given the huge attention that's been paid to migration and the refugee crisis this year, has the work taken on new resonance for you?
Well, I was a migrant myself, moving from Germany to the US, having also spent time in the UK. Changing spaces and places – I can identify with a lot of the feelings associated with this kind of shifting. Of course though my story is a little different, I studied in London and came to the USA having married my husband who is from here. Some of the supers though were forced to leave their home because of extreme situations, like poverty or war. But it does seem that for whatever reason, the idea of "storing an identity" in terms of creating a sanctuary is an important thing.
-- Interview by Fiona Shipwright
Gesche Würfel is a German visual artist who is currently based in Chapel Hill, NC. She received her MFA in Studio Art from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, her M.A. in Photography and Urban Cultures from Goldsmiths, University of London, UK, and her Diploma in Urban Planning from the University of Dortmund, Germany. Her first monograph, Basement Sanctuaries, was published by Schilt Publishing in 2014.
www.geschewuerfel.com
Further reading: delve into the box of tricks that is uncube issue no. 39: Storage.
PUBLISHED 02 Dec 2015 WHAT Lens Photography WHERE New York USA WHO Gesche Würfel AUTHOR Fiona Shipwright


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Preview and How to Watch Auburn vs. South Carolina Live Online, Time, TV Schedule, and More
An injury-plagued Auburn looks to hand South Carolina its first loss of the season at Auburn Arena.
By Bobby Barkley@bobby_barkley Jan 5, 2016, 10:57am CST
Share All sharing options for: Preview and How to Watch Auburn vs. South Carolina Live Online, Time, TV Schedule, and More
Bryce Brown has become a shooting threat for the Tigers. Will it be enough against South Carolina?
Marvin Gentry-USA TODAY Sports
You might hate Michael Carrera (and to be honest, nobody would blame you after years of flops and drama and trash talk on the court), but the kid has somehow found a rhythm this season for the Gamecocks, and now he's ballin' out of control.
The senior forward is leading South Carolina (13-0, 0-0 SEC) in points (12.4) and rebounds (6.1) per game, and tonight, his team comes to the Arena to open SEC play against Auburn (7-5, 1-0 SEC). While the Gamecocks have yet to face an SEC team this season, Auburn is coming off a home victory against Tennessee on Saturday to the tune of 83-77. In that game, Auburn's Kareem Canty and Bryce Brown notched 20 points and three rebounds each, while the former also added four assists. South Carolina beat Memphis on Saturday 86-76 to move to 13-0 and remain one of the few undefeated teams in the country and the only undefeated team in the SEC this season.
Tonight's game will be an interesting matchup. The Gamecocks have been impressive in head coach Frank Martin's fourth season, but absent any SEC experience so far, his team will certainly have something to prove against Auburn (despite facing a Tiger team riddled with injuries). A hard-fought 2015 slate of game experience could favor the Tigers tonight, however. According to ESPN, Auburn's strength of schedule stands at 59, while South Carolina's falls much lower at 288. Regardless, both teams will be aiming for perfection—South Carolina looking for a 1-0 in conference play and Auburn trying to stay perfect at 2-0.
As fans are very aware (and as is tradition for the last several years), Auburn has lived and died by the three this season, but luckily, Bryce Brown has begun to find a scoring rhythm, which will hopefully take some pressure off Kareem Canty. Tonight's game will be no different—Auburn must prevail from behind the arc to provide a cushion for a very thin bench. Injuries are certainly nagging a Tigers team with a lot of talent—TJ Lang, having passed concussion protocols, is likely not to start, while New Williams is out once again with knee problems. Tahj Shamsid-Deen is also still out with shoulder problems.
While not injured, Danjel Purifoy still remains unavailable as Bruce Pearl and Auburn continue to wait for his debut this season in a frustrating eligibility situation.
Despite these issues, the bulk of Auburn's scorers remains relatively healthy, and it will take more than Canty and Brown lighting up the threes to ensure a victory against an undefeated and talented Gamecocks team. Cinmeon Bowers, Tyler Harris, and Horace Spencer will need to provide consistent support in the paint on both ends of the floor. Shutting down South Carolina's Carrera will be a difficult task, but mostly because Auburn is aware of his past tactics. Harris, who is prone to foul trouble, and Bowers will need to remain steady and play cool-headed defense against the Gamecocks' leading scorer and rebounder.
For Frank Martin's team, Carrera works with a supporting cast that will bring its best to the Arena tonight. Junior guard Duane Notice, while not a starter, is second behind Carrera in points per game (12.2), and behind him is senior forward Mindaugas Kacinas (12.0 ppg), who also averages 5.8 rebounds and has seven blocks on the season. Notice is also dangerous at the free throw line—he went 12-12 against Memphis on Saturday. Shutting down Carrera and Kacinas will be crucial. The Gamecocks are not a heavy three-point shooting team, but inside the paint, they play very physical, which is where both players have gotten their points all season.
It'll be up to the Tigers to take them up to task in what will hopefully be an electric atmosphere in the Arena for Auburn's second home SEC game of the season. The Tigers will also look to add to a six-game regular season win streak against the Gamecocks that goes back to the 2010-2011 season. No doubt tonight's matchup will be one to remember for the season. If you're on campus or in town, GET TO THIS GAME. Coach Pearl and our guys need a rowdy home-court advantage.
War Damn Eagle.
How to Watch:
Auburn vs. South Carolina
When: 6:00 PM CT
Watch: SEC Network
Stream: ESPN3 / CBS Game Tracker
Listen: Auburn IMG Network
Live Tweets (at your own risk on that middle one, as usual): @CollegeandMag, @bobby_barkley, @AuburnMBB
Radio Affiliates: 100.5 FM (Birmingham), 94.3 FM (Auburn), 1230 AM (Huntsville), 106.5 FM (Mobile), 92.3 FM (Montgomery)


