text:
Janeway, James (DNB00)
←Jane, William
Janeway, James
by Alexander Gordon
Janeway, John→
1398986Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900, Volume 29
Janeway, JamesAlexander Gordon1892
JANEWAY, JAMES (1636?–1674), nonconformist divine, fourth son of William Janeway, and younger brother of John Janeway [q. v.], was born about the end of 1636 at Lilley, Hertfordshire, of which his father was curate. About 1655 he entered as a student at Christ Church, Oxford, and graduated B.A. on 12 Oct. 1659. He left the university at the Restoration, and lived in the house of Mrs. Stringer at Windsor, as tutor to her son George. Calamy includes him in his list of 'ejected or silenced' ministers, but furnishes no evidence that he had entered the ministry prior to the Uniformity Act of 1662. He seems to have first acted as a nonconformist preacher in London during the plague year, 1665, when several conventicles were opened. On the indulgence of 1672 a meeting-house was built for him in Jamaica Row, Rotherhithe, where he became very popular. After the withdrawal of the indulgence his meeting-house was wrecked by a band of troopers, but rebuilt on a larger scale. On two occasions Janeway escaped arrest. There was a tinge of religious melancholy in his character, and, like others of his family, he became consumptive. He died on 16 March 1674, 'in the 38 yeare of his age,' leaving a widow, Hannah, and was buried on 20 March in the church of St. Mary, Aldermanbury, near the grave of his brother Abraham. Funeral sermons were preached by Nathaniel Vincent and John Ryther. The portrait in Palmer's 'Nonconformist's Memorial,' 1803, iii. 511, is idealised from the emaciated visage which appears in an early print.
Janeway published, besides four single sermons, 1671–5:
'Heaven upon Earth,' &c., 1670, 8vo; 1677, 8vo.
'A Token for Children … Account of the Conversion, holy and exemplary Lives and joyful Deaths of several young Children,' &c., 1671, 8vo; 2nd part, 1672, 8vo (this extraordinary collection has been frequently reprinted, and still enjoys a reputation).
'Invisibles, Realities … the Holy Life and … Death of Mr. John Janeway,' &c., 1673, 8vo (with commendatory epistles by Richard Baxter and others [see Janeway, John]).
'The Saints Encouragement,' &c., 1673, 8vo.
Posthumous were:
'Legacie to his Friends … instances of … Sea-dangers and Deliverances,' &c., 1674, 8vo, 1675, 8vo (portrait; edited by Ryther).
'Saints' Memorials; or Words Fitly Spoken,' &c., 1674, 8vo (edited by Edmund Calamy, Joseph Caryl, and Ralph Venning).
[Funeral Sermons by Vincent, 1674, and Ryther, 1674; Wood's Athenæ Oxon. (Bliss), iii. 1006; Fasti, ii. 218; Calamy's Account, 1713, p. 838; Calamy's Continuation, 1727, ii. 962; Wilson's Dissenting Churches in London, 1814, iv. 346 sq.; Urwick's Nonconformity in Hertfordshire, 1884, pp. 658 sq.]
A. G.
Retrieved from "https://en.wikisource.org/w/index.php?title=Janeway,_James_(DNB00)&oldid=4313679"


text:
Palazzo Medici Clarelli, conhecido também como Palazzo del Consolato di Firenze, é um palácio renascentista localizado no número 79 da Via Giulia, no rione Ponte de Roma, na esquina com o Vicolo Orbitelli.

História
Construído em 1535 ao lado do Collegio Bandinelli, este palácio pertencia originalmente ao arquiteto Antonio da Sangallo, o Jovem, proprietário também do vizinho Palazzo Sacchetti. Depois de sua morte, seu filho, Orazio, o vendeu a Migliore Cresci, marido de Cornelia Strozzi, que mandou gravar nas arquitraves das janelas "MELIOR DE CRESCI CI(VIS) FLORENTINUS" ("Migliore Cresci, cidadão florentino"). O edifício foi ampliado e ricamente decorado com uma série de afrescos exaltando a dinastia Médici, que adquiriu o edifício por volta de 1558: a decoração que recobria toda a fachada, hoje perdida e que representava membros da família Médici, foi executada entre 1559 e 1565.

Do mesmo período é também a inscrição que está acima do portal:"COSMO MEDICI DUCI FLOREN II PACIS ATQUE IUSTITIAE CULTORI" ("A Cosimo de Medici, segundo duque de Florença, patrono da paz e da cultura"). É uma referência a Cosimo de Medici, que foi o segundo duque de Florença a partir de 1537 até 1565. Os afrescos foram destruídos quando o palácio foi ampliado e renovado no século XIX. O pátio interno, ao qual se chega através de um átrio, precedido por colunas dóricas, originalmente terminava em uma êxedra aberta na direção do Tibre, depois fechada por um nicho central no qual foi colocado uma fonte. Uma cornija separa o nicho na altura da bacia, ornada com uma válvula em concha e segue lateralmente para formar a moldura superior de dois pequenos pórticos que se abrem simetricamente. A pequena fonte é constituída por uma cabeça de leão de cuja boca verte a água que escorre para uma bacia no formato de concha e desta para uma tanque oval na altura do chão. No século XVII, o palácio se transformou na sede do consulado do Grão-ducado da Toscana, um escritório responsável por prover ajuda jurídica à comunidade florentina de Roma. Nesta época, a embaixada do Grão-ducado ficava no Palazzo Madama. Mais tarde, o palácio foi adquirido pelos condes Clarelli, originários de Rieti e membros da nobreza romana a partir de 1837 com o título de marqueses. No século XIX, o palácio foi transformado em quartel e depois foi sede de um fórum. Depois da captura de Roma (1870), tornou-se propriedade da Comuna de Roma, atual proprietária, que abriga ali alguns de seus escritórios.

O palácio ainda hoje mantém a sua cor ocre, típica de muitos edifícios de Roma até a década de 1990.

Medici Clarelli
Palácios da família Médici
1535
Arquitetura do Renascimento na Itália
Antonio da Sangallo, o Jovem
Roma R. V Ponte

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


i have application of 20 pages.
admin will upload images and user can explore images with different categories and subcategories from app. when user click on any image. image will be available in detail page. from image detail page user can like, favorite, download and share image.
I can remove bugs and redesign your app in affordable price. Message me for further discussion. Thank you.
hi.. i am working as Android developer from one year.. i read all your description.. i am interested to work with you..
I have developed same concept application and i have experience in that application you needed features. I will done that in Two days.


Brain injuries are often referred to as catastrophic injuries as they can have a profound impact on you and your family members. March is Brain Injury Awareness Month. Auto accidents are among the most common causes of brain injuries, but they can also be caused by falls, contact sports and violence as well as incidents of medical negligence or elder abuse. If you or a loved one suffered an injury in an auto accident, the first thing you need to do is seek medical attention—Even minor car accidents can cause mild to severe traumatic brain injuries.
Head trauma should always be taken seriously. Any sign of the symptoms listed above warrants a visit to the doctor. If a child suffered a head injury, he or she might exhibit strange behaviors and changes in sleeping or eating habits because of a lack of understanding in how to communicate pain and other symptoms.
If you or a loved one has been injured in an auto accident in Prescott Valley or surrounding Arizona areas, please contact our brain injury lawyer today at 928-778-2660 for a FREE consultation. The Jensen Phelan Law Firm, P.C. fights on behalf of clients throughout Northern Arizona including Prescott, Prescott Valley and Cottonwood.


text:
Q: Find $x_{50}$ quadratic equation I don't really know how to title this question

You are provided the quadratic equation $ax^2 + x -1 = 0$
   with a root $x$, with formula $x= \frac{-1+\sqrt{1+4a}}{2a}$
  for each $a = 2^{-p}$,Where $(p=1,2,...,n)$ Let's define the root $x_{p}$ by the formula where
  $$\lim_{p\to\infty} x_{p}=1$$
  (i) Assume you are using a computer that uses IEEE double precision arithmetic with rounding, find $x_{50}$

I'm not sure where to start with this problem, I've begun with placing $a=2^{-n}$ inside our formula for x.
So, $x= \frac{-1+\sqrt{1+4*2^{-p}}}{2*2^{-p}}$
I don't know where the limit comes into this but if I wanted to find $x_{50}$ would i plug in $p=50$
Any guidance on this problem would be greatly appreciated..

A: Where the limit comes in? That quadratic has two roots. One of them is close to $1$. The other is close to $-2^p$. Saying that the limit is $1$ is saying that we take the former, with the positive square root.
And then, yes, you plug in $p=50$. I'm pretty sure this exercise is about showing the impact of a bad subtraction - your answer will be something that isn't close to $1$.
I tested this in an Excel spreadsheet I happened to have open. Result: Exactly $1$. Still $1$ up to $p=53$, then becomes $0$ at $p=54$. Don't take this as gospel, though - I wouldn't trust Excel to implement the IEEE standard exactly.

A: Your formula, $\lim_{p\to\infty} x_p= 1$ does NOT define "$x_p$"!  The "previous formula" was $x_p= \frac{-1+ \sqrt{1+ 4*2^{-p}}}{2*2^{-p}}$ although you never say that. So $x_{50}= \frac{-1+ \sqrt{1+ 4*2^{-50}}}{2*2^{-50}}= 2^{48}\left(-1+ \sqrt{1+ 2^{-48}}\right)= -2^{48}+ \sqrt{2^{96}+ 2^{48}}$.

A: I would plug in the 50 as you did, which can do no harm but get that term in the sequence, which comes out to 1 exactly (rounded beyond the number of digits my computer holds). One can confirm the limit of $\underset{p\rightarrow \infty}{lim} x_p = 1$ via L'Hopital's rule to yield $\underset{p\rightarrow \infty}{lim}(1+4*2^{-p})^{-1/2}$.  It is pretty crazy to find this out numerically as it gives NaN for p = 100000.   Perhaps the problem is showing the value of analysis over numerics.  If you want to see the computations after applying L'Hopital's rule I can show them but I think you wanted to know the point of this and I am guessing as to such...

