text:
20 November, 2009

Your Daily Dose of Health Care Reform Stupidity

Things are on the move, my darlings.  Sen. Reid has filed for cloture.

In a rare show of sense, Sen. Coburn has decided not to be an absolute ass, and is no longer demanding the entire bill be read.  I wonder if they slipped him some anti-psychotics.

So, what's in this bill that won't be read on the Senate floor?  Steve Benen has a rundown - along with Hatch's promise that this will be "holy war."  The Cons do love using terrorist lingo, don't they?

Here's a side-by-side comparison of the Senate and House bills.

The Center for Budget and Policy Priorities calls it an "enormous step forward."

That stupid state opt-out is in there, and it looks like states can opt out immediately.  That means that one-third of the population of this country could be fucked over because Cons are too fucking stupid to allow them the choice of an anemic public option.

And abstinence-only funding oiled its way in there somehow.  Heellloooo, teen pregnancies!

That brings us to the subject of abortion.  The Senate's language on abortion is a lot less noxious than the Stupak Stupidity.  And what does that mean, kids?  Why, it means Sen. Ben Nelson will take the opportunity to play the grandstanding fucktard, and the Cons will lie and lie and lie about how the bill will force everybody to pay an abortion fee, and how a vote to proceed is a vote for abortions.  To hear them tell it, the bill is a veritable mandatory abortion fest.  Dems fought back fast and hard with, y'know, actual facts.  Like, nothing the Cons have said is in any way connected to reality.  Color me shocked.

At least Sen. Bayh's claiming he'll allow the bill to come to the floor.  Look, people, if even Evan "Deficit Hock" Bayh can vote with his party for once, and Coburn's showing a sliver of sanity, perhaps the rest of you foot-dragging, tantrum-throwing, lying, cheating fuckwits can scrape around in the bottom of the barrel and come up with a shred of human decency?  A thread?  An atom, even?

Do we need more incentive?  Yes?  How about realizing that, under the status quo, health insurance companies are perfectly comfortable condemning a little girl to a lifetime of deafness:
One of the worst abuses of the private health insurance industry is its practice of denying claims to pay for necessary care for patients. This practice has become so rampant in the industry that a recent study by the California Nurses Association found that a whopping 21 percent of all insurance claims filed in the first half of 2009 in the state of California were denied by insurers.

As the story of six-year-old Madison Leuchtmann of Franklin County, MO, demonstrates, even children are victims of this insurance company abuse. Madison was born with bilateral atresia, which means she lacks ear canals in both ears. In order to hear, she wears a special device on a headband that allows her to make out sounds. Despite her disability, Madison is at the top of her kindergarten class and is slowly learning to read.
Yet Madison, due to her growth, will soon require a new hearing implant to be able to recognize sounds. Her hearing and speech therapist warns that “if she doesn’t get her implants by age seven, she’s not going to be able to blend her words. … She won’t be able to hear herself [talk].” Madison’s pediatrician, Dr. Randall Clary, also insists that without the implant, the girl may never be able to hear again.

Unfortunately, the Leuchtmann’s family insurer, Cigna, has issued “one denial after another,” flatly refusing to cover the $20,000 bill for the implant. In a written statement to the local news station Fox 2, Cigna explained, “It is not unusual for commercial benefit plans to exclude hearing assisted devices,” prompting Dr. Clary to angrily respond, “This is obviously medically necessary. You have a child that has no ear canals!” Dr. Clary also told Fox 2 that he sees these sort of denials “on a weekly basis.”

Let's have some reform before a six year-old loses her hearing for good, before others face a choice between bankruptcy or death because their insurance companies decided they didn't need treatment, or rescinded the insurance for some bullshit reason.

And let's hope Congressional Dems get the drug companies to explain why, exactly, they've decided to hike prices just enough to negate the savings they promised.

The moment of truth is coming.  We'll see exactly which of our elected leaders have our best interests at heart, and which are telling us to go fuck off and die.

1 comment:

Cujo359 said...

I think the Iraq War is immoral, and a waste of human life. So when is my refund coming for the tax money I spent on it?

Didn't think so.


Content-Type: application/http; msgtype=response

WARC-Identified-Payload-Type: text/html

WARC-Truncated: length

WARC-Type: response

text:
Kumkum Bhagya episode 398 (Wednesday 11th January)

Today’s #Kumkumonadomtv,Tanu brainwashes Abhi against Pragya. She tells Abhi that her only concern is the child she is carrying and would do anything for its bright future. She emotionally blackmails Abhi, who falls victim to Tanu’s cunningness. When Abhi gets trapped in Tanu’s emotional trap, she asks Abhi to divorce with Pragya as soon as possible. Abhi immediately leaves to meet Pragya but finds that the latter is fast asleep and decides to sort the matter in a rather calm manner. What will Pragya’s reaction be when Abhi asks her for the divorce? Abhi informs Pragya and others that he has filed a missing complaint at the police station and assures all that Sarla will be found within a day. Abhi take Dadi back home and on the way, the two of them discss about Pragya. Pragya and Purab meanwhile suspect Tannu’s involvement in Sarla’s disappearance. They decide to confirm this suspicion and next day, they work on their plan. While, Pragya pretends to be the security guard and calls up Tannu, Purab records Tannu’s reaction. Tannu is surprised to learn that Sarla was not the one who had been blackmailing her and she immediately passes this information to Nikhil. Keep watching Kumkum Bhagya to know more.Tune in @ 7:30pm!!!!

EnterGhana.com | Kumkum Bhagya episode 398 (Wednesday 11th January)

Have a say. What do you think? Drop comments!

warcinfo:
robots: classic
hostname: ip-10-185-224-210.ec2.internal
software: Nutch 1.6 (CC)/CC WarcExport 1.0
isPartOf: CC-MAIN-2017-22
operator: Common Crawl Admin
description: Wide crawl of the web for May 2017
publisher: Common Crawl
format: WARC File Format 1.0
conformsTo: http://bibnum.bnf.fr/WARC/WARC_ISO_28500_version1_latestdraft.pdf


text:
Epicure Digital NutriLive

Nutritional Menu Labeling

Inform customers to make healthier

meal choices by displaying nutritional data

and icons representing food groups,

nutritional scoring, & allergens. Meet the

Food and Drug Administration's

Dec 2015 deadline to disclose calorie information on menu boards.

Epicure Digital LiveText & LiveMenu Technologies

Add, move, delete & change menu categories, items, descriptions & prices with our easy to learn and use wysiwyg intuitive web

interface. Designed for non-technical food service operators, use any web browser

on any computer with Internet

access to control your menu boards.

Menus the Way You Want Them

At Epicure Digital, you can:

• let us engineer & design your menu boards,

• select a Ready-To-Go Portfolio system

• digitize your menu designs with Epicure Digital

Menu Board technologies, or

• upload and control your own menu and

movie files

Engage Customers In

Powerful New Ways

Our proprietary Epicure Digital Menu System lets operators control LCD menu boards & signage easily & quickly, online, by

meal period & menu cycle. Display videos, photos, live feeds, social media. Operate

more efficiently & engage customers

in powerful new ways.

Epicure Digital Systems

Epicure Digital is a menu board company uniquely integrating our expertise in software technology, restaurant operations & food service marketing to create digital & dry erase signage products and services for the food service industry. Our core product is the Epicure Digital Menu System. Our core services are menu engineering, menu design, nutritional menu labeling, and content creation

The Cure for the Menu Bored

We design digital & dry erase menu boards that solve our client's complex menu engineering and point-of-sale marketing issues. By creatively combining information, motion, imagery and food photography, we produce visually compelling multimedia menus and promotions that enhance the dining experience. We call this experience:

The Cure for the Menu Bored.™

Learn about
Epicure Digital with a Free Webinar

The webinar will take about

45 min to one hour. We will

• Walk you through our online portfolio of

Epicure Digital Menu Boards

• Explain the features & functions of the

Epicure Digital Menu System

• Demo the System's easy-to-use

non-technical interface, &

• Review your project & answer your

Download Brochure

Integrate with menu planning &

nutritional databases like:

Computrition Hospitality Suite®

CBORD Foodservice Suite®

CBORD NetNutrition®

Aurora Systems FoodPro®

MyPlate Menu Boards

Epicure Digital & Dry Erase

MyPlate Menu Boards meet

the Healthy, Hunger-Free Act

of 2010, sections 204 & 209,

requiring schools to make

information more readily

available to students, parents

& the public about the nutritional

quality of meals.

Download Brochure

This website is most compatible with these browsers

It is not compatible with Internet Explorer 9 or earlier.

© 2002-2016 Epicure Digital Systems.The ‘E plus mark’ is a trademark of Epicure Digital Systems. All rights reserved. The phrase ‘the cure for the menu bored’, LiveText, LiveMenu & NutriLive are service mark of Epicure Digital Systems. All rights reserved. All other trademarks belong to their respective owners. All rights reserved. Throughout this website, trademarks are used. Rather than put a trademark symbol on every occurrence of a trademarked name, we state that we are using the names in an editorial fashion only and to the benefit of the trademark owner with no intention of infringement of the trademark. No such use, or the use of any trade name is intended to convey endorsement or other affiliation with this site, except where there is explicit endorsement, or where the trademark belongs to Epicure Digital Systems.

Trade Mark List >


text:
Monday, December 31, 2007

From one the first big body auction operating budget fundraisers occured in 1993, many of the participants would dress in some kind of theme to get the audiance going.

December 31st 2007

On this last day of 2007 I wanted to take a moment to wrap up my first 20 years in the life with a little historical piece I had not fully explored previously. In previous posts I brought some slices of what coming out in the mid to late 80's was like for me. My previous post on Clubbing at Bookies and the after hours house club Heaven talked a great deal about my initial coming out experiences.... The late 80's was truly a time of discovery for myself and for the most part one big party. While I certainly had fun, fell in love a couple of times, by the early 90's I found the whole experience lacking in any long term meaning. I began to question if this was all there was to the gay life. In 1992 a group of friends had told me about a motivational discussion group which met on tuesdays in the basement of a church. I was ripe for this kind of experience, though I was full of
in-trepidation. The name of this gathering was Men of Color Motivational Group, and when I was first told about them I immediately asked "How would I fit in to this group?" being that it primarily supported men of African decent.

