text:
From Matt Munson@1:218/109 to All on Mon Jul 28 23:59:27 2008
The former leader of the Replacemnts, Paul Westerberg releases a track called 49:00. its 49 minute track thats for only 49 cents on amazon.
Pitchfork media discusses more. http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/record_review/142448-paul-westerberg-4900
On December 31, Paul Westerberg will turn 49. Now, 49's not the most famous or familiar of birthday milestones, but for a guy who once embodied the frustrations and reckless follies of youth, turning almost 50 may be milestone enough. It means Westerberg's officially old, for whatever that's worth, more likely closer to the end than to the beginning, though given Westerberg's life and career, the man may yet shock us all.
Certainly 49:00, Westerberg's first album in four years, is a big surprise in and of itself. Even in this age of internet giveaways and pay-what-you-want schemes, it came as a minor bombshell when Westerberg, with no warning, dropped this home-recorded album-- which arrives as just a single long track with no song titles-- selling it for the nice stunt price of $0.49. That's a little bit more than a penny a second (the album runs a perverse 43 minutes rather than the expected 49), which may very well be what Westerberg spent to create it.
The guy felt the need to get something out of his system-- and get it out fast, free from the usual fanfare, and, most importantly, free from any expectations. 49:00 feels not unlike something Westerberg might have stuck on a cassette and mailed to his best friends in lieu of a Christmas card. Say what you will about Trent Reznor's generosity, The Slip freebie still felt delivered on his rigid terms. The no-frills 49:00, on the other hand, feels downright liberated, absolutely no strings attached, other than the ones connecting Westerberg to his past. If there's anything to be learned from the Replacements' various ups and downs, it's that loose and sloppy, two ways to describe the bash and pop of 49:00, is sometimes the right approach.
Songs fade into one another like one weak radio signal on a road trip supplanted by the next as the car crosses some invisible border. Two tracks occasionally play simultaneously. Snippets of a dozen cover songs-- Beatles, David Bowie, Alice Cooper, the Partridge Family-- are squeezed into the span of a few minutes. Lyrics fade in and out of the mix, sometimes clearly, sometimes not. "I'm going to stick around and spoil your morning." "It wouldn't hurt to see your grandma every now and again." "Everyone's stupid in our classroom, even our friends." "Whether you're famous or nameless, you never go dancing in the street." "Goodnight, sweet prince." And of course: "I gotta get it outta my system!"
Best of all, the melodies and sentiments Westerberg has always been able to spin out, seemingly at will, are here in full force, sometimes fragmented, sometimes implied, sometimes more fully formed, but rarely less than heartfelt. And really, that is and always has been Westerberg's greatest gift: To go beyond the context and simply connect, however casually. On 49:00, cobwebs or no, that uncanny ability has rarely been clearer as he channels the spirit of the Stones or Faces, not to mention the Replacements, or other classic rock touchstones, though his own unique spectrum.
That something so overtly slapdash could still come off so oddly sincere is no small part of the album's appeal (see also: prime Guided By Voices). In fact, if 49:00 turns out to be the rock equivalent of a transitional hip-hop mixtape, and some of these by turns brilliant and baffling bits and pieces end up polished and expanded on a proper album, there'll still be a place for 49:00. It's music with no pretense, no purpose, no baggage, proof that when it comes to labors of love, the latter is a much more important ingredient than the former. - Joshua Klein, July 28, 2008
* Origin: (1:218/109)


Fraudulent, arrogant, deceptive. Worst customer service ever. Nd they will run your credit, even after you tell them not to, and then their headquarters won't do anything about it. They deserve a zero or worse.


text:
Keuning
Iowa / Playing Friday
More than 17 years have passed since Iowa transplant Dave Keuning placed an ad in the local Las Vegas Weekly looking to form a band, mentioning Oasis as one of his faves. An eager 20-year-old named Brandon Flowers, who shared Keuning's love of groups like New Order and the Cure, answered it, only to have Dave promptly hand him a TASCAM-recorded four-track demo of "Mr. Brightside." The result was the formation of The Killers, who have released five consecutive chart-topping albums and toured the world thanks to a songwriting partnership which molded such hits as "Somebody Told Me," "When You Were Young," "Read My Mind," "A Dustland Fairy Tale," "The World We Live In" and "Spaceman," among others.
"Brandon was definitely the best one to respond," laughs Keuning, who, while still officially a member of The Killers, hasn't been a part of the touring band since performing with them at Lollapalooza in Chicago last August, choosing not to follow the group for the Wonderful, Wonderful World Tour which ended this past September. "That decision was one of the hardest I've had to make in my whole life," admits Dave. "On the other hand, I knew I just couldn't do that amount of touring, nor ask them to cut down on the dates."
Up until that Lollapalooza show Dave was the only other Killers member other than Brandon to have played at every Killers show since its first gig in early 2002. Burnt out from touring and wanting to spend more time with his 13-year-old son, Keuning is now the name for the music created by Dave in his San Diego home studio, taking hundreds of voice memos he's stockpiled while on tour and starting to turn them into songs.
Prismism is the result, a collection of 14 tracks – with all the instruments, save some drum parts, played by Keuning himself – which, like the title says, sees things from all sides, focusing on details without missing the big picture, a Picasso's-eye view of life's Faustian bargains, Sophie's choices and existential conundrums. It's no wonder Dave includes shots of books by noted philosophers like Sartre and Foucault in his video for the harrowing title track, reliving a jealous temper tantrum in reverse, as the wanton destruction – shattered LPs, broken wine bottles and ripped-up pillows spewing feathers – miraculously fixes itself. If only humans could heal as easily.
Prismism examines our basic relationships and interactions, with family, friends and co-workers, how one can feel trapped by their surroundings, as well as those that rely on them, emotionally and/or professionally. It applies to Dave's difficulties in reconciling his domestic and career choices and finds the solution in the very thing that brought him here in the first place – the music.
Combining both acoustic and electric guitars, as well as a longtime fascination with keyboards and electronic music – which he wasn't allowed to explore as much as he would've liked in The Killers – Keuning has created a psychic diary that allows us to connect the dots and learn what brought him to a career crossroads.
"Got restless legs/And a restless heart," he sings in "Restless Legs," one of two songs accompanied by self-produced videos he will release digitally before the album comes out in early 2019.
"The lyrics speak for themselves," says Keuning. "That's just what came pouring out of me. It was all I could think of… No other subjects came to mind. It was all I had. The beauty of the words is they're open-ended enough that you can relate them to your own situation."
When he first began writing and recording, Keuning had no plans to sing, but finally decided to take the plunge.
"I never wanted to be the singer in The Killers," he insists. "And I don't care if people don't believe me. I've definitely had those thoughts, but I can honestly tell you ever since I picked one up at 14, all I ever wanted to do was play the guitar."
With idols ranging from Angus Young and Keith Richards to Michael Jackson, Keuning's music reflects that eclectic musical palette. Synth-infused tracks like the title song and the techno- squiggles of "Pretty Faithful" share space with acoustic guitars and big beats ("The Queen's Finest," "Gimme Your Heart"), "Mr. Brightside"-style electric rock guitar riffs ("Broken Clocks"), a stylistic nod to New Order ("If You Say So") and even an EDM/pop hybrid (The Edge-style melody of "Stuck Here on Earth").
"We are numb/To all these things we can't control" "Hope and Safety"
"In a way I'm embarrassed it's taken this long to put out my own music," admits Dave, who began by writing "Stuck Here on Earth," which spurred him to keep going. "The fun was seeing it grow from an idea into a finished song," he says. "And then I was just curious to see where it would take me. And I was pleasantly surprised by the results."
And while he had grown tired of the long stretches away from home touring with The Killers, Keuning is anxious to play his new music to his fans, though they shouldn't necessarily expect him to perform any of his old band's songs, at least not right away. Even if he reserves the right to change his mind at any point. "Seems I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't," he admits.
"Help yourself/Make things right/So recklessly" "Prismism"
Don't call Keuning a "solo" project. Although Dave played most of the instruments he is open to enlisting new players and exploring new collaborations, John JR Robinson whose drum credits include Michael Jackson's "Rock with You" and Madonna's "Express Yourself " just to name a couple of his many credits played on "The Night," Mark Stoermer played some keyboards on "Pretty Faithful" and Seth Luloff played drums on half the album. In the end, he is trusting his talents to point the way to the future.
While admitting he's still actively sending in song ideas for the next Killers album, he wonders if perhaps some of his new music will catch their ear. "But there's no stopping me now. I'm going to pump out new music for the rest of my life, for audiences big or small, Killers or no Killers. Now that I've got a taste of how enjoyable this is."
Prismism: it's all how you look at it and listen to it, but one thing's certain: Keuning's here to stay.
See Keuning
Playing Friday: Stay tuned for set times.
Follow Keuning
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


This is your opportunity to Have Your Say on the Upcoming Thurrock Council Adult Social Care Peer Review – taking place in June 2018.
The Topic is all about Mental Health Services & Support in Thurrock.
What is the Local Government Association?
A Peer Review is a short visit by some experts.
The visit is organised by a council and involves a small team of local government officers and councillors spending time at the council to interview people who work at the Council, to ask them questions and share what they find out.
Why is it important to have a Peer Review?
A Peer Review is a good way to help Councils to improve how they provide support and services to the people that live in the local area. The Council can pick the topic for the Peer Review.
How long does a Peer Review last?
The Local Government Association Peer Review in Thurrock will last 3 days, (12-14th June 2018).
– Day three: The experts gather their findings and recommendations from the interviews and present these to the Council.
Who is on the Peer Review Team?
The Peer Review Team are visiting Thurrock from 12th—14th June 2018.
All responses from the Survey are anonymous and non-attributable.
We will gather everyone's views, feedback and responses to the questions and then Thurrock Coalition will write a Report.
We will send the Report to the Peer Review Team so they have a chance to read it before the visit Thurrock in June 2018.