text:
Opening the Door on Research: Dynamic Glass & The Workplace
At View, we frequently contribute to studies that reinforce the truism that access to outdoor views and daylight play a pivotal role in supporting occupant well-being. These studies from highly credible sources such as the University of Washington and U.S. Department of Defense have shown how View Dynamic Glass makes good on sustainability goals while improving the occupant experience.
Today, we're taking those studies one step further with the launch of an ambitious human factors research initiative to help us better quantify the productivity, health and wellness benefits of dynamic glass. To ensure the most credible and accurate results, we're partnering with some of the brightest minds in the fields of human factors and workplace ergonomics research.
This first study represents the largest third-party study to date on smart glass and productivity and validates the effectiveness of dynamic glass in the workplace. We turned to Cornell University Professor and renowned workplace design expert Dr. Alan Hedge to contrast the experiences of workers in offices with traditional windows to workers in offices with dynamic glass. What his research found has major implications for companies.
Key findings of the study include:
• Controlled daylight unlocks significant health and wellness benefits for office workers. Workers in office environments with optimized natural light reported a 51 percent drop in the incidence of eyestrain and a 63 percent drop in the incidence of headaches, both of which can detract from productivity.
• More natural light translates to more alert employees. Workers in offices with smart glass reported a 56 percent decrease in drowsiness.
• Enhanced individual performance is tied to access to natural light. Workers sitting close to smart windows with optimized daylight exposure reported a 2 percent increase in productivity - the equivalent of an additional $100,000/year of value for every 100 workers or around $2 million over the window's lifetime.
• The optimal amount of natural light creates a better indoor experience. Workers in offices with smart glass reported an 82 percent improvement in daylight quality.
By providing uninterrupted views, rejecting glare and heat and optimizing natural light, dynamic glass is proven to contribute to a healthier, more energetic workforce.
As you can imagine, we're thrilled with these findings and believe they are a major validation of the value dynamic glass provides in the workplace. There is a lot more to unpack from this study, so be sure to read the full report and stay tuned for more research coming soon.
Open infographic
Brandon Tinianov - VP, Industry Strategy


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text:
Q: Most efficient way to read key value pairs where values span multiple lines? What is the fastest way to parse a text file such as the example below into a two column data.frame which then then be transformed into a wide format?
FN Thomson Reuters Web of Science™
VR 1.0
PT J
AU Panseri, Sara
   Chiesa, Luca Maria
   Brizzolari, Andrea
   Santaniello, Enzo
   Passero, Elena
   Biondi, Pier Antonio
TI Improved determination of malonaldehyde by high-performance liquid
   chromatography with UV detection as 2,3-diaminonaphthalene derivative
SO JOURNAL OF CHROMATOGRAPHY B-ANALYTICAL TECHNOLOGIES IN THE BIOMEDICAL
   AND LIFE SCIENCES
VL 976
BP 91
EP 95
DI 10.1016/j.jchromb.2014.11.017
PD JAN 22 2015
PY 2015

Using readLines is problematic because the multi-line fields don't have the keys. Reading as fixed width table also doesn't work. Suggestions? If not for the multiline issue, this would be easily accomplished with a function that operates on each row/record like so:
x <- "FN Thomson Reuters Web of Science"
re <- "^([^\\s]+)\\s*(.*)$"
key <- sub(re, "\\1", x, perl=TRUE)
value <- sub(re, "\\2", x, perl=TRUE)
data.frame(key, value)
key                          value
1  FN Thomson Reuters Web of Science

Notes: The fields will always be uppercase and two characters. The entire title and list of authors can be concatenated into a single cell.

