text:
Is Rudeness a Necessary Evil?
by hadar.
(Wow, I just finished writing and unsurprisingly, I created a monster. If you can't make it through the entire post, I forgive you, but you might want to peek at the last few paragraphs for one proposed solution to the problem…)
There is a recurring theme in too many of my posts, rude audience members. At times, I want to edit those comments out, but then I remind myself that I want to remember what each experience was like. Unfortunately, more often than I care to recall, it's a part of the evening that sticks with you.
The first time I ever mentioned it, I probably had a fantasy that all the rude people in the world would read that post, have an Ah Ha! moment, and enjoy the actual performances from that point on (allowing the rest of us to take our enjoyment up a notch as well). Guess what, it didn't happen.
Then I rationalized: well, those people don't read anyway, and if they did, would never associate my comments with their behavior.
Because I am hyper-sensitive to it, and because I write about it often enough, I have been trying to understand it better. I have no illusion that the problem can be solved (certainly not by me), but I am wondering whether it can be avoided in a specific, micro way, perhaps by creating a club where people like me can get the listening experience they desire.
Let's survey a few forms of the problem (by no means exhaustive):
Many different people in different parts of the venue talking loudly non-stop
A single cluster of two of more people talking loudly
Wait/Bar staff taking drink/food orders, occasionally creating noticeable disturbances during a song
A single person, purposely creating a distraction
Some of the problems above are caused by, or exacerbated by particular venues. Sometimes it's the style of the artist. Sometimes it's the artist themselves (meaning, they are an opener that some portion of the audience simply doesn't care to discover).
Fine, it's a fact of life. But, is it understandable/explainable? Is it consistently the same roots underlying the various forms of rudeness? I think the answers are Yes and No, respectively.
Let's take the venue out of the equation for a minute (we'll analyze their role right after). Broadly speaking, there appear to be four categories of rude audience members:
People who aren't there for the music to begin with (or at best, are treating it like a background jukebox)
People who are there for a different artist on the same night (before, and they're hanging around to socialize, or after, and they're killing time waiting for their act)
People who are there for this artist, but only to support them, not listen to the music (a paid show that they know the artist badly wants/needs to fill up, etc.)
People who are friends with the artist and want to be part of the scene, but don't really care to hear the music
#1 is often a venue problem (not always), so I'll deal with it later.
#2 is one of the toughest things. You can be a real fan of a particular artist and not care about music in general (or other artists' fans!).
#3 makes you a good person on some level, your friend or an artist you like really needed your support and you bothered to show up, but somewhere, there's a resentment. You want to ensure that you have a good time, rather than complete your original good deed the way it should be.
#4 this is one of the worst, but more often than I care to admit, it's other artists (who certainly don't want it to happen to them!). In their heads, I'll bet they're thinking "Well, I've heard so-and-so sing that song 2,798 times, and they completely understand why I'm not paying attention…" OK, let's be honest, they're really not thinking about their actions at all, I was just trying to be nice.
Continuing with #4, I believe that often these people show up because they know that the rest of their circle of friends (largely other artists) will be there (which is why I said "to be part of the scene"). The problem is that their friends, who might otherwise be quiet, rarely tell them to be quiet. They easily get pulled into the conversation, even if they feely badly about it. After all, being rude to someone who is on stage and busy feels more anonymous than telling a friend to be quiet, or step outside to talk.
The following will likely strike you as completely obvious. On some level, it always was to me as well, but recently it has struck me much more clearly. The thing that unites all of the above, explaining the majority of the individual rude behavior, is a Look at Me attitude. The disruptor wants (perhaps even needs) to make themselves the focus, the center of attention.
Some of you might think that's ridiculous. If so, try to explain the following behavior to me. We'll assume that a rude person is completely oblivious to the fact that they can be heard, or that anyone cares, because they think no one else is bothering to listen to the music either. Then that person get shushed by 80% of the people in the crowd, successfully (for the sake of argument, since it's often not successful). 95% of the time, less than one verse later (often less than three words later), that person is talking loudly again.
They no longer have the illusion (or excuse) that no one noticed or cared about their disruption. It's they (them?) that could care less about their behavior or its affect on others (especially the musicians on stage). Feel free to leave a comment correcting my conclusion.
See the bottom of this long post for a (somewhat sarcastic) proposal to stop this behavior!
On to the venues.
Have you ever attended a Broadway show and heard people have loud conversations in the audience during the show? Surely there are some awful shows/performances that can't hold some people's interest. Surely there are some people attending in a group that haven't seen each other in a while and have much to catch up on and little time to do it. Surely, some of the same people that never stop talking at a music venue attend such shows without opening their mouth on Broadway.
Why? Because it wouldn't be tolerated. Ushers would warn you (probably only once) and then escort you out. The people around you wouldn't hesitate to let you know it either, not in a quiet, anonymous shush that might occur at a music venue, but in a let's meet in the alley way, indicative of the value they place on quiet in this setting.
You might think it's a factor of the ticket price. I don't think so. Students often get in cheaply on Broadway (and they are just the type of young people who chatter non-stop in the bar settings with live music). More importantly, many musical events that are paid shows, including some higher-priced tickets, include a full helping of chatter. The difference is that the venue tolerates it (as do the majority of the annoyed patrons).
I believe there are a few factors, but the first is the biggest issue, by far:
Venues make the vast majority of their money on the drinks. The more people drink, the less inhibited they are, the louder they get. Since the venue makes more money as people continue ordering drinks, it's not in their best interest to stop the behavior of the biggest drinkers. This will happen whether the show is ticketed or not.
In a bar atmosphere, other audience members are less likely to forcefully try to get someone to quiet down. That's probably smart, as there are significant safety issues with confronting loud drunks in these types of situations/places. While there is a bar at a Broadway theater, it serves before the show and at intermission. The dark separated seating changes the nature of the atmosphere. People don't assume that a first fight will break out there.
We all do so many things with music serving purely as a pleasant background. There are many venues where even live music serves this purpose, so some people may be desensitized or really unaware that it's contextual. Still, for a ticketed show, it continues to boggle my mind that people can't see the difference (think: symphony at Lincoln Center).
Different venues have different structural problems (not just physical layouts, but rather whether they have back-to-back sets of unrelated artists, one show per night, multiple ticketed shows per night, etc.). Analyzing the pros and cons of each might yield some clue as to whether an ideal listening room could be created and be economically viable.
NYC is unique in its density of venues and 7-day-a-week unlimited choice of musical events to attend (obvious exceptions: Austin, LA, Chicago and a few others). That creates different problems and potential solutions as well.
#1 isn't an easily surmountable problem. People will buy drinks (often because they have to, with drink minimums per set, etc.) and there's a ton of profit in each drink (necessarily so, to pay the rent, staff, taxes, and leave something left for the owner to eat as well). Once people drink, in an unstructured setting, thing become unpredictable, fast (or in the case of this topic, all too predictable).
It's hard to blame a venue for not asking people to be quiet, then tossing them if they are repeat offenders. I have way less sympathy for a venue when a show is ticketed. They owe a duty to the other paying customers, to deliver an atmosphere conducive to actually enjoying something you've paid for. I get that it will still likely cut into their profits (short-term for sure, possibly long term), but I still think it's incumbent on them to do it.
#2. I urge you to not be forceful with anyone you don't know well. The possible results of a physical confrontation aren't worth the potential enjoyment of the music. That's why you won't see me getting in anyone's face in these situations. It's not worth it, don't do it!
If a shush won't get the job done, and the venue won't do it, let it go (or just write an encyclopedia-sized blog post about it, like I do).
#3 feels like it could be solved by educating the talkers, but let's be realistic, it just isn't going to happen. The same person who wouldn't talk in Lincoln Center for a string quartet (no words to miss), will happily talk loudly when a single folk singer is quietly strumming a guitar and singing the deepest lyrics you've ever heard. Hey, there are still a few of us left that care deeply about lyrics. We may be a dying breed, but we're proud and we're loud (no, wait, I guess we're not really loud).
I'll use #4 to talk about some of our favorite venues, even though many problems exist there as well. I can't do justice to this topic in this post, as it would be double the already long one this has become. Perhaps some other time, especially if people let me know they have an interest in a "venues only" post.
Venues have both a physical structure (is there a bar in the listening room, is there a separate room for people to talk in, do they serve food in the listening room, is the room oddly shaped or does it have good and bad viewing spots) and a logical, business model structure (paid or free shows, single or multiple shows, related or random sets).
Rockwood Music Hall is one of our favorite places to hang out for a few reasons: many of the people we love play there often; for the most part the small (original) room is relatively quiet, or can be made so through peer pressure; they have a separate room behind the bar so talkers have a place to go if they want and still easily hear the music and return to see it when their chatting is done. Occasionally the talking gets out of hand and can't be controlled, but the balance is still heavily weighted toward people who want to hear good music.
The biggest problem causing the talking in Rockwood 1 is that shows are always free (or close enough to always). There is a one drink minimum per night, not per set, so it can be a very cheap night out to enjoy (and discover) amazing music. 6pm until at least midnight on weekdays, with weekends starting at 3pm! A tip jar is passed around during each set. You don't have to put anything in and the suggested donation is $5 per person (per audience member, not person on stage!) per set.
If you stay for multiple sets (as we often do) and are generous in your tipping (as we often are and I only say that to encourage anyone who can afford it to do so as well!), it can become an expensive night, pretty quickly. Meaning, free isn't even close to being free, if you value music and want to see it continue to be created (and that's just fine with me!). But, if you can't afford it (and heaven knows many can't!), you can sit there and sip one $3 drink all night, letting the tip jar pass you by (there's something beautiful about that as well).
The fact that there can be a hard rock band on at 7pm, followed by a solo folk singer at 8pm, followed by a 6-piece bluegrass band, etc., makes it difficult for some people to stay quiet, if they don't like as many genres as we do. This is made worse if they like the bands at 7 and 9, and have nowhere else to go at 8pm. Just hang around and ruin the 8pm band's fans experience, why not?
So, the amazing people behind Rockwood Music Hall decided that they can do even better. Since the small room is often crowded, and the better known musicians need a bigger room to play, when the place next door became available, they purchased it (or leased it, I have no idea). They built a room that is twice as large, has a cool balcony, a better green room, more bathrooms, great sound system.
They did a magnificent job in getting everything they wanted right (and maximized every inch of space in the process). Unfortunately, ask nearly any musician who plays there regularly and they will tell you that it's one of the rudest rooms you can play (all too often). Part of it is structural. As opposed to the smaller room, Stage 2 (as it's called) has no separate room to chat in. You could walk 30 feet to the back room at Stage 1, but that feels like going to an entirely different venue, and of course, you can no longer hear the music you ostensibly came to hear.
But, because it's a larger room, there's also a strange sense of anonymity and distance from the musician. I bet that people just assume they can't be heard. Even I want to exchange thoughts with someone every once in a while during a show. I whisper in their ear, not yell louder because the music just got a bit louder.
Bottom line, I think the single biggest problem at Stage 2 is that people often stay for more than one set, even though they are probably only interested in a specific set (before or after the one they end up non-stop talking through).
Joe's Pub used to be our favorite club in NYC. Technically, it still is, though we haven't been there since March 2nd, 2010, to see Ian Axel perform (so it's hard to defend that as our favorite place). The main reason we don't go there as often as we used to is that Joe's has a different structural problem.
Every show at Joe's is a paid show. I like that part a lot. Talkers are rarer there, but it does happen, and when it does, it's 10x more annoying, because it's actually unexpected. The problem is that Joe's books a minimum of two shows a night (often three). They have to clear the audience out after each show, since the next one has separate tickets. That rushes each performer off the stage, even when the audience is totally mesmerized. It feels a bit like a conveyor belt in a factory (keep it moving buddy!). Sets tend to be short (for a paid show, not in comparison to the expected short sets at Rockwood).
It's hard for fans to connect with the artists after the show (if you like that sort of thing), because you're clearly annoying the staff that needs to turn around the room for the next act. If you're waiting outside for the next act, no matter how well you know the drill, it's maddening that the doors open 10-15 minutes late, often just minutes before the show is scheduled to start. Let's not forget it's going to be a short show anyway, so every second counts. Also, Joe's has great food, which you are now guaranteed to have to eat while the performance is taking place.
Does anyone get this right? BB King in Times Square gets close. They typically book a single show per night. It's always paid. The doors open two hours before the show to accommodate a dinner crowd which can be finished and bussed before the performer hits the stage. By coming for dinner you are rewarded with better seats, as it's first-come first-seated. Rarely is there talking during the show (except when rowdy fans scream to the performers on stage). The only downside (only in comparison with places like Rockwood) is that tickets are generally expensive, and the indie artists we love won't get invited there (and might not be able to fill the very large room if they were).
Highline Ballroom is owned by the same people who own BB King (they also own the Blue Note). It can be great too (like BB King) but it's not as consistent. Some shows are seated (and offer a similar experience to BB King), but many shows are standing only (which aren't our favorite, though we've reluctantly attended more than our fair share recently because we won't miss certain artists if we can help it). The biggest difference is that often people at Highline do talk during shows, seated ones as well. That just doesn't happen at BB King.
What makes the difference between BB King and Highline, which are otherwise reasonably similar? First, they do sometimes book different types of acts. Specifically, Highline will book many of the NYC-based indie artists if they feel they are breaking out enough to get a good crowd (they often do!). Ironically, those shows end up attracting the talkers because it's more about participating in the scene than listening to the person you've seen 100 times, or are best friends with…
The other difference rolls me into point #5 above. A large part of BB King's audience is made up of tourists. Times Square is popular, many of the acts they book are well known, it's a natural spot for a tourist to take in live music in NYC. If a tourist wanted to go chat in a bar, they wouldn't go to BB King.
#5 is broader than that. In NYC, you can throw a pebble (please don't) and hit a dozen bars or clubs nearly anywhere you stand. Why wander in to a live music event to have your drinks and conversation, when you can go into a pub? Well, live music is more fun, for sure, and you can tell people you saw so-and-so, even though all you did was see them, since you weren't listening. But people often pay for tickets, so they didn't just wander in.
So, I think the density and frequency of shows in NYC desensitizes people to the listening experience (at least some). Go to a city outside of NY (with some noted exceptions) and the experience is radically different. I'll use one city as an example (since we've attended a number of shows there, but it's by no means unique!).
We've seen a number of shows in Birmingham, AL. I think all of them were at Workplay. We like the club a lot! While you can see live music every night in Birmingham (or so I believe), there aren't a lot of choices, and many nights it will be a hyper local band in a completely bar-scene atmosphere. Specifically, Workplay does not have a show every night. If you want to see original music played by proven bands, you'll have to plan, you can't just wander out on a given night and expect to have choices (you might not even have a single choice).
Therefore, it's not necessarily the case that people who go to Workplay happen to be nicer than people who go to Rockwood. It's just that nearly everyone there has not only made a choice to be there that night, they've planned for it and likely have looked forward to this night for weeks. They are likely to do their best to actually experience the show, rather than chat with their friends.
That makes these types of shows a special evening out, not just a hang-out that happens to have good music in the background.
OK, this is crazy long already, so I'll wrap it up.
If money were no object (and never in my experience has that been the case, unfortunately), here's what I would do:
Build a club with two levels (the upper one set back from the first floor). The first floor would be a real listening room (the bar area would be in a separate room, and wait staff would serve the listeners, as quietly as possible). Rather than tables (which waste space, even though they are ultra-convenient), I would either have chairs, or chairs with flip tops to set your drink on (like when you were a kid in school, thanks to my lovely wife for that creative suggestion!).
Shows would be clearly marked as listening events. The FAQ on the site would state that consistent talkers will be warned, then removed. That will be prominently listed before people enter the main room. If tickets are sold, it would be stated obviously during the purchase process.
The second room, offset perhaps 1/2 way back and up a level would be sound-proof. It would have a full glass wall facing the stage. It would have large screen TV's showing what's on stage for those not near the glass, or not facing it. There would be a high-quality sound system in that room so that people could hear the music live, but also scream at each over it, because that's so much fun!
It's true that we would probably not book bands whose fans need to dance during their shows. So be it. I would also never book a band again if it turned out that in general, their fans were unruly (as opposed to particular individuals).
In my fantasy world, the best artists (local and otherwise) would kill to play on that stage. Fans that otherwise don't attend many shows would kill to come see this great music. Somehow, we'd find a way to pay the musicians (even if they were happy to play for free) and make enough money to keep the club going forever (no, wait, money wasn't an object, so we're not concerned with that aspect).
Since none of that is going to happen, here's my alternate solution, which struck me during a show last week (and I mentioned it to one of the artists when the show was over):
Let's all take a high quality camera with a super-bright flash with us to all shows. When someone talks out loud and refuses to stop after being shushed, we'll take a photo of them (perhaps a dozen). If they complain, we'll say: "Sorry, it seemed like you were dying to call attention to yourself and I was doing my best to accommodate you!".
In either case, we'll post that photo on a Wall of Shame! (both on the web and in the club.) The unnamed artist added a nice twist: "We'll scan their photos and use a facial recognition program to stop them from entering the club in the future!". Brilliant!
Posted in: Frustration, Music, Personal.
Tagged: Music
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Trailer: Stardust (2020)