A: The point of the exercise seems to me that the equation
$$ \frac{-1+\sqrt{1+4a}}{2a} = \frac{2}{1+\sqrt{1+4a}} \tag{1}$$
holds true and if $\,|a|<<1\,$ then the numerator of the left side suffers from catastrophic cancellation, while the denominator of the right side is well behaved.
By the way, the power series expansion of the expression is the generating function of the alternating signed Catalan numbers which is
OEIS sequence A168491.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
You are at:Home»SPORT»Novak Djokovic's confirmed entry at the Australian Open is not good news for the other professionals
Novak Djokovic's confirmed entry at the Australian Open is not good news for the other professionals
By	Hannah Skentelbery on 13th January 2022 7:00 am SPORT
'Will he, or won't he?' has been the question all tennis fans have been asking for months now.
When the organisers of the Australian Open revealed that players would need to be vaccinated to participate in the 2022 renewal of the tournament, it was not good news for Novak Djokovic — who has, somewhat controversially, not hidden his feelings surrounding the coronavirus pandemic and the introduction of vaccines.
However, for the professionals hoping to benefit from the Serbian's absence Down Under, there has been a twist in the tale as the 34-year-old recently revealed that he has been granted an exception from the Covid-19 vaccination rules by the expert independent panel put in place by the tournament's organisers.
"I've spent fantastic quality time with my loved ones over the break and today I'm heading down under with an exemption permission," Djokovic told his 9.6 million followers on Instagram. "Let's go 2022. I am ready to live and breathe tennis in the next few weeks of competition."
Djokovic, who is the unsurprising favourite to win the Australian Open with Betdaq, being granted a medical exemption allowing him to travel to Australia and participate in the Melbourne-based tournament, which was upheld in a court battle upon his arrival in the country, has not gone down well with many tennis players and fans, and it's sure to be the topic of most of his upcoming press conferences and interviews — which could cast a dark cloud over the tournament and take the onus away from the actual tennis itself.
But some would argue that the Australian Open will only benefit from having the current World No.1 in attendance — albeit perhaps guaranteeing that we won't see a new victor of the tournament at Melbourne Park come the end of the month.
With Nole having won the Australian Open nine times in his career, including in each of the last three years, it is fair to say that it has been a happy hunting ground for him Down Under. In fact, it is probably his favourite Grand Slam of the year as only Wimbledon comes close in terms of overall wins (six), with the French Open (two) and the US Open (three) miles behind.
A 91% strike rate, with 82 wins and just eight defeats at Melbourne Park, really is an admirable feat. It shows just how good Djokovic is on the Australian hard courts and given that his last defeat in the tournament came via an upset from Chung Hyeon in the fourth round way back in 2018, as the South Korean stunned the Serb 7-6(7-4), 7-5, 7-67-3, it seems incredibly unlikely that anyone is going to be able to stop him again this year.
Being denied entry initially and the barrage of comments Djokovic is facing from social media and the press at the minute is unlikely to faze the 33-year-old either. After all, he must be used to it by this stage of his career — especially after his actions of the last couple of years, like hosting a tournament in Serbia and Croatia during the peak of the pandemic and his comments about quarantine rules at other competitions.
Throwing Djokovic back into the mix certainly doesn't do everyone else any favours, but the likes of Rafael Nadal, who has only won the tournament once in his lengthy career, Daniil Medvedev, Alexander Zverev and Stefanos Tsitsipas definitely won't go down without a fight!
Five games so good they should be in the Olympics

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
package org.elasticsearch.bootstrap;

import org.elasticsearch.common.settings.KeyStoreWrapperTests;
import org.elasticsearch.core.internal.io.IOUtils;
import org.elasticsearch.common.settings.KeyStoreCommandTestCase;
import org.elasticsearch.common.settings.KeyStoreWrapper;
import org.elasticsearch.common.settings.SecureSettings;
import org.elasticsearch.common.settings.SecureString;
import org.elasticsearch.common.settings.Settings;
import org.elasticsearch.env.Environment;
import org.elasticsearch.test.ESTestCase;
import org.junit.After;
import org.junit.Before;

import java.io.ByteArrayInputStream;
import java.io.IOException;
import java.io.InputStream;
import java.nio.charset.StandardCharsets;
import java.nio.file.FileSystem;
import java.nio.file.Files;
import java.nio.file.Path;
import java.util.ArrayList;
import java.util.List;

import static org.hamcrest.Matchers.equalTo;

public class BootstrapTests extends ESTestCase {
    Environment env;
    List<FileSystem> fileSystems = new ArrayList<>();

    private static final int MAX_PASSPHRASE_LENGTH = 10;

    @After
    public void closeMockFileSystems() throws IOException {
        IOUtils.close(fileSystems);
    }

    @Before
    public void setupEnv() throws IOException {
        env = KeyStoreCommandTestCase.setupEnv(true, fileSystems);
    }

    public void testLoadSecureSettings() throws Exception {
        final char[] password = KeyStoreWrapperTests.getPossibleKeystorePassword();
        final Path configPath = env.configFile();
        final SecureString seed;
        try (KeyStoreWrapper keyStoreWrapper = KeyStoreWrapper.create()) {
            seed = KeyStoreWrapper.SEED_SETTING.get(Settings.builder().setSecureSettings(keyStoreWrapper).build());
            assertNotNull(seed);
            assertTrue(seed.length() > 0);
            keyStoreWrapper.save(configPath, password);
        }
        final InputStream in = password.length > 0
            ? new ByteArrayInputStream(new String(password).getBytes(StandardCharsets.UTF_8))
            : System.in;
        assertTrue(Files.exists(configPath.resolve("elasticsearch.keystore")));
        try (SecureSettings secureSettings = Bootstrap.loadSecureSettings(env, in)) {
            SecureString seedAfterLoad = KeyStoreWrapper.SEED_SETTING.get(Settings.builder().setSecureSettings(secureSettings).build());
            assertEquals(seedAfterLoad.toString(), seed.toString());
            assertTrue(Files.exists(configPath.resolve("elasticsearch.keystore")));
        }
    }

    public void testReadCharsFromStdin() throws Exception {
        assertPassphraseRead("hello", "hello");
        assertPassphraseRead("hello\n", "hello");
        assertPassphraseRead("hello\r\n", "hello");

        assertPassphraseRead("hellohello", "hellohello");
        assertPassphraseRead("hellohello\n", "hellohello");
        assertPassphraseRead("hellohello\r\n", "hellohello");

        assertPassphraseRead("hello\nhi\n", "hello");
        assertPassphraseRead("hello\r\nhi\r\n", "hello");
    }

    public void testPassphraseTooLong() throws Exception {
        byte[] source = "hellohello!\n".getBytes(StandardCharsets.UTF_8);
        try (InputStream stream = new ByteArrayInputStream(source)) {
            expectThrows(
                RuntimeException.class,
                "Password exceeded maximum length of 10",
                () -> Bootstrap.readPassphrase(stream, MAX_PASSPHRASE_LENGTH)
            );
        }
    }

    public void testNoPassPhraseProvided() throws Exception {
        byte[] source = "\r\n".getBytes(StandardCharsets.UTF_8);
        try (InputStream stream = new ByteArrayInputStream(source)) {
            expectThrows(
                RuntimeException.class,
                "Keystore passphrase required but none provided.",
                () -> Bootstrap.readPassphrase(stream, MAX_PASSPHRASE_LENGTH)
            );
        }
    }

    private void assertPassphraseRead(String source, String expected) {
        try (InputStream stream = new ByteArrayInputStream(source.getBytes(StandardCharsets.UTF_8))) {
            SecureString result = Bootstrap.readPassphrase(stream, MAX_PASSPHRASE_LENGTH);
            assertThat(result, equalTo(expected));
        } catch (IOException e) {
            throw new RuntimeException(e);
        }
    }

}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


A Cd transport is the root of any system and almost certainly the character of the Cd transport is the key dominating factor in any system, if not more. The Kalista CD Transport is undeniably one of the superior designed CD players available. The unique design can be attributed to the fact that it was drafted together by aerospace and French military engineers, bringing you a home entertainment device that looks absolutely out of this world.
Weighing a hefty 56lbs, the Kalista CD Transport comes in a stainless steel exterior and boasts an exceptional sound quality that will please all judicious audiophiles. Carrying an equally hefty price tag of $28k, we hope this system lives up to its promise.


text:
package com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.activity;

import android.os.Bundle;
import android.util.Log;
import android.view.Menu;
import android.view.MenuInflater;
import android.view.MenuItem;
import android.widget.Toast;

import com.couchbase.lite.CouchbaseLiteException;
import com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.Global;
import com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.R;
import com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.database.Tag;
import com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.fragment.EditTagDialogFragment;
import com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.fragment.EditTagDialogFragment.OnEditTagDialogListener;
import com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.fragment.TagListFragment;
import com.ubiqueworks.couchsample.fragment.TagListFragment.OnTagListFragmentListener;

public class TagManagerActivity extends AbstractCouchbaseActivity implements OnEditTagDialogListener, OnTagListFragmentListener {

    static final String TAG = TagManagerActivity.class.getSimpleName();

    private static final String DIALOG_TAG = "dialog";

    @Override
    protected void onCreate(Bundle savedInstanceState) {
        super.onCreate(savedInstanceState);
        setContentView(R.layout.activity_tag_manager);

        if (savedInstanceState == null) {
            showTagListFragment();
        }
    }

    @Override
    public boolean onCreateOptionsMenu(Menu menu) {
        MenuInflater inflater = getMenuInflater();
        inflater.inflate(R.menu.menu_tag_manager_default, menu);
        return super.onCreateOptionsMenu(menu);
    }

    @Override
    public boolean onOptionsItemSelected(MenuItem item) {
        int id = item.getItemId();
        switch (id) {
            case R.id.tt_menu_action_add_tag:
                showDialogAddTag();
                return true;
            default:
                return super.onOptionsItemSelected(item);
        }
    }

    @Override
    public void onTagItemClick(String tagId) {
        showDialogEditTag(tagId);
    }

    @Override
    public void onEditTagDone(Tag tag) {
        if (tag != null) {
            try {
                if (Global.DEBUG) {
                    Log.d(TAG, String.format("Persisting tag [%s]", tag.toString()));
                }

                tag.save(getDatabase());
            } catch (CouchbaseLiteException e) {
                Log.e(TAG, "Error persisting tag", e);
                Toast.makeText(this, R.string.tt_error_tag_persist_failure, Toast.LENGTH_LONG).show();
            }
        }
    }

    private void showTagListFragment() {
        getSupportFragmentManager()
            .beginTransaction()
            .replace(R.id.tt_frame_container, TagListFragment.newInstance())
            .commit();
    }

    private void showDialogAddTag() {
        EditTagDialogFragment dialog = EditTagDialogFragment.newInstance();
        dialog.show(getSupportFragmentManager(), DIALOG_TAG);
    }

    private void showDialogEditTag(String tagId) {
        EditTagDialogFragment dialog = EditTagDialogFragment.newInstance(tagId);
        dialog.show(getSupportFragmentManager(), DIALOG_TAG);
    }