A: This should work:
library(zoo)

x <- read.fwf(file="tempSO.txt",widths=c(2,500),as.is=TRUE)

x$V1[x$V1=="  "] <- NA
x$V1 <- na.locf(x$V1)

res <- aggregate(V2 ~ V1, data = x, FUN = paste, collapse = "")

A: Here's another idea, that might be useful if you want to stay in base R:
parseEntry <- function(entry) {
    ## Split at beginning of each line that starts with a non-space character
    ll <- strsplit(entry, "\\n(?=\\S)", perl=TRUE)[[1]]
    ## Clean up empty characters at beginning of continuation lines
    ll <- gsub("\\n(\\s){3}", "", ll)
    ## Split each field into its two components
    read.fwf(textConnection(ll), c(2, max(nchar(ll))))
}

## Read in and collapse entry into one long character string.
## (If file contained more than one entry, you could preprocess it accordingly.)
ee <- paste(readLines("egFile.txt"), collapse="\n")
## Parse the entry
parseEntry(ee)

A: Read lines of the file into a character vector using readLines and append a colon to each key.  The result is then in DCF format so we can read it using read.dcf - this is the function used to read R package DESCRIPTION files.  The result of read.dcf is wide, a matrix with one column per key.  Finally we create long, a long data.frame with one row per key:
L <- readLines("myfile.dat")
L <- sub("^(\\S\\S)", "\\1:", L)
wide <- read.dcf(textConnection(L))
long <- data.frame(key = colnames(wide), value = wide[1,], stringsAsFactors = FALSE)

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
La parvovirose canine est une maladie infectieuse du chien d'apparition récente. Elle est due à un parvovirus, le parvovirus canin de type 2 ( ou CPV 2), transmis entre les animaux par contact direct ou par leurs excréments. La parvovirose se manifeste par des atteintes intestinales (gastro-entérite), et plus rarement cardiaques, dont l'issue peut être fatale (jusqu'à 91 % de mortalité en l'absence de traitement). Il existe cependant un vaccin. La parvovirose n'est pas transmissible à l'espèce humaine.

Il existe aussi un parvovirus canin de type 1, appelé virus minute des chiens (MVC pour ) responsable d'avortements (mortalité embryonnaire) et de mortalité néonatale ou chez le chiot de moins de deux mois.

Historique
Il s'agit d'une maladie récente, diagnostiquée pour la première fois aux États-Unis et en Australie en 1978. Elle s'est répandue dans le monde entier en un ou deux ans. Le parvovirus canin CPV2 est très proche du parvovirus félin à l'origine du typhus félin, ou parvovirose féline : ils sont identiques à 98 % et ne se distinguent que par deux acides aminés de la protéine VP2 de la capside. Il est aussi très proche du  et des parvovirus des ratons-laveurs et des renards. On pense actuellement que le parvovirus félin a muté pour devenir le CPV2, ou que le CPV2 est un mutant d'un parvovirus encore non identifié d'un carnivore sauvage. Une souche du virus CPV2b (souche FP84) provoque des maladies chez un petit pourcentage de chats domestiques, et la vaccination contre le typhus félin semble efficace contre elle. Le CPV2 lui-même ne cause pas de maladie chez les chats et seulement des atteintes minimes aux visons et aux ratons-laveurs : il affecte presque uniquement les canidés.

Deux autres souches du parvovirus canin, CPV2a et CPV2b, ont été identifiées respectivement en 1979 et 1984. La plupart des parvoviroses canines sont probablement causées par ces deux souches, qui ont remplacé la souche originelle, et le virus actuel est différent du premier découvert, bien qu'ils ne puissent pas être distingués par la plupart des tests. Un troisième type, CPV2c (un mutant Glu-426), a été découvert en Espagne, en Italie et au Viêt Nam.