Yonder Mountain String Band continues to push the boundaries of Bluegrass while pushing their talents and success to the next level. Touring the country yet again, audiences are getting a sneak peak at their sixth and latest studio album, Black Sheep, which is set to make a national release on June 16, 2015. So far, previous stops on the group's tour have heard "Annalee," "Landfall" and "Black Sheep." Yonder Mountain has been shaping their craft from more than 17 years, and its newest album, the first album produced by Yonder Mountain itself, shows just how talented these musicians are on the strings. And for another first in the band's career, they bring to every record on the album all five instruments that defined Bluegrass in the '40s: guitar, mandolin, banjo, fiddle and bass. To do this, Yonder Mountain String Band, comprised of Adam Aijala (guitar, vocals), Dave Johnston (banjo, vocals) and Ben Kaufmann (bass, vocals), brought some new, standout talent onboard that includes Allie Kral (violin) and Jacob Jolliff (mandolin). On April 9, the always stellar Yonder Mountain String Band will bring its classic sound, new talent and hopefully new music to Cain's Ballroom. For more information, visit www.cainsballroom.com.


text:
Q: Content function called twice in Bootstrap Popover I have a Bootstrap Popover which loads a function, like this:
var index = 0;

$('#Button').popover({
    html:true,
    placement:'right',
    content:function(){
      index = index +1;
      return index;
    }
});

And the HTML is just:
<input id="Button" value='popover' type='button'/>

So, when I click in the button I should get 1, 2, 3, etc...
However, I'm getting 2,4,6... because it's calling the "content" function twice. Why is that? Is this a bug or am I doing something wrong?
Here is the fiddle.

A: This issue isn't in your code and comes from bootstrap itself.
See this link:
https://github.com/twbs/bootstrap/issues/12563
So, you can just fix it on your side. Set some flag to check if popover is shown.

A: Faced the issue and solved it using flag. As it was mentioned, this is bug in Bootstrap code. FYI, the first call is to check whether to make second call. Second call is when the actual rendering happens.
So the logic should be to skip the first call and allow the second call. (and not the other way which results in no content being rendered). For some reason, the first call should not return null. Then the second call is not made. With these, you can look at code below for additional reference.

function popoverHandler(element) {

    contentCalled = false; // flag for checking

    element.popover({
        animation: true,
        container:"body",
        placement: "bottom",
        trigger:"hover",
        "html": true,
        "content": function(){
            var div_id =  "tmp-id-" + $.now();
            return fetchResults(div_id);
        }
    });

    function fetchResults(div_id){

        if (!contentCalled) {
            contentCalled = true;
            return " ";
        }
        else {
            $.ajax({
                url         : "getResults",
                type        : "POST",
                data        : <your data>,
                contentType : 'application/json; charset=UTF-8',
                dataType    : 'json',
                success     : function(response){
                                contentCalled = false;
                                // form htmlOutput
                                $('#'+div_id).html(htmlOutput);
                            }
            });
            return '

';
        }
    }
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


This refreshing mini facial will give your skin that boost of confidence and a polished, healthy glow. Includes dual cleanse, exfoliation, masque and moisturise. A perfect 'pick me up' if your short of time!
This relaxing facial is tailored to suit your individual skincare needs.
Includes dual cleanse, exfoliation, décolleté neck and facial massage.
Followed by your specific masque and finished with your prescribed serum, moisturiser and eye treatment.


text:
Q: Kafka ConcurrentMessageListenerContainer stops consuming abruptly I am using Spring kafka for consuming message using ConcurrentMessageListenerContainer , in production I am seeing it stops consuming the messages abruptly , without any errors , sometimes even a single consumer with the VM stops consuming while other consumers are still consuming (I have 15 partitions and 3 JVM , each has concurrency of 5).
When I restart the JVM , it starts consuming !!!
Is there anyway I can check periodically whether consumer had died or something and I can restart it without restarting the JVM !!

A: Most likely, the consumer thread is "stuck" in your code somewhere. I suggest you take a thread dump when this happens, to see what the thread is doing.


text:
Q: Base layout does not load when accepting dynamic url I am using web.py for a web project. I have the following url structure
urls = (
    '/', 'Home',
    '/register','Register',
    '/postregistration', 'PostRegistration',
    '/login', 'Login',
    '/check-login', 'CheckLogin',
    '/logout', 'Logout',
    '/post-activity', 'PostActivity',
    '/profile/(.*)/info', 'userInfo',
    '/profile/(.*)', 'Profile',
    '/abcd', 'abcd'
    )

Everything works fine but when i try to visit pages which have dynamic link like "/profile/anything" my web page loads without the css & js added in base layout. On inspecting and checking sources i noticed that on these urls my all css & js file have html content inside them.

A: I'm going to chance the code seen within the static files, is the HTML you're serving from the any url endpoint.
The static/ URL is resolving through your anything URL, because they don't start with an absolute path. Here's an example of a CSS Link, I can see in the screenshot:
<link href='static\css\profile.css'> (relative from the current path)
should look more like:
<link href='/static/css/profile.css'> (absolute from the server root)
The same applies for your JS. More about relative pathing can be perused here: Relative path in HTML


text:
Q: Amazon SNS - aws-sdk-php      $accessKey = 'XZA...';
     $accessSecret = 'YKW...';
     $credentials = new Aws\Credentials\Credentials($accessKey, $accessSecret);

     $sharedConfig = [
        'region'  => 'us-east-1',
        'version' => 'latest',
        'credentials' => $credentials
    ];

     $sdk = new Aws\Sdk($sharedConfig);
     $sns = new SnsClient($sharedConfig);

     $payload = [
        'PhoneNumber' => '+999999999',   // E.164 format
        'Message' => md5(time()),
        'MessageAttributes' => [
          'DefaultSenderID' => ['DataType'=>'String','StringValue'=>'MyBrandName'],
          'DefaultSMSType' => ['DataType'=>'String','StringValue'=>'Transactional']
        ]
    ];

    try {
        $data = $sns->publish( $payload );
        $MessageId = $data->get('MessageId');
    } catch ( Exception $e ) {   }

I'm using the AWS SDK for PHP - Version 3.
The code above works well when i'm sending a single SMS message except the attribute DefaultSenderID wich is not working when i send a SMS to a mobile device.
Amazon documentation says that DefaultSenderID – A string, such as your business brand, that is displayed as the sender on the receiving device. Support for sender IDs varies by country. The sender ID can be 1 - 11 alphanumeric characters, and it must contain at least one letter.
Anyone has experienced this problem using the Amazon SNS?

A: For anybody still struggling with this.
If you look at the documentation here, you will find that you need to add the key AWS.SNS.SMS.SenderID to the payload's MessageAttributes.
The following should work:
$payload = [
    'PhoneNumber' => '+999999999', // E.164 format
    'Message' => md5(time()),
    'MessageAttributes' => [
        'AWS.SNS.SMS.SenderID' => [
            'DataType' => 'String',
            'StringValue' => 'YourSenderID',
        ]
    ]
];

try {
    $data = $sns->publish($payload);
    $MessageId = $data->get('MessageId');
} catch (Exception $e) { }


text:
REBINT CT_Library(const RELVAL *a, const RELVAL *b, REBINT mode)
{
    if (mode >= 0) {
        return VAL_LIBRARY(a) == VAL_LIBRARY(b);
    }
    return -1;
}

//
//  MAKE_Library: C
//
void MAKE_Library(REBVAL *out, enum Reb_Kind kind, const REBVAL *arg)
{
    assert(kind == REB_LIBRARY);
    UNUSED(kind);

    if (!IS_FILE(arg))
        fail (Error_Unexpected_Type(REB_FILE, VAL_TYPE(arg)));

    void *fd = OS_OPEN_LIBRARY(arg);

    if (fd == NULL)
        fail (Error_Bad_Make(REB_LIBRARY, arg));

    REBARR *singular = Alloc_Singular_Array();
    RESET_VAL_HEADER(ARR_SINGLE(singular), REB_LIBRARY);
    ARR_SINGLE(singular)->payload.library.singular = singular;

    LINK(singular).fd = fd;
    MISC(singular).meta = NULL; // build from spec, e.g. arg?