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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text:
class TimeInput < FormtasticBootstrap::Inputs::StringInput

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end

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


text:
'As good as new' by Charlie Jane Anders
Marisol got into an intense relationship with the people on The Facts of Life, to the point where Tootie and Mrs. Garrett became her imaginary best friends and she shared every last thought with them. She told Tootie about the rash she got from wearing the same bra every day for two years, and she had a long talk with Mrs. Garrett about her regrets that she hadn't said a proper goodbye to her best friend Julie and her on-again/off-again boyfriend Rod, before they died along with everybody else.
The panic room had pretty much every TV show ever made on its massive hard drive, with multiple backup systems and a fail-proof generator, so there was nothing stopping Marisol from marathoning The Facts of Life for sixteen hours a day, starting over again with season one when she got to the end of the bedraggled final season. She also watched Mad Men and The West Wing. The media server had tons of video of live theatre, but Marisol didn't watch that because it made her feel guilty. Not survivor's guilt; failed playwright guilt.
Her last proper conversation with a living human had been an argument with Julie about Marisol's decision to go to medical school instead of trying to write more plays. ("Fuck doctors, man," Julie had spat. "People are going to die no matter what you do. Theatre is important.") Marisol had hung up on Julie and gone back to the pre-med books, staring at the exposed musculature and blood vessels as if they were costume designs for a skeleton theatre troupe.
The quakes always happened at the worst moment, just when Jo or Blair was about to reveal something heartfelt and serious. The whole panic room would shake, throwing Marisol against the padded walls or ceiling over and over again. A reminder that the rest of the world was probably dead. At first, these quakes were constant, then they happened a few times a day. Then once a day, then a few times a week. Then a few times a month. Marisol knew that once a month or two passed without the world going sideways, she would have to go out and investigate. She would have to leave her friends at the Eastland School, and venture into a bleak world.
Sometimes, Marisol thought she had a duty to stay in the panic room, since she was personally keeping the human race alive. But then she thought: what if there was someone else living, and they needed help? Marisol was pre-med, she might be able to do something. What if there was a man, and Marisol could help him repopulate the species?
The panic room had nice blue leather walls and a carpeted floor that felt nice to walk on, and enough gourmet frozen dinners to last Marisol a few lifetimes. She only had the pair of shoes she'd brought in there with her, and it would seem weird to wear shoes after two barefoot years. The real world was in here, in the panic room—out there was nothing but an afterimage of a bad trip.
Marisol was an award-winning playwright, but that hadn't saved her from the end of the world. She was taking pre-med classes and trying to get a scholarship to med school so she could give cancer screenings to poor women in her native Taos, but that didn't save her either. Nor did the fact that she believed in God every other day.
What actually saved Marisol from the end of the world was the fact that she took a job cleaning Burton Henstridge's mansion to help her through school, and she'd happened to be scrubbing his fancy Japanese toilet when the quakes had started—within easy reach of Burton's state-of-the-art panic room. (She had found the hidden opening mechanism some weeks earlier, while cleaning the porcelain cat figurines.) Burton himself was in Bulgaria scouting a new location for a nano-fabrication facility, and had died instantly.
When Marisol let herself think about all the people she could never talk to again, she got so choked up she wanted to punch someone in the eye until they were blinded for life. She experienced grief in the form of freak-outs that left her unable to breathe or think, and then she popped in another Facts of Life. As she watched, she chewed her nails until she was in danger of gnawing off her fingertips.
The door to the panic room wouldn't actually open when Marisol finally decided it had been a couple months since the last quake and it was time to go the hell out there. She had to kick the door a few dozen times, until she dislodged enough of the debris blocking it to stagger out into the wasteland. The cold slapped her in the face and extremities, extra bitter after two years at room temperature. Burton's house was gone; the panic room was just a cube half-buried in the ruins, covered in some yellowy insulation that looked like it would burn your fingers.
Everything out there was white, like snow or paper, except powdery and brittle, ashen. She had a Geiger counter from the panic room, which read zero. She couldn't figure out what the hell had happened to the world, for a long time, until it hit her—this was fungus. Some kind of newly made, highly corrosive fungus that had rushed over everything like a tidal wave and consumed every last bit of organic material, then died. It had come in wave after wave, with incredible violence, until it had exhausted the last of its food supply and crushed everything to dust. She gleaned this from the consistency of the crud that had coated every bit of rubble, but also from the putrid sweet-and-sour smell that she could not stop smelling once she noticed it. She kept imagining that she saw the white powder starting to move out of the corner of her eye, advancing toward her, but when she would turn around there was nothing.
"The fungus would have all died out when there was nothing left for it to feed on," Marisol said aloud. "There's no way it could still be active." She tried to pretend some other person, an expert or something, had said that, and thus it was authoritative. The fungus was dead. It couldn't hurt her now.
Because if the fungus wasn't dead, then she was screwed—even if it didn't kill her, it would destroy the panic room and its contents. She hadn't been able to seal it properly behind her without locking herself out.
"Hello?" Marisol kept yelling, out of practice at trying to project her voice. "Anybody there? Anybody?"
She couldn't even make sense of the landscape. It was just blinding white, as far as she could see, with bits of blanched stonework jutting out. No way to discern streets or houses or cars or anything, because it had all been corroded or devoured.
She was about to go back to the panic room and hope it was still untouched, so she could eat another frozen lamb vindaloo and watch season three of Mad Men. And then she spotted something, a dot of color, a long way off in the pale ruins.
The bottle was a deep oaky green, like smoked glass, with a cork in it. And it was about twenty yards away, just sitting in one of the endless piles of white debris. Somehow, it had avoided being consumed or rusted or broken in the endless waves of fungal devastation. It looked as though someone had just put it down a second ago—in fact, Marisol's first response was to yell "Hello?" even louder than before.
When there was no answer, she picked up the bottle. In her hands, it felt bumpy, like an embossed label had been worn away, and there didn't seem to be any liquid inside. She couldn't see its contents, if there were any. She removed the cork.
A whoosh broke the dead silence. A sparkly mist streamed out of the bottle's narrow mouth—sparkling like the cheap glitter at the Arts and Crafts table at summer camp when Marisol was a little girl, misty like a smoke machine at a cheap nightclub—and it slowly resolved into a shape in front of her. A man, a little taller than she was and much bigger.
Marisol was so startled and grateful at no longer being alone that she almost didn't pause to wonder how this man had appeared out of nowhere, after she opened a bottle. A bottle that had survived when everything else was crushed. Then she did start to wonder, but the only explanations seemed too ludicrous to believe.
"Hello and congratulations," the man said in a pleasant tone. He looked Jewish and wore a cheap suit, in a style that reminded Marisol somewhat of the Mad Men episodes she'd just been watching. His dark hair fell onto his high forehead in lank strands, and he had a heavy beard shadow. "Thank you for opening my bottle. I am pleased to offer you three wishes." Then he looked around, and his already dour expression worsened. "Oh, fuck," he said. "Not again."
"Wait," Marisol said. "You're a— You're a genie?"
"I hate that term," the man said. "I prefer wish-facilitator. And for your information, I used to be just a regular person. I was the theater critic at The New York Times for six months in 1958, which I still think defines me much more than my current engagement does. But I tried to bamboozle the wrong individual, so I got stuck in a bottle and forced to grant wishes to anyone who opens it."
"You were a theater critic?" Marisol said. "I'm a playwright. I won a contest and had a play produced off-Broadway. Well, actually, I'm a pre-med student, and I clean houses for money. But in my off-off-hours, I'm a playwright, I guess."
"Oh," the man said. "Well, if you want me to tell you your plays are very good, then that will count as one of your three wishes. And honestly, I don't think you're going to benefit from good publicity very much in the current climate." He gestured around at the bleak white landscape around them. "My name was Richard Wolf, by the way."
"Marisol," she said. "Marisol Guzmán."
"Nice to meet you." He extended his hand, but didn't actually try to shake hers. She wondered if she would go right through him. She was standing in a world of stinky chalk talking to a self-loathing genie. After two years alone in a box, that didn't even seem weird, really.
So this was it. Right? She could fix everything. She could make a wish, and everything would be back the way it was. She could talk to Julie again, and apologize for hanging up on her. She could see Rod, and maybe figure out what they were to each other. She just had to say the words: "I wish." She started to speak, and then something Richard Wolf had said a moment earlier registered in her brain.
"Wait a minute," she said. "What did you mean, 'Not again?'"
"Oh, that." Richard Wolf swatted around his head with big hands, like he was trying to swat nonexistent insects. "I couldn't say. I mean, I can answer any question you want, but that counts as one of your wishes. There are rules."
"Oh," Marisol said. "Well, I don't want to waste a wish on a question. Not when I can figure this out on my own. You said 'not again,' the moment you saw all this. So, this isn't the first time this has happened. Your bottle can probably survive anything. Right? Because it's magic or something."
The dark green bottle still had a heft to it, even after she'd released its contents. She threw it at a nearby rock a few times. Not a scratch.
"So," she said. "The world ends, your bottle doesn't get damaged. If even one person survives, they find your bottle. And the first thing they wish for? Is for the world not to have ended."
Richard Wolf shrugged, but he also sort of nodded at the same time, like he was confirming her hunch. His feet were see-through, she noticed. He was wearing wing-tip shoes,that looked scuffed to the point of being scarred.
"The first time was in 1962," he said. "The Cuban Missile Crisis, they called it afterwards."
"This is not counting as one of my wishes, because I didn't ask a question," Marisol said.