}


text:
<?php

namespace Google\Service\CloudIot;

class ListDeviceRegistriesResponse extends \Google\Collection
{
  protected $collection_key = 'deviceRegistries';
  protected $deviceRegistriesType = DeviceRegistry::class;
  protected $deviceRegistriesDataType = 'array';
  /**
   * @var string
   */
  public $nextPageToken;

  /**
   * @param DeviceRegistry[]
   */
  public function setDeviceRegistries($deviceRegistries)
  {
    $this->deviceRegistries = $deviceRegistries;
  }
  /**
   * @return DeviceRegistry[]
   */
  public function getDeviceRegistries()
  {
    return $this->deviceRegistries;
  }
  /**
   * @param string
   */
  public function setNextPageToken($nextPageToken)
  {
    $this->nextPageToken = $nextPageToken;
  }
  /**
   * @return string
   */
  public function getNextPageToken()
  {
    return $this->nextPageToken;
  }
}

// Adding a class alias for backwards compatibility with the previous class name.
class_alias(ListDeviceRegistriesResponse::class, 'Google_Service_CloudIot_ListDeviceRegistriesResponse');


text:
Shijak (alb. Shijaku) – miasto w Albanii, w okręgu Durrës, w obwodzie o tej samej nazwie. Liczba mieszkańców wynosi 14 tys. (2006).

Pojawia się w dokumentach już w XV w. pod nazwą Shen Jak. Pod koniec XIX w. była to osada zamieszkana przez chłopów muzułmańskich przybyłych z Bośni. Po powstaniu państwa albańskiego w 1912 roku był to jeden z głównych ośrodków buntu przeciwko albańskiej niepodległości.

W mieście ma swoją siedzibę klub piłkarski Erzeni Shijak.

Miasta w obwodzie Durrës


Last semester in printmaking I made a series of prints using my local industrial landscape of Melbourne's inner west as inspiration.
These are photopolymer prints from my photograph of an electricity pylon and the West Gate Bridge.
I also did some drypoint etchings, some of which I hand coloured with water colour and ink.
I entered these in the Toyota Community Spirit Emerging Artist competition. Wish me luck!


text:
Q: Best way to handle multiple errors (Exceptions) with single "response" exceptions Let say we have a typical web application:

Often happens that there are many different exceptions that come from service layer and need to be handled separately.
Is there a good way or a pattern that consolidates all exceptions into less or even single exception and still being able to handle them separately?

A: The one approach I do is to throw only ServiceException on service layer. Inside the service call, I catch all non-service exceptions and rethrow it be encapsulating it with a ServiceException. That way, it makes my service API neater and simpler to handle. Unchecked exceptions are not caught in my services (as most of the enterprise containers handles transactions for unchecked exceptions differently, based on the lifecycle of the service it provides).
I hope this helps.


text:
<?php

declare(strict_types = 1);

namespace Karma\Formatters;

use Karma\Formatter;

class Rules implements Formatter
{
    private array
        $rules;

    public function __construct(array $rules)
    {
        $this->convertRules($rules);
    }

    private function getSpecialValuesMappingTable(): array
    {
        return [
            '<true>' => true,
            '<false>' => false,
            '<null>' => null,
            '<string>' => static function($value) {
                return is_string($value);
            }
        ];
    }

    private function convertRules(array $rules): void
    {
        $this->rules = [];
        $mapping = $this->getSpecialValuesMappingTable();

        foreach($rules as $value => $result)
        {
            $value = trim($value);

            if(is_string($value) && array_key_exists($value, $mapping))
            {
                $result = $this->handleStringFormatting($value, $result);
                $value = $mapping[$value];
            }

            $this->rules[] = [$value, $result];
        }
    }

    private function handleStringFormatting(string $value, $result)
    {
        if($value === '<string>')
        {
            $result = static function ($value) use ($result) {
                return str_replace('<string>', $value, $result);
            };
        }

        return $result;
    }

    public function format($value)
    {
        foreach($this->rules as $rule)
        {
            [$condition, $result] = $rule;

            if($this->isRuleMatches($condition, $value))
            {
                return $this->applyFormattingRule($result, $value);
            }
        }

        return $value;
    }

    private function isRuleMatches($condition, $value): bool
    {
        $hasMatched = ($condition === $value);

        if($condition instanceof \Closure)
        {
            $hasMatched = $condition($value);
        }

        return $hasMatched;
    }

    private function applyFormattingRule($ruleResult, $value)
    {
        if($ruleResult instanceof \Closure)
        {
            return $ruleResult($value);
        }

        return $ruleResult;
    }
}


text:
var parse = require('../index').parse;
var parse_text = require('../index').text;

var ab = parse.eager(parse.many1(parse.either(
    parse_text.character('a'),
    parse_text.character('b'))));

exports.consumeMnay = function(test) {
    test.deepEqual(parse.run(ab, "a"), ['a']);

    test.deepEqual(parse.run(ab, "abbaab"), ['a', 'b', 'b', 'a', 'a', 'b']);

    test.deepEqual(parse.run(ab, "abbaab abba"), ['a', 'b', 'b', 'a', 'a', 'b']);

    test.done();
};

exports.zeroFails = function(test) {
    test.throws(parse.run.bind(undefined, ab, "cd"));

    test.throws(parse.run.bind(undefined, ab, ""));

    test.done();
};

exports.nonString = function(test) {
     var pairs = parse.eager(parse.many1(parse.either(
         parse_text.character('ab'),
         parse_text.character('cd'))));

     test.deepEqual(parse.run(pairs, ['ab', 'ef', 'ab', 'ca']), ['ab']);

      test.deepEqual(parse.run(pairs, ['ab', 'cd', 'ab', 'ca']), ['ab', 'cd', 'ab']);

    test.done();
};

exports.largeInput = function(test) {
    var a = parse.eager(parse.many1(parse_text.character('a')));

    var input = (new Array(1000 + 1)).join('a');

    var result = parse.run(a, input);
    test.deepEqual(result.length, 1000);

    test.done();
};


