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Blue Springs ist eine Stadt im Jackson County im Westen des US-amerikanischen Bundesstaates Missouri. Bei der Volkszählung im Jahr 2020 hatte Blue Springs 58.603 Einwohner.

Die Stadt ist ein Vorort von Kansas City und damit auch Bestandteil der Metropolregion Kansas City.

Geografie
Blue Springs liegt auf  39°1'4" nördlicher Breite und 94°16'28" westlicher Länge und erstreckt sich über 42,2 km², die nahezu ausschließlich aus Landfläche bestehen. Die Stadt liegt im westlichen Vorortbereich von Kansas City rund 25 km südlich des Missouri River. Die Grenze zum benachbarten Bundesstaat Kansas liegt rund 30 km westlich von Blue Springs.

Durch Blue Springs führt eine Bahnlinie der Union Pacific, die von Kansas City nach Osten verläuft. Durch die nördlichen Randbezirke von Blue Springs führt die in Ost-West-Richtung verlaufende Interstate 70, die auf ihrem durch Missouri führenden Abschnitt mit Kansas City und St. Louis die beiden größten Städte des Staates verbindet. Parallel dazu verläuft der U.S. Highway 40 durch das Stadtzentrum.

Am südwestlichen Stadtrand von Blue Springs liegt der Lake Jacomo, ein knapp 4 Quadratkilometer großer Stausee.

Demografische Daten

Nach der Volkszählung im Jahr 2010 lebten in Blue Springs 52.575 Menschen in 19.305 Haushalten. Die Bevölkerungsdichte betrug 1116,2 Einwohner pro Quadratkilometer.

Ethnisch betrachtet setzte sich die Bevölkerung zusammen aus 87,6 Prozent Weißen, 6,2 Prozent Afroamerikanern, 0,5 Prozent amerikanischen Ureinwohnern, 1,2 Prozent Asiaten sowie aus anderen ethnischen Gruppen; 3,1 Prozent stammten von zwei oder mehr Ethnien ab. Unabhängig von der ethnischen Zugehörigkeit waren 5,0 Prozent der Bevölkerung spanischer oder lateinamerikanischer Abstammung.

In den 19.305 Haushalten lebten statistisch je 2,82 Personen.

27,9 Prozent der Bevölkerung waren unter 18 Jahre alt, 62,7 Prozent waren zwischen 18 und 64 und 9,4 Prozent waren 65 Jahre oder älter. 51,5 Prozent der Bevölkerung war weiblich.

Das jährliche Durchschnittseinkommen eines Haushalts lag bei 70.097 USD. Das Prokopfeinkommen betrug 28.309 USD. 6,6 Prozent der Einwohner lebten unterhalb der Armutsgrenze.

Wirtschaft

Weblinks
 Offizielle Website

Einzelnachweise


Minnesotans are involuntarily exposed to toxic chemicals in everyday consumer products, including toys, plastics, cosmetics and cleaners. Many of these chemicals accumulate in our bodies and threaten our health. The majority of chemicals in consumer products are not adequately tested, resulting in involuntary exposure that poses a threat to our health and environment.


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LDS Jabari Parker Thriving in First Year at Duke (+Video)
byDeseret News | Nov. 27, 2013
Saints & Sports
Jabari Parker's college basketball career is off to a solid start.
Six games into the season, Parker, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is leading the No. 6 Blue Devils in scoring and rebounding, with 23.0 points and 8.8 rebounds per game. The 6-foot-8 freshman forward has also helped the team to a 5-1 record, with the one loss coming to No. 2-ranked Kansas.
In grading the nation's top freshman, USA Today's Nicole Auerbach awarded Parker an "A."
Saints & Sports Basketball Saints & Sports Jabari ParkerBasketball,Saints & Sports,Jabari Parker,Saints & Sports
How Latter-day Saint and Navy Head Football Coach Ken Niumatalolo Keeps a Gospel Perspective
Watch: NBA CEO on Being Fully Present as a Dad, Executive, and Latter-day Saint
Latter-day Saint Named "World's Fittest Teen" by CrossFit + How He Lives His Faith
Brad Richins
Latter-day Saint Bryce Harper Signs Record-Breaking $330 Million Contract, and Creating a "Home" Was His Top Priority
Ashli Kristine Hansen
Nothing but Net: Latter-day Saint Pro Soccer Player's Incredible Trick Shot Goes Viral