    MANAGE_ARRAY(singular);
    Move_Value(out, KNOWN(ARR_HEAD(singular)));
}

//
//  TO_Library: C
//
void TO_Library(REBVAL *out, enum Reb_Kind kind, const REBVAL *arg)
{
    MAKE_Library(out, kind, arg);
}

//
//  MF_Library: C
//
void MF_Library(REB_MOLD *mo, const RELVAL *v, REBOOL form)
{
    UNUSED(form);

    Pre_Mold(mo, v);

    REBCTX *meta = VAL_LIBRARY_META(v);
    if (meta)
        MF_Context(mo, CTX_ARCHETYPE(meta), form);

    End_Mold(mo);
}

//
//  REBTYPE: C
//
REBTYPE(Library)
{
    switch (verb) {
    case SYM_CLOSE: {
        INCLUDE_PARAMS_OF_CLOSE;

        REBVAL *lib = ARG(port); // !!! generic arg name is "port"?

        if (VAL_LIBRARY_FD(lib) == NULL) {
            // allow to CLOSE an already closed library
        }
        else {
            OS_CLOSE_LIBRARY(VAL_LIBRARY_FD(lib));
            LINK(VAL_LIBRARY(lib)).fd = NULL;
        }
        return R_VOID; }

    default:
        break;
    }

    fail (Error_Illegal_Action(REB_LIBRARY, verb));
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


20-40 year product & workmanship guarantee with an optional insolvency guarantee against workmanship.
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Versatile and flexible for new build, replacement roofs, listed or iconic buildings.
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Over 1,000 different combinations of colours, and specialist finishes available.
ISO:9001 certified: International quality standard. This international quality standard is independent confirmation that we are focused on delivering customer satisfaction through a reliable and standardised process of operating our business.
ISO:14001 certified: This is the International Standard for Environmental Management. This means we are committed to operating an effective Environmental Management System (EMS) meeting all specified requirements.
BBA Approved. The British Board of Agrément is the UK's main independent body for verifying a manufacturer's claims about their product. These statements are outlined within the Topseal BBA certificate which is available from our website or from www.bbacerts. co.uk (certificate no: 93/2932). This is a guarantee that the stated performance of the product has been independently tested and verified.
Topseal is a truly 'green' roofing system. The timber decking used is from fully certified FSC (Forestry Stewardship Council) members and the product is applied without the need for heat, so installation is both safe and environmentally neutral.
As well as our internationally recognised ISO:14001 environmental management certification, Topseal's flat roofing and waterproofing systems correspond to the BRE Global Green Guide online generic specification , which, when installed to Topseal's specification achieves a summary rating of A' within domestic roofing works and A+ for commercial roofing works.
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Topseal is available in a wide range of colours and finishes to a bespoke roof including colours to match RAL and BS4800 colour standards. For historic properties rolled rib joints can be incorporated to give the appearance of lead, while a clean contemporary style can be achieved with integrated hidden gutters.