Épidémiologie

Physiopathologie

Les parvovirus canins sont des virus à ADN simple-brin sans enveloppe. Ils possèdent une symétrie icosaédrale et un génome d'environ .

Il existe deux formes de parvovirose canine : intestinale et cardiaque. Les chiots y sont les plus sensibles, et plus de 80 % des chiens adultes ne présentent aucun symptôme. Si la forme de la maladie est sévère, en l'absence de réhydratation, le chien peut mourir dans les 48 à 72 heures. Dans la forme la plus commune, la mortalité est d'environ 10 %. Certaines races comme les Rottweilers, les Dobermanns et les Pitbulls, ainsi que les autres chiens noirs et rouges, pourraient y être plus sensibles. Outre l'âge et la race, le risque d'infection sévère est augmenté par un environnement stressant, d'autres infections par des bactéries, des parasites et le coronavirus canin. Les chiens infectés par le CPV2 meurent habituellement de déshydratation ou de surinfection plutôt que du virus lui-même.

Forme intestinale
Les chiens sont infectés par contact oral avec le virus CPV 2 dans des excréments, des sols souillés ou des fomites contenant le virus. Après son ingestion, celui-ci se réplique dans les tissus lymphoïdes de la gorge, d'où il se diffuse dans la circulation sanguine. À partir de là, le virus attaque les cellules à division rapide, notamment celles des ganglions lymphatiques, des cryptes intestinales et de la moëlle osseuse. Cela provoque une chute de la quantité de lymphocyte dans les ganglions lymphatiques, ainsi que la nécrose et la destruction des cryptes intestinales. Des bactéries anaérobies normalement présentes dans les intestins peuvent alors passer dans la circulation sanguine ; cette bactériémie peut déboucher sur une septicémie. Les bactéries les plus souvent impliquées dans les cas graves appartiennent aux genres Clostridia, Campylobacter et Salmonella. L'ensemble peut provoquer un syndrome connu sous le nom de « Syndrome de réponse inflammatoire systémique » (SIRS). Le SIRS entraine une série de complications comme l'hypercoagulation du sang, l'endotoxémie et le syndrome de détresse respiratoire aiguë (SDRA). Des myocardites bactériennes ont également été rapportées en association avec la septicémie. Les chiens infectés par le CPV 2 risquent aussi l'invagination intestinale, où une partie de l'intestin s'engage dans une autre.

Trois ou quatre jours après l'infection, le virus commence à apparaître dans les excréments, où il peut rester présent jusqu'à trois semaines, certains chiens restant des porteurs asymptomatiques et continuant à diffuser périodiquement le virus. Ce virus est habituellement plus mortel quand son hôte est déjà infecté par des vers ou d'autres parasites intestinaux.

Forme cardiaque
Cette forme, plus rare, atteint les chiots infectés dans l'utérus ou peu après leur naissance, et jusqu'à l'âge d'environ huit semaines. Le virus attaque le muscle cardiaque et le chiot meurt soudain d'un seul coup, ou après une courte période de difficulté respiratoire due à un œdème pulmonaire. Au microscope, on observe que le cœur présente de nombreux points de nécrose associés à l'infiltration de monocytes. La formation de tissus fibreux excédentaires (fibrose) est souvent évidente chez les animaux survivants. Les fibres musculaires sont le lieu de réplication du virus. La maladie peut être accompagnée ou non des symptômes de la forme intestinale. Cette forme est cependant rare, en raison de la vaccination généralisée des chiennes gestantes.

Plus rarement encore, la parvovirose pour provoquer une infection généralisée chez les chiots nouveau-nés, avec de la réplication virale et des lésions hors du système digestif et du cœur, dans le cerveau, le foie, les poumons, les reins et les corticosurrénales. La paroi des vaisseaux sanguins est aussi gravement endommagée, ce qui provoque des hémorragies.

Infection du fœtus
Ce type d'infection peut se produire quand une chienne gestante est infectée par le CPV 2. Elle peut développer une immunité sans manifester aucun signe clinique de la maladie, mais le virus peut avoir déjà traversé le placenta pour infecter le fœtus. Cela peut causer plusieurs malformations. Dans les cas modérés, les chiots peuvent naître avec des malformations neurologiques comme l'hypoplasie du cervelet.