text:
Eulogy: Addendum 1
October 19, 2017 October 19, 2017 / Doogonotpu	/ Leave a comment
She tries to be vulnerable without the sound. Sensitive, they used to call her. They always smiled when they said it—a pitying, cloying smile, one that said she had failed to achieve something. The hardness that made them "worthy" escaped her. She was "sensitive." Soft.
Unworthy.
When she was younger she hid her teeth in a painfully tight smile. She had learned—she wasn't certain where—that some smiles were perfect and hers did not qualify. One tooth overlapped the other just so, but the overlap was enough. It said that she was imperfect, and imperfect was ugly, and ugly was unworthy. She did not long for their lighter skin, but she did long for something that could hide her better.
She didn't belong with them. Where did she come from? She was misplaced, an error that would not right. She couldn't hide, couldn't be large or small enough. She stuck out, a convenient tabula rasa to hold her rage. She hit her and hit her and only stopped when she began to bleed.
Men stared at her, even when she was a girl. They said it was what men did. Sometimes they said that. Mostly they said nothing at all. She was prescribed larger clothing to hide herself better.
Scars do not heal the way people say. Sometimes they are too deep to scab, and when picked they can bleed forever. All of her scars are deep; she wonders if they comprise the whole of her. Who would she be without them? They are comfortable and they know her best of all.
She does not easily release past slights. They cling to her and make her what she is, and occasionally the memory of one will pierce her and she will revisit her own quiet. She will pick it until it bleeds and all she sees is red.
She wants to be needed. The sense of need centers her and gives her purpose. She is available when others need her.
She is alone, though, in her need.
The words she searches for were written in a journal once. She has sent them in varying order, in time before. Her heart beat heavy and wild in her throat as she slid them into the mail, anticipating the call. There would be a call, she was certain. Whether she would answer, she was less certain.
She imagined that the release from handing the accusation to her in that manner would free her from the cord that replenished a steady stream of poison into her. A niggling feeling of latent worthlessness, needlessness, the we'll be just fine without you of it all.
She never felt that release and the call did not come.
Instead, silence. Not the pregnant pause before a friend comes calling, the pause before conversation continues when all is quiet and an angel is supposedly close overhead.
The endless silence that may last forever.
It is broken, eventually, but never in the way it should be broken. She gets the call and it is as though a conversation was being held without her. Never an, "I got your letter." Never an, "I'm on my way, let's talk."
Never an, "I'm sorry."
It isn't the words that she wants anyway. The empty platitude reserved for children who are trying to sate nagging parents.
She wants the feeling. She wants to hear the exhalation, the backwash of the poison.
The uncertainty.
She wants more time.
How fitting that she has gone to a place where she cannot reach her. She cannot get her due.
She will be memorialized as more than she was, and she cannot be touched now.
Only the wind offers the faint apology, its light fingers grazing her cheeks.
All of the things that tethered her to the world will be divided up and carted off, each of them claiming a tangible piece of her, biting their tongues. She wants to say something—to speak of her as she was—but sensitive, they call her.
She shares with them rare stories of palpable love and a wicked humor.
Vacations and boyfriends and survival. Endurance.
She did have to be survived. And endured.
The black of the memories are hers to keep.
May 29, 2016 / Doogonotpu	/ Leave a comment
The whole of the affair started and ended with rain.
She was a cautious driver. Her paternal grandmother was killed on a deserted road five miles from the house; she wasn't wearing a seatbelt and swerved (everyone said to avoid an animal because she was caring in that way) and she careened into a ditch. The coroner's report said that she fractured her neck and she suffered blunt force trauma to the chest. The report preceded the internet, and so she did not know what blunt force trauma was at the time. The diagram accompanying the report was wholly useless, but she understood that it was painful.
It killed those her grandmother left behind.
The death for the left behind was temporary, though, for her father was always an erratic driver. He drove as though demons were on his tail and he was chasing the devil, weaving in and out of traffic. He himself survived many accidents, and when last she saw him, he had survived another wife. Her mother counted herself lucky as she left before his string of tragic affairs.
But she herself was a cautious driver. She did not text while driving, though she found herself daydreaming a great deal. In the car on the road she imagined herself in a film—always a tragic film, and her imaginings always took place at the climax. Her music—droll and forgettable—served as the soundtrack.
In her driving recitations she was dying or leaving or in some way irreparably injured. On this day she was revealing to her husband (in her post driving life she was single, painfully so) that she did not love him.
She stood, she imagined, in the rain. She was leaving him and he was crying and she was crying, too. She held out her hands to the rain and she laughed. "Rain," she imagined herself crying. "It makes all things clean."
Remarkably, as tears welled in her eyes, it began to rain. She was not religious, but she thought it poignant that rain fell as her tears.
In the corner of her eye she discerned it.
A solitary drop fell from a cloudless sky and landed smoothly on the passenger window. It slid down slowly, leaving a trail of itself in its wake. She was transfixed by this drop, which, to her, resembled a face. Crystalline and otherworldly, the rain's formation on the glass held her. The face itself was not unique, and could she look back, she would not know why she stared at the drop for so long.
She would not look back. She would careen into the back of the tractor trailer and, unlike her grandmother, she would not suffer blunt force trauma. She would fracture her neck and that would be enough. She would not hear that her organs would be harvested and she would save countless lives and she would not feel the shaking hands pressed lightly against her and she would not hear the voice that beckoned her back.
They spoke of him in whispers. He was old enough to know his own prognosis (he even knew the word prognosis), but they were cautious around him. His mother tried to smile at him at awkward moments, which was the absolute worst. Nothing felt like the speedy flight of death the way a mom's pursed, doe-eyed smile in the middle of a lame cartoon. Sometimes he thought that she felt like "reminding" him that he would die before he left the donor's list was cruel. She didn't seem to understand that talking as though there would be a next year was even more cruel.
He hated the pictures on the walls of the hospital. He was sick, that he knew. He had always been some type of sick. He had never drawn one of the framed pictures, though. He was terminal and it didn't get worse than that, but he had never been given the chance to say no. He would have said no, of course. The drawings with the tiny card giving the name and age of the artist made his heart leap painfully in his chest. Emily Frank, age 6. Joshua Turner, age 4. Evelyn Landry, age 14. He wondered—and he was certain others did the same—if the artists were still alive. He supposed you had to be a hospital lifer to have enough time to decorate.
His heart was failing even at birth, and he had made it to thirteen. It didn't seem like enough time, but he figured that ninety wouldn't seem like enough either. When he was admitted last year and they told him The News, he wanted to be mature. He didn't want his mom to see him cry. He was supposed to be strong. She called him her rock so often he'd began to believe it. He made it, at first. He didn't cry at all.
But then he saw those damned pictures. His mom called him those damned pictures, and he didn't think she'd mind that he thought of them that way. He saw those damned pictures and he thought, "I'm not going to have time to draw one," and he couldn't help it. He didn't cry. He wept.
His breath came in rattled, drawn out gasps now. There wasn't much they could do. His mom left the room frequently, claiming sneezes and needed a breath of air. He knew she wanted to dry her eyes without him seeing.
The storm came upon the hospital quickly. He liked the rain. It was comforting and quiet, and it made him tired. He could see the green beyond the hospital—the campus (he wasn't sure why it was called a campus) was surrounded by hills and trees and the vivacity of nature. He could see his mom return but he stared out the window. When the rain began the two images for a moment joined, and it looked as though he and his mom were crying the same thin, streaking tears. They stared out the window so long they did not hear the urgency in the doctor's voice. The borrowed tears drew him and he couldn't focus.
Donor.
He heard the words through a vacuum, and the wet from the rain dripped from his chin and onto the gown. He commented on the rain in the room before laughing lightly at his mistake. He turned to meet his mom's eyes, and saw that she had rain on her face, too. She kissed the rain from his cheeks before backing away. He would have a long day. He hoped it would still be raining when he got out.
He had been in the room for so long, he didn't think he would leave. He didn't want the sun and blues. He wanted rain to wash him and make him clean.
When he awoke his eyes were drawn again to the window. He was, according to his mom, in "recovery." She gripped his hand so hard it hurt. The rain still soaked her cheek. He turned to gaze out of the window. The pane was still dripping, and in the drops he imagined a face. An immense sadness threatened to overwhelm him, and he gasped for air, deep heaving gasps that were nothing to do with his new heart and sore lungs. Panicked, his mother offered him a cup of water.
"Rain," he insisted. "I want to taste the rain."
She left the room, and might have been gone for thirty seconds or thirty minutes. She returned with a cup, rainwater barely clearing the bottom.
"This isn't clean," his mother whispered, but he smiled softly. It was his smile, but older. A lived smile.
"It's rain, Mama," he replied. "And it makes all things clean."
Death and Mr. White: Vernon
Sweat would bead hot on his brow; it would skirt through the deep crevices of his leather face. The ropy veins of his once firm arms would rise and his unused muscles would burn awake, tearing through him as lightening. His eyes would water and burn, but he would not lose the light. When his knees finally buckled and his heart rapped quickly to its halt, he would tear a lasting piece from his accuser; he would not move forward easily and without sound.
The soundlessness and quiet traveled easy with him, but he would not end this way. When he rose again his voice would pierce the veil and his accuser would kneel; he would meet Death as an equal.
Vernon harbored no illusions. Death had come for stronger men. Death would assuredly come for him.
He preferred The Others on their knees. He would grip them and they would tear at the wall and he would pull their faces gently towards him at his moment–theirs always came first–he would whisper to Them "open your eyes" and They would, wildly, and he would gaze into Them, Their faces broken open and Their souls exposed for him, and a piece of him would break away.
Vernon did not kiss The Others. This was before the film that made Barbara uncomfortable; he did not kiss The Others because he did not want to see their longing for more. He was comprised of pieces, and he could not offer them more than this. He did not wish to.
He would not kiss them, but he would hold them after, for a brief moment. When he first began seeing The Others he would shower. He would scrub his golden brown skin until pink shone. Barbara was fascinated with the paleness of his skin, how close to White he might have been had he only avoided sun. He would consider this, her fascination, as he scrubbed the traces of Them from his body; he removed the scent of them from everywhere but his mouth. It was vulgar, he understood. He kept that souvenir cruelly for her, Barbara. She would not kiss him, Barbara, even before. She did not like the way mouths moved against each other, she did not want that caress. She did not want his eyes to meet hers. She did not want him rooted in her soul.
After, he would return home to find Barbara in the kitchen. She was always in the kitchen, fretting. She would meet him at the top of the stairs and her eyes would meet his for a moment before darting away. She would smooth down her apron self-consciously. When the boys came she would gaze at him over their heads in a way that she believed was loving. He would capture her eyes then and he would remember The Others and his breath would catch. Not guiltily, of course. He needed something and he could not remember what, and in the moment that he captured her eyes all thought of that need vanished.
He would move close enough to touch her, Barbara, but he would not. She would not think it proper, and he was uncertain their bodies would still complement. He would be close enough to touch her, to ghost his fingers along her dress, but he would not. He would allow his breath to dance along her neck, and for a moment he would remember and she would remember.
Barbara was poor and dark skinned and unpopular. She was cute enough, but Vernon was handsome. His skin was a light golden brown, his eyes hazel. Barbara sat at the front of the room and to the left, and when he was bored Vernon watched the way the sunlight glinted from her long, pressed hair. She was prim and shy even then, and when he finally spoke to her she would not look at him.
Barbara walked home with her sisters; Vernon drove his car. He drove slowly beside her, yelling out of the window, his friends crying with laughter. Barbara tucked her head down and did not respond to him, only pressed her mouth into a firm line. Vernon sucked his teeth at her and sped off; in his rear view mirror he saw her wipe her cheek.
Vernon heard from her cousin that Barbara's family hated him. He bristled at this; how could he be hated? He was wealthy. Handsome. He had a future. Barbara was poor and homely. He was better than she. He began to watch her. She held her head at an angle because she was shy, but even then she expressed defiance. There was a fire suppressed within her, and Vernon wanted to root it out. Barbara did not keep her head down because she believed him better than she. She was uncomfortable with their eyes meeting. She did not want to want him more than he wanted her.
Vernon chased Barbara because he could, at first. He could have any girl he wanted; they all wanted him. He wanted Barbara to want him.
She did not. She was studious but she was not brilliant. She was sweet and she did not want to be seen with him. He obliged her and met her in secret. When he had her she made him turn down the lights so that he could barely make her out. Her eyes captured his and held them the entire time. There was still a fire there, just below the surface. He wanted to out it. He would out it.
Barbara's uncle begged her not to marry him. Vernon was not present for the conversation, and Barbara never shared this. Rather a cousin spilled it over a cocktail and a Persian rug.
"He offered her a car if she said she wouldn't marry you." the cousin revealed snidely. Vernon's vision dimmed then and he swallowed past a deep lump in his throat. He wondered–he should not–how long it took Barbara to turn the uncle's offer away.
"She thought about it for a week," the cousin continued. Later, as Barbara slept next to him, her fingers lightly grazing his, he burned.
"Do you love me?" Vernon demanded. Barbara jumped at his sound–he spoke rarely, but authoritatively.
"I do love you, Vernon." She offered her love as a plea and he accepted it without knowing why. Had she loved him? He was certain she did, but he did not believe she was in love with him. She loved him as one loves a savior–obligatory love. A self-sacrificing love. A love that placed Vernon above and Barbara beneath.
Their years were measured by a dance that both understood, but never at the same time. Vernon began searching for Others as anyone does–because he was bored. He could find Others easily. In his early forties he was still trim and desirable. Barbara desired him as she always had–silently, and in the dark. On her back she would peer up at him and she would bite her lip and he only saw her fully here, she only offered her soul, and only then in pieces, here.
He engaged the attention of Others because he wanted her, Barbara, to feel desperate; he wanted her to consider how lucky she was. It was this luck that drew his attention when he met Death for the first time.
He was engaged in an affair with an Other when he received the call. His father was dead. The body must be identified. He must do it.
It did not occur to Vernon to call Barbara. She would be home, in the kitchen. She would be devastated; she liked his father. She would not weep, though. Her tears would move softly, and she would look to Vernon for direction.
The face presented on the cold steel was indeed Vernon's father. Vernon shared his father's nose. It was strange to see his father there, unmoving. His father was a strong ,statuesque man. He exuded life and power; his shadow covered the world entire. Vernon crumbled into himself on the bench outside of the morgue. He felt the presence before he saw it, and when his eyes moved he only met a blur, first.
"He went easy," the voice offered. The voice was cold and wet, but not unkind. Not kind either.
It simply was.
"What was easy?" Vernon demanded, his voice gravelly and not his own. He blinked firmly, wanting to be strong even before this stranger.
His father was never as clear as the face before him. Vernon started, gasping. The eyes pierced him, deep green with flecks of gold.
"Your father," the man with his father's face stated. Vernon's heart throbbed in his chest.
"You killed my father?" The man did not answer, only stared at Vernon. Vernon's throat constricted with knowledge.
This was Death. He wondered, faintly, if Death had come for him.
"Not yet," Death offered Vernon.
"I wasn't considering it, yet," Vernon lied. Death nodded knowingly. Vernon ached with the knowledge that his father moved into the next easily. Why did he not fight?
"I'll fight you," Vernon stated. "When you come, I'll fight you."
Death stared into Vernon. He grazed Vernon lightly as he passed; when Death looked upon Vernon, Vernon felt the weight of himself lifted for a moment.
The moment passed, and Vernon was alone. Vernon wept.
Barbara responded to the news as Vernon knew she would, and he hated her for it. He wanted her to cry, to scream at him. He wanted her to mourn his father, to cry for him, to beg him to stay. Why would she not fight?
She collapsed into herself and he could not reach her.
When she finally asked about The Others, Vernon was unprepared. Barbara poured his coffee as she always did, offered him two cubes of sugar. She folded her apron neatly and sat at the table across from Vernon. Jonathan was still sleeping, and the gray at Barbara's temples was pinned back. Barbara, as always, seemed self-conscious. From the corner of his eye Vernon saw her playing with her ring. The light glinted from the silver in her hair and he thought her beautiful.
He wondered if he should tell her. He had not said the words aloud before, and he wanted to, desperately, but they solidified like cement on his tongue. He swallowed his coffee without tasting it and he heard her words, whispered into her lap.
"How many women have you gone to bed with since we married? Vern? How many?" Startled he dropped the cup. His ears burned and he rose from the table angrily.
He had wanted her to ask all the while. He wanted her to notice. He wanted her to lash out, to feel, to defy him.
Instead she mumbled the words into her lap.
"Shut the hell up," he shouted. He didn't know those were the words he would cast at her, but they were out and he did not want to reclaim them. Her eyes darted up and met his then, and he saw her fully. She was proud but still fragile; in her eyes he saw the poor girl from the other side of the tracks. The fire that once was was dim, but it was not out.
Barbara did not leave him then. Even when The Other called at dinner she did not leave. Her eyes met his again, and he saw the light again dim, but it did not fade.
Barbara left quietly. She packed her things and moved to the room across the hall. A thousand times he called her back, he responded to her shouts in the dark.
But she did not shout, and his lips did not move.
Their years passed slowly and without sound; days crashed into each other, and Vernon found himself missing time. He forgot her birthday, first. Then their vacation.
Then the girl. Not one of his. Jon's. He'd forgotten that she was supposed to be hidden. He asked about her, would have sworn that she was ten; just the day before he'd told Cheryl to keep her.
"She's a blessing," he revealed, his voice shaking. He did not see the blessing for many years, and they pretended the blessing did not exist.
But then he forgot. "Where is Jherine? Is she coming?" Barbara's eyes narrowed and heat flared from them.
"She's gone," Barbara's mouth formed the words and they dripped like venom. The fire that he had long desired whipped forth and burned him; Vernon recoiled.
"Where?" Vernon asked. He could remember, vaguely, something about her, the child.
"Just gone," Barbara stated.
When next Vernon saw Barbara the heat was present again. Jon's mouth was moving, but Vernon could not quite make out the words.
Barbara's fire had made it to the surface. She would not accept this.
She would die if she did not, but the fire could not be contained. There was something that he wanted to tell her, he was sure, but he could not remember the words.
Vernon thought Death would come for him first. But it swept Barbara softly, and the fire in her dimmed and then outed.
Vernon remembered. "You are beautiful," he wanted to say. He searched for her but he could not find her.
"Jon," Vernon gripped the boy close to him. "Tell your mother she's beautiful."
Jon swallowed. "She's gone, Dad," Jon sighed.
"When she gets back. Just tell her."
"Alright. I'll tell her."
Death came while Vernon was sleeping. He could feel the presence looming over him. When his eyes opened he saw Barbara. She gazed at him fully, her eyes dancing. He wondered. . .
"Did you know that I thought you were beautiful?" He begged. She nodded, silent. He wondered, with his leathery skin and his weakened arms what she thought of him. If she still thought him handsome. If she loved him.
For a moment he considered fighting. But Barbara was here, staring into him. She allowed him to see her, in the light.
"I–" he wanted to offer her an apology, to give her the last piece of himself, but she shook her head.
She held out her hand for him to take, and he did. He gasped at the familiarity.
"I said that I would fight," Vernon stated. Death nodded.
Vernon leaned into Death as a lover, and they moved from life easily, and without sound.
March 26, 2015 April 2, 2015 / Doogonotpu	/ Leave a comment
Sterling Clay Printz's house had seven windows on its face. All seven windows were too small.
The two flanking the front door–the house was porchless; you stepped up to the door and more or less fell into the house–were higher than normal windows and seemed as though they should have been bay. But they weren't. They were small, bathroom windows really.
Above the front door there was a tiny window that would have presumably served as a skylight, had the builder any idea what a window's actual functionality might be, or had the builder any idea where the sky was located.
The second floor windows were stationed in lonely singles flanking one lonely pair of windows, each with their own dilapidated shutters bulging from the gray edifice.
More than being too small, the windows were useless.
Sterling Clay Printz didn't see the uselessness of his windows, though, for his back was always to them. Once inside the comfort of his home he remained; he preferred the solace of its small hidden rooms and even smaller closets. There were no windows in the rooms he preferred, no natural light, or light of any kind. Sterling Clay Printz preferred the silence and the dark.
Sterling Clay Printz's road was dirt, perhaps one of the only dirt roads left in this paved state. His road was shared by eight other neighbors whose houses were closer to the highway than his. Sterling Clay Printz's house was the last on the road, at least a quarter of a mile away from the nearest turn-around should one of his neighbors' guests find themselves lost. Even if the large Spanish oak tree didn't obstruct the sky and obliterate the world around the house the windows would have been useless, for there was no one coming up the drive to see, no one strolling down the drive to greet.
Sterling Clay Printz used to find himself standing at his own front door staring out into the hopeful dusk kicked up from somewhere down the road. Every morning before work and every afternoon after he would stand on his stoop facing the place he presumed the sun to be. He did this until the afternoon he met the mailman's eyes.
Sterling Clay Printz lacked self-awareness, but somehow the watering of the mailman's eyes coupled with his sad "cheer up fella" smile, made him feel gawked at. He wondered if the mailman mentioned him later. What kind of story would the mailman tell about him? Would dinner center around him?
Sterling Clay Printz didn't mind being the center of attention, of course.
One of Sterling Clay Printz's biggest problems, his mother would remind him, was his tendency to over share information.
"You can't let things grow, Clay," she would condescend to him as he lamented another failed friendship. "You shoot your load the first go." She had a knack for mixing metaphors, but her greatest gift was her uncanny ability to make Clay feel slightly uneasy with himself.
Rather than take his mother's oft repeated advice, Clay over shared.
On Facebook he posted enough about politics to embarrass his friends into complete silence.
On Instagram he tagged celebrities in photos of his face awkwardly positioned near half empty Starbucks cups.
On Twitter he found religion and the many gods of education.
Clay's mother's gift was for bringing grown men to their knees in the dark to weep silently like children, and Clay's own gift was for shedding unnecessary light on the mundane. This was almost expected of one who over shares–eventually all of the large stories will be taken.
"Red or blue," was the original caption for his photo of his ties. He had staged them beautifully, his rapidly cooling Starbucks accenting the background. He is partially nude and will most definitely be late, but this will be a beautiful photo and he must retain evidence of this for posterity.
The caption serves many purposes: the filter he chose changes the color scheme, so he must identify the color for his patient followers. He also wants feedback. Perhaps he should mention donkeys and elephants? He checked his phone ten minutes ago and discovered he had one like for the photo posted from the stadium. He considers deleting it, but changes his mind. They've only had a few hours to respond.
He chooses the caption, "Red or blue: never know when you're going to be a democrat or republican!" He gives his phone a satisfied smile.
In the end he chooses blue. In ninth grade a girl (Sasha? Sarah? Antoinette?) told him his eyes were cornflower blue like those which grew in her grandmothers garden. He wasn't particularly fond of blue then, but he very much liked the compliment.
As Clay drives easily to work and pulls into his designated parking space it occurs to him as it does every morning that he has surpassed the expectations of others. He knows he shouldn't have others so often on his mind, but he can't help it. Before he exits his truck he pulls out his phone again.
Two likes.
Before unlocking the door to the building he takes a quick stroll around campus. It is beautiful in the silent dark, and for a moment he holds his breath and stares out into the loneliness.
Then he pulls out his phone and shares the moment.
Before he can put it away he receives a text: running late; can someone unlock my room?
He sends a response with a smiling emoji, but his face never moves.
He lingers for a few moments checking emails mindlessly. He adjusts his tie and enters his office.
He has a smile that he has practiced for so long it doesn't sting as much now as it once did.
He offers this smile robotically before she catches his eye. His eyes narrow as he focuses on her, the rest of the world tuned out.
She walks as though she has been here for as long as he has. This shouldn't bother him and she shouldn't so often be on his mind, but he can't help it.
As if she can feel his gaze she turns abruptly and meets it. She holds his eyes until he tears his away.
She makes him angry.
He knows what she says about him. His school is like a small town and he considers himself the mayor. It is his job to know. She's small and new, but her words bother him all the same.
He sends a text—Did you finish Janine's observation? I want that asap.
He receives the reply—on my list for this morning; I'll send it to you after I've finished—almost immediately.
It isn't that she's beautiful. He's certain that's what she's said. That's one of the rumors he hasn't heard, but he's almost positive she's said it.
He can hear it condescended from her lips now. "He hates me because he's in love with me." She's said it.
Of course she has. She wears bright red lipstick that emphasizes the perfect bow of her lips. She only wears black clothing paired with sky-high heels. She walks with her head high and when she chooses to look at him she always stares longer. She offers him a raised brow but she does not smile.
She tells others that his ship is not his.
This bothers him even more than her arrogance. They listen to her.
Some hate her. They hate the way she talks and dresses, the way she sizes them up with a look. But they hate him more and they listen to her.
"Mr. Printz!" The hair on his neck bristles. Her. He fixes the smile on his face and turns to her carefully.
"Hey Janine! How are you?"
"I'm great. I just wanted to know if you might have time to talk to me this afternoon? I wanted to know how we're going to address diversity in the curriculum? I've noticed that it's extremely white." She offers him a tight smile at the end of her statement, her deep brown eyes searching his. He is stunned into silence for a moment.
A pin could drop in the hall. His throat constricts as he struggles to contain himself.
She is new. Too new. Who is she to ask questions?
His mother would think this is small. She would say it that way—"Clay, why are you so angry? This is all so small and mundane."
"Check with Lydia," he offers, turning away from her. "She'll put you on my calendar."
"Another thing—are you not getting my emails?" She has a tone. Her face is expressionless. But the tone is there.
"Make sure you're always copying Lydia on all emails." He pats her arm as he brushes by her. "Thanks, Janine."
He sends an email reprimanding the hourly staff on their continued use of the mass email. After this he walks into the lunchroom and the lunch ladies are conveniently too busy to meet his eye.
He inspects the trays of the kids in isolation for something to do.
"Mmm, school lunch," he jokes so that he has something to say.
He attends a meeting that includes forty-five minutes of a mother berating him. He prides himself on his calm.
No ma'am, your daughter will still face consequences for skipping.
Yes ma'am, missing an entire class without permission is skipping.
No ma'am, it doesn't take anyone an hour and a half to get from one side of campus to the other.
Yes ma'am, that is my boss.
He pulls out his phone again—he has ten texts. Two are from the same teacher from this morning stating she'll be back late from a doctor's appointment. He makes a note to keep an eye on her attendance. He needs to build his case carefully.
One is from the superintendent stating a review will be conducted soon.
One is from his mother telling him God loves him.
One is from one of the PE coaches asking for an administrator.
One is from the same PE coach stating never mind.
One is from a member of the old guard asking if she can meet with him during lunch to discuss a private matter that he overheard her complaining about publicly just this morning.
One is from Ms. Pride-Hall, stating the observation was complete.
One is from her, stating that her kids are going to the lab.
One is from Starbucks, telling him he's a gold star member.
He ignores all of them, opting to check his Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. Two more likes, one comment, and a retweet.
He spends a few minutes selecting a song for his special announcements. They aren't until Friday, but he likes to do a soundcheck early Friday morning and he doesn't want to come unprepared. The kids like his announcements, he thinks.
She smirks when he passes her in the hall after, but then she smirks at him all the time.
She must know she is on his mind because she arrives promptly.
For the duration of their conversation she is pleasant and he wrestles with himself. He wants to yell at her. He wants to shout. He wants to stun her, to tear from her that calm exterior.
What meat does she eat that makes her grow so large? She is uncomfortable with Julius Caesar and would hate that reference. It makes him chuckle.
After she leaves his office Ms. Pride-Hall enters.
"Well," he begins expectantly. Ms. Pride-Hall swallows visibly.
"She's great. You're not going to go into her room and see anything but good teaching." For a moment he allows his shoulders to fall.
"But—" Ms. Pride-Hall offers him an opening and he leaps.
"Yes?" He wills himself to prompt her calmly, but internally he's singing.
"She wants to file a grievance against you." Lava boils up inside him and burns.
How dare she?
"Why," he asks, though he doesn't actually care for the answer.
"She said that, and I'm quoting here, "if I died you would roll me under the desk and keep teaching."" He pauses for a moment.
"That doesn't make any sense," he responds, and Ms Pride-Hall shrugs.
"That's what she said." He considers her words. He considers them for so long he fears they will leave a mark.
He swallows hard, calming himself. "I think it's time to have a serious conversation with her."
He sends a message to Lydia to ask Janine to swing by his office at 3:30.
His discussion with Janine might as well take place in a vacuum for all he hears.
At some point she tells him that he is a tyrant. She doesn't use those words, but she implies it. Her eyes harden as she speaks to him directly.
"You walk around and you don't see anyone. You didn't notice that last week when you asked Kentavious if he'd registered for College night that he was uncomfortable—he doesn't want to go to college. You know how I know? I spend time asking people things. You don't listen. You only want to hear how great you are. You are so busy looking at all of the small details you don't actually know what you're missing. You're missing the people. There are actual people behind those numbers."
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind her and briefly he wonders if he should have chosen the red tie.
He lowers his voice and he attempts to quell her anger.
"I don't have to give you a reason. I like you. You're not happy here."
She interrupts him. "It isn't the place I'm unhappy with." His heart skips a beat. There she is again.
He sees her clearly now. Everyone else is wearing the school colors. They know the rival. They know to smile at him and they know to be colorblind. They know to ask the right questions and give the right numbers and even the ones that look like her know how to behave.
Why doesn't she know that? Why is she wearing black even now? Even her hair—it coils from her head reaching the sky, seeming to defy him.
"You aren't right for here," he tells her. She is stunned. He can see it in the way she blinks rapidly, the way she jerks back as if slapped.
At last he has silenced her.
He continues while he has time. "We just aren't a good fit for you. Do I think you'll be great somewhere else? Absolutely."
He thought she would cry. The last time this happened the woman cried.
Janine's face is dry, her eyes dark and deep.
Her voice is passionate and fierce, and he has to lean forward to hear her. "In a few years you'll still be here wondering why they don't all like you. It's because this place is small and even smaller with you in it. You'll have my resignation in ten minutes."
She must note his surprise because she smirks, "I've had it ready and waiting. After so many threats it loses its appeal."
She turns on her heel and leaves his office.
He turns to send the email to human resources. She is a problem and he wants to make certain he's covered himself.
He loses himself for awhile in the email, because when he turns back he discovers a Starbucks cup on his desk—Venti. Hot. The handwritten note says "we love you, Clay!"
He smiles to himself, sighing heavily.
As he leaves to head to the field he receives a few greetings. The lunch ladies still don't meet his eye.
A letter from her lay in his box.
In the stadium his voice reverberates all around and when he says cheer they cheer.
He shakes hands and kisses babies and his mouth hurts from the talking.
He gets that tell-tale thrill down his leg when he is introduced as the principal.
This is his town. He is the mayor. He has earned this.
On the ride home he belts out the words to the song half a beat behind.
He stands in front of the door for a long while, wishing he could see the sun from his house.
In the dark loneliness he feels a god.
As the door closes behind him he thinks he hears a car pulling up the drive.
He pulls his phone from his pocket at the same time, though, and he is too busy checking his phone to open the door again.
He can't see from the windows, and as he disappears into the empty house he curses those small useless things and wonders not for the first time if he is too big for them, if they are not too small even for him. He wonders what visitors he missed, what small slips of sun they keep just beyond his reach.
between strangers on a train: soliloquy
July 15, 2014 July 15, 2014 / Doogonotpu	/ 2 Comments
I pretend you moved away from a house you never lived in.
Words I never said are in your mind as you ride a different train in a different direction.
On your different train, in your different direction, briskly you pass by a girl who looks like me and I imagine that you notice her, and then you remember me.
On your different train, in your different direction, crooked hearts on the window catch your eye, and I imagine that we stood when everyone else sat, our breath mingling and our fingers touching as we left traces of ourselves.
My train is little more than empty, my head is down, my heart as empty as the train that carries me, and in the lull of an endless melancholy melody I hear a voice,
"Do you mind if I sit here?" and I look up and our eyes meet.
And in your eyes recognition.
My heart catches in my throat, freezing in time.
I imagine a soliloquy drips as honey from my lips into your ear in response; and caught under my spell you forget your question and I don't answer.
In reality I offer a terse smile and I shake my head and you flash your brilliant smile at me and you wait, respectfully, for me to make room.
You didn't have to wait, of course; there was room for you already.