text:
Editors' Picks: Week of January 14–20
By kileyturner
tagged: Fiction
This week in Editors' Picks, we're spotlighting exciting new works from authors whose debut or sophomore books got lots of buzz, authors like Mona Awad, Kris Bertin, Amy Jones, Megan Gail Coles, Shandi Mitchell, Nancy Jo Cullen, Missy Marston, Andrew Forbes, and Karen Hofmann.
Edit this list
by Mona Awad
edition:Hardcover
tagged : black humor, fairy tales, folk tales, legends & mythology, satire
The Vegetarian meets Heathers in this darkly funny, seductively strange novel from the acclaimed author of 13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl
Samantha Heather Mackey couldn't be more different from the other members of her master's program at New England's elite Warren University. A self-conscious scholarship student who prefers the company of her imagination to that of most people, she is utterly repelled by the rest of her fiction writing cohort--a clique of unbearably twee rich girls who call ea …
We call them Bunnies because that is what they call each other. Seriously. Bunny.
Hi, Bunny!
What did you do last night, Bunny?
I hung out with you, Bunny. Remember, Bunny?
That's right, Bunny, you hung out with me and it was the best time I ever had.
Bunny, I love you. I love you, Bunny.
And then they hug each other so hard I think their chests are going to implode. I would even secretly hope for it from where I sat, stood, leaned, in the opposite corner of the lecture hall, department lounge, auditorium, bearing witness to four grown women—my academic peers—cooingly strangle each other hello. Or good-bye. Or just because you're so amazing, Bunny. How fiercely they gripped each other's pink-and-white bodies, forming a hot little circle of such rib-crushing love and understanding it took my breath away. And then the nuzzling of ski-jump noses, peach fuzzy cheeks. Temples pressed against temples in a way that made me think of the labial rubbing of the bonobo or the telepathy of beautiful, murderous children in horror films. All eight of their eyes shut tight as if this collective asphyxiation were a kind of religious bliss. All four of their glossy mouths making squealing sounds of monstrous love that hurt my face.
I love you, Bunny.
I quietly prayed for the hug implosion all year last year. That their ardent squeezing might cause the flesh to ooze from the sleeves, neckholes, and A-line hems of their cupcake dresses like so much inane frosting. That they would get tangled in each other's Game of Thrones hair, choked by the ornate braids they were forever braiding into each other's heart-shaped little heads. That they would choke on each other's blandly grassy perfume. Never happened. Not once.
They always came apart from these embraces intact and unwounded despite the ill will that poured forth from my staring eyes like so much comic-book-villain venom. Smiling at one another. Swinging clasped hands. Skins aglow with affection and belonging as though they'd just been hydrated by the purest of mountain streams.
Bunny, I love you.
Completely immune to the disdain of their fellow graduate student. Me. Samantha Heather Mackey. Who is not a Bunny. Who will never be a Bunny.
I pour myself and Ava more free champagne in the far corner of the tented green, where I lean against a white Doric pillar bedecked with billowing tulle. September. Warren University. The Narrative Arts department's annual welcome back Demitasse, because this school is too Ivy and New England to call a party a party. Behold the tigerlily-heavy centerpieces. Behold the Christmas-lit white gauze floating everywhere like so many ghosts. Behold the pewter trays of salmon pinwheels, duck-liver crostini topped with little sugared orchids. Behold the white people in black discussing grants they earned to translate poets no one reads from the French. Behold the lavish tent under which the overeducated mingle, well versed in every art but the one of conversation. Smilingly oblivious to the fact that they are in the mouth of hell. Or as Ava and I call it, the Lair of Cthulhu. Cthulhu is a giant squid monster invented by a horror writer who went insane and died here. And you know what, it makes sense. Because you can feel it when you're walking down the streets beyond the Warren Bubble that this town is a wrong town. Something not quite right about the houses, the trees, the light. Bring this up and most people just look at you. But not Ava. Ava says, My god, yes. The town, the houses, the trees, the light—it's all fucked.
I stand here, I sway here, full of tepid sparkling and animal livers and whatever hard alcohol Ava keeps pouring from her Drink Me flask into my plastic cup. "What's in this again?" I ask.
"Just drink it," she says.
I observe from behind borrowed sunglasses as the women whom I must call my colleagues reunite after a summer spent apart in various trying locales such as remote tropical islands, the south of France, the Hamptons. I watch their fervent little bodies lunge for each other in something like rapture. Nails the color of natural poisons digging into each other's forearms with the force of what I keep telling myself is feigned, surely feigned, affection. Shiny lips parting to call each other by their communal pet name.
"Jesus, are they for real?" Ava whispers in my ear now. She has never seen them up close. Didn't believe me when I first told her about them last year. Said, There is no way grown women act like that. You're making this up, Smackie. Over the summer, I started to think I had too. It is a relief in some ways to see them now, if only to confirm I am not insane.
"Yes," I say. "Too real."
I watch her survey them through her fishnet veil, her David Bowie eyes filled with horror and boredom, her mouth an unimpressed red line.
"Can we go now?"
"I can't leave yet," I say, my eyes still on them. They've pulled apart from one another at last, their twee dresses not even rumpled. Their shiny heads of hair not even disturbed. Their skins glowing with health insurance as they all crouch down in unison to collectively coo at a professor's ever jumping shih tzu.
"I told you, I have to make an appearance."
Ava looks at me, slipping drunkenly down the pillar. I have said hello to no one. Not the poets who are their own fresh, grunty hell. Not the new incoming fiction writers who are laughing awkwardly by the shrimp tower. Not even Benjamin, the friendly administrator to whom I usually cling at these sorts of functions, helping him dollop quivering offal onto dried bits of toast. Not my Workshop leader from last spring, Fosco, or any other member of the esteemed faculty. And how was your summer, Sarah? And how's the thesis coming, Sasha? Asked with polite indifference. Getting my name wrong always. Whatever response I offer—an earnest confession of my own imminent failure, a bald-faced lie that sets my face aflame—will elicit the same knowing nod, the same world-weary smile, a delivery of platitudes about the Process being elusive, the Work being a difficult mistress. Trust, Sasha. Patience, Sarah. Sometimes you have to walk away, Serena. Sometimes, Stephanie, you have to seize the bull by the horns. This will be followed by the recounting of a similar creative crisis/breakthrough they experienced while on a now-defunct residency in remote Greece, Brittany, Estonia. During which I will nod and dig my fingernails into my upper-arm flesh.
And obviously I haven't talked to the Lion. Even though he's here, of course. Somewhere. I saw him earlier out of the corner of my eye, more maned and tattooed than ever, pouring himself a glass of red wine at the open bar. Though he didn't look up, I felt him see me. And then I felt him see me see him see me and keep pouring. I haven't seen him since then so much as sensed him in my nape hair. When we first arrived, Ava felt he must be nearby because look, the sky just darkened out of nowhere.
This evening, all I have done in terms of socializing is half smile at the one the Bunnies call Psycho Jonah, my social equivalent among the poets, who is standing alone by the punch, smiling beatifically in his own antidepressant-fueled fever dream.
Ava sighs and lights a cigarette with one of the many tea lights that dot our table. She looks back at the Bunnies, who are now stroking each other's arms with their small, small hands. "I miss you, Bunny," they say to each other in their fake little girl voices, even though they are standing right fucking next to each other, and I can taste the hate in their hearts like iron on my tongue.
"I miss you, Bunny. This summer was so hard without you. I barely wrote a word, I was so, so sad. Let's never ever part again, please?"
Ava laughs out loud at this. Actually laughs. Throws her feathery head back. Doesn't bother to cover her mouth with her gloved hand. It's a delicious, raucous sound. Ringing in the air like the evening's missing music.
"Shhhhh," I hiss at her. But it's already done.
The laughter causes the one I call the Duchess to turn her head of long, silver faery-witch locks in our direction. She looks at us. First at Ava. Then at me. Then at Ava again. She is surprised, perhaps, to see that for once I'm not alone, that I have a friend. Ava meets her look with wide-open eyes the way I do in my dream stares. Ava's gaze is formidable and European. She continues to smoke and sip my champagne without breaking eye contact. She once told me about a staring contest she had with a gypsy she met on a metro in Paris. The woman was staring at her, so Ava stared back—the two of them aiming their gazes at each other like guns—all the way across the City of Lights. Just looking at each other from opposite shores of the rattling train. Eventually Ava took off her earrings, still not taking her eyes off the woman. Why? Because her assumption at that point, of course, was that the two of them would fight to the death. But when the train pulled into the last stop on the line, the woman just stood to exit, and when she did so, she even held back the sliding doors politely, so Ava could go first.
What's the lesson here, Smackie? Don't jump to conclusions?
Never lower your gaze first.
The Duchess, in turning toward us, causes a ripple effect of turning among the other Bunnies. First Cupcake looks over. Then Creepy Doll with her tiger eyes. Then Vignette with her lovely Victorian skull face, her stoner mouth wide open. They each look at Ava, then at me, in turn, scanning down from our heads to our feet, their eyes taking us in like little mouths sipping strange drinks. As they do, their noses twitch, their eight eyes do not blink, but stare and stare. Then they look back at the Duchess and lean in to each other, their lip-glossed mouths forming whispery words.
Ava squeezes my arm, hard.
The Duchess turns and arches an eyebrow at us. She raises a hand up. Is there an invisible gun in it? No. It's an empty, open hand. With which she then waves. At me. With something like a smile on her face. Hi, her mouth says.
My hand shoots up of its own accord before I can even stop myself. I'm waving and waving and waving. Hi, I'm saying with my mouth, even though no sound comes out.
Then the rest of the Bunnies hold up a hand and wave too.
We're all waving at one another from across the great shores of the tented green.
Except Ava. She continues to smoke and stare at them like they're a four-headed beast. When at last I lower my hand, I turn to her. She's looking at me like I'm something worse than a stranger.
Every Little Piece of Me
by Amy Jones
tagged : contemporary women, coming of age, non-classifiable
From the bestselling author of We're All in This Together comes a novel about family, friendship, fame, and the cost of living in the public eye -- because when everyone suddenly knows your name, it's easy to forget who you really are.
"The first time they met, Mags saved Ava's life. The second time they met, Ava saved Mags's."
Ava Hart is the most reluctant cast member of a reality TV show based on her big city family's (mostly staged) efforts to run a B&B in small-town Nova Scotia. Every …
"Barometer"
Mags hadn't expected the club to be so crowded. The band's previous shows in New York had been sparsely attended. But Align Above's new album had dropped a few weeks before, and tonight there was an electricity in the air, something that she couldn't explain. In the green room she drank half a fifth of whiskey and smoked three joints before stumbling on stage in a haze, her body hot and cold at the same time, her skin sweaty and goose-pimpled.
"I'm fine," she told Emiko, her manager, who held Mags's face in both her hands and stared into her eyes like she was trying to see into the future. "This is what I need. This is what I do."
She sang. She knows she must have, because people were cheering— so many people, the audience a big blur of colour in front of her, pulsing with vague outlines of human forms. Adrift, she locked eyes with a beautiful Asian boy while she was singing "Barometer"— a song she had written about Sam, so new she had only ever played it live once before— and she was surprised to see that he was singing along, gazing at her with such naked adoration that it made her shiver. "You will rise, I will rise, we will rise, like a barometer," she sang, and his mouth moved with hers, almost as though he was claiming her voice somehow, making the words his own in a way that momentarily startled her, her hand dropping from the mic, her voice fading out before the end of the line.
After the show, she found him in the hallway outside the green room, waiting for her. He was just a kid, a scruffy teenager with doe eyes and expensive sneakers, a forelock of hair sweeping down across his brow. But she could feel the relentless pull of the pit, that gaping maw of a comedown she ran from at the end of every show, so she pressed herself up against him, the contours of his body meeting hers in a way that was familiar and yet unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's shoes.
"Do you have somewhere we could go?" she asked, lips inches from his ear, which fluttered almost imperceptibly as she breathed against it.
"I have my own place," he said, and she could feel the newness of those words in his mouth, how good it felt for him to say them.
They were in the Uber by the time she started second-guessing herself, realizing too late he wasn't even close to what she wanted. But it wasn't until they got to his apartment and she saw all the video cameras that she knew she'd made a huge mistake.
"I'm not a pervert or a weirdo, I swear," he said, his doe eyes clouding over with worry as she inched toward the door. "It's this stupid reality show I'm on. They leave the cameras set up all the time."
"Reality show?" Mags was sobering up, and all she could see were blinking lights, red and green and blue, cables tangling across the floor like tussling snakes. She suddenly felt as though the entire world was watching her, as if they could see through the eye of the lens right into the depths of her soul.
"They're not on right now, I promise," the boy said. "See?" He picked up a cable attached to a camera and showed her the dangling end. Mags realized the blinking lights were all in her head. "There's a schedule. They're only on when the crew is here."
Mags stepped toward the camera tentatively, as if it were a wild animal she wanted to feed from her hand. She touched the top of the lens, which was coated with a fine layer of dust, and blew the dust away gently. "That doesn't seem very real," she said.
The boy laughed nervously. "It's not," he said. "There's nothing real about reality television, trust me."
She moved around the room, feeling the boy's eyes on her. At least the reality show explained the apartment—sparsely but tastefully furnished, with high ceilings and exposed brick, a pool table at one end of the living room and an entire row of expensive guitars lining the opposite wall. She wandered over and picked one up, strumming it before realizing it was a vintage Gibson Les Paul Standard Sunburst. And it was signed.
"Eric Clapton," the boy said, shrugging. "I got it at an auction last year."
Mags ran her fingers over the strings. It probably cost more than all of Align Above's equipment combined. But the boy didn't seem to care—he hadn't rushed over to grab it from her, hadn't kept it under lock and key. "Do you actually play this?" she asked.
"What's the point of a guitar if you don't play it?" He took it from her and began strumming softly. Oh no, thought Mags, please don't. But then he started singing, his voice soft and earnest, and she could do nothing but sit there, helplessly listening, not knowing whether she should laugh or cry. At least it wasn't one of her songs— from what she could tell, it was something he had written himself, probably during a period when he was listening to a lot of melancholy stuff, Bon Iver or The National. When he stopped singing, she smiled at him, and before he could launch into his next number, she kissed him, the guitar pressed between them, the strings mashed up against her belly.
Later, Mags got up from the boy's bed in the dark and walked naked to the bathroom, keeping the water cool as she splashed it over her face, avoiding her own red eyes in the mirror. Walked back through the apartment, head jumbled, running her hands over the exposed brick, heading toward the balcony to see those lights of Tribeca, wondering what it must be like to live here, to live this life.
Before Mags made it halfway across the living room she saw her, through the glass doors of the balcony— a woman wearing only a T-shirt and underwear, climbing up onto the parapet, her pale skin scraping across the concrete as she stood up on the ledge. Mags grabbed a blanket from the couch, scratchy and wool but big enough to cover herself, and rushed to the balcony, the wind hurtling itself at her as she hauled open the doors, all rust and smog.As soon as the doors opened she realized she had no idea what to do. She tried to remember how high up they were— four storeys, five? Surely high enough.
"Hello," Mags said quietly.
The woman turned to face her, and Mags realized she was still a girl, really, barely out of her teens. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Her eyes were a startling blue, her hair white-blonde and cut close to her head in a haphazard way that made Mags think she had done it herself. Her T-shirt had a picture of a fairy on it, possibly a cartoon character from a television show Mags had never seen. Even as she balanced there on the parapet, she stood with her back straight, her hand on her hip, her head angled at a perfect, fashion-model 45 degrees as she regarded Mags through mildly inquisitive eyes.