Diagnostic

Symptômes
Les chiens atteints présentent les premiers symptômes entre 3 et 7 jours après leur infection. Ceux-ci comprennent d'abord la léthargie, puis des diarrhées (habituellement sanglantes), des vomissements et de la fièvre. Les diarrhées et les vomissements causent une déshydratation et des surinfections peuvent se produire. Du fait des atteintes à la paroi des intestins, le sang et des protéines peuvent passer dans les intestins, ce qui produit une anémie, tandis que des endotoxines passent dans la circulation sanguine, ce qui provoque une endotoxémie. Les niveaux de globules blancs chutent, affaiblissant encore davantage l'animal. Certains de ces facteurs ou leur ensemble peuvent provoquer un choc circulatoire et la mort.

Aux stades tardifs de l'infection, les chiens présentent une odeur particulière.

Du point de vue clinique, la forme intestinale de la parvovirose peut parfois être confondue avec une infection par des coronavirus ou d'autres formes d'entérites. La parvovirose est cependant plus grave, et la présence de diarrhées sanglantes, un taux de globules blancs faible et la nécrose de la paroi intestinale doivent faire penser au parvovirus, particulièrement chez les chiens non vaccinés. La forme cardiaque est plus facile à diagnostiquer, car ses symptômes sont caractéristiques.

Examens complémentaires
Le diagnostic se fait par observation du virus dans les excréments, soit par Méthode immuno-enzymatique ELISA ou hémagglutination, soit par microscopie électronique. La réaction en chaîne par polymérase (PCR), maintenant disponible pour le CPV2, peut être utilisée à un stade plus tardif, quand la quantité de virus dans les excréments peut être retombée à une concentration non détectable par ELISA.

Prise en charge
Le taux de survie dépend de la précocité du diagnostic, de l'âge du chien et de l'efficacité du traitement. Celui-ci implique habituellement une hospitalisation complète, en raison de la déshydratation sévère et des atteintes aux intestins et à la moëlle osseuse. Un test pour la parvovirose doit être effectué dès que celle-ci est suspectée, afin de commencer le traitement le plus tôt possible et d'améliorer les probabilités de survie en cas de résultat positif.

Le traitement idéal consiste à apporter par voie intraveineuse des cristalloïdes ou des colloïdes (de l'hydroxyéthylamidon), et à injecter des antiémétiques comme le , le métoclopramide, le dolasétron, l'ondansetron ou la , ainsi que des antibiotiques à large spectre comme la cefazoline/, l'ampicilline/enrofloxacine, le métronidazole, la ticarcilline/acide clavulanique ou l'enrofloxacine. Les liquides sont apportés en intraveineuses et les antiémétiques et antibiotiques en injections sous-cutanées, intramusculaires ou intraveineuses. Les liquides sont typiquement un mélange de solution stérile de pH neutre, avec une quantité adéquate de vitamines B, de dextrose et de chlorure de potassium. Des analgésiques peuvent être utilisés pour soulager le malaise intestinal causé par les fréquentes diarrhées ; cependant les analgésiques opioïdes peuvent provoquer un iléus secondaire et une baisse de la motilité.

Outre l'apport de liquides pour réhydrater l'animal, chaque fois que le chiot vomit ou a de la diarrhée, on apporte une quantité de liquide équivalente par voie intraveineuse. La quantité nécessaire dépend du poids de l'animal, de son changement de poids, de son degré de déshydratation et de sa surface.

Une transfusion de plasma sanguin d'un chien qui a déjà survécu à la maladie est quelquefois effectuée pour procurer une immunité passive au chien malade. Certains vétérinaires gardent de tels chiens sur place, ou disposent de sérum congelé. Il n'y a pas eu d'études contrôlées sur ce type de traitement. Des transfusions de plasma congelé ou d'albumine humaine peuvent aussi aider à remplacer les grandes quantités de protéines perdues dans certains cas et faciliter la guérison des tissus. Ceci est cependant controversé, du fait de l'existence de colloïdes plus sûrs comme l'hydroxyéthylamidon, qui accroît la pression osmotique sans l'effet indésirable de prédisposer le chien à des réactions allergiques aux futures transfusions.

Une fois que le chien cesse de perdre des liquides, l'apport de ceux-ci peut être progressivement arrêté et une nourriture très légère peut être proposée. Des antibiotiques sont administrés par voie orale en fonction du taux de globules blancs et de la capacité du chien à lutter contre les infections opportunistes. Un chiot avec des symptômes minimes peut se rétablir en deux ou trois jours s'il est mis sous intraveineuse dès que les symptômes sont constatés et que le test confirme le diagnostic. Si le cas est plus sévère, il peut rester malade entre 5 jours et 2 semaines. Même quand il est hospitalisé, il n'est cependant jamais garanti qu'il puisse être guéri et survivre.