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


The helpful Pisces are influenced by Neptune and belong to the element of water. This symbolizes life, wisdom and endurance. People born under the sign of Pisces possess a great deal of empathy.
You can say that Pisces have a sixth sense that accompanies them through their lives. They have a keen sense for situations and other people's feelings. Also, they are capable of communicating their own emotions very well, as they examine others and themselves down to the smallest detail. Another strength is their accuracy. That's why they sometimes seem bossy and serious. They love order and security, which is why they spend a lot of their time thinking about money and possessions - but this does not happen out of greed, but as a precaution for times of need. Pisces have a strong sense of humor, they are fun for everyone and very sociable. A certain amount of restlessness is compensated by their meek, self-sacrificing and trusting character.
In personal relationships, Pisces are loving and imaginative. They get along very well with the zodiac signs Cancer, Scorpio, Taurus and Capricorn.
A perfect team represents the Pises with the Cancer. They do not only dream together, but also live their fantasies and demonstrate their deep affection again and again. They both were looking for great love and found it, so they will not leave each other anymore. A relationship of these two signs of the Zodiac is very soulful and honest.
In the Scorpio the Pisces meet another sign of the Zodiac with the element of water. So they are aware of their own emotions and can comprehend the behavior of the other very well. The Scorpio is somewhat more assertive and may, therefore, provide the leanings the Pisces needs.
Although the Taurus seems sometimes cold, it is very open in familiar surroundings. The Pisces will be able to arouse his emotions and bring it to light. The analyzing and careful behaviors of the Taurus are particularly appealing to the Pisces. The jealousy of the Taurus has no point to rise due to the constantly affectionate comportments of the Pisces. The two signs of the Zodiac complement each other very well.
The Pisces may learn a lot from the Capricorn. With the element of earth the Capricorn endows the Pisces the hold they need and the leader they seek. In return, the Pisces may teach the Capricorn to unfold and communicate its feelings. Mutual respect and affection are the foundation of a deep relationship.
According to Greek mythology, the two fish in the constellation are the Goddess of Love Aphrodite and her son Eros. While fleeing the monster Typhon, the two jumped into a torrent, turned into fish and thus escaped.
The brightest star of the constellation Pisces is called "Kullat Nunu" and is about 294 light years away from us. It has twenty-five times the diameter of our sun and shines 300 times as strong. Another interesting star of this constellation is called "Fum al Samakah". It is about 493 light years away from us and shines bluish. Translated from Arabic, its name means something like "mouth of the fish". In the tropical zodiac, the sun passes through this area of the zodiac between the 20th of February and the 20th of March each year. In sidereal astrology, the sun travels through the constellation from March 12th to April 19th.