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Crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside these pumpkin chocolate biscuits are surely the best and most delicious way to bring the autumn aroma into your home.
Beat sugar and butter until light and fluffy. Beat in the egg, vanilla and pumpkin puree. In a separate bowl mix flour, cocoa, oats, baking soda and spices. Mix this into the butter mixture.
Scoop heaped teaspoons of dough onto prepared sheet. Bake for 25 minutes.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I am back to Baking 101 until I get used to my new oven and baking environment. Shortbread biscuits, an unbeatable classic, turned out to be a great test for that. I have never worked so fast and refrigerated the batter so many times to avoid the butter melting and turning it all into a gooey mess. Now I see why shortbread originates from Scotland – it is probably the only place where baking it would be effortless.
Nevertheless, these biscuits turned out beautiful and orange and chocolate combination proved to be a great way to spice up the original recipe. I'm definitely going to try new combinations next time, but would love to hear if you have any advice on baking in hot/humid environment?
In a medium sized bowl beat butter, sugar, orange peel and a few drops of orange extract together until smooth. Stir in the flour until mixed and smooth.
Turn on to a work surface and gently roll out the batter until it is just under 1 cm thick. Cut into squares or fingers and place onto a baking sheet. Refrigerate for 20 minutes.
In the meantime, preheat oven to 190C. Bake shortbread for 15-20 minutes or until pale golden in colour. Set aside to cool on a tray for a little bit and then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
When the shortbread has cooled to room temperature, melt the chocolate by microwaving it in 30 second intervals (stirring after each) until chocolate has melted completely. Dip biscuits into the chocolate to form desired pattern. Return to a wire rack and top with chopped nuts.
I've got some pretty big news to share this week, guys! Starting from June Hey Cakes HQ is moving out of London as my boyfriend and I have decided to start a new life in Barcelona. Well, actually it won't be a completely new life as we've got family and quite a few friends living there. So I would rather call it a relocation with hope that some day all my friends move there (yup, I'm that selfish).
I have already quit my day job, but we haven't started packing yet, so at this moment I have too much time on my hands. That, of course, means lots of bakin', bakin', bakin' and sticking to recipes that allow me to use up whatever I already have in the food cupboard. These dark chocolate chip oat biscuits are a perfect sweet, crunchy and chunky example of that.
Grease 2 large baking sheets and preheat oven to 180°C.
In a large bowl beat butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in the egg. Add oats, milk and vanilla extract and beat until combined.
Mix in the flour, cocoa powder and baking powder. Fold in the chocolate pieces.
Place spoonfuls of the biscuit mixture on the prepared baking sheets and move the tray into the freezer for about 10 minutes.
Bake for about 15-17 minutes or until the biscuits have slightly risen, but are still soft to the touch. Transfer to wire rack to let the biscuits cool completely.
First of all, Happy New Year! I hope you had wonderful holidays! Last weeks were way more active and adventurous than usually, hence the lack of new posts over last two weeks.
These holidays, spent with family and friends in Catalonia and Latvia, saw me trying many things for the first time. Including a visit to super cute medieval town of Besalu, playing bingo, hearing my boyfriend play in a punk band, playing paintball outdoors in -10°c and solving logical puzzles in a prison setting.
All of these were so much fun and I decided that doing more new things will be my New Year's resolution. As part of this, I baked these easy to make nut shaped and caramel filled biscuits ("riekstiņi") that have the taste of childhood written all over them. Can't believe I never tried making these considering that it's my favourite biscuit ever!
Traditionally these were made in casting iron pans, but unless your grandmother has one, it is very hard to get hold of these now. I opted for simple cases that I bought in Latvia. In case you can't find those anywhere, I would say that making simple round cookies and sandwiching caramel between two of those will do the trick.
Using your hands fill the cases with the thin layer of pastry.
Remove from the cases and once cooled fill one side of the "nut" with caramel and cover it with another.