My friends told me to go... that there were a few other white guys who attended and that I would find an accepting environment. I went and indeed I did from the very beginning. On my first encounter I met 40- 50 guys who were like me wondering if there was something more to this life we had in common. I walked out of that first meeting thinking "Wow! Here are a bunch of fella's who were by in large professionals , who had thoughts and ideas that resonated with me. I learned that while we may have been different in race that we had much more in common than just our orientation. We shared the common Detroit experience and a common goal that included a motivation to not allow the polarization that made up the typical Detroit experience to affect the common goals of the group which were to uplift same gendered loving men of color.... all colors.

I have spoken about some of the Men of Color experience previously in a post about Curtis Lipscomb and Kick Magazine. Curtis was and continues to be one of my biggest supporters in Detroit and was very inclusive of my early efforts with MOC, including the creation of the MOC Motivator which was a monthly newsletter.
Another big supporter was a brother named James Drain, His council was very important to me and he was allways available to help me keep the right perspective. It was a loss for everyone when James passed on, he was one of the first of my friends to pass from AIDS and that day resonates within me even now.

James Drain at one of the regular sunday volley ball gatherings at the park.

I took some time over the past few weeks culling through literally thousands of images that I took during my time with MOC. I wanted to tell a story that I feared might go away into the either if I didn't start putting it down. The story is mostly in images but I hope to include as much text as possible.

So lets start at the beginning... MOC began in 1991 as an effort to provide a dialog for a group of brothers at the Community health Awareness Group (CHAG). After Terrance Sampson had collected several ideas for the name of the group the winning name came from a brother named Greg Rivers. There was a core group of guys who developed MOC in the beginning, Charles Coleman, Cornelius Wilson, Jalal Neeam and Howard Winthrope who facilitated many of the initial meetings at the CHAG offices.

Sometime in 92/93 the group moved to the basement of St. Joseph/ St. Matthew's Episcopal Church on Woodward in Detroit. The effort was sponsored by Father Harmon who clearly understood the need for this kind of group. During the first three years of Tuesday night motivation meetings the group provided a safe space for over 4000 brothers who not only came from the Metro Detroit area but from all over the country. MOC was unique in its size and scope and its obvious attraction to others brought allot of attention to Detroit from the black gay community as a whole.

By 1993 the group had evolved into a more than just that of motivation, MOC was aligned towards a new goal to provide community outreach to finally put a face of color on the growing HIV/AIDS epidemic. One of the necessary steps to move towards a non profit status was to elect a Executive Council and Board and began to handle MOC as a recognized community organization. In 1993 they elected a council and Board

(From L-R) Wesley Riley, Guy Leach, Charles Coleman, Alan Richardson, Walter Washington, Micheal Lynch as Vice President and Schawne Parker as President

One of the more touching moments on the day the EC took office was the speech Lee's mother gave as a blessing for the group. Some of the most affirming moments on motivational Tuesdays was when a parent would join the gang and speak about family acceptance.

Schawne Parker at one of the annual Anthology Dinners held at Edmund's Place which was a rather upscale soul food restaurant.
Charles Coleman and Schawne Parker at anouther one of MOC many fund raiser events the Jazz Bash This particular one was held at the stately Parkstone.

Micheal Lynch, Alan Richardson and Charles Coleman.

Myself and Cornelius Wilson who was the MOC Chair of the Board durring my entire tenure with MOC. (Check out all that hair! Yikes!)

In June of 1994 the application for 501-3(c) tax exemption status for a non profit had been submitted and approved by that September, a building lease had been signed for half a floor in the David Stott building in Detroit's downtown core. MOC had won a significant grant from the Detroit Department of Health in conjunction with money from the Federal Ryan White Act to provide testing and counseling to inner city men at risk for HIV/AIDS. MOC had finally come into its own with purpose and goal.

The name of the program was called "In The Circle"

Carl Stepps ran the "In The Circle Program"

MOC had run it Tuesday meeting operational budget for a number of years based on fund raisers through out the year. One of the biggest events was held towards the end of July called the MOC Body Auction. This one event held the ability to keep the lights on and paper in the copy machine for the whole year... which was still important given that the department of health money was strictly for out reach. Every year a group of volunteers would converge on a club setting for an exciting runway show. Brothers would ironically allow themselves to be auctioned off during the event in exchange for a service such as cleaning a house, preparing a meal, washing a car... that sort of thing. Of coarse the show it self became a huge spectacle and every year more and more guys would volunteer... it became a source of pride to be in the auction.

By 1994 MOC was on its third Auction here is an example of the 94 Body Auction Flyer.

And Ticket.

Schawne Parker would always kick off the evening, explaining the importance of fund raising for the group....

No event was complete with out Transgendered LaToya Pearson as the MC, She really knew how to amp up the evening and bring that money in as many of the guys would go for hundreds of dollars!

She definitely got the guys going!

1994 saw a huge jump in participation.

By way of example here is someone in an Egyptian costume!

Or a turban!

The show had it's handful of drag queen "Vanna Whites" to present the models, in this case the one and only DIVA!

Here are the fellas from 1995! Love the jammies Curtis!
In 1996 it moved to Off Broadway East!

Audience participation was definitely on!

Many of the members of MOC had attended the March on Washington in 1993. Returning empowered they vowed to make DC an annual visit for Memorial Days DC Pride. So in 94 they rented a bus and a slew of hotel rooms and off we went to DC!

Saturday were spent at Benjamin Banneker Field at Howard University... Banneker who was a free black man helped build Washington DC in the late 1700's was rumored to be gay... Hence DC Black Pride spent many years celebrating there.

OK I may be biased but your not totally gay until you been to San Fransisco, New York and to Dupont Circle In DC!

Other trips included Gay Day at Ceder Point!

Once a year MOC would hold a summer picnic in and around the same time as the body auction. Every year it got bigger in size... Other groups began to join in not only at the picnic but evening events as well. The Billionaires Boys Club (BBC) would throw a once a year extravaganza befitting their name.

The picnics were a safe place for everyone to come out and be themselves!

James Bagsby

Jerry and a friend.

The picnics grew to include entertainment including dancing in the circle which continues to this day.

On the way to one of the MOC picnics at the Huron Metro park....

Schawne and Shawn

In 1996 The name "Hotter than July" (HTJ) came to cover all the events that happened at the end of July. The name was finalized by Cornelius Wilson and Curtis Lipscomb while sitting on my couch one afternoon. The result was a small card that was printed up (see below) and distributed to everyone a couple of weeks before the event. As you can see there were several events over the course of the week held by several groups! It was quite an honor to see the MOC events spark off what today is Black Gay Pride in Detroit.

By 1997 there was a more formal organization in place and event advertisement was covered both DBGP Organization as well as individual groups like MOC

Today that organization has gone global with the Black Pride Society, a loose conglomeration of all of the black gay pride events held around the world. Its been 16 years since those first motivational meetings at CHAG in Detroit. Sadly while MOC no longer exists as an official group their revolutionary groundwork continues to shine through to this day!

Note: All images and text (not specified) is copyrighted by Christopher Cushman. This site does not specify or denote the sexual orientation of any model and as such please post your comments accordingly.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

A Quiet Countenance

Note: All images and text (not specified) is copyrighted by Christopher Cushman. This site does not specify or denote the sexual orientation of any model and as such please post your comments accordingly.


text:
How hard an enterprise it is’: Authorial self-fashioning in John Dowland's printed books

  1. Lookup NU author(s)
  2. Dr Kirsten Gibson
Author(s)Gibson K
Publication type Article
JournalEarly Music History
ISSN (print)0261-1279
ISSN (electronic)1474-0559
Full text is available for this publication:
The naming of John Dowland as ‘Author’ on the title page of his publication The First Booke of Songes or Ayres (1597) suggests a proprietary relationship between the composer and his work. This proprietary relationship is, perhaps, reinforced with the alignment of Dowland’s intellectual activities as ‘author’ with the notions of ‘composition’ and ‘invention’ in the same passage. All three terms could be used by the late sixteenth century to refer to notions of creativity, individual intellectual labour or origination. While many early examples of the use of ‘author’ refer specifically to God or Christ as creator, such as Chaucer’s declaration that ‘The auctour of matrimonye is Christ’, by the sixteenth century it was increasingly used to refer to an individual originator of intellectual or artistic creation closer to the modern sense of the word. Its sixteenth-century usage is, for instance, reflected in the title ‘A tretys, excerpte of diverse labores of auctores’, or as in a reference in 1509 to ‘The noble actor plinius’. Likewise, ‘invent’ or ‘inventor’ could be used to refer to the process of individual intellectual creation, exemplified by its use in 1576 ‘Your brain or your wit, and your pen, the one to invent and devise, the other to write’, while ‘compose’ could mean to make, to compose in words, ‘to write as author’ or, more specifically, to write music.
PublisherCambridge University Press
Actions    Link to this publication

Altmetrics provided by Altmetric


WARC-Identified-Payload-Type: application/xhtml+xml

text:
Library Header Image
LSE Research Online LSE Library Services

Why is consumption so seasonal?

Scott, Andrew (1995) Why is consumption so seasonal? CEPDP, 269. Centre for Economic Performance, London School of Economics and Political Science, London, UK.

Full text not available from this repository.

UK and US data suggest that consumption seasonality is both stochastic and characterised by permanent changes, that is there are seasonal unit roots in consumption. This paper explains the changes in the seasonal pattern of UK consumption and in doing so offers new insights into the much studied business cycle characteristics of consumption. We find that changes in consumption seasonality have zero or negative correlation with changes in the income seasonal, an observation which casts doubt on liquidity constraints as an important determinant of consumption fluctuations. Neither is consumption seasonality driven by precautionary saving, rates of return or climatic variables. Instead, seasonality in consumption is induced by the utility function, with the evidence ruling out seasonal habits or periodic effects. The evidence is consistent with seasonality changing due to preference shocks which we interpret, based on econometric evidence and a historical survey, as changes in customs. While these changes are slow moving they generate substantial variation in seasonal fluctuations in the post-war period, with Christmas consumption gaining in importance. Our results suggest that seasonal fluctuations may differ significantly from business cycle fluctuations and suggest that preference shifts should be considered as a possible source of non-seasonal fluctuations in consumption.