Traitements expérimentaux
On a rapporté de rares cas où l'oseltamivir (Tamiflu) réduisait la gravité de la parvovirose canine et la durée d'hospitalisation. Ce médicament pourrait limiter la capacité du virus à envahir les cellules des cryptes de l'intestin grêle et diminuer la colonisation des bactéries gastrointestinales et leur production de toxines. Cependant, étant donné le mode de réplication de l'ADN du virus et le mécanisme d'action de l'oseltamivir, ce traitement n'a pas prouvé son efficacité pour augmenter la durée de survie, ni raccourcir le temps d'hospitalisation.

Plus récemment, de nombreuses études ont montré que l'interféron recombinant félin omega (rFeIFN-ω), produit par des larves de vers à soie grâce à un baculovirus, constituait un traitement efficace. Il n'est cependant pas encore approuvé aux États-Unis.

Une étude de l'Université d'État du Colorado de 2012 (pas encore publiée) a montré de bons résultats avec un traitement intensif à domicile avec des injections de  (Cerenia) et de  (Convenia), un antibiotique injectable à action lente, deux médicaments récemment lancés par Zoetis (ancienne filiale de Pfizer). Ce traitement coûterait entre , une fraction des  que coûtent les traitements chez le vétérinaire. Le traitement standard reste cependant la thérapie avec apport de liquides par intraveineuse. Dans l'étude de l'Université du Colorado, le taux de survie du groupe testé était de 85 %, comparé aux 90 % du traitement conventionnel. Ces chiens avaient reçu un apport initial de liquides par intraveineuses et en recevaient chaque jour en sous-cutanées par le vétérinaire qui les soignait.

Évolution
En l'absence de traitement, le taux de mortalité approche 91 %. Avec des traitements agressifs, le taux de survie peut atteindre , soit un taux de mortalité de . Pour les petits chiens et les jeunes chiots de la plupart des races (Chihuahuas, Loulous de Poméranie, Rottweilers), le taux de survie est bien plus faible, entre .

Prévention

La prévention est le seul moyen d'assurer la protection des chiots et des adultes, car la parvovirose est extrêmement virulente et contagieuse. La vaccination doit être effectuée dès , avec un rappel toutes les  jusqu'à l'âge de  (certains conseillent  pour les races les plus sensibles à la maladie). Les femelles gestantes doivent aussi être vaccinées rapidement, de manière à pouvoir passer leurs anticorps aux chiots. Le virus est très résistant et a été découvert vivant après plus d'un an dans des excréments ou dans le sol. Il résiste à des températures très basses ou très hautes. Le seul désinfectant courant à en venir à bout est l'eau de Javel, même à faible concentration (un trentième).

Les chiots sont généralement vaccinés par séries de doses, dès que l'immunité transmise par leur mère commence à décroître, et jusqu'à ce qu'ils l'aient complètement perdue. Les chiots plus âgés (16 semaines ou plus) reçoivent trois vaccinations séparées de . La durée de l'immunité procurée par les vaccins contre le CPV2 a été testée pour les principaux vaccins fabriqués aux États-Unis : elle est d'au moins trois ans après la première vaccination du chiot et un rappel un an plus tard.

Un chien qui a survécu à la parvovirose reste généralement contagieux pendant trois semaines, éventuellement jusqu'à six. Le risque infectieux subsistant est principalement lié à la contamination de l'environnement par les excréments, où le virus peut survivre plusieurs mois. Les possesseurs de chiens proches doivent faire vacciner leurs animaux ou faire vérifier qu'ils disposent d'une immunité suffisante. Le vaccin n'étant pleinement efficace qu'après deux semaines, les chiens contagieux doivent être placés en quarantaine jusqu'à ce que tous les autres soient protégés.