Though I imagine no ready audience exists today for a studio to "green light" any of these for a big sceen release (maybe Bismarck).
How about The Battle of The North Cape? Scharnhorst is overdue to be so honored.
Or, a much better done saga of the Admiral Graf Spee and the Battle of the River Plate with all the drama and diplomatic games that went on prior to the AGS scuttling.
Please, no 8" triple gunned, triple turret USN CA this time!
ps: Your suggestion of SMS Emden, along with my suggestion above, made me think of the 1914 saga of Vice Admiral Maximilian Graf von Spee, Coronel and the Falklands. What a great motion picture adventure that story would make!
2. If Americans are needed to have an expesive SFX movie then Guadalcanal or Leyte.
3. Trafalgar will be an great movie!!!
I have always wondered if the millions that goes to make a fiction story like Lord of the Rings or Starwars wouldn´t be better expended in more historic (or quasi-historic) movies like Gladiator or Kingdom of Heaven.
I was thinking of a modern remake of Under Ten Flags, the story of merchant raider Atlantis.
Trafalgar would be a good one too.
marcelo_malara wrote: I have always wondered if the millions that goes to make a fiction story like Lord of the Rings or Starwars wouldn´t be better expended in more historic (or quasi-historic) movies like Gladiator or Kingdom of Heaven.
I don't consider those two to be comparable at all, even though I enjoyed both. Tolkein had a huge following long before the movies, and millions of people eagerly looking forward to them.
You seem to be saying that it isn't worth making a movie unless it's based on history. You must not be a Sci-Fi or Fanatasy fan, but there are millions who are.
If you have read the story on this site of the survival of the crew member of Bismarck during her final battle, I think that would be a good basis for a movie. Something similar to the recent Japanese movie about Yamato. Noone has ever done a Bismarck movie from the German point of view.
Gunther Prien and the U-47 getting into Scapa and sinking the Royal Oak!
It´s a story with all the elements necessary to be a huge hit. With one problem: the cool hero will be German. Too Bad. Don´t think Hollywood would appropiate the money for that. And let´s hope that Pearl Harbor´s producers never thought in doing it or neither Cameron. In that case the U-47 will be an American Fleet Sub in a duel at the "Bongo" straits somewhere in the Artic Ocean!
Karl Heidenreich wrote: In that case the U-47 will be an American Fleet Sub in a duel at the "Bongo" straits somewhere in the Artic Ocean!
I have to laugh, Karl ... at your example!
Are you aware that there was a movie in the 50's called "Run Silent, Run Deep" about a US fleet submarine in the BUNGO strait in southern Japan? It's a real place. Did you invent that, or were you aware of the movie, which was actually quite good?
Wasn't Cross of Iron, which was about a German soldier, a Hollywood movie? I thought that was very good.
Yes, Cross of Iron is a very well done movie. Sam Peckinpaugh directed it (and his background was in making Westerns, The Wild Bunch, etc.).
Thanks for bringing the memory of that movie up! What imagery! The introductory "Hänschen klein" being sung with Nazi footage of young pioneers, the high-ranking officer thanking the wounded troops at the hospital and offering a handshake.. when one guy who has no limbs offers a stump in return! A great movie that leaves imprerssions like that is hard to forget. Also, real T-34s! (ok they were -85 models but hey, they meant well) great stuff!
Yes, how in the world did Hollywood and a famous Wild West movie director make this one?!
Hi! I was aware about a movie of a sub duel or something of the sort that happens in the Bongo Strait. Well, thanks to you I know it´s the Bungo Strait now. Wasn´t that based on a book wrote by an actual US Sub Commander?
Yes, Sam Peckinpah directed the "Cross of Iron"... and no one knows how he managed to get financed, not only with that movie but with others quite more controversial as "Straw Dogs" which was laveled as the First Facist Movie Masterpiece. He directed also "Bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia" and a more commercial "Convoy" with Kris Kristoferson. Peckinpah loved violence (some say he actually hated it) and his movies are a bloodbath. But of impecable facture.
It does involve a Japanese submarine, as well as "down the throat" tactics vs Japanese destroyers. I'm not aware of the source of the story, but it was a favorite of mine as a kid. It must have come out in the 50s.
OK. It looks that it is a naval masterpiece. The writer is, as I suspected, Commander Edward L. Beach, a WWII sub skipper that in 1960 got the command of the USS Triton, a nuclear powered sub (SSN-586).
In the movie the sub´s captain is... Clark Gable! And listen to this, the executive officer is Burt Lancaster!
And they spell "Bongo" the place where the Japanese adversary is stationed.
OMG I have to find a map! Maybe I have it all wrong and it really is correctly named "Bongo".
Triton was huge for it's time. Two reactors, I believe. She made the first underwater global circumnavigation IIRC.