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Home / Blog / Never-Before-Seen Photos from Recent Cover Stories
Never-Before-Seen Photos from Recent Cover Stories
One of my favorite aspects of creating a magazine from scratch each month is seeing how the photos turn out for the cover stories. It's so much fun to sift through the dozens (sometimes hundreds) of photos featuring the cover subject, his or her gym, members and staff. To me, each photo is a gem, showcasing a perspective that would be impossible to capture through just words alone.
Unfortunately, there's no possible way to include each and every gem from a cover photoshoot in a single issue. With this in mind, the following is a handful of never-before-seen photos from some of our recent cover stories. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
June 2018 Issue: Franco's Athletic Club
Ron and Sandy Franco have owned and operated Franco's Athletic Club in Mandeville, Louisiana, for 30 years. I love these photos because they showcase the great relationship the duo has not just as partners in business, but also as partners in life. Full story: 'Remember When' at Franco's Athletic Club.
March 2018 Issue: Workout Anytime
Workout Anytime's foundation began in Douglasville, Georgia, in 1999. Today, the franchise boasts 150 clubs in 19 states, with over 200 expected to be operating by the end of 2018. What I like about these photos is that we don't always get to showcase photos featuring people actually using a gym — and in this case, the club's members and staff were more than willing to jump in and showcase the positive energy felt at their location. Full story: Brick by Brick: Workout Anytime's Franchise Success Story.
October 2017 Issue: Midtown Athletic Club in Chicago
More than three years ago, Midtown Athletic Clubs set out to renovate and expand one of its legacy clubs in Chicago. And in September 2017, the fruits of those labor ($80 million worth) were revealed to members and staff. I was lucky enough to get the chance to take a tour of the 575,000-square-foot fitness oasis before the doors officially opened. The most exciting aspect was seeing how proud CEO Steven Schwartz and COO Jon Brady were of the project, which I think these photos convey. Throughout the club they each took the time to share background and insight into specific features and amenities — such as the challenges of transporting a 3,000-pound Ganesh statue and more. Full story: Urban Legacy: A Look Inside Midtown Athletic Club in Chicago.
July 2017: Fitness Formula Clubs
In January 2017, Fitness Formula Clubs (FFC) opened its newest and 10th location in Chicago. But we all know the people are what bring a club to life. That's what I like most about these photos, which showcase the people behind FFC's state-of-the-art newest facility. Full story: Home Away From Home.
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The Truth about Sascha Knisch
Cover · Extract · Reviews
'My name is Knisch, Sascha Knisch, and six days ago my life was in perfect order.' So begins Aris Fioretos's elegant, hilarious novel, set in Berlin in the sweltering summer of 1928. Knisch, who works as a projectionist at the Apollo movie theatre, is a person with special sexual habits. One night, he sees the enigmatic Dora Wilms again. A week later, she is dead and Knisch is charged with murder. As he tries to clear his name, he discovers a scientific conspiracy and is drawn into the rich tangle of a story, in which nothing is as it seems. How can he prove what didn't happen? What goes on at the Foundation for Sexual Research? And why is it important to have testicles?
A biological thriller set in the steamy underworlds of Weimar Berlin, The Truth about Sascha Knisch deals with the so-called 'sexual question', its lures and seductiveness, dangers and temptations, but also with the shrewd love between two young people in a Germany at the brink of disaster. Above all, the novel is a declaration of love to imagination — clever, droll and stylish, couched in the form of a riddle and written with effortless elan by one of Europe's most exciting and entertaining new writers.
'Like a cunning diplomat who gets the Foreign Secretary of another country drunk at a dinner party with an eye to obtaining territorial concessions, the Swedish novelist, Aris Fioretos, in this noir-ish novel of 1928 Berlin, serves up an intoxicating brew distilled of equal parts murder mystery, sexological rumination, and historical farce. Having downed this admixture, the giddy reader is likely to redraw the borders of those warring, loving neighbors, the masculine and feminine.' – Jeffrey Eugenides, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel Middlesex
'This incredible novel about a young man's odyssey through the sexual underground of Weimar Germany is either a comic tragedy or a tragic comedy, and it is Aris Fioretos' great achievement to keep you guessing past the last page. The Truth about Sascha Knisch is worldly, audacious, haunting in its candor and unremittingly disturbing in its prescience. Fioretos is without a doubt one of Europe's most gifted writers.' – Jane Kramer, European Correspondent of The New Yorker
My name is Knisch, Sascha Knisch, and six days ago my life was in perfect order. I earned a few reichsmark here, a few there, I had a place to live that could be called home, and a sex life in which nobody interfered. Certainly, sometimes I was behind with the rent, and no doubt there were moments when I wasn't the only one to wonder when I'd get the kind of job the ads in the 8-Uhr Abendblatt describe as 'German' and 'honest.' But I'm not the complaining type. I had what I needed, and all the time I could wish for at my disposal. Now my sex is the only thing that remains — which is, of course, what puts me in this situation. The story I'm about to tell concerns the so-called 'sexual question.' Believe me, I've done what I can to avoid having to answer it. But there's no longer any point. While I wait for Manetti — yes, that Manetti, 'mastermind' Manetti — to knock on the door, I had better recount what happened. And what didn't happen. Because the truth lies in what didn't happen, and only that can save me now.
Even if most of all this has its origin a few years back, nothing occurred until the last Friday of June. Some days earlier, Dora Wilms had suddenly appeared in the foyer at the cinema where I work extra as a projectionist — alone as always, beautiful as always, her movements full of hunger and risk. And six days ago, three days before Hindenburg's Germany officially entered summer, I visited her. At the Apollo, she had said it would be nice to meet again 'under different circumstances' — adding, after a pause pregnant with suggestion, 'your true self.' My true self, I wondered and rubbed the palms of my hands against my trousers. Dora's eyes were calm as deep water, but when she shot glances to the sides, as if she felt observed, I understood that she, too, could feel nervous. Presumably it was because of what had happened the last time we had met, a few months earlier. If I wanted to, she continued, fixing my eyes again, I could visit her the coming Friday. She still lived in the Otto-Ludwig-Straße, in the old flat overlooking the Stadtbahn tracks. And two days later, I cycled there in the heat of the afternoon, on asphalt soft as syrup, across the city to the part known as 'the west.' Not only did I arrive an hour too early, but I also misunderstood her. In no small way, either.