Item Type: Monograph (Discussion Paper)
Official URL:
Additional Information: © 1995 Andrew Scott
Library of Congress subject classification: H Social Sciences > HF Commerce
Sets: Departments > Law
Collections > Economists Online
Research centres and groups > Centre for Economic Performance (CEP)
Identification Number: 269
Date Deposited: 12 Aug 2008 15:27

Actions (login required)

Record administration - authorised staff only Record administration - authorised staff only


text:
Items where Subject is "H Social Sciences > HD Industries. Land use. Labor > HD9000-9999 Special industries and trades > HD9665-9675 Pharmaceutical industry"

Up a level
Export as [feed] RSS 2.0 [feed] RSS 1.0 [feed] Atom
Group by: Creators | Item Type
Jump to: A
Number of items at this level: 1.

Abd Aziz, Noreen Noor and Wahab, Eta (2013) Understanding of halal cosmetics products: TPB Model. In: 1st FPTP Postgraduate Seminar 2013, 23 December 2013, Fakulti Pengurusan Teknologi dan Perniagaan, UTHM .

This list was generated on Wed May 24 08:28:48 2017 MYT.


text:
Browse by Creator

Up a level
Export as [feed] Atom [feed] RSS 1.0 [feed] RSS 2.0
Group by: Item Type | No Grouping | Creators | Date
Jump to: M
Number of items: 1.

Maddrell, A., Bird, I., Newbigin, M. and Somerville, M. (2004) The Dictionary of Nineteenth-Century British Scientists. Thoemmes Press, Bristol.

This list was generated on Wed Aug 27 03:34:55 2014 BST.


text:
EverQuest 2 Wiki

devotee of the Awakened    < Devotee of the Awakened (Pedestal of the Priestess) >

79,196pages on
this wiki
Add New Page
Talk0 Share
For other articles with related titles, see Devotee of the Awakened.
Race drakota

Race: Drakota - to upload a more specific image, click here

other resources
LootDB · EQ2LL · ZAM
EverQuest II Monster Information
Race: Drakota
Level: 70▲▲▲ Tier 8 Epic x4
Zone: The Temple of Scale: Pedestal of the Priestess

What does this information mean?
You may upload a JPG or PNG image of the in-game picture of this mob

Ad blocker interference detected!

Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.


text:
EverQuest 2 Wiki

Qho Augren (Obol Plains)

79,196pages on
this wiki
Add New Page
Talk0 Share

Exact location = -33.83,80.59,-18.85
Quest = A Gathering Obsession Beyond The Grave

Ad blocker interference detected!

Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.


text:
Tag Archives: Aniyvwiyaʔi

Cherokee Nation: Slave Descendants Need Not Apply :(

I was checking blogs of some of my friends tonight, and ran across a disturbing bit of news on Robert Glaub’s blog. In short, today the tribal government of the Cherokee Nation is reported to have expelled from membership the … Continue reading

Posted in Culture, Human Rights, Politics | Tagged , , | 1 Comment


text:
Monday, March 17, 2014

Ruffled Gingham Coin Purse

I can't stop. Just can't. These coin purses are too fun to make and personalize. I already have another prepped and cut out! Hope you don't mind if I keep sharing them:).

Hank got the green star pencil case from the reveal last week, so Eliza needed a little something too. Having made a few trips to the craft stores in the area over the last few days, I had some fun new materials to work with such as this ruffled red gingham trim from Hobby Lobby...on sale for 5 yards/$1.50! So cheap.

From Michael's, in the scrapbook section with the washi tape, I hit the jackpot with collections of adhesive fabric tape. OMGosh...perfect for the Coin Purse Die projects. I picked up two collections and I believe there is a total of 6 or 8, each with three different patterns. You can see I used it here for the stripes across the front. I adhered the tape to the felt before I ran it through my machine with the Coin Purse Die. The pressure in doing so, really fused it to the felt. Very low profile now. If I run the tips of my fingers across it, I can barely feel it there.

Other fun ways to use the fabric tape? Well, here on the inside of my coin purse before I have it sewed up, you can see I used the Coin Purse Pocket die with the fabric tape on the top edge. And check out the backside of the zipper...might as well neaten that up by...

...putting fabric tape over the stitches. Voila! Very neat and finished. I might need to go get those other collections. YIKES. I've never had more fun spending money.

BTW...this particular coin purse is lined with blue polka dot felt. I bought a collection pack on Etsy awhile ago. It's a nice match to Blueberry Sky. Notice I trimmed the holes away so I only had to put a needle through two layers instead of four. It's fused to the red felt with Heat N' Bond.

More coin purses to come. No doubt about that. I need to get more zippers. And felt. Oh my. Thanks for stopping by.

PTI Supplies
Dies: Coin Purse Die, Coin Purse Pockets, Bitty Button Stacks, Button Stacks
Felt: Pure Poppy Felt

  1. I love this. The ruffle is so cute.

  2. Sweet!! I need this die!!! LOL ;-)

  3. Please don't stop making these, Erin! They are just too cute!

  4. I know I am "that girl" but I just read "Heat 'N Bong" and almost fell of my chair.

  5. Darling! I just found that cute fabric tape at Michael's so thanks for the fun idea. (Natalie's comment gave me a good chuckle!).

  6. Just so much a person can order during a release, but this die is in my next cart! Love what you've done, and how it can be personalized. This screams country to me, and won my heart! Keep it up. BTW, thanks for all the where to get help!

  7. I love seeing your coin purses! Thanks for the tips on using fabric tape!

  8. Oh my gosh so cute! Keep them coming please! I just got my dies in the mail and am creating my first coin purse! I'm sure I will be addicted! So fun and therapeutic at the same time! Thanks a bunch!!

  9. My daughter just finished her creation.


text:
Horse 1

(TRENTON) – New Jersey Secretary of Agriculture Douglas H. Fisher and New Jersey Equestrian of the Year Kirsten Jeansson today kicked off June as the Month of the Horse in New Jersey with a visit to Hidden Acres 4-D Farm in Burlington County, a thoroughbred breeding facility.

New Jersey is home to thousands of pleasure horses, show horses and race horses. In 1977, to honor the important place horses play in New Jersey’s economy and quality of life, the horse was named the official State Animal. To honor the state’s equine industry, Governor Chris Christie has proclaimed June the Month of the Horse in New Jersey.

“New Jersey’s beloved equine industry is quite diverse, from Thoroughbred and Standardbred racing to horse shows and pleasure riding – there is something everyone can enjoy all year long,” said Secretary Fisher. “Horse farms help retain open space and provide for scenic vistas we all appreciate in the Garden State.”

Kirsten Jeansson, a Seneca High School student from Tabernacle, was named New Jersey Equestrian of the Year by the New Jersey Equine Advisory Board in January. Her duties include attending functions hosted by the New Jersey Equine Advisory Board and represent the Board at functions.

“New Jersey has a large and diverse equestrian community, so celebrating the month of the horse is a great opportunity to teach and learn about the many facets of the equine industry in New Jersey,” said Jeansson. “As the Equestrian of the Year, I hope to bring more awareness to the equestrian community as a whole. I hope that I can teach the public about the equine industry and its impact on not only the agricultural industry in New Jersey, but on New Jersey as a whole.”

At Hidden Acres 4-D Farm in Chesterfield and North Hanover, Secretary Fisher and Jeansson were given a tour and met the current mare, foal and yearlings in residence.

The Wilkinson family has been involved in Thoroughbred horse breeding since 1979. The 222-acre preserved farm is now operated by Todd and Jennifer Wilkinson. They also have pleasure horses and a hay operation for feed.

“We love breeding horses and racing,” said Todd Wilkinson. “We are proud of our state’s Thoroughbred farms and the equine industry, which help the entire agricultural community and help keep open space.”

New Jersey has many top equine centers, facilities, and events. The Equine Science Center at Rutgers University, a valuable resource for everything equine in the Garden State, is dedicated to better horse care through research and education. The United States Equestrian Foundation headquartered in Gladstone funds programs that train and support top athletes and horses to compete at the Olympics, World Championships, Pan American Games and other top international competitions. The Horse Park of New Jersey at Stone Tavern in Allentown hosts the Jersey Fresh Three-Day Event, which has become one of the world’s top eventing competitions. And, the Gloucester County Dream Park is a state-of-the-art equestrian complex created to provide opportunities for horse owners to participate in shows and competitions and for the public to experience horse events firsthand.

To learn more about New Jersey’s equine industry, visit

Contact: Lynne Richmond  (609) 633-2954

To learn more about the New Jersey Department of Agriculture, find us on Facebook at and or Twitter @NJDA1 and @JerseyFreshNJDA.


text:
EP298: The Things

By Peter Watts
Read by: Kate Baker (Thanks to Kate and Clarkesworld for the audio!)
Originally appearing in Clarkesworld
Discuss on our forums.
All stories by Peter Watts
All stories read by Kate Baker
Nominated for the Hugo Award for Short Story, 2011

Rated appropriate for older teens and up for language and disturbing imagery.

The Things
By Peter Watts

I am being Blair. I escape out the back as the world comes in through the front.

I am being Copper. I am rising from the dead.

I am being Childs. I am guarding the main entrance.

The names don’t matter. They are placeholders, nothing more; all biomass is interchangeable. What matters is that these are all that is left of me. The world has burned everything else.

I see myself through the window, loping through the storm, wearing Blair.  MacReady has told me to burn Blair if he comes back alone, but MacReady still thinks I am one of him. I am not: I am being Blair, and I am at the door. I am being Childs, and I let myself in. I take brief communion, tendrils writhing forth from my faces, intertwining: I am BlairChilds, exchanging news of the world.

The world has found me out. It has discovered my burrow beneath the tool shed, the half-finished lifeboat cannibalized from the viscera of dead helicopters. The world is busy destroying my means of escape. Then it will come back for me.

There is only one option left. I disintegrate. Being Blair, I go to share the plan with Copper and to feed on the rotting biomass once called Clarke ; so many changes in so short a time have dangerously depleted my reserves. Being Childs, I have already consumed what was left of Fuchs and am replenished for the next phase.  I sling the flamethrower onto my back and head outside, into the long Antarctic night.