"It's you," the woman said. She dragged both her hands down her thighs as though she were drying off sweaty palms. For a moment, Mags thought she was going to reach out to shake her hand, but instead she crossed her arms over her chest, cutting off the head of the cartoon fairy. "What are you doing here?"
Mags didn't say anything for a minute, afraid the truth might push this woman over the edge. "Are you planning on jumping?" she asked instead.
The woman dipped her toe off the ledge, her eyes drawn to the street below. Then she pulled her toe back and turned to face Mags again. "Are you naked under that blanket?"
Mags glanced down at her round calves and bare feet sticking out of the bottom of the blanket, which hung just above her knees. "I guess when I saw you climb up on that ledge, finding clothes wasn't exactly my first priority."
Narrowing her eyes, the woman crossed her arms tighter over her chest. "You slept with Val," she said.
Val. Mags knew the boy's name, but it was so much easier to think of him as "the boy," as if he were the only one. But now. Val. She nodded.
"Good for you. My brother loves you, you know. The show tonight was the only thing he could talk about for weeks."
"He's your brother?" Mags asked.
"We're both adopted," the woman said. "Everyone knows this. You know this." She paused. "Or maybe you thought I was his girlfriend."
"No," said Mags, realizing she hadn't. But she didn't want to talk about Val anymore. And she was sick of talking about herself. Sick of herself in all kinds of ways. Maybe just sick. "Can we get back to talking about why you're standing on that ledge?"
"I'm pretty sure I'm going to jump," the woman said, without drama, without pathos. I'm. Going. To. Jump.
"Pretty sure?"
"Very sure." She spread her arms wide, an eagle about to take flight.
Mags thought about all the things she could say. No. Don't do it. You have so much to live for. But did she? How could she know? "What's your name?" she asked instead, stalling.
The woman stared at her, her body silhouetted against the New York skyline, backlit by the lights from a thousand different windows, a thousand different lives being lived. Then she started to laugh, a huge, aching belly laugh that Mags worried would propel her off the edge through the sheer force of its kickback. When she finally stopped laughing, she looked out over the city again. It was like a switch had flipped, and she was back to thinking about whatever it was that called to her.
"It's Ava," she said. "You might be the only person in New York who doesn't know that."
Use Your Imagination!
by Kris Bertin
tagged : short stories (single author)
A woman becomes obsessed with a story about her family from 1890—when a naked, mute girl stumbled onto their property—and whether or not it really happened. A self-help guru and his chief strategist take their most affluent and unstable clients on a harrowing nature hike that destroys their company. A young convict in a prison creative writing class chronicles the rise and fall of his cellblock's resident peacemaker. A rural neighbourhood becomes obsessed by the coming of a strange and power …
The Waiting Hours
by Shandi Mitchell
tagged : literary, family life, urban life
"The most impressive trick of this book – and it is a very good one – is the way Mitchell pulls off a literary thriller that is as suspenseful as it is introspective." - The Globe and Mail
When you spend your life saving others...who will be there to save you?
When tragedy erupts on a stifling summer night, three ordinary people, with the extraordinary jobs of rescuing strangers, are connected to one another in ways both explicit and invisible. Each is deeply devoted to what they do, but …
Kate swung open the jeep's rear gate and was greeted by Zeus's tail thumping against the wire crate. Eager to be released, he stretched and pawed the latch. She made a visual check of her search-and-rescue gear, first aid kits, rations, dog supplies, all-weather kit, boots, and backpack. All that was needed to sustain them for a couple of days. Nothing had shifted. She unhitched the crate door and Zeus waited for her to indicate work or play. She fastened a line to his collar, and his tail hoisted higher. It wasn't work yet.
"Ally-oop," she said.
He jumped from the hatch, his nose to the ground before his hindquarters landed.
"Do your business."
Trailing the line behind him, he headed around the SUV to check out the tires.
Kate scanned the debris field of twisted rebar, concrete slabs, mangled cars, and a collapsing barn. Flames and black smoke churned from a rusted oil drum. The team had done a good job mocking up the scene. It wouldn't be an easy test.
Zeus bumped her fist with his nose.
"Done already?"
He sat and looked up at her.
"You think you need a treat?"
She opened her hand. It was empty. He nudged the other hand. Nothing. He looked to her eyes and breathed her in. He liked this game. Snuffling over her jeans, he focused on her right pocket. His velvety snout brushed her wrists and palm. He was correct. A biscuit had been in that hand and that pocket.
He circled her legs. His nostrils flared, inhaling sharp breaths and snorting out short puffs. He was filtering all that was extraneous to extract the singular scent, separating the air he breathed and the cookie he wanted. He licked his nose, heightening the sensitivity of the million receptors that catalogued his world.
The conditions weren't ideal. In this heat, his nose would dry out quickly. She lightly tapped its wetness. He expelled her scent with a breath and zeroed in on her left ankle. His tail wagged faster. His tail was incapable of lying. His nose bumped her boot top and he sat expectantly, snorting one small woof. She hoisted her pant leg. Ever so gently, his lips tickling her shin, he extracted the biscuit protruding from her hiking boot's cuff. In one crunch, the biscuit was gone.
She looked to the assessment officer overseeing the exercise. It was Riley. Beside him, Heather was serving as designated note taker. His wife was still in basic training with a six-month-old Belgian Malinois that was far too much dog for her to handle. She wasn't a strong trainer. She flustered easily and talked too much. It definitely wasn't her calling. Unlike her husband, who was legendary in the search-and-rescue community.
Riley had a reputation for impossible finds, unwavering calm, and a relentless will. He had been a medic in Iraq until he took IED shrapnel in his chest. He had told Kate about the girl who rode on the back of her father's bicycle and her brother who sat on the handlebars. How he gave the boy a chocolate bar and the girl a pack of gum and how shyly the little girl took it. She wore a poppy-red dress and matching velvet shawl embossed with full-blown roses stitched with golden thread. He showed the little girl how to blow a bubble. It was large and pink, and her eyes widened when it popped.
In the camouflage of night, when she couldn't see his face, he had told her about the sound an IED makes five hundred feet away, detonating in the trunk of a car. How the pressure drops as the concussion kicks your chest, and the air is sucked from your lungs. And the silence. The depth of silence, right after, and the fall-on-your-knees beauty of white smoke against a robin's-egg sky. He told her how hot the parts of a bicycle get when it has been incinerated . . . and the weight of what remains of a poppy-red child. He told her this as her fingers traced rose-petal scars on his bare chest. Zeus looked up the leash. He felt her tension in the line. She smiled and loosened her hold. All's good.
She watched Riley and practised not caring. He was a good-looking man and tough. During SAR's brutal three-day winter survival certification, he broke his ankle less than half a mile from course completion. He wanted to keep going, and she didn't doubt he would have crawled to the finish line if they had let him. As it was, he had to run the course again the following winter. He set a new record.
Every team member was loyal to him, and every handler aspired to reach the mastery of Riley and his beloved Belgian, Annabelle. Despite the pressure to get another pup before she died, he refused. They say he was with her at the end. They don't know he injected the needle. Kate understood why he couldn't get another dog. He had been with Annabelle for ten years. Four years longer than his wife. She had never seen him interact with his wife's unruly pup. Kate looked to Zeus. She couldn't imagine bringing home another dog.
Riley's arm shot up in the air. It was time.
She grabbed Zeus's working vest from the truck and he fell in tight against her leg, assuming the heel position. She slipped the stiff Kevlar vest over his back and secured the straps across his belly and broad chest. She completed the task in under thirty seconds. No talking. No dallying. This was work. She strode to the edge of the field. She had trained Zeus for both tracking and air scent. He could alert for cadaver or survivor. It gave him versatility as a search-and-rescue dog. They had never failed a certification test.
Near the burn barrel, Chris and Jake were sitting at the pump truck monitoring the fire. It was twenty-eight Celsius and they were wearing black T-shirts, turnout pants, and boots. The fire boys could have been posing for a calendar. She wondered who the volunteer victim was this week. There were three other dogs running. A German shepherd had already failed with an off-course. She was the only civilian without military training attempting qualifications today. Riley nodded and his arm dropped.
She leaned over and patted Zeus's lean, muscular side.
"Find live," she said and unleashed his lead.
Zeus bolted forward. He huffed the air, making quick tight loops over the drought-stricken grass. He swept the open field in a grid pattern. In this stagnant heat, he would be working the updrafts. She kept pace behind him. He ignored the pumper truck crew, but she noticed the bob of his nose indicating their presence and his dismissal, as though he knew it was too easy. He kept course, not slowing or veering around the billowing smoke. She tasted gasoline and wood at the back of her throat.
His head swung back and forth, his body leaned in, and his ears perked forward. His nose popped up. He was on a scent and she jogged to keep up. Her muscles responded with the easy lope of her daily two-mile runs. It was more than a scent he was following. A scent was the past, a memory. He was gathering a story assembled through pheromones, skin cells, follicles, bruised grass, snapped twigs, and the molecular compositions of man-made scents—the traces left behind.
If he were trailing an animal, he would know the species, gender, and social order, alpha or follower. He'd be able to discern what paths it travelled, the food it ate, and whether it was friend, foe, or prey. Presumably, with a human he could smell the cheapness of their shoes, the sourness of their pants, the soap used, the scrape of a knee, nicotine on fingers, alcohol in pores, and the cancer in their bones. He could smell fear. And death. And weakness. He could smell narrative. She often wondered if he knew the outcome before he reached the ending.
His ears twitched and she noticed the slight rotation of his head, widening his peripheral scope. He was working the scent cone, intent on his directive to find "live." With a sharp bark, a thrust of his nose, and a sit, he indicated the objects on the ground as possible clues. She marked a sock, a glove, a ball—his eyes watched hers: this might be something. "Good boy," she said.
His path oscillated and the cone of his track narrowed. He zeroed in on the debris pile. Pacing the base of the massive, upturned cement blocks, he looked for a pathway up and leapt. His hind legs clawed, his hocks knocked concrete, and he scrambled up and over. Kate's knee clunked the ragged edge.
Zeus nimbly treaded the twisted rebar, tangled wires, and large rocks that had been heaved up onto the loose boards and plywood sheets. Kate noted the clothing strewn about to condition her emotional fortitude—a pink floral dress, a plaid shirt, and a baby's shoe. Zeus hopped over slabs driving upward to the ragged peak. The structure was more solid than it appeared.
Kate was huffing. Her trail pants were damp and her long-sleeved shirt stuck to her chest. Her feet were broiling in her boots. Slung at her waist, two water bottles slapped bruises on her thigh. She smelled suntan lotion and body odour. Her lips were already dry. Zeus poked his nose into a crevice and inhaled. She watched his ears and tail. There was nothing here.
The rescue organization she got him from had named him Zeus. He was from a litter of eleven found duct-taped in a box and left in a dumpster. Three had died. He had a border-collie brain and physique but his coat had the curl and wave of a spaniel's. He was all black. His sleek racing body and spindly legs culminated in powerful haunches and a plumed, ever-alert tail. A black dog in the afternoon sun. He was panting.
It had been her weekly routine to walk through the pens of quivering and yapping adoption candidates looking for something extraordinary in their eyes. Zeus was the most inquisitive, fearless, and confident of the litter. As the staff recounted the pups' brief, sad history, she had surreptitiously run her own tests. Tests that gauged fear, drive, aggression, intelligence, curiosity, frustration—all gently concealed in the guise of belly rubs, head pats, and her fingers dancing across the floor. Commands designed as play. When the other pups had tired of her, Zeus remained, wanting more. It had taken only three hand gestures to teach him to sit, before he offered the behaviour unasked.
That was five years ago. Together, they'd had four live finds and three cadavers. They were catching up to Riley and Annabelle's record. Kate stumbled and grabbed for a jutting metal rod. A cold-hot sliced through her leather glove. Zeus's head turned, but she kept moving forward.
Focus, she berated herself. Zeus trotted across a narrow plank, stopping at a fractured opening. His nostrils flared. He bowed and leaned into its space.
Kneeling, she shone her flashlight into the hollow, checking the ceiling and walls for stability, and gave the all-clear. He belly-crawled down the incline. She suppressed the urge to call him back to her safety. She had raised him to be tough physically and mentally, able to withstand gruelling conditions: heat, sound, and ever-varying stimuli. It was the handlers who were the most difficult to train. Choosing to trust their own meagre senses over their dog's acuity, thus missing obvious communications because of emotion, fear, ego, and fatigue. In the field, these mistakes could cost a life.
She kept her flashlight trained on Zeus. Several mattresses and pallets were propped against the low, bunkered walls. He paused, considering the cross breezes. Honing in on a mattress in the corner, he bowed and barked his deepest voice. Loud. Strong. Certain. A hand emerged. Zeus's backside swayed with joy. The mattress jostled aside, and seventeen-year-old Ben's grinning, sweat-drenched face appeared. Riley's son from his first marriage. He had his father's eyes. Kate raised her fist.
Found!
Zeus bounded up the makeshift ramp and slammed against her chest. He pranced on her lap, his hot tongue licking her cheeks. She rewarded him with his favourite toy, a ball with a tether rope. She tugged and the ball squeaked, squeaked, squeaked. She wrapped her arms around his squirming body and held on longer than he needed.
"Good boy," she said.
She pulled off her glove. Blood seeped from her palm and dripped down her fingers. She reached for his water bottle. Only then did she feel the pinch of pain.
In her pocket, her phone vibrated. She checked the number and wondered why the hospital was calling.
Western Alienation Merit Badge, The
by Nancy Jo Cullen
tagged : non-classifiable, coming of age, lesbian
Set in Calgary in 1982, during the recession that arrived on the heels of Canada's National Energy Program, The Western Alienation Merit Badge follows the Murray family as they struggle with grief and find themselves on the brink of financial ruin. After the death of her stepmother, Frances "Frankie" Murray returns to Calgary to help her father, Jimmy, and her sister, Bernadette, pay the mortgage on the family home. When Robyn, a long-lost friend, becomes their house guest old tensions are reign …
by Missy Marston
also available: Paperback Audiobook
tagged : contemporary women, small town & rural, family life, literary
Wildly funny and wonderfully moving, Bad Ideas is about just that — a string of bad ideas — and the absurdity of love
Trudy works nights in a linen factory, avoiding romance and sharing the care of her four-year-old niece with Trudy's mother, Claire. Claire still pines for Trudy's father, a St. Lawrence Seaway construction worker who left her twenty years ago. Claire believes in true love. Trudy does not. She's keeping herself to herself. But when Jules Tremblay, aspiring daredevil, wa …
Small Game Hunting at the Local Coward Gun Club
by Megan Gail Coles
also available: Paperback Audiobook Audiobook
tagged : literary
#1 National Bestseller
Finalist, CBC Canada Reads
Finalist, Scotiabank Giller Prize
By turns savage, biting, funny, poetic, and heartbreaking, Megan Gail Coles's debut novel rips into the inner lives of a wicked cast of characters, exposing class, gender, and racial tensions over the course of one Valentine's Day in the dead of a winter storm.
Valentine's Day, the longest day of the year.
A fierce blizzard is threatening to tear a strip off the city, while inside The Hazel restaurant a storm …
Olive waits below the sad mural painted in memory of some long ago drowned boy.
She can see up and down Duckworth Street from her perch though there's not much to see this early in the morning. A scattered taxi slogs by carrying fiendish-looking passengers who attempt to discreetly smoke from barely cracked windows. Discretion is a skill they have fallen out with but they don't know that yet. They still fancy themselves stealth, piling four parka-plied humans into a single toilet stall, scarves dangling beneath the door, telling tails on them all.
Volume control is a thing of delusion in the confined spaces they inhabit. It will be years before this is fully realized by those who escape the scene or are thrown into adulthood by overdose or pregnancy. These lucky few will feel overwhelmingly, retroactively embarrassed by their one-time rock star fantasies. Olive can hear them bawling about their supposed betrayals as clouds of tobacco smoke and slurry syllables updraft skyward through the slightly parted window.