I should have doffed my cap and turned on my heels. But chivalry isn't my strongest trait, and as always Dora's face gave nothing away. Instead, I tried to make fun of my mistake. When she had spoken about meeting 'under different circumstances,' I had thought that, well… I made an embarrassed gesture. She understood what I meant, didn't she? Although I felt ill at ease because of my mistake, all prick and palpitation, I have to admit I was no more than half-sincere. Truth to tell, I was delighted that Friday suddenly seemed to mean what it once had: thumping heart, hot hands, eager thoughts tripping over each other. In short: itchy, delicious nervousness.
It was on Fridays that I used to knock on the door of room 202, a couple of flights up at Hotel Kreuzer in the centre of town, on a quiet side street, with a Russian porter who always wanted help with the crossword puzzle in the paper. The person who lived there weekdays between midday and seven in the evening used neither title nor last name. The first few times we met we tried 'Mrs.' and 'aunt'; I felt her first name wasn't enough. Once, indulging a British whim, we even used 'lady.' However, with its soft m at the beginning and the end, long as pleasure doubled, and its two expectant a's opening up on either side of the tongue's erect d, the French 'madame' clearly was the right term. Even the silent e at the end was fitting, for it gave the word a touch of ornate Frenchness — like a frill of frozen air. 'Madame Dora,' then, was what I called the woman in room 202, or preferably just 'Madame,' for more than six months — before one thing led to another, and eventually ended in this unfortunate scene at the beginning of what the newspapers already have dubbed the 'spectacular' summer of 1928.
Dora waited until I had exhausted my excuses, then she stood up and suggested a suitable sum. Astonished, I looked at her. Holding her empty cigarette case between her hands, consciously or unconsciously, she had assumed the same pose as the mythical woman in red holding her mysterious box on the reproduction on the wall behind her. Having pondered the resemblance — head tilted, hands horizontal, lips softly pursed — I realised not only that she forgave me my mistake, but also that friendship made no difference. Slowly I laid the bills on the table, one after another, in the hope that she would raise her hand and stop me before I went too far. But by the time she packed away the case and asked me to follow her, I had put a month's rent down. She paid not the slightest attention to the money. Unfortunately, we hardly had time to make ourselves comfortable in the bedroom before the doorbell rang. I looked at Dora queryingly, or perhaps pleadingly, but she just pressed the yellow blouse into my hands and said: 'Take this and hide in here. We'll continue in a little while.' Then she opened the large closet and drummed her fingernails, polished and impatient, against the oak panel.
I pushed apart a couple of hangers and stepped inside. To make sure, we checked whether the door could be opened from the inside. But by now the doorbell was ringing so insistently that Dora, who didn't deem explanations necessary, patted my cheek and said, gaze lowered and voice equivocal: 'Be a good girl and don't come out until I call.' I nodded and swallowed and the lock latched shut with a compliant click. For a few confusing moments, I actually thought I could hear her looking at herself in the closet mirror. First she pulled her forefingers along her lower eyelashes, then she softly smacked her painted lips and pushed, quite unnecessarily, her newly-cut hair behind her ears. (Perhaps she didn't possess what Filmwoche would call 'classic' features, but her bony appearance was oddly attractive, at least in my eyes, and her hair always perfect.) It wasn't until I thought I could also hear the evening sun glow in her earrings, like wisps of light, that I knew imagination had got the better of me.
I stretched my neck — the high crêpe collar caused some difficulty — and strained my ears. As I couldn't discern the click of her heels, I assumed she was walking on the wicker mat in the hallway. A few seconds later, however, I made out their sound, vague and distant, like hard, solitary raindrops. She must have reached the parquet floor in the hall. Perhaps she was looking for signs that she already had a visitor? But it was summer, whatever the calendar purported, and I had brought neither raincoat nor umbrella. Then the visitor retracted his impatient forefinger — and it was at that moment, just after Dora had turned the key in the lock, that fate began to string together its obscure threads.
If I'm speaking in veiled terms, I beg your indulgence. As so often with the sexual question, the story is improper and embarrassing — improper perhaps for many, but embarrassing for me alone — and I need a little time if the words aren't to stick in my throat. Should the story offend all the same, I'd like to point out there's plenty of dirtier linen that ought to be washed. Also, not all truths are naked.
Of course, last Friday I didn't know that the threads were coming together, nor did I know that it would be the last time I'd meet Dora. We hadn't seen each other for several months, and there I was, surrounded by her clothes, with my pulse pounding softly and plushly — as if suddenly, ripe with rapture, I existed in all parts of my body. Fate probably was the last thing I thought of. The darkness in the closet was at once narrow and infinite, and while my hands groped around, I tried to remember what Dora used to wear when we were still seeing each other. Next to me were blouses with stiff stand-up collars, flowing shark fin collars, and no collars at all. I remembered that some had pleated breasts, others had hems or bows. After the blouses came sweaters, a jumper I didn't recognise, ditto a cardigan, and a couple of British slipovers, which, I recalled, were custard yellow with striped borders in made-up college colours. On one hanger were five or six wide silk cravats, on another a flimsy nightdress that I pulled, fingers trembling, towards my face. The soft mixture of perfume and cigarette smoke made me think of what was going to happen once the visitor had left. In a few minutes, Dora would light one of her American cigarettes, put away the case in which she kept them, and prolong the sweet agony a few moments more — smoking in one of the chairs by the window, one leg folded over the other, so that the evening sun could glide along her shin and the leather shoe, as black and glistening as motor oil. Then she'd roll the tip of the cigarette against the edge of an ashtray and slowly utter my name.