"Fine, fine," Richard Wolf rolled his eyes. "I grew tired of listening to your harangue. When I was reviewing for the Times, I always tore into plays that had too many endless speeches. Your plays don't have a lot of monologues, do they? Fucking Brecht made everybody think three-page speeches were clever. Fucking Brecht."
"I didn't go in for too many monologues," Marisol said. "So. Someone finds your bottle, they wish for the apocalypse not to have happened, and then they probably make a second wish, to try and make sure it doesn't happen again. Except here we are, so it obviously didn't work the last time."
"I could not possibly comment," Richard Wolf said. "Although I should say that everyone gets the wrong idea about people in my line of work—meaning wish-facilitators, not theatre critics. People had the wrong idea when I was a theatre critic, too; they thought it was my job to promote the theatre, to put buns in seats, even for terrible plays. That was not my job at all."
"The theatre has been an endangered species for a long time," Marisol said, not without sympathy. She looked around the pasty-white, yeast-scented deathscape. A world of Wonder Bread. "I mean, I get why people want criticism that is essentially cheerleading, even if that doesn't push anybody to do their best work."
"Well, if you think of theatre as some sort of delicate flower that needs to be kept protected in some sort of hothouse"—and at this point, Wolf was clearly reprising arguments he'd had over and over again, when he was alive—"then you're going to end up with something that only the faithful few will appreciate, and you'll end up worsening the very marginalization that you're seeking to prevent."
Marisol was being very careful to avoid asking anything resembling a question, because she was probably going to need all three of her wishes. "I would guess that the job of a theatre critic is misunderstood in sort of the opposite way than the job of a genie," she said. "Everybody is afraid a theatre critic will be too brutally honest. But a genie . . ."
"Everybody thinks I'm out to swindle them!" Richard Wolf threw his hands in the air, thinking of all the tsuris he had endured. "When, in fact, it's always the client who can't express a wish in clear and straightforward terms. They always leave out crucial information. I do my best. It's like stage directions without any stage left or stage right. I interpret as best I can."
"Of course you do," Marisol said. This was all starting to creep her out, and her gratitude at having another person to talk to (who wasn't Mrs. Garrett) was getting driven out by her discomfort at standing in the bleached-white ruins of the world kibitzing about theatre criticism. She picked up the bottle from where it lay undamaged after hitting the rock, and found the cork.
"Wait a minute," Richard Wolf said. "You don't want to—"
He was sucked back inside the bottle before she finished putting the cork back in.
She reopened the bottle once she was back inside the panic room, with the door sealed from the inside. So nothing or nobody could get in. She watched three episodes of The Facts of Life, trying to get her equilibrium back, before she microwaved some sukiyaki and let Richard Wolf out again. He started the spiel about how he had to give her three wishes over again, then stopped and looked around.
"Huh." He sat and sort of floated an inch above the sofa. "Nice digs. Real calfskin on this sofa. Is this like a bunker?"
"I can't answer any of your questions," Marisol said, "or that counts as a wish you owe me."
"Don't be like that." Richard Wolf ruffled his two-tone lapels. "I'm just trying not to create any loopholes, because once there are loopholes it brings everybody grief in the end. Trust me, you wouldn't want the rules to be messy here." He rifled through the media collection until he found a copy of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, which he made a big show of studying until Marisol finally loaded it for him.
"This is better than I'd remembered," Richard Wolf said an hour later.
"Good to know," Marisol said. "I never got around to watching that one."
"I met Tennessee Williams, you know," Richard said. "He wasn't nearly as drunk as you might have thought."
"So here's what I figure. You do your level best to implement the wishes that people give you, to the letter," Marisol said. "So if someone says they want to make sure that a nuclear war never happens again, you do your best to make a nuclear war impossible. And then maybe that change leads to some other catastrophe, and then the next person tries to make some wishes that prevent that thing from happening again. And on, and on. Until this."
"This is actually the longest conversation I've had since I became a wish-facilitator." Richard crossed his leg, ankle over thigh. "Usually, it's just whomp-bomp-a-lula-three-wishes, and I'm back in the bottle. So tell me about your prize-winning play. If you want. I mean, it's up to you."
Marisol told Richard about her play, which seemed like something an acquaintance of hers had written many lifetimes ago. "It was a one-act," she said, "about a man who is trying to break up with his girlfriend, but every time he's about to dump her she does something to remind him why he used to love her. So he hires a male prostitute to seduce her, instead, so she'll cheat on him and he can have a reason to break up with her."
Richard was giving her a blank expression, as though he couldn't trust himself to show a reaction.
"It's a comedy," Marisol explained.
"Sorry," Richard said. "It sounds awful. He hires a male prostitute to sleep with his girlfriend. It sounds . . . I just don't know what to say."
"Well, you were a theatre critic in the 1950s, right? I guess it was a different era."
"I don't think that's the problem," Richard said. "It just sounds sort of . . . misanthropic. Or actually woman-hating. With a slight veneer of irony. I don't know. Maybe that's the sort of thing everybody is into these days—or was into, before the world ended yet again. This is something like the fifth or sixth time the world has ended. I am losing count, to be quite honest."
Marisol was put out that this fossil was casting aspersions on her play—her contest-winning play, in fact. But the longer she kept him talking, the more clues he dropped, without costing her any wishes. So she bit her lip.
"So. There were half a dozen apocalypses," Marisol said. "And I guess each of them was caused by people trying to prevent the last one from happening again, by making wishes. So that white stuff out there. Some kind of bioengineered corrosive fungus, I thought—but maybe it was created to prevent some kind of climate-related disaster. It does seem awfully reflective of sunlight."
"Oh, yes, it reflects sunlight just wonderfully," Richard said. "The temperature of the planet is going to be dropping a lot in the next decade. No danger of global warming now."
"Ha," Marisol said. "And you claim you're just doing the most straightforward job possible. You're addicted to irony. You sat through too many Brecht plays, even though you claim to hate him. You probably loved Beckett as well."
"All right-thinking people love Beckett," said Richard. "So you had some small success as a playwright, and yet you're studying to be a doctor. Or you were, before this unfortunate business. Why not stick with the theatre?"
"Is that a question?" Marisol said. Richard started to backpedal, but then she answered him anyway. "I wanted to help people, really help people. Live theatre reaches fewer and fewer people all the time, especially brand-new plays by brand-new playwrights. It's getting to be like poetry—nobody reads poetry any more. And meanwhile, poor people are dying of preventable cancers every day, back home in Taos. I couldn't fool myself that writing a play that twenty people saw would do as much good as screening a hundred people for cervical cancer."
Richard paused and looked her over. "You're a good person," he said. "I almost never get picked up by anyone who's actually not a terrible human being."
"It's all relative. My protagonist who hires a male prostitute to seduce his girlfriend considers himself a good person, too."
"Does it work? The male prostitute thing? Does she sleep with him?"
"Are you asking me a question?"
Wolf shrugged and rolled his eyes in that operatic way he did, which he'd probably practiced in the mirror. "I will owe you an extra wish. Sure. Why not. Does it work, with the gigolo?"
Marisol had to search her memory for a second, she had written that play in such a different frame of mind. "No. The boyfriend keeps feeding the male prostitute lines to seduce his girlfriend via a Bluetooth earpiece—it's meant to be a postmodern Cyrano de Bergerac—and she figures it out and starts using the male prostitute to screw with her boyfriend. In the end, the boyfriend and the male prostitute get together because the boyfriend and the male prostitute have seduced each other while flirting with the girlfriend."
Richard cringed on top of the sofa with his face in his insubstantial hands. "That's terrible," he said. "I can't believe I gave you an extra wish just to find that out."
"Wow, thanks. I can see why people hated you when you were a theatre critic."
"Sorry! I mean, maybe it was better on the stage; I bet you have a flair for dialogue. It just sounds so . . . hackneyed. I mean, postmodern Cyrano de Bergerac? I heard all about postmodernism from this one graduate student who opened my bottle in the early 1990s, and it sounded dreadful. If I wasn't already sort of dead, I would be slitting my wrists. You really did make a wise choice, becoming a doctor."
"Screw you." Marisol decided to raid the relatively tiny liquor cabinet in the panic room, and poured herself a generous vodka. "You're the one who's been living in a bottle. So. All of this is your fault." She waved her hand, indicating the devastation outside the panic room. "You caused it all, with some excessively ironic wish-granting."
"That's a very skewed construction of events. If the white sludge was caused by a wish that somebody made—and I'm not saying it was—then it's not my fault. It's the fault of the wisher."
"Okay," Marisol said. Richard drew to attention, thinking she was finally ready to make her first wish. Instead, she said, "I need to think," and put the cork back in the bottle.
Marisol watched a season and a half of I Dream of Jeannie, which did not help at all. She ate some delicious beef stroganoff and drank more vodka. She slept and watched TV and slept and drank coffee and ate an omelet. She had no circadian rhythm to speak of anymore.
She had four wishes, and the overwhelming likelihood was that she would foul them up, and maybe next time there wouldn't be one person left alive to find the bottle and fix her mistake.
This was pretty much exactly like trying to cure a patient, Marisol realized. You give someone a medicine which fixes their disease but causes deadly side effects. Or reduces the patient's resistance to other infections. You didn't just want to get rid of one pathogen, you wanted to help the patient reach homeostasis again. Except that the world was an infinitely more complex system than a single human being. And then again, making a big wish was like writing a play, with the entire human race as players. Bleh.
She could wish that the bioengineered fungus had never dissolved the world, but then she would be faced with whatever climate disaster the fungus had prevented. She could make a blanket wish that the world would be safe from global disasters for the next thousand years—and maybe unleash a millennium of stagnation. Or worse, depending on the slippery definition of "safe."
She guessed that wishing for a thousand wishes wouldn't work—in fact, that kind of shenanigans might be how Richard Wolf wound up where he was now.