But Olive forgives them their make-believe follies.
They are no better or worse than most of the half well-off, half grown-up humans she has met. They are just flawed and vulnerable to the pitch. Olive is no different. She has chased the white dragon into smoky rooms where grad students complained about unkindly thesis feedback while wearing thousand dollar watches. A holiday-tanned winter wrist, a baggie held aloft, another Volvo fob serving key bumps round the ring. Under such circumstances, Olive is for the most part silent. She can pass for one of them until she releases language into the world.
Olive often holds her rural tongue for fear of being found out. She is not a card-carrying member of the townie majority. And rarely are there other fugitive faces for Olive to hide behind on nights when she wants to get on the go. There was a Mexican painter once. A Russian musician. There was the one Pakistani fellow whose name Olive could never recall. She did not think it was unpronounceable, she just could not pronounce it.
There are lots of words still beyond her reach.
Like Olive can think of no words to describe the pain felt where her pants nearly meet her feet. She winces and tucks her chin farther inside her coat. She tries to push her neck back to save from catching skin in the zipper. She sniffs back hard and swallows a slippery lob. Her grandmother would not approve of hoarding mucus in the body but her grandmother would not approve of much of what she does lately. Olive sighs and swells and swallows spit to slide the lob along.
Ollie my dollie, get a tissue.
Her grandmother's voice is always a program running in the back of her mind. But Olive can't sacrifice a tissue on mere mucus this morning. Her store of napkins is running low and the last time she tried to hock and spit the wind gust blew snot back onto her sleeve. The line of mucus running from her lips to her elbow turned her weak stomach over. A middle-aged woman in a bright blue Canada Goose coat muttered oh for the love of god as she hurried past the translucent boundary. This made Olive feel gross.
She swallows that gross feeling down again while she waits.
She can distract herself for a time from the damp soak settling in her heels by watching the craven-faced respectable people meander to their grown-up jobs after a weekend of pretending to be twenty-five. They are not twenty-five. They are not even thirty-five and feel as such. Most internally promise to stay home with the kids next weekend as they turn their faces to or from the sunshine depending on the quantity of painkillers ingested in the car. This temporary commitment to sobriety is bookended by revolving party systems.
Some relish vitamin D while others resent it.
The division will not last long, though, as the sun already has started to duck back inside the nimbostratus. It will storm again today as surely as the nearly forty will go out again in four days' time. The babysitter will be called. The cat will be let in. They will flee their houses for a little look around.
Get the stink of house off ya.
They will reliably cloak this smell of domestication in alcohol and nicotine and self-loathing until Monday. Mondays are for quitting everything. Again. Except when it storms on Monday. Then quitting everything is pushed to Tuesday.
Today is such a Tuesday.
The weekend warriors refuse to sell out and so have fully bought in pound for pound.
Olive is just the same. She too had been sold the notion of party drugs as lazy fun and then fast gobbled them hand over fist. Swallow, snort, smoke; ingestion is an irrelevant matter of personal preference and ease. There is no wall to wall them out. Or in. Drug trends are trendingalong regardless of national media reports daily updating all on their progress east and upward. Olive has watched the same scenes play out on repeat in dark corners of the late night since arriving in Sin Jawns.
And they've gone and stashed the kits everywhere to protect against the siren call. A first line of defence kept behind wine bars. Under the bathroom sink. In purses. And Olive knows she must address the long list of reasons why self-medicare is needed to comfort her.
Eventually.
Lands and Forests
by Andrew Forbes
tagged : small town & rural, literary, short stories (single author)
Escaping government-sanctioned flooding, obsessing over camera-equipped drones, violently mourning a lost brother, discovering a new passion in fencing, watching a wildfire consume a whole town: the stories in Lands and Forests survey the emotional landscapes of women and men whose lives, though rooted deeply in the land and their small communities, are still rocked by great cultural change. These are raw, honest character studies reminiscent of the work of Alexander MacLeod and Lisa Moore, but …
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Beyond getting proper nutrition, studies have shown that regular, meaningful contact with other people is crucial to overall well-being, and senior dining programs throughout Johnson County have successfully helped to provide both.
However, in the past year, the county's on-site senior dining programs that offered free meals and were funded at least in part by the Older Americans Act (OAA) dwindled to just two: Solon Old Gold Dining, and a daily meal site at the Senior Center in Iowa City.
North Liberty has managed to maintain a congregate meal opportunity every other Friday, but participants must pay. The City of Coralville sponsors a monthly potluck, providing the main entree on the city's tab and asking seniors to furnish side dishes. Lone Tree voluntarily cut its funding relationship with OAA– relinquishing about $60,000 per year– to purchase its own kitchen equipment and cook its own meals. After a one-time donation from Johnson County, the City of Lone Tree is now that program's biggest benefactor. Funding to assisted living facilities disappeared, eliminating the free meal program at Emerson Point in Iowa City.
As of Jan. 1, 2014, there will be just one OAA congregate site remaining in Johnson County.
According to Susan Wehr of Elder Services, Inc. (ESI), an average of 50 meals are served at congregate sites and 155 home delivered meals are served in rural Johnson County each day.
But Solon's dining site, like so many well-intentioned programs that desperately seek to stay afloat on ever-shrinking resources, began taking on water.
In 2012, the Old Gold Dining site council learned from its food and funds provider ESI that attendance numbers at their congregate program no longer warranted a three-hour site manager, but they could accommodate the loss of staff by serving ready-to-eat meals that had been packaged and sealed. Known as "Olivers," for the company that manufactures the packaging equipment, the same meals would be delivered to Solon's homebound participants as well. In fact, based on client need, home-delivered meals would become a higher priority than feeding folks at a congregate site.
The changes upset Solon's site council representatives for several reasons. First, the seals on the meal trays are hard to open, especially for certain clients with arthritic fingers. Second, the portions were reduced and the meals were not filling. Perhaps most importantly, they feared the method of serving pre-packaged meals took away the personal, meaningful interactions most people looked forward to when they gathered at Solon United Methodist Church's Fellowship Hall each day.
Therefore, a group of program advocates and site council members determined they would not bail out on Solon's seniors, but fight to keep the program alive and maintain its personal, vibrant character. They sought $7,500 for a site manager's position, and received $2,500 from the City of Solon and $2,500 from the Johnson County Board of Supervisors. The final third came in the form of OAA dollars by way of long-time supporter ESI.
But that relationship will end as of Dec. 31, and Solon's Old Gold Dining site council is swimming upstream again.
Historically, senior dining sites have been funded by the federal OAA dollars given to regional agencies, which in turn funnel money to county-level partner entities, which then disperse dollars to local programs.
In Johnson County, the funding mechanism starts with Heritage Agency on Aging, a department of Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids. The Heritage Agency gives funds to ESI as one of its partner agencies. ESI provides direct services and financial resources to community partners that assist older residents, like Old Gold Dining or RSVP.
The Heritage Agency is one of Iowa's six regional Agencies on Aging, or AAAs, responsible for distributing federal dollars generated by the OAA. The act was introduced in 1965, and has been reauthorized every year since, giving many the impression that it is mandated provision to assist the nation's elderly, much like Social Security.
Because it is funded with discretionary federal dollars, OAA is as susceptible to budgetary woes as the national Farm Bill or education spending.
And that's just part of the squeeze felt by senior nutrition programs, said Ingrid Wensel, director of the Heritage Agency on Aging.
Further, Wensel said, in 1965 when the OAA was instituted, life expectancy was shorter, and therefore the incidence of chronic illness that can accompanying aging was less.
"We've learned to extend life, but not necessarily the quality of life. Now, as opposed to an elderly population that was served primarily at congregate meal sites– relatively healthy adults gathering for the very real and very important socialization aspect that promotes mental health and community involvement– the (OAA) program has turned into one that really serves the most desperately low-income individuals, often with multiple health care needs in a homebound situation. Because of that, we have not been able to keep pace with the needs," Wensel said.
And voluntary contributions for meals from participants are also on the decline at a regional level.
"For many years, while we had a relatively healthy constituency, they were able to contribute more to the program. As we see individuals age and become increasingly frail, often these individuals outlive their resources and they are unable to contribute," Wensel said.
Even programs that receive stable voluntary contributions like Solon's, are not safe from funding shortages.
The OAA wants agencies to target the poorest populations– those in most desperate need– but it also boosts justification for next year's funding. Heritage typically receives government reimbursement at about 50 cents per meal, while the meals on average cost about $5 each to serve.
It has required Wensel and Heritage's volunteer leadership board to stretch every dollar to its maximum efficiency, resulting in what Wensel described as painful prioritizing and difficult decision making.
Getty is Heritage AAA's healthy living and nutrition coordinator, and he helps decide how to spread the agency's increasingly thin resources.
Heritage AAA serves seven counties: Benton, Cedar, Linn, Johnson, Jones, Iowa and Washington. Every two years, the agency receives applications from local-level providers in each county seeking OAA dollars to fund assistance to the elderly– transportation, mental health and nutrition services, for example. Heritage staff and its board weigh the requests against available funds to determine how to get the most bang out of every buck and stay within the federal guidelines for distributing OAA monies.
Those numbers are calculated on such complex and interconnected factors that it's very difficult to explain Heritage's spending decisions– why one county or service provider may receive fewer Heritage's OAA dollars than its neighbor.
"How do we decide what communities get meals? A lot of it has to do with what resources they can bring to bear to support the program," Wensel said, and offered just one example.
If the cost of a meal averages $3, and one provider asks for the full $3, while another can bring its own resources in the form of donations, city or county funding to make up $1 of the per-meal cost, Heritage can fund more meals at $2 than at the $3 cost.
"Keep in mind, the more meals I can serve, the more money I can bring in next year. It's not that I don't want to be equitable between providers, but if that local community brings local dollars to build up that one extra dollar, that's significant. It can cause resentment and frustration, because some communities are very poor and don't have the taxed resources of others," Wensel said.
In fact, other meal programs in surrounding counties aren't suffering the same demise as those in Johnson County, but an telephone poll conducted with congregate dining managers in Tipton, Anamosa, Lisbon and Belle Plaine– all sites in counties served by Heritage AAA– found that each program have experienced some sort of diminished funding, and had dealt with it in different ways; by trimming personnel hours, holding community fundraisers, and seeking funding from outside agencies or governments.
"On the surface it can look very inequitable, but there are many complicating factors," Wensel said.
One such factor is that federal dollars from the OAA– 63 percent of the agency's nutrition budget– aren't the only resources at play; 37 percent of the money Heritage allocates comes from grant sources, corporate donations, and private donors and confidential voluntary contributions from nutrition program participants.
On Dec. 8, Heritage held a Fill the Plate Telethon to raise additional dollars for nutrition programs. It was the second annual event for Heritage, prompted by an 83,000 reduction in the number of meals Heritage was able to fund in fiscal year 2013. This year's telethon raised $104,500 to offset the deficiency.
All telethon contributions go directly to feeding the elderly, but even those donations are part of a complex funding process for Heritage, and a function of its partnership with the Kirkwood Community College Foundation.
Some telethon contributions are for designated recipients, while others are unassigned and fall into a general pool for distribution among all partner providers.
The formula is based on a percentage of meals served in each area, Getty added.
"We have to justify to the Kirkwood Community College Foundation our background (for spending decisions). This is not just willy-nilly. There is a whole process we have to go through to even access those funds," Getty said.
Data required by OAA also helps inform Heritage's spending decisions. Using a participant intake form, Heritage tracks things like recipients' ranges of income; whether they live in rural, suburban or urban settings; how many meals they receive; individual levels of nutritional risk; dietary restrictions; and even things like whether or not participants have and can operate a microwave oven or a stove.
Getty and his peers have also negotiated with regional food vendors to maximize purchasing power for a group of meal providers, allowing them to buy more for less.
Further, the OAA requires agencies like Heritage to educate state and local legislators on issues important to older adults.
Ultimately, none of these actions– telethons, government education, or local advocacy–was enough to save Solon Old Gold Dining in the service model it had built over the course of 33 years.
Wensel said the change to the service model is an unfortunate reality.
While home-delivered meals are more expensive to serve– by far, Getty said– resources have to follow the people. In many counties, rural residents are moving closer to medical facilities and urban areas where other options like food pantries or church meals are available.
For Solon Old Gold Dining participant Sandy Hanson, it's nearly apples to apples, regardless of the funding intricacies.
Hanson said attending senior dining and its accompanying programs has changed some people's lives for the better; people who might otherwise sit at home, eat a packaged meal alone, and lose important social contact all together.
Bob Welsh of Iowa City has served as a pastor and an advocate for aging citizens for many years. A member of the Johnson County Task Force on Aging, the Johnson County Livable Community for Successful Aging policy board, and the Heritage Agency's on Aging Advisory Council, Welsh learned the lesson early in his career as a minister.
Welsh served on Heritage's budget and planning committee as well, and has seen the OAA program's trending nationwide to serve more home-delivered meals.
It's the same philosophy now buoying the Old Gold Dining advocates in Solon.
Since severing ties with ESI, Solon's Old Gold Dining will see internal changes beginning Jan. 1. Food will be purchased from the Solon Retirement Village, to allow for continued family-style service of home-style cooking, and meals will still be served at the Solon United Methodist Church. However, participants will be required to pay, instead of relying on free-will donations. In an informal poll, Hanson said, most seniors said they could pay the $3.25 per meal, but there are at least two recipients of homebound meals who cannot afford the price of the meal.
Assisting them, and finding a way to secure future funding for meal delivery drivers and the congregate site manager– currently Duane McAtee, who takes reservations, picks up the food, packages it for home delivery and sets up and cleans the kitchen for the on-site meal, among many other duties– will be the next funding hurdles to overcome.
Last Tuesday, the Johnson County Board of Supervisors agreed to sustain the remainder of their financial commitment through the end of the fiscal year, but made it clear that as of July 1, 2014, the county was unlikely to give anything in the future.
Supervisor Janelle Rettig said she viewed the site manager as an employee of the Retirement Village, even though he would be under the direction of Old Gold Dining site council.
Further, supervisor Rod Sullivan feared setting the proverbial precedent.
By OAA rules, Wensel and the Heritage Agency on Aging can also be of no further assistance in operating Solon's congregate site as it has been.
Like the tables at former congregate meal sites across the county, it's got Hanson and Old Gold Dining council members feeling empty.
"We're going to need long-term, consistent funding to keep this site open and I am at a bit of a loss how to do it," Hanson said. "We understand everybody is crunching dollars, so we know we might lose our program, but we are trying to do the best for our seniors, the population of which has increased quite a lot over the last few years.