Was I holding the violet nightdress that I had once slipped over her arms, raised so matter-of-factly that I'd been able to see first the bent elbows, then the steep slope of the nose, and finally the chill-stiffened nipples outlined through the material? Or was it the shiny white negligee, usually thrown across the foot of the bed alongside the kimono in artificial silk? It was impossible to tell the colours in the dark, so instead I continued my fumbling exploration. Further in were skirts, dresses, and evening gowns of silk. Some garments hung almost down to the floor, because when I moved my hand their hems rustled with a smooth sound, almost like seaweed. Imagination aflame, it wasn't hard to picture myself as one of a troupe of elegant dancers lined up, one after the other, waiting for the doors to be flung open so we could sail out onto the wide, shimmering parquet, where we would be met by gentlemen in tails, with pomade in their hair and cigarettes burning between sinewy fingers, next to signet rings in matted silver or mellow gold.
Suddenly, I made out muted voices, as if they were talking into pillows. Then a laugh rang out, surprisingly loud, almost provocative, and someone broke into song:
Drive, obscure, I'm in your wicked hands,
all shrewd ache and furtive glance.
It sounded like the great Rigoberto. Dora must have invited her visitor into the living room and put a record on the gramophone. Carefully I resumed my groping. Presently I came upon what could have been an old-fashioned petticoat, lined and padded, with frills of the kind my mother had also used. Then there were a few jackets, one of them from Berchtesgaden as I could tell from the typical cut, the thick seams, and the heavy material, after which followed a complicated leather ensemble, and finally Dora's 'Amazon outfit.' I remembered the stylish tweed jacket over an asymmetrically cut skirt, which in turn partly covered a pair of jodhpurs. Ever so patiently, without making the hangers click or clatter, I groped until I found the skirt's high slit and could insert my trembling fingers between the trouser legs so as to feel the leathery crotch in the glowing palm of my hand.
Slowly, however, the heat of the closet began to make me impatient. When would we finally be alone? How long would it be before she uttered my name? Dora must have been expecting a visitor. Why hadn't she asked me to come back an hour later, as originally agreed? Cautiously I put on the blouse. Then I turned my head and laid my ear against the door, collar cutting into chin. Was that a man speaking just now? The voices seemed to be coming from the living room, because now I heard Dora say, loud and clear: 'I hope it will pass. Perhaps we should…' Then the door to the bedroom was pulled shut.
In the distance a Stadtbahn train went by, all rattle and routine, after which I only heard my short, scant, not particularly dignified breathing. My pulse throbbed hotly at my temples, the clothes chafed provocatively. I've already said that mine is an improper story, so I might as well admit that the stuffy heat, no, the stiff waiting, made me feel aroused. Without thinking, I let my hand glide down my stomach and the covered buttons, which arched softly across my midsection, like bumpy sow's teats. The waist curved inwards and when I flexed my abdomen, the corset ribs pressed against my trunk in rigid rows. It was as if I'd become… No, this is difficult. I didn't know that some words really areharder than others to get across one's lips. It was as… As if I… One more time. It was as if I'd become a flower.
From the ribs down I was a moist stalk, from the chest up a glowing bud about to burst. While I imagined what I looked like, flushed and myopic, my hand continued to make its way down the ribbing and the sleek silk, towards the elastic suspenders which had been tightened and ended in metal clasps that held the stockings in place. To delay the wild, wondrous torment I felt welling up inside me like a fabulous cloud, I avoided my trembling sex and instead travelled up the other thigh, past the hip and the stiff curve of the waist, until I reached my majestic bust and burning armpit.
Racked by lust, racked by dread, I waited to hear, at long last, the creaking of the wicker chair and Dora striking a match with that fatal smoothness of hers. Calmly she would drag on the cigarette and utter my name, smoke wafting in the late afternoon sun. Again I made out voices in the hallway. Now they spoke more mutely than before. But was her visitor man or woman? Surprised, I realised it was impossible to determine the identity of a person solely on the basis of the sounds she made with her body. Finally, I decided that if they went left, back into the living room, it was a man; if they turned right, into the kitchen, a woman. Soon… Wait. The living room. Dora had male company. In that case, I wasn't going to sneak out and sit on the bed. Not in this get-up.
Suddenly I heard a shrill shout, followed by a muffled sound, and I understood I had been wrong: they had gone into the kitchen — and thus the visitor was a woman. Had Dora called my name? I pressed my ear against the door, but couldn't make out any further sounds. I was certain she'd call again if she needed help. Carefully I shifted my weight from one foot to the other; blood was swelling my legs. But space was scarce and every time the hangers hit each other with a ripple of titters I stopped. Slowly impatience mounted. Why did it take so long? Would the visitor really stay forever? Dora must have been reading my thoughts, for just as I stretched my toes, I heard the handle come down and the door to the bedroom open. The uninvited guest had left. We were alone at last.
I made out a dull, shuffling sort of sound and a scatter of spry steps. Odd, it sounded as if she was pulling something. Again a Stadtbahn train went by, this time with a thunderous hullabaloo that reluctantly lost itself in the distance, then Dora sat down on the bed. That much I understood because the springs in the bed moaned. After a short pause, she checked the drawer on the bedside table — probably for the extra cigarettes she used to keep there. Evidently they were elsewhere, for she rose and went over to the other side of the room. First she pulled out the drawers of the chest with muted chalk-on-blackboard shrieks, then she searched behind the curtains, and finally — wait — finally she checked behind the chair on which my clothes were. I was about to whisper through the closet doors that my Moslems were still on the table in the living room, when it struck me that perhaps she wasn't looking for something to smoke. Rather, she might be preparing herself. Of course, that's why she had wanted me to hide: not in order to shelter me from the unknown eyes of the visitor, as I had thought initially, but so as to prevent me from seeing, in advance, what she had planned to do once we were alone.