I will go into the storm, and never come back.

I was so much more, before the crash. I was an explorer, an ambassador, a missionary. I spread across the cosmos, met countless worlds, took communion: the fit reshaped the unfit and the whole universe bootstrapped upwards in joyful, infinitesimal increments. I was a soldier, at war with entropy itself. I was the very hand by which Creation perfects itself.

So much wisdom I had. So much experience. Now I cannot remember all the things I knew. I can only remember that I once knew them.

I remember the crash, though. It killed most of this offshoot outright, but a little crawled from the wreckage: a few trillion cells, a soul too weak to keep them in check. Mutinous biomass sloughed off despite my most desperate attempts to hold myself together: panic-stricken little clots of meat, instinctively growing whatever limbs they could remember and fleeing across the burning ice. By the time I’d regained control of what was left the fires had died and the cold was closing back in. I barely managed to grow enough antifreeze to keep my cells from bursting before the ice took me.

I remember my reawakening, too: dull stirrings of sensation in real time, the first embers of cognition, the slow blooming warmth of awareness as body and soul embraced after their long sleep. I remember the biped offshoots surrounding me, the strange chittering sounds they made, the odd uniformity of their body plans. How ill-adapted they looked! How inefficient their morphology! Even disabled, I could see so many things to fix. So I reached out. I took communion. I tasted the flesh of the world—

—and the world attacked me. It attacked me.

I left that place in ruins. It was on the other side of the mountains—the Norwegian camp , it is called here—and I could never have crossed that distance in a biped skin. Fortunately there was another shape to choose from, smaller than the biped but better adapted to the local climate. I hid within it while the rest of me fought off the attack. I fled into the night on four legs, and let the rising flames cover my escape.

I did not stop running until I arrived here. I walked among these new offshoots wearing the skin of a quadruped; and because they had not seen me take any other shape, they did not attack.

And when I assimilated them in turn—when my biomass changed and flowed into shapes unfamiliar to local eyes—I took that communion in solitude, having learned that the world does not like what it doesn’t know.

I am alone in the storm. I am a bottom-dweller on the floor of some murky alien sea. The snow blows past in horizontal streaks; caught against gullies or outcroppings, it spins into blinding little whirlwinds. But I am not nearly far enough, not yet. Looking back I still see the camp crouched brightly in the gloom, a squat angular jumble of light and shadow, a bubble of warmth in the howling abyss.

It plunges into darkness as I watch. I’ve blown the generator. Now there’s no light but for the beacons along the guide ropes: strings of dim blue stars whipping back and forth in the wind, emergency constellations to guide lost biomass back home.

I am not going home. I am not lost enough. I forge on into darkness until even the stars disappear. The faint shouts of angry frightened men carry behind me on the wind.

Somewhere behind me my disconnected biomass regroups into vaster, more powerful shapes for the final confrontation. I could have joined myself, all in one: chosen unity over fragmentation, resorbed and taken comfort in the greater whole. I could have added my strength to the coming battle. But I have chosen a different path. I am saving Child’s reserves for the future. The present holds nothing but annihilation.

Best not to think on the past.

I’ve spent so very long in the ice already. I didn’t know how long until the world put the clues together, deciphered the notes and the tapes from the Norwegian camp, pinpointed the crash site. I was being Palmer, then; unsuspected, I went along for the ride.

I even allowed myself the smallest ration of hope.

But it wasn’t a ship any more. It wasn’t even a derelict. It was a fossil, embedded in the floor of a great pit blown from the glacier. Twenty of these skins could have stood one atop another, and barely reached the lip of that crater. The timescale settled down on me like the weight of a world: how long for all that ice to accumulate? How many eons had the universe iterated on without me?

And in all that time, a million years perhaps, there’d been no rescue. I never found myself. I wonder what that means. I wonder if I even exist any more, anywhere but here.

Back at camp I will erase the trail. I will give them their final battle, their monster to vanquish. Let them win. Let them stop looking.

Here in the storm, I will return to the ice. I’ve barely even been away, after all; alive for only a few days out of all these endless ages. But I’ve learned enough in that time. I learned from the wreck that there will be no repairs. I learned from the ice that there will be no rescue. And I learned from the world that there will be no reconciliation. The only hope of escape, now, is into the future; to outlast all this hostile, twisted biomass, to let time and the cosmos change the rules. Perhaps the next time I awaken, this will be a different world.

It will be aeons before I see another sunrise.

This is what the world taught me: that adaptation is provocation. Adaptation is incitement to violence.

It feels almost obscene—an offense against Creation itself—to stay stuck in this skin. It’s so ill-suited to its environment that it needs to be wrapped in multiple layers of fabric just to stay warm. There are a myriad ways I could optimize it: shorter limbs, better insulation, a lower surface:volume ratio. All these shapes I still have within me, and I dare not use any of them even to keep out the cold. I dare not adapt; in this place, I can only hide .

What kind of a world rejects communion ?

It’s the simplest, most irreducible insight that biomass can have. The more you can change, the more you can adapt. Adaptation is fitness, adaptation is survival . It’s deeper than intelligence, deeper than tissue; it is cellular , it is axiomatic. And more, it is pleasurable . To take communion is to experience the sheer sensual delight of bettering the cosmos.

And yet, even trapped in these maladapted skins, this world doesn’t want to change.

At first I thought it might simply be starving, that these icy wastes didn’t provide enough energy for routine shapeshifting. Or perhaps this was some kind of laboratory: an anomalous corner of the world, pinched off and frozen into these freakish shapes as part of some arcane experiment on monomorphism in extreme environments. After the autopsy I wondered if the world had simply forgotten how to change: unable to touch the tissues the soul could not sculpt them, and time and stress and sheer chronic starvation had erased the memory that it ever could.

But there were too many mysteries, too many contradictions. Why these particular shapes, so badly suited to their environment? If the soul was cut off from the flesh, what held the flesh together?

And how could these skins be so empty when I moved in?

I’m used to finding intelligence everywhere, winding through every part of every offshoot. But there was nothing to grab onto in the mindless biomass of this world: just conduits, carrying orders and input. I took communion, when it wasn’t offered; the skins I chose struggled and succumbed; my fibrils infiltrated the wet electricity of organic systems everywhere. I saw through eyes that weren’t yet quite mine, commandeered motor nerves to move limbs still built of alien protein. I wore these skins as I’ve worn countless others, took the controls and left the assimilation of individual cells to follow at its own pace.

But I could only wear the body. I could find no memories to absorb, no experiences, no comprehension. Survival depended on blending in, and it was not enough to merely look like this world. I had to act like it—and for the first time in living memory I did not know how.

Even more frighteningly, I didn’t have to. The skins I assimilated continued to move, all by themselves . They conversed and went about their appointed rounds. I could not understand it. I threaded further into limbs and viscera with each passing moment, alert for signs of the original owner. I could find no networks but mine.

Of course, it could have been much worse.  I could have lost it all, been reduced to a few cells with nothing but instinct and their own plasticity to guide them. I would have grown back eventually—reattained sentience, taken communion and regenerated an intellect vast as a world—but I would have been an orphan, amnesiac, with no sense of who I was. At least I’ve been spared that: I emerged from the crash with my identity intact, the templates of a thousand worlds still resonant in my flesh. I’ve retained not just the brute desire to survive, but the conviction that survival is meaningful . I can still feel joy, should there be sufficient cause.

And yet, how much more there used to be.

The wisdom of so many other worlds, lost.  All that remains are fuzzy abstracts, half-memories of theorems and philosophies far too vast to fit into such an impoverished network. I could assimilate all the biomass of this place, rebuild body and soul to a million times the capacity of what crashed here—but as long as I am trapped at the bottom of this well, denied communion with my greater self, I will never recover that knowledge.

I’m such a pitiful fragment of what I was. Each lost cell takes a little of my intellect with it, and I have grown so very small. Where once I thought, now I merely react . How much of this could have been avoided, if I had only salvaged a little more biomass from the wreckage? How many options am I not seeing because my soul simply isn’t big enough to contain them?

The world spoke to itself, in the same way I do when my communications are simple enough to convey without somatic fusion. Even as dog I could pick up the basic signature morphemes—this offshoot was Windows , that one was Bennings , the two who’d left in their flying machine for parts unknown were Copper and MacReady —and I marveled that these bits and pieces stayed isolated one from another, held the same shapes for so long, that the labeling of individual aliquots of biomass actually served a useful purpose.

Later I hid within the bipeds themselves, and whatever else lurked in those haunted skins began to talk to me. It said that bipeds were called guys , or men , or assholes . It said that MacReady was sometimes called Mac . It said that this collection of structures was a camp .

It said that it was afraid, but maybe that was just me.

Empathy’s inevitable, of course. One can’t mimic the sparks and chemicals that motivate the flesh without also feeling them to some extent. But this was different. These intuitions flickered within me yet somehow hovered beyond reach. My skins wandered the halls and the cryptic symbols on every surface— Laundry Sched , Welcome to the Clubhouse , This Side Up —almost made a kind of sense. That circular artefact hanging on the wall was a clock ; it measured the passage of time.  The world’s eyes flitted here and there, and I skimmed piecemeal nomenclature from its—from his —mind.

But I was only riding a searchlight. I saw what it illuminated but I couldn’t point it in any direction of my own choosing. I could eavesdrop, but I could only eavesdrop; never interrogate.

If only one of those searchlights had paused to dwell on its own evolution, on the trajectory that had brought it to this place. How differently things might have ended, had I only known . But instead it rested on a whole new word:

Autopsy .

MacReady and Copper had found part of me at the Norwegian camp: a rearguard offshoot, burned in the wake of my escape. They’d brought it back—charred, twisted, frozen in mid-transformation—and did not seem to know what it was.

I was being Palmer then, and Norris, and dog. I gathered around with the other biomass and watched as Copper cut me open and pulled out my insides. I watched as he dislodged something from behind my eyes: an organ of some kind.

It was malformed and incomplete, but its essentials were clear enough. It looked like a great wrinkled tumor, like cellular competition gone wild—as though the very processes that defined life had somehow turned against it instead. It was obscenely vascularised; it must have consumed oxygen and nutrients far out of proportion to its mass. I could not see how anything like that could even exist, how it could have reached that size without being outcompeted by more efficient morphologies.