The media server in the panic room had a bazillion movies and TV episodes about the monkey paw, the wishing ring, the magic fountain, the Faustian bargain, the djinn, the vengeance-demon, and so on. So she had plenty of time to soak up the accumulated wisdom of the human race on the topic of making wishes, which amounted to a pile of clichés. Maybe she would have done more good as a playwright than as a doctor, after all—clichés were like plaque in the arteries of the imagination, they clogged the sense of what was possible. Maybe if enough people had worked to demolish clichés, the world wouldn't have ended.
Marisol and Richard sat and watched The Facts of Life together. Richard kept complaining and saying things like, "This is worse than being trapped inside a bottle." But he also seemed to enjoy complaining about it.
"This show kept me marginally sane when I was the only person on Earth," Marisol said. "I still can't wrap my mind around what happened to the human race. So, you are conscious of the passage of time when you're inside the bottle." She was very careful to avoid phrasing anything as a question.
"It's very strange," Richard said. "When I'm in the bottle, it's like I'm in a sensory deprivation tank, except not particularly warm. I float, with no sense of who or where I am, but meanwhile another part of me is getting flashes of awareness of the world. But I can't control them. I might be hyperaware of one ant carrying a single crumb up a stem of grass, for an eternity, or I might just have a vague sense of clouds over the ocean, or some old woman's aches and pains. It's like hyper-lucid dreaming, sort of."
"Shush," said Marisol. "This is the good part—Jo is about to lay some Brooklyn wisdom on these spoiled rich girls."
The episode ended, and another episode started right away. You take the good, you take the bad. Richard groaned loudly. "So what's your plan, if I may ask? You're just going to sit here and watch television for another few years?" He snorted.
"I have no reason to hurry," Marisol said. "I can spend a decade coming up with the perfect wishes. I have tons of frozen dinners."
At last, she took pity on Richard and found a stash of PBS American Playhouse episodes on the media server, plus other random theatre stuff. Richard really liked Caryl Churchill, but didn't care for Alan Ayckbourn. He hated Wendy Wasserstein. Eventually, she put him back in his bottle again.
Marisol started writing down possible draft wishes in one of the three blank journals that she'd found in a drawer. (Burton had probably expected to record his thoughts, if any, for posterity.) And then she started writing a brand-new play, instead. The first time she'd even tried, in a few years.
Her play was about a man—her protagonists were always men—who moves to the big city to become a librarian, and winds up working for a strange old lady, tending her collection of dried-out leaves from every kind of tree in the world. Pedro is so shy, he can't even speak to more than two people, but so beautiful that everybody wants him to be a fashion model. He pays an optometrist to put drops in his eyes, so he won't see the people photographing and lighting him when he models. She had no clue how this play was going to end, but she felt a responsibility to finish it. That's what Mrs. Garrett would expect.
She was still stung by the idea that her prize-winning play was dumb, or worse yet kind of misogynistic. She wished she had an actual copy of that play, so she could show it to Richard and he would realize her true genius. But she didn't wish that out loud, of course. And maybe this was the kick in the ass she needed to write a better play. A play that made sense of some of this mess.
"I've figured it out," she told Richard the next time she opened his bottle. "I've figured out what happened those other times. Someone finds your bottle after the apocalypse, and they get three wishes. So the first wish is to bring the world back and reverse the destruction. The second wish is to make sure it doesn't happen again. But then they still have one wish left. And that's the one where they do something stupid and selfish, like wishing for irresistible sex appeal."
"Or perfect hair," said Richard Wolf, doing his patented eye-roll and air-swat.
"Or unlimited wealth. Or fame."
"Or everlasting youth and beauty. Or the perfect lasagna recipe."
"They probably figured they deserved it," Marisol stared at the pages of scribbles in her hands. One set of diagrams mapping out her new, as-yet-unnamed play. A second set of diagrams trying to plan out the wish-making process, act by act. Her own scent clung to every surface in the panic room, the recirculated and purified air smelled like the inside of her own mouth. "I mean, they saved the world, right? So they've earned fame or sex or parties. Except I bet that's where it all goes wrong."
"That's an interesting theory," said Wolf, arms folded and head tilted to one side, like he was physically restraining himself from expressing an opinion.
Marisol threw out almost every part of her new play, except the part about her main character needing to be temporarily vision-impaired so he can model. That part seemed to speak to her, once she cleared away the clutter about the old woman and the leaves and stuff. Pedro stands, nearly nude, in a room full of people doing makeup and lighting and photography and catering and they're all blurs to him. And he falls in love with one woman, but he only knows her voice, not her face. And he's afraid to ruin it by learning her name, or seeing what she looks like.
By now, Marisol had confused the two processes in her mind. She kept thinking she would know what to wish for, as soon as she finished writing her play. She labored over the first scene for a week before she had the nerve to show it to Richard, and he kept narrowing his eyes and breathing loudly through his nose as he read it. But then he said it was actually a promising start, actually not terrible at all.
The mystery woman phones Pedro up, and he recognizes her voice instantly. So now he has her phone number, and he agonizes about calling her. What's he afraid of, anyway? He decides his biggest fear is that he'll go out on a date with the woman, and people will stare at the two of them. If the woman is as beautiful as Pedro, they'll stare because it's two beautiful people together. If she's plain-looking, they'll stare because they'll wonder what he sees in her. When Pedro eats out alone, he has a way of shrinking in on himself, so nobody notices him. But he can't do that on a date.
At last, Pedro calls her and they talk for hours. On stage, she is partially hidden from the audience, so they, too, can't see what the woman looks like.
"It's a theme in your work, hmmm?" Richard Wolf sniffed. "The hidden person, the flirting through a veil. The self-loathing narcissistic love affair."
"I guess so," Marisol said. "I'm interested in people who are seen, and people who see, and the female gaze, and whatever."
She finished the play, and then it occurred to her that if she made a wish that none of this stuff had happened, her new play could be un-written as a result. When the time came to make her wishes, she rolled up the notebook and tucked it into her waistband of her sweatpants, hoping against hope that anything on her immediate person would be preserved when the world was rewritten.
In the end Pedro agrees to meet the woman, Susanna, for a drink. But he gets some of the eye-dilating drops from his optometrist friend. He can't decide whether to put the drops in his eyes before the date—he's in the men's room at the bar where they're meeting, with the bottle in his hand, dithering—and then someone disturbs him and he accidentally drops the bottle in the toilet. And Susanna turns out to be pretty, not like a model but more distinctive. She has a memorable face, full of life. She laughs a lot, Pedro stops feeling shy around her. And Pedro discovers that if he looks into Susanna's eyes when he's doing his semi-nude modeling, he no longer needs the eye drops to shut out the rest of the world.
"It's a corny ending," Marisol admitted. "But I like it."
Richard Wolf shrugged. "Anything is better than unearned ambivalence." Marisol decided that was a good review, coming from him.
Here's what Marisol wished:
1) I wish this apocalypse and all previous apocalypses had never happened, and that all previous wishes relating to the apocalypse had never been wished.
2) I wish that there was a slight alteration in the laws of probability as relating to apocalyptic scenarios, so that if, for example, an event threatening the survival of the human race has a ten percent chance of happening, that ten percent chance just never comes up, and yet this does not change anything else in the material world.
3) I wish that I, and my designated heirs, will keep possession of this bottle, and will receive ample warning before any apocalyptic scenario comes up, so that we will have a chance to make the final wish.
She had all three wishes written neatly on a sheet of paper torn out of the notebook, and Richard Wolf scrutinized it a couple times, scratching his ear. "That's it?" he said at last. "You do realize that I can make anything real. Right? You could create a world of giant snails and tiny people. You could make The Facts of Life the most popular TV show in the world for the next thousand years—which would, incidentally, ensure the survival of the human race, since there would have to be somebody to keep watching The Facts of Life. You could do anything."
Marisol shook her head. "The only way to make sure we don't end up back here again is to keep it simple." And then, before she lost her nerve, she picked up the sheet of paper where she'd written down her three wishes, and she read them aloud.
Everything went cheaply glittery around Marisol, and the panic room reshaped into The Infinite Ristretto, a trendy café that just happened to be roughly the same size and shape as the panic room. The blue-leather walls turned to brown brick, with brass fixtures and posters for the legendary all-nude productions of Mamet's Oleanna and Marsha Norman's 'night, Mother.
All around Marisol, friends whose names she'd forgotten were hunched over their laptops, publicly toiling over their confrontational one-woman shows and chamber pieces. Her best friend Julia was in the middle of yelling at her, freckles almost washed out by her reddening face.
"Fuck doctors," Julia was shouting, loud enough to disrupt the whole room.
"Theatre is a direct intervention. It's like a cultural ambulance. Actors are like paramedics. Playwrights are surgeons, man."
Marisol was still wearing Burton's stained business shirt and sweatpants, but somehow she'd gotten a pair of flip-flops. The green bottle sat on the rickety white table nearby. Queen was playing on the stereo, and the scent of overpriced coffee was like the armpit of God.
Julia's harangue choked off in the middle, because Marisol was giving her the biggest stage hug in the universe, crying into Julia's green-streaked hair and thanking all her stars that they were here together. By now, everyone was staring at them, but Marisol didn't care. Something fluttery and heavy fell out of the waistband of her sweatpants. A notebook.
"I have something amazing to tell you, Jools," Marisol breathed in Julia's ear. She wanted to ask if Obama was still president and the Cold War was still over and stuff, but she would find out soon enough and this was more important. "Jools, I wrote a new play. It's all done. And it's going to change everything." Hyperbole was how Marisol and Julia and all their friends communicated. "Do you want to read it?"
"Are you seriously high?" Julia pulled away, then saw the notebook on the floor between their feet. Curiosity took over, and she picked it up and started to read.
Marisol borrowed five bucks and got herself a pour-over while Julia sat, knees in her face, reading the play. Every few minutes, Julia glanced up and said, "Well, okay," in a grudging tone, as if Marisol might not be past saving after all.
"As Good As New" copyright © 2014 by Charlie Jane Anders
First published on Tor.com