Dora pushed back the chair and approached the closet. Immediately, my heart pounded hard and wild, and not only the hair on my arms stood erect. But instead of saying something, she seemed to hesitate in front of the mirror doors. Perhaps she was checking her makeup? My body melted into hot, bubbly expectancy. Any moment now, Dora would utter my name. I had promised to be a good girl, so the best thing was to remain calm. Conscientiously, I pushed my legs together, straightening my back, and let the hands hang with elbows pressed to the side. Then an uncomfortable thought occurred to me: what if it wasn't Dora who stood on the other side, but the visitor who hadn't yet left? Were the steps I had made out not heavier, the breathing not hoarser and deep? No, no, imagination. Of course it was Dora. She'd never have let the visitor into the bedroom alone; she just wanted to test my endurance. Now I could hear her returning to the hallway — presumably to get my cigarettes from the living room. Apparently, she was out of her own. Soon she would be back, and then, at long last, it would be my turn.
But time passed and nothing happened. Gradually, silence descended on the flat. One might almost have thought somebody had passed away. Should I leave the closet and check? Or did I merely imagine things? I almost burst out laughing when I realised the simple truth: Dora had tiptoed back, shoes in hand, to see how long I'd last before I broke my promise! I clenched my fists and shut my eyes, and in this way, I managed to remain steadfast for another few minutes. But then I couldn't take it any longer. Although the pricking agony was delicious, it suddenly felt as if my bladder was about to burst. The alarm clock on the bedside table showed 6.25 when I threw open the doors and emerged from my involuntary paradise — with the yellow blouse straining across a brassiere stuffed stiff with napkins, my hair in plaits, and my hands carefully on my hips, tottering bravely on high heels, with a red satin bow tied around my mad sex.
After that, nothing was the same again.
© Aris Fioretos and Jonathan Cape Publishers, 2006
'This is the first novel in English by this rising international lit star, and what a smashing erotic thriller it turns out to be.' — Diane Anderson-Minshall, Curve Magazine
'Aris Fioretos has many similarites to Vladimir Nabokov, whose works he has translated into Swedish. Like Nabokov, Fioretos has a profound knowledge of English, which is not his first language. . . . His prose style, too, is playful, attentive and deft (at one stage, in classically Nabokovian style, a man is described and dismissed in four parenthetic words — "moist forehead, nervous hands"). But the similarities are not overbearing, and Fioretos has his own voice. Most impressively, he is able to make it seem that something macabre is happening just off-camera, something that is being deliberately withheld. As a result, the reader has to keep coming up with ideas about what the next twist or payload will be; few, however, will work out the denouement in advance. There is a conflict in this novel between the dramatic and the poetic. There is the classic, noir-ish murder story and the ensuing revelations that move the narrative along. But the dense, colourful writing insists that the eye stops to admire just as it wants to return to the action. The clash is a strength rather than a weakness, since it creates an energy of its own, as the reader tries to balance the need to rush on and the urge to slow down. By the end of this involved, at times wilfully oblique, novel, the truth about Sascha Knisch may remain uncertain, but the formidable qualities of his creator have been well established.' — Simon Baker, Times Literary Supplement
'A stylish, intelligent and eerily entertaining novel.' — Tom Boncza-Tomaszewski, The Independent on Sunday
'In a world dominated by extremes, Fioretos, a Swedish-born novelist living in Berlin, presents an honest and astonishing study of the marginalized and often stigmatized people who attempt to exist between the two, specifically, those who don't fit neatly into traditional sexual roles. . . . This extraordinary novel is destined to be much discussed and is highly recommended for public and academic libraries.' — K. H. Cumiskey, The Library Journal (US edition)
'When Sascha Knisch finally totters from the closet on high heels, in his yellow blouse, brassiere stuffed with napkins, his hair braided and a red satin bow tied around his rampant . . . (well, use your imagination), there is a body on the bed, and his life — previously in perfect order — will never be the same again. There is much to marvel at in this often hilarious erotic thriller set in the hot summer of 1928 in Berlin. Aris Fioretos expertly explores the camp edge of Weimar Germany, a society pressing at social and sexual boundaries but also yearning for order and preparing itself, unconsciously perhaps, for authoritarianism.' — Matthew Lewin, The Guardian
'[A] dense and atmospheric novel. It has all the markings of a cult favorite.' — Publishers Weekly (US edition)
'Sascha's sexual needs are quite prominent in this funny, unusual novel by a sublimely gifted all-rounder. Set in cabaret country, between the wars Berlin, it's a whodunnit seething with enough deviancy to make you not care whodidit. The tale twists and turns like an orgy at a contortionists' convention. It's quite funny, too; clever without being smart-arse.' — Sunday Sports
'. . . It's hard to imagine a sexy, sophisticated urban thriller . . . Yet Aris Fioretos, a Swedish diplomat based in Germany, manages exactly that in The Truth about Sascha Knisch. Any fan of Isherwood or Cabaret won't find the ambience too remote: decadent Berlin in summer 1928, as our decent hero with a little quirk (he's a cross-dresser) finds himself caught up in a murder plot that leads not only to the pioneer sexologists of Weimar but a macho cult with far more sinister connections. Fioretos (who translates his own work, with panache) seduces with a fiendish plot and a risqué wit. . . .' — Boyd Tonkin, The Independent
'witty and assured' — Christmas World Books 2006, The Independent
Novel · Original title: Sanningen om Sascha Knisch (2002) · In Swedish · Translated by the author · London: Jonathan Cape, 2006 · 306 pages · Cover photo from the Uwe Sheid Collection
Magnus Hirschfeld · Künstliche Verjüngung, künstliche Geschlechtsumwandlung. Die Entdeckungen Prof. Steinachs und ihre Bedeutung · Berlin: Johndorff, 1920