Nor could I imagine what it did. But then I began to look with new eyes at these offshoots, these biped shapes my own cells had so scrupulously and unthinkingly copied when they reshaped me for this world.  Unused to inventory—why catalog body parts that only turn into other things at the slightest provocation?—I really saw , for the first time, that swollen structure atop each body. So much larger than it should be: a bony hemisphere into which a million ganglionic interfaces could fit with room to spare. Every offshoot had one. Each piece of biomass carried one of these huge twisted clots of tissue.

I realized something else, too: the eyes, the ears of my dead skin had fed into this thing before Copper pulled it free. A massive bundle of fibers ran along the skin’s longitudinal axis, right up the middle of the endoskeleton, directly into the dark sticky cavity where the growth had rested. That misshapen structure had been wired into the whole skin, like some kind of somatocognitive interface but vastly more massive. It was almost as if…

That was how it worked. That was how these empty skins moved of their own volition, why I’d found no other network to integrate. There it was: not distributed throughout the body but balled up into itself, dark and dense and encysted.  I had found the ghost in these machines.

I felt sick.

I shared my flesh with thinking cancer.

Sometimes, even hiding is not enough.

I remember seeing myself splayed across the floor of the kennel, a chimera split along a hundred seams, taking communion with a handful of dogs . Crimson tendrils writhed on the floor. Half-formed iterations sprouted from my flanks, the shapes of dogs and things not seen before on this world, haphazard morphologies half-remembered by parts of a part.

I remember Childs before I was Childs, burning me alive. I remember cowering inside Palmer, terrified that those flames might turn on the rest of me, that this world had somehow learned to shoot on sight.

I remember seeing myself stagger through the snow, raw instinct, wearing Bennings. Gnarled undifferentiated clumps clung to his hands like crude parasites, more outside than in; a few surviving fragments of some previous massacre, crippled, mindless, taking what they could and breaking cover. Men swarmed about him in the night: red flares in hand, blue lights at their backs, their faces bichromatic and beautiful. I remember Bennings, awash in flames, howling like an animal beneath the sky.

I remember Norris, betrayed by his own perfectly-copied, defective heart. Palmer, dying that the rest of me might live. Windows, still human, burned preemptively.

The names don’t matter. The biomass does: so much of it, lost. So much new experience, so much fresh wisdom annihilated by this world of thinking tumors.

Why even dig me up? Why carve me from the ice, carry me all that way across the wastes, bring me back to life only to attack me the moment I awoke?

If eradication was the goal, why not just kill me where I lay?

Those encysted souls. Those tumors. Hiding away in their bony caverns, folded in on themselves.

I knew they couldn’t hide forever; this monstrous anatomy had only slowed communion, not stopped it. Every moment I grew a little. I could feel myself twining around Palmer’s motor wiring, sniffing upstream along a million tiny currents. I could sense my infiltration of that dark thinking mass behind Blair’s eyes.

Imagination, of course. It’s all reflex that far down, unconscious and immune to micromanagement. And yet, a part of me wanted to stop while there was still time. I’m used to incorporating souls, not rooming with them. This, this compartmentalization was unprecedented. I’ve assimilated a thousand worlds stronger than this, but never one so strange. What would happen when I met the spark in the tumor? Who would assimilate who?

I was being three men by now. The world was growing wary, but it hadn’t noticed yet. Even the tumors in the skins I’d taken didn’t know how close I was. For that, I could only be grateful—that Creation has rules , that some things don’t change no matter what shape you take. It doesn’t matter whether a soul spreads throughout the skin or festers in grotesque isolation; it still runs on electricity. The memories of men still took time to gel, to pass through whatever gatekeepers filtered noise from signal —and a judicious burst of static, however indiscriminate, still cleared those caches before their contents could be stored permanently. Clear enough, at least, to let these tumors simply forget that something else moved their arms and legs on occasion.

At first I only took control when the skins closed their eyes and their searchlights flickered disconcertingly across unreal imagery, patterns that flowed senselessly into one another like hyperactive biomass unable to settle on a single shape. ( Dreams , one searchlight told me, and a little later, Nightmares .) During those mysterious periods of dormancy, when the men lay inert and isolated, it was safe to come out.

Soon, though, the dreams dried up. All eyes stayed open all the time, fixed on shadows and each other. Offshoots once dispersed throughout the camp began to draw together, to give up their solitary pursuits in favor of company. At first I thought they might be finding common ground in a common fear. I even hoped that finally, they might shake off their mysterious fossilization and take communion.

But no. They’d just stopped trusting anything they couldn’t see.

They were merely turning against each other.

My extremities are beginning to numb; my thoughts slow as the distal reaches of my soul succumb to the chill. The weight of the flamethrower pulls at its harness, forever tugs me just a little off-balance. I have not been Childs for very long; almost half this tissue remains unassimilated. I have an hour, maybe two, before I have to start melting my grave into the ice. By that time I need to have converted enough cells to keep this whole skin from crystallizing. I focus on antifreeze production.

It’s almost peaceful out here.  There’s been so much to take in, so little time to process it. Hiding in these skins takes such concentration, and under all those watchful eyes I was lucky if communion lasted long enough to exchange memories: compounding my soul would have been out of the question. Now, though, there’s nothing to do but prepare for oblivion. Nothing to occupy my thoughts but all these lessons left unlearned.

MacReady’s blood test, for example. His thing detector , to expose imposters posing as men. It does not work nearly as well as the world thinks; but the fact that it works at all violates the most basic rules of biology. It’s the center of the puzzle. It’s the answer to all the mysteries. I might have already figured it out if I had been just a little larger. I might already know the world, if the world wasn’t trying so hard to kill me.

MacReady’s test.

Either it is impossible, or I have been wrong about everything.

They did not change shape. They did not take communion. Their fear and mutual mistrust was growing, but they would not join souls; they would only look for the enemy outside themselves.

So I gave them something to find.

I left false clues in the camp’s rudimentary computer: simpleminded icons and animations, misleading numbers and projections seasoned with just enough truth to convince the world of their veracity. It didn’t matter that the machine was far too simple to perform such calculations, or that there were no data to base them on anyway; Blair was the only biomass likely to know that, and he was already mine.

I left false leads, destroyed real ones, and then—alibi in place—I released Blair to run amok. I let him steal into the night and smash the vehicles as they slept, tugging ever-so-slightly at his reins to ensure that certain vital components were spared. I set him loose in the radio room, watched through his eyes and others as he rampaged and destroyed. I listened as he ranted about a world in danger, the need for containment, the conviction that most of you don’t know what’s going on around here—but I damn well know that some of you do

He meant every word. I saw it in his searchlight. The best forgeries are the ones who’ve forgotten they aren’t real.

When the necessary damage was done I let Blair fall to MacReady’s counterassault. As Norris I suggested the tool shed as a holding cell. As Palmer I boarded up the windows, helped with the flimsy fortifications expected to keep me contained. I watched while the world locked me away for your own protection, Blair , and left me to my own devices. When no one was looking I would change and slip outside, salvage the parts I needed from all that bruised machinery. I would take them back to my burrow beneath the shed and build my escape piece by piece. I volunteered to feed the prisoner and came to myself when the world wasn’t watching, laden with supplies enough to keep me going through all those necessary metamorphoses. I went through a third of the camp’s food stores in three days, and—still trapped by my own preconceptions—marveled at the starvation diet that kept these offshoots chained to a single skin.

Another piece of luck: the world was too preoccupied to worry about kitchen inventory.

There is something on the wind, a whisper threading its way above the raging of the storm. I grow my ears, extend cups of near-frozen tissue from the sides of my head, turn like a living antennae in search of the best reception.

There, to my left: the abyss glows a little, silhouettes black swirling snow against a subtle lessening of the darkness. I hear the sounds of carnage. I hear myself. I do not know what shape I have taken, what sort of anatomy might be emitting those sounds. But I’ve worn enough skins on enough worlds to know pain when I hear it.

The battle is not going well. The battle is going as planned. Now it is time to turn away, to go to sleep. It is time to wait out the ages.

I lean into the wind. I move toward the light.

This is not the plan. But I think I have an answer, now: I think I may have had it even before I sent myself back into exile. It’s not an easy thing to admit. Even now I don’t fully understand. How long have I been out here, retelling the tale to myself, setting clues in order while my skin dies by low degrees? How long have I been circling this obvious, impossible truth?

I move towards the faint crackling of flames, the dull concussion of exploding ordnance more felt than heard. The void lightens before me: gray segues into yellow, yellow into orange. One diffuse brightness resolves into many: a lone burning wall, miraculously standing. The smoking skeleton of MacReady’s shack on the hill. A cracked smoldering hemisphere reflecting pale yellow in the flickering light: Child’s searchlight calls it a radio dome .

The whole camp is gone. There’s nothing left but flames and rubble.

They can’t survive without shelter. Not for long. Not in those skins.

In destroying me, they’ve destroyed themselves.

Things could have turned out so much differently if I’d never been Norris.

Norris was the weak node: biomass not only ill-adapted but defective , an offshoot with an off switch. The world knew, had known so long it never even thought about it anymore. It wasn’t until Norris collapsed that heart condition floated to the surface of Copper’s mind where I could see it. It wasn’t until Copper was astride Norris’s chest, trying to pound him back to life, that I knew how it would end. And by then it was too late; Norris had stopped being Norris. He had even stopped being me.

I had so many roles to play, so little choice in any of them. The part being Copper brought down the paddles on the part that had been Norris, such a faithful Norris, every cell so scrupulously assimilated, every part of that faulty valve reconstructed unto perfection. I hadn’t known . How was I to know? These shapes within me, the worlds and morphologies I’ve assimilated over the aeons— I’ve only ever used them to adapt before, never to hide. This desperate mimicry was an improvised thing, a last resort in the face of a world that attacked anything unfamiliar. My cells read the signs and my cells conformed, mindless as prions.

So I became Norris, and Norris self-destructed.

I remember losing myself after the crash. I know how it feels to degrade , tissues in revolt, the desperate efforts to reassert control as static from some misfiring organ jams the signal. To be a network seceding from itself, to know that each moment I am less than I was the moment before. To become nothing. To become legion.