text:
Q: where is my HTTP request wrong? Every time i submit the code below, i get this error. I'm new on Node.js and i'm trying to deploy a weather function with a simple api interaction (example in this page link).
Error: getaddrinfo ENOTFOUND api.worldweatheronline.com
api.worldweatheronline.com:80
at errnoException (dns.js:28:10)
at GetAddrInfoReqWrap.onlookup [as oncomplete] (dns.js:76:26)

'use strict';
const http = require('http');
const host = 'api.worldweatheronline.com';
const wwoApiKey = 'here i write my api key';
exports.weatherWebhook = (req, res) => {
  // Get the city and date from the request
  let city = req.body.result.parameters['geo-city']; // city is a required param
  // Get the date for the weather forecast (if present)
  let date = '';
  if (req.body.result.parameters['date']) {
    date = req.body.result.parameters['date'];
    console.log('Date: ' + date);
  }
  // Call the weather API
  callWeatherApi(city, date).then((output) => {
    // Return the results of the weather API to Dialogflow
    res.setHeader('Content-Type', 'application/json');
    res.send(JSON.stringify({ 'speech': output, 'displayText': output }));
  }).catch((error) => {
    // If there is an error let the user know
    res.setHeader('Content-Type', 'application/json');
    res.send(JSON.stringify({ 'speech': error, 'displayText': error }));
  });
};
function callWeatherApi (city, date) {
  return new Promise((resolve, reject) => {
    // Create the path for the HTTP request to get the weather
    let path = '/premium/v1/weather.ashx?format=json&num_of_days=1' +
      '&q=' + encodeURIComponent(city) + '&key=' + wwoApiKey + '&date=' + date;
    console.log('API Request: ' + host + path);
    // Make the HTTP request to get the weather
    http.get({host: host, path: path}, (res) => {
      let body = ''; // var to store the response chunks
      res.on('data', (d) => { body += d; }); // store each response chunk
      res.on('end', () => {
        // parsing and submit the response (not included in this code)
..
        // Resolve the promise with the output text
        console.log(output);
        resolve(output);
      });
      res.on('error', (error) => {
        reject(error);
      });
    });
  });
}

How could i resolve it? Seems that my http request is wrong.