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Tips that'll get you out of greenside bunkers.
My technique in greenside bunkers comes courtesy of Butch Harmon. With his advice over the years, I've boiled this shot down to a few easy steps that make getting out of the sand routine for me. I'll share them with you here—and show you my favorite bunker drill.
First, let's look at my favorite drill because it helps to understand the geometry of bunker play. The line between my feet represents ball position: just ahead of center. The line behind the ball—where I'm hovering the club—is where I'll contact the sand when I swing. Remember, you want to skim through the sand under the ball. This is the one shot where you don't want direct contact.
The line that looks like the top of the letter T is my target line. Notice my feet are aligned left of my target, but my clubface is pointing right of it. I have to open the face to get the ball up in a hurry and to help the club skim through the sand. A square face would dig too deeply. I'm aligned left to counteract the orientation of the open face. Now I can hit the ball at my target instead of it shooting off to the right. It's also easier to finish the swing from an open stance.
Back to my drill: From a good setup, practice thumping the sand on that line behind the ball and keeping the clubhead moving through. Get a feel for this skimming action without a ball first, then re-draw this practice station and hit actual bunker shots.
Once you get into a stance where you're aligned left but the clubface is pointing to the right, dig your feet into the sand a little for stability. There's no need to take the club back any farther than you see here, with the left arm about parallel to the ground.
Notice that my left wrist has hinged the club upward and is a little cupped—that's keeping the face open for extra loft. You should take the club back with medium grip pressure because you'll need some strength to skim the club through the sand without losing control of it.
Your goal is to enter the sand about two inches behind the ball. Once you do that, the most important part of bunker technique comes into play: keeping the club moving. Swing down and through, sliding the clubhead right down your target line.
The swing key that's going to help you most in the bunkers is: Keep your speed up. Most amateurs I see let the club slow down or stop as soon as it strikes the sand. Don't be afraid you'll hit this shot too far. Trust that if you swing the clubhead into the sand behind the ball, it'll propel the ball out high and soft and somewhere near the hole. Maybe it'll become a day at the beach after all.
Natalie Gulbis has played the LPGA Tour since 2002 and has almost $5 million in earnings.