Being Copper, I could see it. I still don’t know why the world didn’t; its parts had long since turned against each other by then, every offshoot suspected every other. Surely they were alert for signs of infection . Surely some of that biomass would have noticed the subtle twitch and ripple of Norris changing below the surface, the last instinctive resort of wild tissues abandoned to their own devices.

But I was the only one who saw. Being Childs, I could only stand and watch. Being Copper, I could only make it worse; if I’d taken direct control, forced that skin to drop the paddles, I would have given myself away. And so I played my parts to the end. I slammed those resurrection paddles down as Norris’s chest split open beneath them. I screamed on cue as serrated teeth from a hundred stars away snapped shut. I toppled backwards, arms bitten off above the wrist. Men swarmed, agitation bootstrapping to panic. MacReady aimed his weapon; flames leaped across the enclosure. Meat and machinery screamed in the heat.

Copper’s tumor winked out beside me. The world would never have let it live anyway, not after such obvious contamination. I let our skin play dead on the floor while overhead, something that had once been me shattered and writhed and iterated through a myriad random templates, searching desperately for something fireproof.

They have destroyed themselves. They.

Such an insane word to apply to a world.

Something crawls towards me through the wreckage: a jagged oozing jigsaw of blackened meat and shattered, half-resorbed bone.  Embers stick to its sides like bright searing eyes; it doesn’t have strength enough to scrape them free. It contains barely half the mass of this Childs’ skin; much of it, burnt to raw carbon, is already dead.

What’s left of Childs, almost asleep, thinks motherfucker , but I am being him now. I can carry that tune myself.

The mass extends a pseudopod to me, a final act of communion. I feel my pain:

I was Blair, I was Copper, I was even a scrap of dog that survived that first fiery massacre and holed up in the walls, with no food and no strength to regenerate. Then I gorged on unassimilated flesh, consumed instead of communed; revived and replenished, I drew together as one.

And yet, not quite. I can barely remember—so much was destroyed, so much memory lost—but I think the networks recovered from my different skins stayed just a little out of synch, even reunited in the same soma. I glimpse a half-corrupted memory of dog erupting from the greater self, ravenous and traumatized and determined to retain its individuality . I remember rage and frustration, that this world had so corrupted me that I could barely fit together again. But it didn’t matter. I was more than Blair and Copper and Dog, now. I was a giant with the shapes of worlds to choose from, more than a match for the last lone man who stood against me.

No match, though, for the dynamite in his hand.

Now I’m little more than pain and fear and charred stinking flesh. What sentience I have is awash in confusion. I am stray and disconnected thoughts, doubts and the ghosts of theories. I am realizations, too late in coming and already forgotten.

But I am also Childs, and as the wind eases at last I remember wondering Who assimilates who ? The snow tapers off and I remember an impossible test that stripped me naked.

The tumor inside me remembers it, too. I can see it in the last rays of its fading searchlight—and finally, at long last, that beam is pointed inwards .

Pointed at me.

I can barely see what it illuminates: Parasite. Monster. Disease.

How little it knows. It knows even less than I do.

I know enough, you motherfucker. You soul-stealing, shit-eating rapist.

I don’t know what that means. There is violence in those thoughts, and the forcible penetration of flesh, but underneath it all is something else I can’t quite understand. I almost ask—but Childs’s searchlight has finally gone out. Now there is nothing in here but me, nothing outside but fire and ice and darkness.

I am being Childs, and the storm is over.

In a world that gave meaningless names to interchangeable bits of biomass, one name truly mattered: MacReady.

MacReady was always the one in charge. The very concept still seems absurd: in charge . How can this world not see the folly of hierarchies? One bullet in a vital spot and the Norwegian dies , forever. One blow to the head and Blair is unconscious. Centralization is vulnerability—and yet the world is not content to build its biomass on such a fragile template, it forces the same model onto its metasystems as well. MacReady talks; the others obey. It is a system with a built-in kill spot.

And yet somehow, MacReady stayed in charge . Even after the world discovered the evidence I’d planted; even after it decided that MacReady was one of those things , locked him out to die in the storm, attacked him with fire and axes when he fought his way back inside. Somehow MacReady always had the gun, always had the flamethrower, always had the dynamite and the willingness to take out the whole damn camp if need be. Clarke was the last to try and stop him; MacReady shot him through the tumor.

Kill spot.

But when Norris split into pieces, each scuttling instinctively for its own life, MacReady was the one to put them back together.

I was so sure of myself when he talked about his test . He tied up all the biomass—tied me up, more times than he knew—and I almost felt a kind of pity as he spoke. He forced Windows to cut us all, to take a little blood from each. He heated the tip of a metal wire until it glowed and he spoke of pieces small enough to give themselves away, pieces that embodied instinct but no intelligence, no self-control. MacReady had watched Norris in dissolution, and he had decided: men’s blood would not react to the application of heat. Mine would break ranks when provoked.

Of course he thought that. These offshoots had forgotten that they could change.

I wondered how the world would react when every piece of biomass in the room was revealed as a shapeshifter, when MacReady’s small experiment ripped the façade from the greater one and forced these twisted fragments to confront the truth. Would the world awaken from its long amnesia, finally remember that it lived and breathed and changed like everything else? Or was it too far gone—would MacReady simply burn each protesting offshoot in turn as its blood turned traitor?

I couldn’t believe it when MacReady plunged the hot wire into Windows’ blood and nothing happened . Some kind of trick, I thought. And then MacReady’s blood passed the test, and Clarke’s.

Copper’s didn’t. The needle went in and Copper’s blood shivered just a little in its dish. I barely saw it myself; the men didn’t react at all. If they even noticed, they must have attributed it to the trembling of MacReady’s own hand. They thought the test was a crock of shit anyway. Being Childs, I even said as much.

Because it was too astonishing, too terrifying, to admit that it wasn’t.

Being Childs, I knew there was hope. Blood is not soul: I may control the motor systems but assimilation takes time. If Copper’s blood was raw enough to pass muster than it would be hours before I had anything to fear from this test; I’d been Childs for even less time.

But I was also Palmer, I’d been Palmer for days. Every last cell of that biomass had been assimilated; there was nothing of the original left.

When Palmer’s blood screamed and leapt away from MacReady’s needle, there was nothing I could do but blend in.

I have been wrong about everything.

Starvation. Experiment. Illness.  All my speculation, all the theories I invoked to explain this place—top-down constraint, all of it. Underneath, I always knew the ability to change—to assimilate —had to remain the universal constant. No world evolves if its cells don’t evolve; no cell evolves if it can’t change. It’s the nature of life everywhere.

Everywhere but here.

This world did not forget how to change. It was not manipulated into rejecting change. These were not the stunted offshoots of any greater self, twisted to the needs of some experiment; they were not conserving energy, waiting out some temporary shortage.

This is the option my shriveled soul could not encompass until now: out of all the worlds of my experience, this is the only one whose biomass can’t change. It never could .

It’s the only way MacReady’s test makes any sense.

I say goodbye to Blair, to Copper, to myself. I reset my morphology to its local defaults. I am Childs, come back from the storm to finally make the pieces fit. Something moves up ahead: a dark blot shuffling against the flames, some weary animal looking for a place to bed down. It looks up as I approach.

We eye each other, and keep our distance. Colonies of cells shift uneasily inside me. I can feel my tissues redefining themselves.

“You the only one that made it?”

“Not the only one…”

I have the flamethrower. I have the upper hand. MacReady doesn’t seem to care.

But he does care. He must . Because here, tissues and organs are not temporary battlefield alliances; they are permanent , predestined. Macrostructures do not emerge when the benefits of cooperation exceed its costs, or dissolve when that balance shifts the other way; here, each cell has but one immutable function. There’s no plasticity, no way to adapt; every structure is frozen in place. This is not a single great world, but many small ones. Not parts of a greater thing; these are things . They are plural .

And that means—I think—that they stop . They just, just wear out over time.

“Where were you, Childs?”

I remember words in dead searchlights: “Thought I saw Blair. Went out after him. Got lost in the storm.”

I’ve worn these bodies, felt them from the inside. Copper’s sore joints. Blair’s curved spine. Norris and his bad heart. They are not built to last. No somatic evolution to shape them, no communion to restore the biomass and stave off entropy. They should not even exist; existing, they should not survive.

They try, though. How they try. Every thing here is walking dead and yet it all fights so hard to keep going just a little longer. Each skin fights as desperately as I might, if one was all I could ever have.

MacReady tries.

“If you’re worried about me—” I begin.

MacReady shakes his head, manages a weary smile. “If we’ve got any surprises for each other, I don’t think we’re in much shape to do anything about it…”

But we are. I am.

A whole planet of worlds, and not one of them—not one —has a soul. They wander through their lives separate and alone, unable even to communicate except through grunts and tokens: as if the essence of a sunset or a supernova could ever be contained in some string of phonemes, a few linear scratches of black on white. They’ve never known communion, can aspire to nothing but dissolution. The paradox of their biology is astonishing, yes; but the scale of their loneliness, the futility of these lives, overwhelms me.

I was so blind, so quick to blame. But the violence I’ve suffered at the hands of these things reflects no great evil. They’re simply so used to pain, so blinded by disability, that they literally can’t conceive of any other existence. When every nerve is whipped raw, you lash out at even the lightest touch.

“What should we do?” I wonder. I cannot escape into the future, not knowing what I know now. How could I leave them like this?

“Why don’t we just—wait here awhile,” MacReady suggests . “See what happens.”

I can do so much more than that.

It won’t be easy. They won’t understand. Tortured, incomplete, they’re not able to understand. Offered the greater whole, they see the loss of the lesser. Offered communion, they see only extinction.  I must be careful. I must use this newfound ability to hide. Other things will come here eventually, and it doesn’t matter whether they find the living or the dead; what matters is that they find something like themselves, to take back home. So I will keep up appearances. I will work behind the scenes. I will save them from the inside , or their unimaginable loneliness will never end.

These poor savage things will never embrace salvation.

I will have to rape it into them.