text:
Q: Windows 8 and cell modem com port information We have a device that uses a Sierra MC7354 modem running on a windows 8 embedded device.  The issue I'm having is that the device manager will show the com port for the modem but code that works on our embedded XP systems and my development laptop running windows 7 does not work on the our build of 8 embedded.
We currently are using WMI to search for the modem.  The namespace used for the WMI query is "root\CimV2" and the ClassName is "Win32_POTSModem".  When we use a ClassName of "Win32_NetworkAdaptor" we do see the modem.  We also see 2 of the three comports when searching for "Win32_PnPEntity", just not the com port we need to send "AT" commands to the modem.  Our software has been ran from a admin CMD window that should avoid permission issues.
The desired comport is listed in SerialPort.GetPortNames.  We are un-able to send AT commands to each port to find the modem that way due to other serial hardware that would be negatively impacted by sending the query.
Here is a simple test app, windows 8 embedded returns 0 modems and 15 network adapters where my laptop returns 15 modems and 43 network adapters:
using System;
using System.Collections.Generic;
using System.Linq;
using System.Text;
using System.Management;

namespace wmiModemTest
{
    class Program
    {
        static void Main(string[] args)
        {
            Modem();
            Network();
        }
        static void Modem()
        {
            //create a management scope object
            ManagementScope scope = new ManagementScope("\\\\.\\ROOT\\cimv2");

            //create object query
            ObjectQuery query = new ObjectQuery("SELECT * FROM Win32_POTSModem");

            //create object searcher
            ManagementObjectSearcher searcher =
                                    new ManagementObjectSearcher(scope, query);

            //get a collection of WMI objects
            ManagementObjectCollection queryCollection = searcher.Get();

            Console.WriteLine("Number of Win32_POTSModem returned: {0}", queryCollection.Count);
            //enumerate the collection.
            foreach (ManagementObject m in queryCollection)
            {
                // access properties of the WMI object
                Console.WriteLine("Description : {0}", m["Description"]);

            }
        }
        static void Network()
        {
            //create a management scope object
            ManagementScope scope = new ManagementScope("\\\\.\\ROOT\\cimv2");

            //create object query
            ObjectQuery query = new ObjectQuery("SELECT * FROM Win32_NetworkAdapter");

            //create object searcher
            ManagementObjectSearcher searcher =
                                    new ManagementObjectSearcher(scope, query);

            //get a collection of WMI objects
            ManagementObjectCollection queryCollection = searcher.Get();

            Console.WriteLine("Number of Win32_NetworkAdapter returned: {0}", queryCollection.Count);
            //enumerate the collection.
            foreach (ManagementObject m in queryCollection)
            {
                // access properties of the WMI object
                Console.WriteLine("Description : {0}", m["Description"]);

            }
        }
    }
}

Does anyone know how the WMI info for modems is gathered or how the device manager gets the information?