A: Firstly, this looks suspiciously like the issue reported here (getaddrinfo ENOTFOUND API Google Cloud) which was a billing account set up; and I notice that you are using the premium API.
For that reason, and because the code is incomplete it is not possible to try debugging the code.
If the output of the console.() statements were included it might help.
The source of this kind of error is often the local networking environment. To rule this out I'd try:

*

*Running working example, even using the free API from https://developer.worldweatheronline.com/api/code-examples.aspx, and/or

*Trying your code example from a different machine on a different network.

Also, I'm not sure that the ping suggestion proves anything. Plenty of hosts won't respond to ping.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<project version="4">
  <component name="PublishConfigData" serverName="ytforum">
    <serverData>
      <paths name="ytforum">
        <serverdata>
          <mappings>
            <mapping local="$PROJECT_DIR$" web="/public" />
          </mappings>
        </serverdata>
      </paths>
    </serverData>
  </component>
</project>


Fashion is indubitably one of the most intimidating and exclusive industries to ever exist. It's often mocked in films for being too materialistic (ie. The Devil Wears Prada) and rejected by many for its superficial allure. The truth is that, like any other industry, fashion has an enormous importance in the world we live in today as it informs the current state of our society and generates trillions of dollars a year.
Is fashion an exclusive clique of artsy weirdos who love to reference Victorian era style while watching an Armani show? Yes. Is it an industry that exudes glamour? Yes. But most importantly, it's an industry made up of hard-working individuals who have taken their passion for art and clothing to all aspects of the business. Furthermore, it takes a specific type of humor and sarcasm to be able to penetrate this circle as a complete outsider. One that I have not been able to master yet, but have come one step closer thanks to Amy Odell, editor of Cosmopolitan.com.
As the first fashion blogger of The Cut, Odell was a complete ignorant to the industry before starting to navigate fashion weeks and have lunch with Adriana Lima. (I can relate since I was 17 the first time I met the glamazon!) Still, she proves that there is beauty in being an outsider in an industry so alluring and exclusive: the ability to observe and analyze its irreverence from a distance without being absorbed completely.
In her first book Tales from the Back Row, Amy narrates how she managed to get an inside ticket to Anna Wintour's office and interviews with Rachel Zoe and Sarah Jessica Parker. Moreover, she demonstrates an incredible capacity to not take the industry or herself very seriously and impart some words of wisdom to aspiring fashion writers like myself.
After reading her book, it's difficult to imagine the tall, red-headed, chic editor to ever feel awkward inside the industry. I met Amy last November at the Cosmo Fun Fearless Life conference and felt exactly like her when interviewing with Anna Wintour: intimidated. It gives me hope to think one day I won't be an outsider anymore.
A million girls would kill for this job, but that doesn't mean I should also. Faced with the opportunity to work as a fashion writer at Vogue (aka Fashion's Bible), Odell realized that, even though it was the job she was supposed to desire, it wasn't the position for her. In the end, she didn't get the job, which did not deter her from moving on to places more well-suited for her humor and personality (ie. BuzzFeed and Cosmo).
Never judge an industry from the outside. "They say a picture is worth a thousand words- they're wrong; in fashion, it's actually worth a thousand people". An industry is much more than its outside image. There are real people who work inside of it, hard-working people, I might add.
"So a boss asking you to leave a job – and it's probably one you hate; most people who get fired don't love the thing that they're getting fired from- only saves you the extreme awkwardness of actually quitting." Getting fired or rejected is not the end of the world. It might be the start of it.
"Marketing oneself is a vital part of the fashion industry." (Or any industry, I might add.) Shameless self-promotion is vital in today's digitally consumed world. No one will pay attention unless you believe you are worth it. Humble bragging your accomplishments and projects is not shameful.
"Roitfeld lesson number four: do not act like you think about your clothes."Simplicity and effortlessness goes a long way in fashion- and life.
"Better to elicit a negative reaction than to elicit no reaction." To exist undercover is no life to live.


The District of Columbia Society, Sons of the American Revolution is committed to honoring the brave legacy of our forefathers in their quest for American independence. With continuing commemorations, programs, and other activities aimed at inculcating an appreciation of America's Revolutionary heritage, particularly among young people, DCSSAR takes pride in over history of service to the Washington, DC community.
If you are a male descendant of a patriot in the American Revolution, we would welcome your application for membership! For more information on our society or for assistance in preparing your application to join the Society, click on the links above.
Designed by Griswold & Company for DCSSAR. All Rights Reserved DCSSAR 2015.
© DCSSAR 2016. All Rights Reserved. Designed by Griswold & Company for DCSSAR.


Hands On Healing understands the importance of keeping your body properly hydrated. Please contact us if you have any questions or need additional information.
Drinking water is by no means a new concept, and it could even be considered a bit of a redundant speech to discuss the subject.
Almost everyone knows that the human body is more than 65% water, and the average person will suffer serious health problems within only days without it.
Given that most people know how important staying hydrated is, and they are aware that they need to do better, this article will cover some of the pertinent details of water and its influence on bodily health.
Although anyone could easily do an internet search for information regarding drinking water, it's easy to get lost in the plethora of mixed information.
How Much Water Do I Need Each Day?
Most people are likely familiar with the classic eight, 8-ounce glasses of water a day.
However, the more widely accepted viewpoint today on proper fluid intake is half a person's bodyweight in ounces to stay properly hydrated.
What other concepts have changed, and what does the research show?
In the last few years researchers have come to the realization that because of poor diet and lack of water intake, much of the population is likely suffering from chronic, low level dehydration, leading to a general weakening of the body's internal cellular environment.
This could contribute to any number of health problems, such as digestive issues and poor nutrient uptake, respiratory dysfunctions and skin conditions.
A recent research article investigated the effects of dehydration on collagen fibers, the tissue that predominately makes up fascia.
What they discovered is that as water was extracted from collagen in tendons (fascia), the change in the tissue exerted tremendous force on the body, up to 300 times that of a muscle!
This remarkable discovery has the potential to vastly change the fields of bodywork and manual therapies, and it helps to settle some very long-held controversies over the validity of fascia being a contributing factor in some health conditions.
With the now-recognized effects that water has on fascial tissues, it is becoming even more essential that everyone begins to take the appropriate measures to ensure they are fully hydrated.
How Long Does It Take to Hydrate?
Another great research point has a bit to say on what it takes to properly hydrate.
This means that the perception that someone needs to drink heavy amounts of fluid throughout the entire day to keep hydrated is no longer necessary, and in fact an occasional stop at the water cooler may be enough to help combat the effects of chronic dehydration.
In some instances, it is very possible that the average person may not be actually absorbing the water they are drinking into their cells.
This is because of the balance of electrolytes that the body uses to properly conduct osmosis, the movement of water into a cell, while also removing waste products.
While many commercially available drinks can be used to get electrolytes into the body, there are a number of at-home recipes that can be made that don't contain as much sugar.
Check out the recipe we've provided below!
Combine the ingredients below over low heat until fully mixed, then cool and store in fridge till ready!
Other options and combinations can be found through a simple internet search. Enjoy!


text:
Central station is a common name for a railway station.