Notes et références

Santé du chien
Maladie virale

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
Learn about The Tim Ferriss Show, a business podcast created for business entrepreneurs. Includes most popular episodes, key information, reviews, and FAQs.
Updated on October 5th, 2021
The Tim Ferriss Show is a popular podcast hosted by author and investor Tim Ferriss. The podcast was created in 2014 to provide tactics, tools, and methods to help improve their business. Past guests include Arnold Schwarzenegger, LeBron James, Peter Thiel, and many more.
10 Most Popular Episodes of The Tim Ferriss Show:
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Investor Naval Ravikant joins the podcast to reveal how to make a fortune in the markets today.
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Technology expert Kevin Kelly joins the show to discuss the effects and power of the growing technology industry.
Charles Koch — CEO of Koch Industries
Koch Industries CEO Charles Koch sits down for an interview. Discusses how he transformed Koch Industries into a diverse group of companies that employ nearly 130,000 people.
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Interview with Julie Rice, the co-founder of SoulCycle. Discusses her entrepreneurial journey, and how she overcame internal and external challenges.
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Informative sit down interview with Eric Schmidt, Technical Advisor and Board Member to Alphabet Inc. Provides listeners with actionable tips and advice.
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Kevin Systrom, entrepreneur and the co-founder of Instagram, joins host Tim Ferris to discuss the rise of the popular social media platform.
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Discussion with author Safi Bahcall. Provides advice and tips on how to build and manage a team.
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Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Overcast
Careers, Education, Business, Lifestyle, Design, Health and Well-Being, Self-Improvement
tim.blog/podcast
Who is Tim Ferriss?
Tim Ferriss is a renowned entrepreneur, author, and the host of The Tim Ferriss Show. Tim started his podcast in 2014 and covers topics ranging from writing, venture capital, business, personal development, and more.
Why should I listen to The Tim Ferriss Show?
The Tim Ferriss Show is a widely popular podcast with over 100 million downloads. The show has often held the number one spot on the Apple best business podcast list since its start in 2014. Offering a wide array of conversations and advice sessions, The Tim Ferriss Show is ideal for entrepreneurs looking to better their skills and business knowledge. Try listening to our choice of the 10 most popular episodes to see if you enjoy the podcast.
Where can I listen to The Tim Ferriss Show?
You can listen to The Tim Ferriss Show on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and Overcast.
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Frontier Business Reviews, Pricing, Key Info, and FAQs


I decided to go a slightly different approach.
abstraction of the packing pattern used than of the package material to use.
> planning on our end as well.
> consumables used for the package (box, packing peanuts, etc).
>> packaging material as a product itself.
>> This way packaging material can have a price and a stock etc.
>> would like to mark it somehow as packaging material.
>> Does anybody know of something like this existing already?
>> I had a look into OCA/product-attribute and several OCA/stock* repos.
>> I also used Odoo-CodeSearch.
>> What do you think about the idea? Any opinions? Anyone interested?


Credentials are issued to working professional journalists represented bona fide media who have an assignment related to the Airshow to gain access to the Media Tent and assistance with performer interviews, setting up TV live shots, etc. You must apply online through this page; we do not respond to emails or faxes. Members of the media who wish to attend the show but who are not on assignment to cover the show will not receive credentials. Freelance photographers not on assignment will not receive credentials. We do not accept credentials from companies that sell credentials. Your application must be completed in full or it may not be processed, and this includes telling us what media coverage the airshow will receive after the show by granting you credentials. With rare exceptions, only two persons per media outlet will be issued credentials.
Credentialed media may NOT bring family or friends into the media area nor apply for false credentials to gain their access. We do not serve food or drinks. Issued credentials will be personalized and require photo ID for entry to the show.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WILL CREDENTIALS BE ISSUED AT THE GATE.
Credentials will be processed and emailed in May.
International journalist credentials are processed as they are received.
What acts would you like to interview?


Attorneys at Perry & Trent, LLC work with developers, lenders, governmental units and individuals in a variety of real estate issues. We represent clients in sales and purchases, leasing, financing, title issues, planning, zoning and land use law, taxation, litigation, commercial and industrial land acquisitions and construction. Our experience is as broad ranging as our client base. We represent clients in property developments from lot splits and small residential developments. Our work is timely, creative and solution driven so that we can handle our clients' real estate issues efficiently and effectively.


The newly designed Men's UA Valsetz RTS of 2016 replaces the popular Valsetz that was made popular by SWAT professionals. This model sports a convenient stealth side zipper for quick entry and removal. Built like a running shoe, this boot features Under Armour's patented Clutchfit which forms to the contours of your foot for better feel, fit, and comfort. A lightweight TPU shank provides torsional support and rigidity to reduce foot fatigue and foot pain. The Valsetz RTS is 7 inch in height to provide maximum ankle support and foot protection for challenging terrain.