text:
Is Formula E on Its Way to Overtake Formula One?
Adam Sinclair
Wednesday, Dec 01 720
This year, we celebrate 10 years since the launch of the ABB FIA Formula E World Championship – the electric cars motorsport racing series that promotes clean mobility. Since its inauguration in 2014, the series has hosted seven seasons and has gained millions of viewers from all over the world.
The amalgamation of the climate crisis, eco-awareness, and the boom of electric cars are all vital in the positioning of Formula E as a pioneer in green mobility. But where does the sustainable motorsport stand compared to the original racing series that defined years of single-seat motorsports – Formula One?
Formula E's sustainability manifesto
In September 2020, Formula E was certified as the first and only net zero carbon sport since its launch. But the journey to offsetting its carbon emissions is imbued with consistent efforts to implement and promote sustainability in every aspect of the race in line with the UN Climate Neutral Now initiative. The initiative has the Paris Agreement as a framework of stimulating organisations to adopt transformative changes that will help them reach carbon neutrality in the second half of the twenty-first century.
It all started with a clear vision for putting clean mobility at the forefront of the streets of some of the most iconic cities in the world. Formula E's aim is to achieve "a clear trajectory for the global sports community to combat climate change," while raising awareness for climate action. In the words of Formula E CEO Jamie Riegle, "We have a responsibility to minimise the environmental impact of our global sport and are pleased to support vital environmental projects in each of our race markets."
But what is fuelling the electric cars race and the retrospective viewers' interest? One thing is for sure: it's definitely not fossil fuel. It's no secret that the transport sector is one of the biggest sources of air pollution. In the UK alone, 122 million tonnes of CO2 were emitted in 2019 from domestic transport. According to a report commissioned by the European Environment Agency, about 412,000 premature deaths in Europe were caused by air pollution in 2016.
Driving electric cars technology forwards
Electric cars and renewable energy sources might well be the solution to offsetting our carbon emissions, and Formula E is already taking precedence in the Race for Clean Air. Formula E's implementation of advanced technology and innovative designs is feeding into a strategy of continuous improvement, and it's more than contagious. The green motorsport started with its Gen1 electric cars at the time of the first season, went through its Gen2 models and is introducing its Gen3 cars in 2022.
Meanwhile, the engineering firm GKN Automotive is working in partnership with the Jaguar Racing Formula E team to implement 800V technology in its eDrive systems. These cutting-edge developments are predicted to enter the roads in less than three years.
While commercial electric cars aren't as advanced as those featured in Formula E yet, they're key to offsetting our global carbon emissions and are soon to become a must. The UK government has announced a two-step phase-out of petrol and diesel cars by 2030 which are to be replaced by electric ones as part of UK's Road to Zero strategy. Despite their current costly prices, more affordable models are to appear in dealerships. Alternatively, an array of used and new electric cars inspired by the latest technology.
Charting the growth of interest in Formula E
It seems that Formula E is driving not only sustainability forwards but also growth in terms of viewers. Season seven received a record total of 316 million views worldwide, which amounts to 32% year-on-year growth. In the UK alone, there was a 156% increase in domestic audience following the return of the London E-Prix after four years. Other countries that saw an audience boost include Germany (338%) and Brazil (286%).
But what is driving the growing interest in the electric cars race series?
Free-to-air TV rights
Ahead of the start of season seven, Formula E has secured media partnerships with over 40 broadcasters. In the UK, an extended partnership with the BBC offered free-to-air coverage for Britons. As a result, there has been a 26% increase during the time viewers are tuning in live globally, which is a 62% share of the total views.
Formula E CEO Jamie Reigle commented: "This was a record-breaking year for Formula E as we worked with our teams, media partners and sponsors to deliver a fan-first strategy emphasizing live race audience development and direct engagement on our digital platforms."
The pandemic: a sword with two edges
Season six was short-lived for Formula E due to the COVID-19 pandemic, which caused the show to cancel races and ban fans from attending. As a result, the all-electric racing series lost revenue from 161.5 million euros in January 2019 to 143 million euros in January 2020.
The Google search volumes for Formula E also reflected that. They declined from 60,500 in February 2020 to 18,100 in January 2021.
Nevertheless, the pandemic played a crucial role in highlighting climate change issues and sustainability initiatives. And with electric cars predicted to penetrate the market heavily in 2021 and onwards, Formula E reaped the benefits of the uplifted eco-awareness. Skyrocketing views of season 7 and a record high of 110,000 monthly searches in April 2021 defined the comeback of the clean mobility connoisseur racing series – or, shall we say, the beginning of a new era of climate action in the sports industry?
Is Formula E overtaking Formula One?
Given the ever-growing interest in electric cars, sustainability, and climate change, it's inevitable that people would have their eyes set on green motorsports rather than fossil-fuelled ones such as Formula One.
Entertaining viewers since 1950, Formula One is one of the most renowned motorsports which enjoys over 300 million worldwide viewers every year. However, there's been a slight decrease from 490.2 million viewers in 2018 to 471 viewers in 2019 and 433 million viewers in 2020. In 2015 Richard Branson, owner of the Virgin racing team, commented that Formula E will overtake Formula One in five years' time. "I think four or five years from now you'll find Formula E overtaking Formula One in terms of number of people [watching] and more and more, as time goes on, clean energy businesses are going to power ahead of other businesses," said Branson.
Nevertheless, it's important to note the key differences between the two championships. Formula E focuses on sustainability and energy management with the aim of promoting sustainable mobility, while Formula One is on a mission to showcase innovative car tech.
Although there is a slight decline in viewers of Formula One, so far, we haven't seen any major trends in terms of Formula E overtaking F1, but that might change in the future.
Yes, the future holds a boom in electric vehicles, sustainability initiatives, and more renewable energy sources that will penetrate every sector. The sports industry is already making a leap in promoting a greener future and Formula E is the perfect example of that. Reaching the global net zero goal is all about rethinking how we can be more sustainable, and Formula E is leading the way!
https://www.fiaformulae.com/en/discover/sustainability/net-zero
https://f.fiaformulae.com/r/sustainability/un-climate-neutral-pledge.pdf
https://www.independent.co.uk/sport/motor-racing/formula-e-carbon-neutral-footprint-net-zero-news-race-calendar-b508201.html
https://www.gov.uk/government/statistics/transport-and-environment-statistics-autumn-2021/transport-and-environment-statistics-autumn-2021
https://www.eea.europa.eu/publications/air-quality-in-europe-2019
https://www.fiaformulae.com/en/news/2020/october/clean-air-day-uk
https://www.gov.uk/government/news/government-launches-road-to-zero-strategy-to-lead-the-world-in-zero-emission-vehicle-technology
https://www.autosport.com/formula-e/news/formula-e-enjoys-record-breaking-tv-viewing-figures-for-2020-21-season/6680790/
https://www.fiaformulae.com/en/news/2021/february/ways-to-watch-2020-21
https://racer.com/2021/10/04/formula-e-achieves-record-tv-growth-in-2020-21/
https://www.planetf1.com/uncategorized/formula-e-will-overtake-formula-1/
(Courtesy of Grange)
« Dyson Muscled His Way to First TA Title in 2021 New Formula 4 racing series for Central and Eastern Europe »
Adam has been a race fan since the first time he went through the tunnel under the Daytona International Speedway more than 30 years ago. He has had the privilege of traveling to races all across the state of Florida (as well as one race in Ohio), watching nearly everything with a motor compete for fame and glory, as well as participating in various racing schools to get the feel of what racecar drivers go through every week.
Adam spent several years covering motorsports for Examiner.com., where he had the opportunity to see the racing world from behind the scenes as well as the grandstands. He invites everyone to follow him on Twitter, Facebook, and Google Plus, and looks forward to sharing his enthusiasm for all things racing with the readers of SpeedwayDigest.com.
Be sure to tune in for his sports talk program, Thursday Night Thunder, where he discusses the latest in motorsports news with drivers, crew members, and fans. The show takes place (almost) every Thursday at 8:00 pm EST on the Speedway Digest Radio Network.
Contact Adam: Email
Latest from Adam Sinclair
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text:
Philine calva van der Linden, 1995
Mollusca (Phylum)
Gastropoda (Class)
Heterobranchia (Subclass)
Euthyneura (Infraclass)
Tectipleura (Subterclass)
Cephalaspidea (Order)
Philinoidea (Superfamily)
Philinidae (Family)
Philininae (Subfamily)
Philine (Genus)
Philine calva (Species)
Philine striatula Monterosato, 1874
Philine Ascanius, 1772
van der Linden J. (1995) Philinidae dredged by the CANCAP expeditions (Gastropoda, Opisthobranchia). Basteria 59(1-3): 65-83. [1 June 1995], available online at http://www.vliz.be/imisdocs/publications/261249.pdf
page(s): 68-71, fig. 6-7 [details]
Note N of Faial, Azores
Type locality N of Faial, Azores [details]
Distribution from 60 to 405 meters
Distribution from 60 to 405 meters [details]
MolluscaBase eds. (2023). MolluscaBase. Philine calva van der Linden, 1995. Accessed through: World Register of Marine Species at: https://www.marinespecies.org/aphia.php?p=taxdetails&id=140746 on 2023-01-30
original description van der Linden J. (1995) Philinidae dredged by the CANCAP expeditions (Gastropoda, Opisthobranchia). Basteria 59(1-3): 65-83. [1 June 1995], available online at http://www.vliz.be/imisdocs/publications/261249.pdf
basis of record Gofas, S.; Le Renard, J.; Bouchet, P. (2001). Mollusca. in: Costello, M.J. et al. (eds), European Register of Marine Species: a check-list of the marine species in Europe and a bibliography of guides to their identification. Patrimoines Naturels. 50: 180-213., available online at http://www.vliz.be/imisdocs/publications/ocrd/254404.pdf [details]
additional source Rolán E. (2005). Malacological Fauna From The Cape Verde Archipelago. Part 1, Polyplacophora and Gastropoda. ConchBooks. Hackenheim. ISBN 3-325319-73-2. 455 pp. (look up in IMIS) [details]
source of synonymy Segers W., Swinnen F. & De Prins R., 2009. Marine Molluscs of Madeira. Snoeck Publishers, Heule, Belgium, 612 p.
source of synonymy Crocetta, F.; Tringali, L. P. (2017). Remarks on Philine striatula Monterosato, 1874 ex Jeffreys ms., with a survey on Philinidae J.E. Gray, 1850 (1815) sensu lato (Gastropoda: Cephalaspidea) recently ascribed to the Mediterranean fauna. Marine Biodiversity. 48:1499–1510., available online at https://doi.org/10.1007/s12526-017-0652-0 [details]
To Biodiversity Heritage Library (1 publication)


text:
What Did You Eat Yesterday? 3
Authors: Fumi Yoshinaga, Fumi Fumi Yoshinaga
'What Did You Eat Yesterday?' is best described as part comic, part cookbook - it depicts casual romance between two 40-year-old men and the many meals they share together.
Publisher: Vertical, Incorporated
Fumi Yoshinaga is a Tokyo-born manga creator who debuted in 1994 with Tsuki to Sandaru (The Moon and the Sandals). Yoshinaga has won numerous awards, including the 2009 Osamu Tezuka Cultural Prize for #212;oku, the 2002 Kodansha Manga Award for her series Antique Bakery, the 2006 Japan Media Arts Festival Excellence Award for #212;oku. She was also nominated for the 2008 Eisner Award for Best Writer/Artist.