Central Station may also refer to:

Railway stations

Africa
Maputo Central Railway Station, Mozambique

Asia

Australia
Central railway station, Brisbane
Central railway station, Sydney
Gawler Central railway station, Adelaide
Wynnum Central railway station, Brisbane

Hong Kong
Central station (MTR), on the MTR metro system

India
 Chennai Central railway station
 Chennai Central metro station
 Mangalore Central railway station
 Mumbai Central railway station
 Mumbai Central metro station
 Central metro station, of Kolkata Metro Line 1, in Kolkata
 Central Park metro station, of Kolkata Metro Line 2, in Kolkata

Malaysia
Kuala Lumpur Central Railway Station (LRT, MRT, Airport Line, bus and monorail)
Putrajaya Central Station (MRT, Airport Line, bus and proposed tram)
Kepong Central Station (Commuter and MRT)
Penang Central Station (Bus, ferry and proposed LRT and HSR)
Johor Bahru Central Railway Station (RTS, BRT, bus and CIQ to Singapore)
Kwasa Central MRT Station (MRT and bus hub)

Philippines
Central Terminal station (Line 1), in Manila

Taiwan
Central Signal railway station, in Shihzih Township, Pingtung County

Thailand
 Bang Sue Central Station
 Bangkok Railway Station

Europe

Belgium
Antwerpen-Centraal railway station, in Antwerp
Brussels Central Station

Denmark
Aarhus Central Station, in Aarhus
Copenhagen Central Station, in Copenhagen

Finland
Helsinki Central railway station
Central Railway Station metro station (Helsinki)

Netherlands
Amsterdam Centraal station
Amersfoort Centraal railway station
Arnhem Centraal railway station
Den Haag Centraal railway station (line E)
Eindhoven Centraal railway station
Leiden Centraal railway station
Rotterdam Centraal station (lines D and E)
Utrecht Centraal railway station

Norway
Oslo Central Station, in Oslo
Trondheim Central Station, in Trondheim

United Kingdom
Belfast Central railway station, now named Lanyon Place railway station
Birkenhead Central railway station
Burnley Central railway station
Cardiff Central railway station
Central railway station (London), closed
Coatbridge Central railway station
Dumbarton Central railway station
Exeter Central railway station
Finchley Central tube station
Folkestone Central railway station
Gainsborough Central railway station
Glasgow Central station
Gravesend railway station, once called Gravesend Central
Greenock Central railway station
Hackney Central railway station
Hamilton Central railway station
Heathrow Central railway station
Helensburgh Central railway station
Hendon Central tube station
Hounslow Central tube station
Hyde Central railway station
Leicester Central railway station
Lincoln Central railway station
Liverpool Central railway station
Manchester Central railway station
Milton Keynes Central railway station
New Mills Central railway station
Newcastle railway station, formerly Newcastle Central
Central Station Metro station (Tyne and Wear Metro)
Partick Central railway station, (closed)
Redcar Central railway station
Rugby Central railway station, (closed)
Rotherham Central railway station
St Helens Central railway station
St Helens Central (GCR) railway station
Southend Central railway station
Southampton Central railway station
Telford Central railway station
Tunbridge Wells railway station, once called Tunbridge Wells Central
Walthamstow Central station
Warrington Central railway station
Wembley Central station
Windsor & Eton Central railway station
Wrexham Central railway station

North America

Canada
Central station (Edmonton), Alberta
Coquitlam Central station, British Columbia
Kitchener Central Station, Ontario
Ottawa Central Station, a former intercity bus station (closed)
Montreal Central Station, Quebec
Pacific Central Station, Vancouver, British Columbia
Surrey Central station, British Columbia

Cuba
Havana Central railway station

Mexico
Central metro station (Monterrey)
Eje Central metro station, Mexico City

United States
Arizona
Central Station, in Phoenix
California
Central Station (Los Angeles), in Los Angeles
Florida
Central station (Jacksonville Skyway), in Jacksonville
Illinois
Central Station, Chicago, a neighborhood in Chicago
Central Station (Chicago terminal), in Chicago
Central station (CTA Green Line), in Chicago
Central station (CTA Congress Line), in Chicago
Central station (CTA Purple Line), in Evanston
Grand Central Station (Chicago), station for Baltimore and Ohio and other railroads, to 1969
Great Central Station, station in Chicago for Illinois Central and other railroads in the latter half of the nineteenth century
Kentucky
Central Station (Louisville), in Louisville
Massachusetts
South Station, in Boston, (at one point called South Central Station)
Central Station, a proposed station in Boston
Central station (MBTA), in Cambridge
Central Avenue station (MBTA), in Milton
Minnesota
Central station (Metro Transit), in St. Paul
Michigan
Michigan Central Station, in Detroit
New York
Buffalo Central Terminal, in Buffalo
Grand Central Terminal, in New York City
Central Avenue station (BMT Myrtle Avenue Line), in Brooklyn
Tennessee
Memphis Central Station, in Memphis
Texas
Fort Worth Central Station, in Fort Worth
Central Station (Houston), in Houston

South America

Argentina
Central Station (Buenos Aires), former railway station

Brazil
Central station (Belo Horizonte Metro)
Central station (Federal District Metro)

Other uses

Structures, establishments
Central Station (Sebring, Florida), U.S., a historic fire station
Central Police Station (Hong Kong) or Tai Kwun, a cultural and shopping destination
Alarm monitoring center, also called a central monitoring station
Power stations used to be referred to as central stations, particularly in the United States
Central Station (gay club, Moscow, Russia), a bar and night club in Moscow
Central Station (gay club, Saint-Petersburg, Russia), a bar and night club in Saint Petersburg

Art and literature
 Central Station (film), a 1998 Brazilian film by Walter Salles
 "Central Station", a song by May-a from the 2021 EP Don't Kiss Ur Friends
 "Central Station", a song by the Boat People from the 2005 album Yesyesyesyesyes
 "Central Station", a song by Skipping Girl Vinegar from the 2011 album Keep Calm Carry the Monkey
 Central Station, a 2016 novel by Lavie Tidhar
 Central Station Records, an Australian dance music label

Other
Central Station (online service), a network gaming portal for the PlayStation 2
Central Station Design, a design company in Manchester, England

See also
 Central Bus Station (disambiguation), a list of bus stations containing the word "Central"
 Grand Central Station (disambiguation)
 Central Terminal (disambiguation)

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


The apparatus is ideal for testing the scuff resistance of two different sized specimens that are 2 inches and 4.5 inches.
The appliance is also supplied with two different dead weights of 1 psi + 1 psi value that are used for exerting an extra load on the specimen during the test.
The instrument is also equipped with a digital timer that helps in the accurate setting of the test cycle timings for up to 999 hours.
The machine is also provided with a chrome finish which makes it corrosion free.
An electrical supply of 220 volts 50 Hz is required by the instrument for operating.
The machine is ideal for testing for analyzing the scuff resistance offered by various materials such as cardboard, paper, printed labels, corrugated sheets and many others.
The equipment is incorporated into an ergonomic design which helps in the easy, safe and simple operation of the equipment.
The machine is also given with an automatic buzzer that is triggered by the completion of the test.
The sturdy design of machine makes it best for the stubborn working environment of the industries.
Used for testing the scuff resistance of products such as packaging boxes, printed boxes, labels, and paper.
The machine can be used for determining the quality of the inks used in packaging orienting.
It can also be used for testing the scuff resistance of the glossy covers of the magazines.