text:
Some PAMI Dialysis Centers Do Not Have Municipal Authorization

The AGN technicians detected building problems in the Capital of Buenos Airesl and Morón sanatoriums that operate with permits in process from 1999 and 2002. There are smaller care rooms than is needed to provide the service, walls with moisture and no plaster. In addition, there are doctors who are not registered with the Superintendent of Health and nurses without registration.

jueves 30 de julio de 2009 00:00
After a tour of ten clinics that provide dialysis services to PAMI affiliates in the Federal Capital and Morón, the General Audit Office (AGN, for its acronym in Spanish) concluded that some work without municipal authorization, have problems in the building and irregularities in their professional plant.
Among the health centers in Buenos Aires, the Control Agency stated that Cemic Fresenius Medical Care, in Rivadavia 6044, operates with a provisional authorization, as does the Stra, in Lautaro 333, which has its permit in process since 2002. This clinic in the neighborhood of Flores does not have an intensive care area "nor an agreement with any healthcare institution for the eventual referral of decompensated patients," the AGN adds. However, Stra does not have a current contract with an emergency service to make the possible transfers, nor does it have a room for own hemotherapy. For this benefit, PAMI affiliates must go to Sanatorio Santa Isabel, which is next to Stra. The clinic, moreover, presented failures in its physical plant: the hemodialysis room does not comply with the minimum surface of six square meters to operate normally and, as for the equipment against fire, "the evacuation routes lacked signaling (the same That the location of the fire extinguishers), the smoke detectors were insufficient and the certificate of the firemen's inspection was expired, "says the report of the Audit, approved this year on data of the period 2006-2007.
The space that PAMI has available to perform dialysis at the Favaloro Foundation (Belgrano 1782, seventh floor) also did not meet the requirement of six square meters per room. And, in the building, they did not exhibit the inspection of firemen.
In the service of Nephrology and Dialysis of the Hospital Español, the AGN discovered a "poor states of conservation of the walls, with lack of painting and, in some cases, plaster."
PAMI patients who have terminal chronic renal failure receive hemodialysis, continuous ambulatory peritoneal dialysis and continuous cyclic peritoneal dialysis as a substitute for renal function. The institute provides the services through contracted providers, just the clinics that visited the control body, corresponding in this case to the Local Management Unit (UGL) Capital, and Morón, in the Buenos Aires metropolitan area.
On the Morón side, the report notes that 53% of patients attending Haedo's Nefrodeha clinic received erythropoietin (EPO), a hormone that facilitates the increase of erythrocytes in the blood and stabilizes renal function. According to the AGN, this percentage is "well below the reference values" of the PAMI, ranging from 85% to 90%: "This situation justifies a specific investigation into the possibility of an under-representation" of the service, said the technicians , And concluded that, however, "there was no evidence of control of the Institute in this regard".
Something similar was observed in the Instituto Médico Constituyentes, where the percentage of patients with erythropoietin was 60%, and those who received transfusions climbed to 14%. As the PAMI parameter for transfusions is "<1%", that is, less than one percent, the Audit also warned about the "possibility of under-provisioning of the drug, supplying it for transfusions."
In this clinic it was verified that several nephrologist doctors "did not present record of registration in the Superintendence of Health Services", and that they worked technicians without specialization in infirmary. Likewise, the piletones where the dialyzers are processed were so small, that the spills were "facilitated," the report says.
At the time of the AGN's visit, Fresenius Medical Care de Merlo operated with a municipal permit that had been in process since 1999. In addition, the fire insurance was expired; There were walls with dampness and lack of paint; in the general room there was a disabled toilet, although the toilet "was not high enough", and in the area of isolated, infectious-contagious patients, there were no toilets for the disabled directly. On the other hand, in the Sanatorium Hurlingham, provide nursing services without a license.
However, the Audit Department concluded that the establishments visited, both in Capital and in Morón, "were never controlled by their respective LGUs"; rather, it is the Unit for the Audit of Lending, a unit that operates at a central level in PAMI. Control them "once a year."
Original Inglés
Entregan medicamentos en Salta sin considerar las necesidades de sus destinatarios
Un informe de la SIGEN afirma que los botiquines estandarizados enviados a la provincia no contemplaban las características sanitarias del lugar y, por eso, se acumularon medicinas que no fueron usadas y, a la vez, faltaron remedios indispensables. La Auditoría local, en tanto, añadió que en algunos centros de salud no saben qué hacer con la mercadería vencida.
Corrientes: dan leche de un plan materno infantil a empleados de un hospital
Ocurrió entre mayo y octubre de 2008 en la localidad de Ituzaingó y lo detectó el Tribunal de Cuentas provincial. Las entregas eran "autorizadas verbalmente por el director" del centro de salud. Un informe de la SIGEN añadió que repartieron mercadería sin hacer controles médicos previos, y que se benefició a personas que no estaban incluidas en el programa.
Mudan unidad municipal a Talleres y hay malestar


Anyone who's going to be in the Western PA area this Friday, April 27, should seriously consider attending Grant Writing 201: Winning Grants in Southwestern PA with Eric Davis, Owner Procopio Fundraising and Managing Partner, Elliott & Davis, PC.
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