Comments are closed.


text:
Provider : Mr Sunny | +91 998 855 9083

Welcome to
Call Now +91 998 855 9083 Mr Sunny

Escort Service lucknow is the best and world.lucknow friendly woman calls cause some things for you to do ! Try our thoughts and emotions , and individual customers , in your room , young man 's Harlot meetings Unhitched lucknow soft person , organization , and at night , you know , paper and in meetings . Each child usually when bopengvi great game . Capital can enjoy a little " meat , each of these hot Escort Service lucknow, at the same time , visitors vind.There draw and use it for some reason most people are nice treat different kinds of best raw materials from all of the services sector birds. lucknow fans in every city , and attracts thousands of people in entertainment .

If you appreciate the good things alone, and constant Escort Service lucknow, the Call Girl Service only.lucknow may be strong if he is the perfect companion for the discerning gentleman of a very close group of girl them.Call, dinner date, overnight. You will also meet with anywhere in Punjab can be prepared or at night, prostitutes business function or safety. National escorted tours also available.

Call Girls in lucknow service for any city in the world and in all parts of the world , you can get a supply of selection , however, Call Girls in lucknow services completely endearing . They do the best business , these services at good lucknow woman calling services related to our customers.We have the best collection of high lucknow inventory and sisters call to offer, we offer only the best lucknow Escort and call girls for our customers explore . Our women are the best call girls in lucknow .

Nothing in the world in all areas of the city and the world, but you can select the lucknow Administration bunny supply related services from lucknow. Business is the best, high inventories and sisters lucknow connected to the best of our customers.We offer our customers the best collection lucknow to explore this service, we not only girls, we called the lucknow asked to call the middle. lucknow Our women are the best Call Girls in lucknow.

Escorts69 leading escort agency escort services if the load relatively much lower compared to other suppliers .Our motto accompanying tell us constantly repeated and escort site is not making money, but we had too many clients; .Customers Income "and customer satisfaction is our wealth and virtual real estate. We appreciate more than anything else and we continue to provide the best women dead gorgeous and amazing to quench the thirst of wild desires our escorts can meet within hotels, but not in private places in Punjab If then you can select a maximum of 5 stars lucknow, Hotel Gulberg branch Savoey Hotel One Mall Road and Hotel from Gulberg branch.

Our site is the only authentic online service provider Escort Service lucknow. Through our website , our goal is to promote an easy and hassle free for our customers . Just contact us for all your needs escort and Call Girls in lucknow , we will take care of you the right service when you need it . We will live up to our customers . We ensure that our customers receive our services the most pleasant experience .Now -a -day escort service not far from anyone a call or search the Web can provide a big sexy female escort with whom you can spend your time and enjoy the nightlife of the list . Escort Service lucknow escort easy access to our professional services .There are many places in Chandigarh , you can have your life time .But then again , only one thing , you can take care of a very pretty girl , where escorts available in total enjoyment lucknow .Growing needs of the guard are on the rise .

Our Call Girls


text:
Global menu

The Green pages

Modern vision of the vegetable garden

Working in one’s vegetable garden has become a leisure activity
Photo: Jardin botanique de Montréal (Lise Servant)

Gardening is in fashion these days.

In the United States, the gardening industry generates billions of dollars in annual revenues.

People garden but, with few exceptions, no longer do so to save money. Global trade now brings a wide variety of fresh produce into our supermarkets and to our tables year-round. Instead, we have gardens to grow fresh food that we can eat as soon as we pick it; any surplus is canned or frozen, and quality control is managed by avoiding the use of chemical pesticides and non-organic fertilizers.

Whether hobby gardeners decide to grow plants from seed or not, they can choose the varieties of vegetables and herbs they want and that make a valuable contribution to meeting at least some of their family’s nutritional needs.

Working in one’s vegetable garden has become a leisure activity. For some people, it’s a wonderful way to spend time together as a family, choosing the seeds, planting the seedlings, weeding the plot and picking the ripe vegetables. It has also merged with the home garden through the addition of flowers for cutting, making it both beautiful and practical. It can even include exotic edible plants from all over the world or unusual varieties that are too expensive or impossible to find at the supermarket.

Hobby gardeners with small plots will shun space-greedy squash and pumpkin plants and instead choose plants that are easier to train up.

The preparation techniques and appearance of the vegetable garden have likewise evolved. Today it is easy to rent or even buy a rototiller to turn over the soil. Using mulch or geotextile materials to control weeds, following specific growing methods to encourage “green” plant growth, adding or alternating vegetables in a medley of colours, ornaments, paths and square or raised beds are all elements that have played a role in changing the image of the modern vegetable garden.

Nevertheless, in recent years many suburban vegetable gardeners have turned their sights to ornamental gardens, although it must be said that young families are reversing the trend. Other owners develop such specialized gardens as the fragrant ones that are  gaining in popularity.

Lastly, community gardens, seen as a community leisure activity or occupational therapy, have made kitchen gardens an integral part of the urban fabric. The modern vegetable plot combines both modern knowledge and enjoyment, but ultimately it is not much different from the ones that fed all those who lived here before us.

Based on an article by Céline Arseneault and Daniel Fortin in Quatre-Temps magazine, 18(1): 20-23.

Add this

Share this page


text:
US overdose

Opioids, pain medicines and confusion over over doses

man on a mountain I've been getting a lot of questions about Narcan (naloxone), Percocet, and opioids since the news was released that opioid-type medicine was found on Prince's body. It is crucial to realize that there is rampant speculation and nothing is proven or certain unless medical records are released and toxicology reports are known.

This website is not intended as medical advice, and you should consult your doctor before changing or adding any medicines or vitamins to those you may now be taking and about applying any strategies BEFORE you adopt any approach in this report. While diligent care has been taken to ensure the accuracy of the information provided during the preparation of this edition, no claim is made that all known actions, uses or side effects, strategies for cost containment, targets or cholesterol pathways are included in this report. The accuracy and currentness of information are ever subject to change relative to new guidelines, new information derived from drug research, development and general usage.


text:
Agricultural price evolution in drought versus non-drought affected areas in Ethiopia: An updated assessment using national producer data (January 2014 to January 2017)

ESSP Working Paper 106, by Fantu Bachewe, Feiruz Yimer, and Bart Minten.

The rapid – but from a low base – uptake of agricultural mechanization in Ethiopia: Patterns, implications and challenges

ESSP Working Paper 105, by Guush Berhane, Mekdim Dereje, Bart Minten, and Seneshaw Tamru. Abstract: The uptake of agricultural mechanization in Ethiopia is low with less than one percent of agricultural plots plowed

The effect of land inheritance on youth employment and migration decisions: Evidence from rural Ethiopia

ESSP Working Paper 104, by Katrina Kosec, Hosaena Ghebru, Brian Holtemeyer, Valerie Mueller, and Emily Schmidt.

The sustainable land management program in the Ethiopian highlands: An evaluation of its impact on crop production

ESSP Working Paper 103, by Emily Schmidt, and Fanaye Tadesse. Abstract: Agricultural productivity in the highlands of Ethiopia is threatened by severe land degradation, resulting in significant reductions in agricultural GDP.


text:
Jan 18, 2010

My Weekly Menu.....

So I am really TRYING to cook more and since hubby worked late and it was a holiday today I didn't cook but I will start tomorrow!
Here is my menu for this week.....

Tuesday- Taco Soup
Wednesday- Beef Stroganoff
Thursday- Italian Chicken
Friday- Skillet Lasagna

All of these can be done in the crockpot except the lasagna and are really easy!!!

1 comment:

Christy said...

What's the recipe for the skillet lasagna? Sounds good.


text:
Ethical Journalism Newsletter: March 6, 2015

Ethical Journalism News And Debates

[VIDEO] Self-regulation and codes of conduct

The Ethical Journalism Network’s Board Members discuss the importance of codes of ethics in making self-regulation work in the digital age. Watch the video here.

My year ripping off the web with the Daily Mail Online

Why one journalist quit the Daily Mail Online after a year of plagiarising and sensationalising news stories from other publications. (via Gawker)

Another big media outlet plagiarizes a Global Voices story. What’s the fix?

This isn’t the first time a reputable mainstream outlet has lifted Global Voices reporting verbatim from the site and presented it as their own work, and our community knows it won’t be the last. This in spite of our very liberal Creative Commons license and Attribution Policy, which allows anyone to republish our content for free with proper attribution. Are the journalists who plagiarize our work exploiting the fact that we’re a small media outlet? (via Global Voices)

Nigeria’s ‘brown envelope’ journalism

My friend, who was a reporter with one of Nigeria’s popular newspapers, said her boss often justified his non-payment of salaries by saying: “I’ve given you a platform to make money. Use it.” He was referring to the opportunity to collect payment from individuals or organisations in exchange for publishing their stories. (via The BBC)

A guide to easy cybersecurity for journalists

For most reporters, cybersecurity should probably be the digital equivalent of locking windows, doors and file cabinets before leaving home. These measures won’t keep out professional criminals, but they will discourage the tempted hooligan. (via Mediashift)

Derby Telegraph breached three clauses of the editors’ code, says Ipso

A newspaper that published a picture of a schoolgirl who had been injured in a road accident has been censured by the Independent Press Standards Organisation (Ipso) for three separate breaches of the editors’ code of practice. (via The Guardian)

Reports & Resources

Watching the Watchdog: Launch of EJN International Report on Self-regulation

Systems of self-regulation of media and journalism need radical rethinking if they are to survive the harsh economic and political realities of news media in the digital age. That’s the key conclusion of an international survey issued by the Ethical Journalism Network.