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Cricova wine cellars is next to Milestii Mici most famous wine complex in Moldova. It's not just hundreds of kilometers of underground cellars and corridors, where wine is produced and stored, but also more than 500 hectares of vineyards and more than 5,000 tons of harvested grapes per year.
Tunnels, which are used today for production and storage of wine are much older than the winery itself. Their story started few million years ago, when Moldovan land was covered with shallow waters where on the bottom some specific layers of limestone were formed of dead animals' shells. Today this rock is a good building material and while its acquisition corridors and tunnels being are a part of Cricova complex were created.
1). Vine is one of the oldest plants in the world – it has more than 10 million years. Many varitetes, fertile land and sun are the secrets of Moldovan wines. Some of the local Moldovan varietes of grapes have gained worldwide fame and become widely known kinds. Nobody has ever stolen Moldova's sun but the soil some have already tried – during the Second World War Germans exported it by trains from Moldova.
2). Most people consider "the older the wine, the better" as the greatest truth in the world but the reality is different. Most of the wines should be drunk within few years after their manufacture, only a small percentage of really good ones you can store more than a dozen years and only the noblest ones may be aging tens years from the date of production. The key issue is of course the quality of the fruit used to make the liquor. Cricova is proud of their collection of century-old wines still good for consumption. What is interesting, many wines from their collection, which are no longer good for consumption change into jelly and slowly become solid. These surprising processes taking place in the wine are still being studied by oenologists.
3). Perfect temperature for wine maturation is 12 – 14 degrees Celsius and humidity of 80%. Those are the conditions that are to be found in the tunnels of Cricova. But the biggest advantage of this underground environment is their stability throughout the year, because every change in the conditions of storage is much worse for wine than the mismatched constant parameters. Any fluctuations have negative influence on bottles tightness. The reason for it is different physical properties and reactions of cork and glass. For the perfect conditions it is very important to keep light or vibration out the room and this is why tourists are not admitted to cellars most precious liquor, neither on foot, nor by car. Those ideal for maturation conditions make even the greatest of this world store their liquors here. Not only Vladimir Putin but also Angela Merkel are said to keep their wines in Cricova.
4). In Cricova we found also underground sparkling wines production, carried out by traditional champagne method. In special stands, in upside down position, bottles of wine are kept. Every two weeks winery employees come and turn them around so that any sediments were gathered at the cork. They keep on doing it for three years. After that time sludge is being removes and cork replaced all that by freezing the neck of the bottle. Of course this method is used only for the best wines, all the others are made by rapid maturation. Well known, budget sparkling wine Russkoje Igristoje is being made in this place.
5). Wine collection in Cricova is slightly smaller than in Milestii Mici. It was initiated with the collection of nazi officer Göring, in whose cellars couple thousands of liters of best European wines were found. Collection was transfered to Moldova as compensation for war damage. Currently it is 1.2 mln bottles and 640 types of wine of the value hard to be estimated. The oldest wine in collection is a festive dessert wine produced on the areas of present country of Israel in 1902.
6). In addition to international varieties they successfully grow local vine varietes in Moldova. These are among others Feteasca Alba (white), Feteasca Regala (white), Feteasca Neagra (red), Rara Neagra (red), and Viorica (white). All that is being controlled by the Institute in Chisinau which even grows some frost and disease resistant varietes. There are quite a few sparkling wines produced in Moldova mostly of pinot noir and chardonnay – willingly used for the production of sparkling wine using above mentioned classical method of production.
W następnym roku planuje Mołdawię na rowerze, już się cieszę Tyle win do zdegustowania.
Uwielbiam wina z Cricova, choć moją ulubioną marką jest Purcari. Winnice mołdawskie są niesamowite, zarówno te po których jeździ się meleksami, jak i te przydomowe, które mają po 2 metry kwadratowe. Miałam też okazję pracować przy zbiorze winogron. Hodowla winogron to przepiękny zawód.
i must admit I knew nothing about wines before, probably because I just focus on drinking and I either like it or not. such an interesting most, I learnt so much!
Not really big fan of wine, but you got me interested.