text:
Growing your own marijuana in Colorado: Legal…
Growing your own marijuana in Colorado: Legal doesn't mean simple
Grow from seed or from cuttings? The advantage to growing marijuana plants from seed is that you'll know that they're not infested with common indoor-gardeing pests. The downside: Plants will have to grow for about a month before you can tell whether they're male or female. Only female plants produce flowers.
On Jan. 1, 2014, licensed marijuana dealers will also be able to sell plants or seeds for cannabis. But those wanting to grow their own are likely to have to seek out cultivation advice from hydroponics stores, because some regular garden centers are shying away from the subject.
These marijuana seeds will grow into plants that are male or female. A lighting trick - switching lights to yellow ones that daily cycle on for 12 hours, off for 12, tells female plants that it's autumn and time to flower.
LAFAYETTE, CO - DECEMBER 16 : Ben Holmes at his Centennial Seeds where he is licensed to cultivate marijuana seeds for Colorado growers on Monday, December 16, 2013. He was holding a collection of 8,000 heirloom Nepalese Highland Sativa seeds.
By Claire Martin | The Denver Post
PUBLISHED: December 23, 2013 at 6:46 a.m. | UPDATED: October 2, 2016 at 4:27 p.m.
Once you've exhausted the jokes about green thumbs, red eyes, and the hilarity of growing weed instead of blooms, the questions remain about how to go about growing your own marijuana, if you want to.
Amendment 64 allows home cultivation of marijuana, up to six plants per adult. (Denver's rules allow a household of two or more adults to cultivate a total of a dozen cannabis plants.) That's going to appeal to those partakers who are old enough to be leery about openly buying a substance that still remains, on the federal level, strictly illegal.
And it's going to appeal to many who live in a Colorado town or county that doesn't allow retail stores — and there are quite a few of those, especially on the Eastern Plains. Even within the county of Denver, the retail marijuana scene is a confusing patchwork: Legal in Glendale, but not in Englewood; legal in Denver but not yet in Edgewater.
Even in jurisdictions that don't allow retail marijuana shops, it's legal to grow your own on your own property, within the specifications of Amendment 64.
But for home growers, there's been the problem of where to acquire seeds or cuttings. Unless they received it as a gift, they couldn't obtain cannabis plant material without risking a step on the wrong side of the law. That changes on Jan. 1 when retail marijuana shops will open and can legally sell plants and seed.
Still, it's not like home growers can call a Colorado State University extension agent for growing advice; those experts are prohibited from answering any questions related to marijuana. Even though Amendment 64 specifically allows advice on growing marijuana, greenhouse and nursery staff often shy away from the subject.
"It's crazy," said Sharon Harris, executive director of the Colorado Nursery and Greenhouse Association.
"We started getting those calls when the bill first passed for medical marijuana, and our attorney advised us not to talk about it. It's legal in Colorado, but still a federal offense. We're waiting to see how the legal retail sales work out, but our position will not change until the U.S. attorney general says, 'OK, here's the deal.' It's quite a quagmire."
So don't expect help from the usual horticultural resources. Instead, look at hydroponic indoor gardening retail outlets, and start-ups like Cannabis University, which offers a $250 one-day class in possessing and growing marijuana.
Be advised: Under the law, growing your own marijuana requires keeping your plants in an "enclosed, locked space" that is not open or public. That's pretty broadly-written, but a safe interpretation would mean a basement room or closet that can be locked.
No more than three of your plants can be in the flowering stage at one time. And it remains illegal to sell marijuana you grow.
To answer basic questions for novice pot-growers (potters?), we interviewed George Archambault, owner of MileHydro, Ben Holmes of Centennial Seeds, and Michelle LaMay of Cannabis University.
Q: What will I need to start growing weed?
Holmes: The basics are one container per plant; potting soil; fertilizer; a good-quality grow light; and seeds.
Archambault: Ideally, you'll have a controlled environment, with fresh air coming in through a ventilation system and exhaust air going out the opposite end of the room, because plants don't do well in stagnant air. If you use a controlled environment like a tent or cabinet, you'll want a thermostat to make sure the room stays at the same temperature instead of getting too hot.
LaMay: A grow light with a vegging bulb and flowering bulb, a controlled environment, like a room or a tent; nutrient supplements; an outside air source; a carbon filter; a thermometer; an oscillating fan to move the air about; a can fan to pull air out through the carbon filter; timers; a PH tester for the water; a five-gallon water container; pots; growing medium; tarps for the floor, even with a grow tent; and only highest-quality extension cords, if you must use extension cords at all.
Q: So what'll that cost?
Holmes: For a very basic set-up, around $500. Figure $20 for the containers, $40 or so for the soil, another $40 for the fertilizer and nutrients, $300 for a decent grow light, another $100 for a vegging bulb and a flowering bulb. Figure on spending $5 to $10 per seed, but prices vary widely. Some seeds cost $1,000 apiece.
Archambault: Five hundred is cutting a lot of corners. I'd say more like $1,000.
Q: Does it make more sense to try to grow hydroponically?
Archambault: I don't advise new growers to start right in with hydroponics. That means spending at least $1,000 on equipment, and that's a lot for a beginner. And you're out all that money if you're not successful.
Q: How much space would a $500 dirt set-up require?
Holmes: That'd be for a 4-by-4-foot area, so you'll need only one grow light, plus one grow light with a white-blue vegging light bulb and an orange-red flowering light bulb.
Q: What's a "vegging light bulb"?
Holmes: In indoor gardens, you mimic the spring and summer growing period with a light that's on the white/blue spectrum. In the vegging state, you're encouraging the plant to produce leaves, with a goal of growing the plant to half the size you want it to be when you harvest it. The rule of thumb is giving the plant 18 hours of light in the vegging [short for vegetative growth] stage. So if you want a 3-foot-tall plant at the harvest stage, you want to veg it until the plant is a foot and a half tall.
Q: Then what?
Holmes: When it reaches half the size you want it to be, then you have to trick it into flowering by making the plant think it's fall. The flower is what people want from a marijuana plant, because you harvest the flower buds. So then you switch to the orange-red light bulb. That makes the plant think it's fall, and it will induce flowering. During the flowering stage, you'll want to give it 12 hours of light on, and rest it in the dark for 12 hours.
Q: That sounds like a ton of work. Is it easier to start with cuttings?
LaMay: Cuttings are easily accessible from friends or the medical marijuana dispensary or, soon, the retail store. They are about $10 each. They must be quarantined and doused aggressively with organic neem oil over 20 days.
Archambault: Start from seeds. I've never met anyone who bought a clone from a dispensary that wasn't infested with spider mites or powdery mildew. It's an indoor growing issue. The worst thing you can do is buy a plant that has a lot of insects.
Holmes: No! Start with seeds. We urge people not to buy cuttings, and my dispensary clients will hate me for saying that, but the worst thing you can do is buy their cuttings because they're infested.
Q: Where can I buy seeds?
Archambault: After Jan.1, 2014, you can buy cannabis seeds in Colorado without a medical marijuana card. Seeds, and cuttings, will be sold at state-licensed marijuana retail stores. But remember, you can't tell whether a seed is male or female. You have to wait until it germinates. It takes about a month to see the telltale signs of the first budding flowers. The males only grow leaves.
Q: Why does it matter whether the seed is male or female?
Holmes: Only the female seeds produce flowers, which is the crop you want. Some companies sell what they call "feminized seeds" that have a higher probability of being female. But regularly-bred seeds is what we recommend.
Q: Is growing marijuana comparable to starting tomatoes or other garden plants?
Holmes: Yes, it's like growing a tomato. Marijuana is a plant that's very sensitive to over-feeding. You need to lime the soil, because they don't like acid soil. And I just use Miracle-Gro. I use that on everything. If you ate my tomatoes or zucchini, or smoked my weed, you'd come back for more. You don't need to buy a lot of supplements and amendments and products. You need a bucket of dirt and a well-thought-out fertilizer plan, not 20 different fertilizers and nutrients. The best thing is to keep it simple.
Q: I have relatives who live in states that haven't legalized marijuana. Will they be able to tell I'm growing it?
Archambault: Well, the plants are still going to release that telltale aroma. Hydroponic stores sell odor mitigation systems. Carbon filters are the most effective. If your grow system is in a basement room that nobody uses, maybe they won't notice.
Q: What about pets?
Holmes: Cats will be kind of curious. Pets are disease-carriers, and your pet could infect your plants. Make your grow room off-limits to your pets.
Claire Martin: 303-954-1477, cmartin@denverpost.com or twitter.com/byclairemartin
marijuana in Colorado
Claire Martin


Rich with sharp cheese and walnuts, sweet with apples and onions, this delicious and unusual gratin makes a wonderful autumn meal. This week, menu planner and innovative cook, Jenny Wang, adapted this recipe as a stuffing for a delectable baked winter squash and substituted pistachios for the walnuts. Doesn't that sound good? Try serving it beside Wild Rice Pilaf and a salad of bitter greens and vinaigrette.
For a slightly sweeter gratin, mix 2 tablespoons of brown sugar with the bread crumbs. This will bring out the flavor of the apples.
Lightly oil an 11 x 7-inch baking dish.
In a small pot, scald the milk, bringing it almost but not quite to a boil.
In another small pot, melt the butter and whisk in the flour.
Slowly add the scalded milk, whisking continuously until the sauce starts to thicken.
Add the nutmeg, salt, and cloves and stir for about a minute, until thick.
Spread the apples and onions evenly in the prepared baking dish.
Sprinkle on the grated cheese and pour the sauce over the top.
Scatter on the walnuts and bread crumbs (seasoned with brown sugar, if you like).
Bake uncovered for 45 minutes, until the top is golden and crisp.


text:
Move Forward upbeat on sweeping up Bangkok seats in general election
https://www.nationthailand.com/thailand/politics/40024268
The opposition Move Forward Party said it is confident it will capture all 33 Bangkok House seats in the upcoming general election.
Move Forward leader Pita Limjaroenrat said on Monday that he based this announcement on the feedback the party received from recent visits to several areas in the capital, namely Bang Kapi, Thon Buri and Yaowarat.
He said the biggest sign was the warm welcome he and tentative Move Forward candidates received when they visited Yaowarat or Bangkok's Chinatown on Sunday.
"People gave us a warm welcome and provided us with moral support as well as wished us electoral victory," Pita said.
"This backs our belief that we will win all 33 Bangkok seats."
The general election has tentatively been set for May 7 provided the incumbent House of Representatives is not dissolved before it completes its four-year term on March 22.
Pita said his party's election slogan, "Good Politics, Good Economy, Good Future", indicates that Move Forward does not just want to change the government but also change the country for the better.
"We need to tackle issues at the source by amending the Constitution to prevent the '3Ps' from returning to power," Pita said, referring to the brothers in arms PM General Prayut Chan-o-cha, Deputy PM General Prawit Wongsuwan and Interior Minister Anupong "Pock" Paochinda.
Pita also said his party will seek to improve state welfare for poor people from birth to old age and seek to support small businesses. He added that Move Forward will field candidates who are young and experts in different fields.
This entry was posted in Politics, The Nation and tagged 2566(2023), การเมือง, Politics, The Nation by SoClaimon. Bookmark the permalink.


text:
Q: How to call parent method from model controller I have one controller named "contractController"
contractController contains a method save()
contractController opens one model window with controller named "PopUpcontroller"
from PopUpcontroller i want to call save method on contractController
tried to call save method like $parent but nothing works.
Please advice.

A: If the two controllers are nested so that:

you can just call $scope.save() on the popUpController and it automatically goes up to find a parent with that method (till the $rootScope).
if they are not nested you should use the services in order to perform the communication among controllers

A: You need to make sure the popup is created from contractController's scope if you want to retain its prototype. How are you creating the popup?
Something like this in Angular UI Boostrap (I don't use it but the API should accept it):
$modal.open({
    scope: $scope,
    /* ... other opts */
});

A: If you are using Angular UI Bootstrap (http://angular-ui.github.io/bootstrap/), then, make use of the "resolve" attribute when you call $modal.open().
Whatever you add to resolve, will be available if you hook it up as a dependency injection.
In the example on their page, the "item" is available as below because it is hooked up in "resolve".
Resolve:
var modalInstance = $modal.open({
  templateUrl: 'myModalContent.html',
  controller: 'ModalInstanceCtrl',
  size: size,
  resolve: {
    items: function () {
      return $scope.items;
    }
  }
});

Use:
angular.module('ui.bootstrap.demo').controller('ModalInstanceCtrl', function ($scope, $modalInstance, items) {


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We can help save you time and make it easy for you to use our home maintenance services. Get in touch with HMMH today and let our team complete those jobs you don't have time for and our Arlington Heights Handymen will do it for you. Home Remodeling, Kitchens & Bathrooms, Flooring, Interior & Exterior Home Improvements, and more – we are your local handyman that can help save you time, while also increasing your property value. Check out the list below of commonly requested home repair services that we offer.