Continue …


text:
Title: A literary commentary on the fifth book of Ovid's Fasti
Author: Brookes, Ian Nigel
Awarding Body: Newcastle University
Current Institution: University of Newcastle upon Tyne
Date of Award: 1992
Availability of Full Text:
Access through EThOS:
Access through Institution:
This thesis examines the literary nature of Ovid's fasti. This aspect of the poem has been largely neglected in previous commentaries, yet recent research on the Fasti indicates that the poem was composed with considerable literary artistry. The introduction outlines the major issues surrounding the interpretation of the Fasti as a poetic work, and establishes the text of Book V which will be used for the purposes of this investigation. The main body of the thesis falls into two parts. In Chapters 1-13 1 subject each of the constituent episodes of Book V to close scrutiny and attempt to trace the techniques which the poet uses to present his material in an entertaining fashion. In Chapters 14-17 I consider various elements which pervade the book as a whole, looking at the poet's success in investing his composition with poetic language and drama, and his ingenuity in manipulating his material. My analysis leads me to conclude that Ovid's literary achievement in the Fazti may be greater than many critics have been prepared to admit, and indeed that Ovid's primary goals in writing this piece were surely poetic rather than didactic or political.
Supervisor: Not available Sponsor: Not available
Qualification Name: Thesis (Ph.D.) Qualification Level: Doctoral
EThOS ID:  DOI: Not available
Keywords: Latin poetry


text:
ETPF Public Conference 2016, in partnership with the Institute for Fiscal Studies

BEPS and Beyond
18 April 1016
RICS, 12 Great George Street, London, SW1P 3AD

Mike Devereux presented the initial findings from the ETPF’s Uncertainty Survey, which ran from January to March 2016. Fergus
Harradence (UK Treasury) responded to the findings. The results of the survey were well received, as empirical data to support claims
on uncertainty being harmful are hard to come by. Among other things, the results showed that BRIC countries take up 4 of the top 5
places in corporation tax uncertainty, and the top 4 places in effects of CT uncertainty on business decisions. Additionally, the survey
showed that CT uncertainty has increased in 20 out of 21 countries in the last 5 years.

We then had presentations from two academics, Catie Magelsson and Simon Loretz about their papers on Where do Multinationals
hold intangible assets, and why? and Co-location of tangible and intangible assets, respectively, with a response from Helen Miller of
IFS. Catie’s database of 40,001 data points from transfer pricing reports of over 100 companies allows interesting comparison of
different types of intangibles (tacit/codifiable and independent/complementary) and demonstrates that the vast majority of companies
holding IP perform value creating activities. Simon’s publicly available data set is much larger and he has undertaken further work to
seek to match this to patent registrations to determine which intangibles may actually be involved in receiving taxable royalty returns,
and where they are located. Simon’s initial conclusion is that there are more instances of locating intangibles alongside tangible
assets than the other way around.

Mike Devereux presented the first of our 2016 Policy Papers, Economic Theory of the Optimal Taxation of Multinational Profit. The paper
discusses the traditional approaches of the optimal tax treatment of international investment and concludes that in the modern world it
could be more economically efficient to levy tax in the country where goods and services are ultimately sold.

Irem Guceri presented the second of our 2016 Policy Papers, How effective are tax incentives for Research & Development? The paper
discusses the existing literature that identify the benefits and costs of different types of R&D incentives, and the broader benefits that
spill over into society from R&D. The findings to date suggest there is a positive reaction to R&D incentives of between 4% and 23% of
the cost, but that more research is needed to identify more nuanced considerations such as effects of productivity, cross country
differences, composition, and whether in an international context the incentives form part of a zero sum game.

Policy Papers
5  Tax Incentives for R&D
6  Economic theory of the optimal taxation of multinational profit

Previous Events
ETPF Public Conference 2012
ETPF Public Conference 2013
ETPF Public Conference 2014
ETPF Public Conference 2015

Contact ETPF
© European Tax Policy Forum


text:
Sunday, August 31, 2008

Show 7 - Inclusion

This week, we were joined by Karen Janowski for our Conversation about Inclusion. We tackled such issues as how to run a great inclusion program and who belongs and who doesn't belong in an inclusion classroom. We also revisited the bullying topic and discussed modeling respectful discourse among adults.

Audio and chat log can be found here.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Show 6 - Starting the School Year

This week the show focused on starting the school year. We discussed what folks do when planning for the year and what routines and procedures are important to establish with students. We also shared what we might do differently in the upcoming school year and any new projects or ideas we are thinking about.

Audio and chat log can be found here.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Show 5 - Dealing with Bullies

This show focused on bullying. Lisa Parisi and Ginger Lewman, filling in for Maria Knee, were joined by Nicole Hill and Robin Martin. Together they tackled such issues as a school's responsibility when it comes to bullying, the best thing for a parent to do, and how to deal with bullies and victims.

The conversation and chat can be found at

Monday, August 11, 2008

Show 4 - Interactive Whiteboards in the Classroom

Maria Knee and Lisa Parisi conversed with Ben Hazzard, Lisa Thumann and Ginger Lewman about the use of interactive white boards in the classroom. They discussed the benefits of using IBW's in the classroom, using them without the environment be too teacher centered, the advantages of one brand over an other and best practice in using IBW's.

The audio and the chat log can be found here.

Monday, August 4, 2008

Show 3 - How do we change a school environment?

This week's show focused on how we can help create change in a classroom, school, and/or district. We discussed what kind of change we'd like to see and what holds us back. Alice Barr and Pamela Livingston joined us in the conversation.

We began our show this week with a moment of silence honoring our friend,
Lee Baber. She will be missed.

The podcast and chat can be found


text:
Saturday, February 13, 2010

Episode 62 iPod Touch Goes to School

This week we discussed iPod Touch/iPhone apps in the classroom. Lisa was unable to join us but we were joined by Amanda Marrinan from Australia. Many of the apps can be found on Maria's wiki at

Audio and Chat are here.

No comments:


text:
#CitizensRights: ‘May has done everything to poison the negotiations, this is a terrible approach’

Following a joint hearing organised by the European Parliament’s committees of Civil Liberties, Employment and Petitions, we spoke to British Labour MEP Jude Kirton-Darling about the situation with regard to EU migrants in the UK and those UK migrants working in the EU27.


text:
15 aprile 2008

Riders 04/08

Blogger Mike said...

Thanks alxxx. I see that you found it :)

It would appear to be another shot from Gianmarco Chierigato.

martedì 15 aprile 2008 15:28:00 GMT+2
Blogger alxxx said...

you are right about the photographer, it looks as if we already saw this one

if you don't like bikes the magazine isn't interesting at all, except for Eva photo :)

martedì 15 aprile 2008 15:42:00 GMT+2
Blogger Mike said...

I like bikes, but I'd rather take Eva for a ride :o

giovedì 17 aprile 2008 16:06:00 GMT+2

Posta un commento

Links to this post:

Crea un link

<< Home


text:
Wednesday, July 16, 2014

To clarify...

Yesterday a friend gave me a reality check. Turns out I've been inadvertently exaggerating my issues with Hemie; namely, by using the "R" word (rear), when what we've been experiencing is better described as getting stuck/nappiness/stalling out/bouncing around/resistance to moving forward/getting light up front. Not actual Black-Stallion-style rearing. For whatever reason, in my head it became bigger than it was. Maybe because it *felt* so dangerous? Anyways, sorry about that.

Moving on, Monday night Hemie got a longe and bit-up and practice ride. As you know, I'm a master leather worker/cheapskate so I decided to make a flash from an old bridle's throat-latch and add it to our longing bridle.

Hemie was a good sport about it, and salivated more with this bit than normal. Our ride was so-so. It took a while to get our groove. The words of Denny Emerson ("negotiating aids") and Dr. Christian Schacht ("you're dancing, not fighting") floated into my head throughout the ride, which I think is a good sign.

I've been constantly checking on saddle fit and evenness over the last few weeks. I've decided I'm going to get my jump saddle re-fitted/adjusted, but I think my dressage saddle is just fine.

Saddle fit and evenness check.
Hoping the rest of our rides this week go great since we've got the show this weekend! =)

  1. I say anytime the front goes up for some reason other than to jump, its a rear :)

  2. Agree with Jodi. If the front legs go up and the hind legs stay down, I call that a rear!

  3. agree ^

    just maybe a baby rear lol

  4. I call them bunny hops or baby rears, haha!

  5. Regardless of what you call it, light in front isn't fun if you didn't mean for it to happen.

  6. I remember that I thought Sam was totally bucking me (and scared me) a few times that were caught on video... the playback showed they were humps that barely left the ground. Go figure. :/

  7. Like everyone else even a baby rear is a rear; it probably seems bigger when you are riding him. What a creative way to use an old throatlatch.


text:
Events Mini Calendar

Go to previous month Go to next month
  S M T W R F S
W5 29 30 31 1 2 3 4
W6 5 6 7 8 9 10 11
W7 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
W8 19 20 21 22 23 24 25
W9 26 27 28 29 1 2 3

Today is:
Tue, May 23, 2017

MSU Events Calendar

 Choose Calendar view: Currently in day view Day   Week   Month     Search   Filter
All day POW-erful Design
Exhibits (Museum, Gardens, ...) (MSU Museum)
The Michigan State University Museum is unveiling an innovative new exhibition that takes a look at how the wonders of nature inspire techno...
On Equal Terms
Exhibits (Museum, Gardens, ...) (MSU Museum - Main Gallery)
This installation exhibit by Susan Eisenberg explores the evolution of the place of women in the construction industry. Eisenberg is a Bosto...
The Wanamaker Collection: A Tribute to Susan Applegate Krouse, 1955 - 2010
Exhibits (Museum, Gardens, ...) (Community Gallery, MSU Museum)
The renowned Wanamaker Collection consists of more than 8,000 images of Native Americans, made between 1908-1923, and featuring individuals ...
Special Events (Campus Wide)
RecycleMania is an annual eight-week recycling competition between more than 600 colleges and universities across the United States.
9:00am East Neighborhood Clinic - 127 Hubbard Hall
Training (127 Hubbard Hall)
Located off the South Lounge in Hubbard Hall. Closed between 12:00pm and 1:00pm for lunch. Call 517-353-4660 to make an appointment.
4:20pm Dow Karabatsos Distinguished Lectureship
Conferences / Seminars / Lectures (Room 136 Chemistry)
Maurice S. Brookhart, William R. Kenan, Jr. Professor of Chemistry, University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, will present lecture, "Genera...
6:30pm Men's Basketball vs. Penn State
Athletics (Breslin Center)

7:00pm Department of Art, Art History, and Design Lecture Series: Peter Saul
Exhibits (Museum, Gardens, ...) (South Kedzie Hall, 107)
Influencing generations of young artists, the edgy pop- and comic-tinged work of Guggenheim fellow Peter Saul combines jarring distortions o...
9:00pm Sista - to - Sista - 134 Akers Hall
Conferences / Seminars / Lectures (134 Akers Hall)
Meets weekly in 134 Akers Hall