February | 2018 | A Tempo!
To answer it, UW-Madison's Käri Knutson wrote a story for Inside UW, the weekly e-newsletter of UW-Madison.
The first University Opera production staged at the Union in 15 years, "La Bohème" features 56 cast members and a set designed by Madison's dean of theater design, Joseph Varga.
The opera will be staged Friday, February 23, 7:30 PM start time; Saturday, February 24, 7:30 PM start time; and Sunday, February 24, 3:00 PM start time.
Once a year, a quartet or quintet comprised of graduate fellowship recipients travels to Florida to perform a private concert for longtime School of Music donor Paul Collins. This year, they will perform works of Haydn, Beethoven, Manos Hadjidakis, Debussy, Liszt, Dvorak, and a passacaglia by Handel-Halvorsen. Collins not only supports ten graduate students at the school, but also contributed $5 million toward the new Hamel Music Center. The new recital hall will be named for him.
Ariel Garcia, viola; Kaleigh Acord, violin; James Waldo, cello; Richard Silvers, violin.
"The Altinos, married in 2002, were born on opposite sides of the world. They had successful, growing, separate careers when they met and discovered two common languages between them: English and music.
The Altinos were profiled by reporter Gayle Worland prior to their joint concert debut on January 26 with the Wisconsin Chamber Orchestra.
Luke Valmadrid. Photograph by Sarah Morton.
Double degrees are hard, but a triple degree? "Luke Valmadrid has forged a rigorous path pursuing degrees in chemistry, biochemistry and violin performance — and the dedicated senior wouldn't have it any other way." Luke studies music with Prof. Altino, above. Written by UW-Madison's Katie Vaughn.
Flute Day, Sunday, February 11, includes performances by guest artist, flutist George Pope, as well as by UW-Madison flute faculty Timothy Hagen and the UW-Madison Flute Ensemble. In addition, participants will be offered a brief seminar on making practicing more effective and enjoyable. Most importantly, there are opportunities for younger participants to perform in master classes and mock auditions in preparation for WSMA Solo and Ensemble Festivals and other solo performances.
Keyboard Day, Saturday, February 17, will include workshops by UW-Madison piano faculty, including Artistic Pedaling Techniques for the Developing Pianist and Poems at the Piano: How Songs and Poetry Help Us Understand a Composer's Mind, Heart and Fingers. Guest pianist Marina Lomazov (Friday, Februrary 16 concert in Mills Hall) will offer a master class.
We congratulate choral conducting graduate student Chris Boveroux, one of only 15 UW-Madison teaching assistants (out of 2,000 total) to win a Graduate School CampusWide Teaching Award. Not only has Chris TA'd in music, but also in mathematics, political science, and integrated liberal studies.
Not sure where to look for that wedding string quartet, an Easter trumpeter, a church pianist, or maybe you need an arts intern? Post your request on our Hire a Musician blog, about two to four months prior to your event. Recent listings include a request for a quartet for a 50th anniversary party, summer internships available at Bravo! Vail music festival, and a jazz vocalist.
Guest artists: Anna Hersey, soprano & Alan Johnson, piano. February 11, 1:30 pm, Morphy Hall.
Guest artist: Blaise Magniere, violin. February 11, 7:30 pm, Morphy Hall.
Contemporary Chamber Ensemble, contemporary classical works. February 15, 8:00 pm, Mills Hall.
Master class with Alban Gerhardt, cello. February 16, 2:30 pm – 5:00 pm, Morphy Hall.
Guest artist: Marina Lomazov, piano. February 16, 8:00 pm, Mills Hall. Part of UW-Madison Keyboard Day.
View full calendar for more events.
Graduate composer Nathan Froebe, composer winner of the 2016-2017 concerto competition, offers two performances in the next month. February 19: Lecture recital on Pierre Jalbert's "The Invention of the Saxophone,' based on the poem of the same name by Billy Collins. Nathan Froebe, narrator; Patrick Specht, alto saxophone; and Kyle Johnson, piano. March 3: "Addiction's Actuality," for trombone, piano, and pre-recorded sounds. "Addiction's Actuality" explores the topic of alcohol and drug addictions, from a person's descent into addiction, through recovery, and life after. Disclaimer: This piece contains mature themes and content. Nathan Froebe, composer/electronics; Thomas Macaluso, trombone; and Vincent Fuh, piano.
The School of Music offers a smorgasbord of performances each year; we invite you to visit our website and click on our events calendar. We also publish a season brochure that is mailed every August. To receive the brochure, please send your postal address to newsletter editor..


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Rain and freezing rain early. Then clouds lingering in the afternoon. High 43F. Winds NNW at 10 to 15 mph. Chance of precip 40%..
Schreiner University students Xander Thompson and River Wellborn, from left, are seen in this file photo of a performance at Schreiner University. Xander will play backstage pianist "Chris" and River the leading role of "Jeanie" in the P2K/Schreiner partnership musical "Me and Juliet," playing at The Cailloux Theater beginning Feb. 3.
P2K, SU Theatre partner to present 'New' Musical
Several young people studying the theatre arts at Schreiner University will have a chance to gain valuable on- and off-stage experience this Spring when P2K and Schreiner Theatre partner to present Rodgers and Hammerstein's little-known musical, "Me and Juliet."
"Working with Playhouse 2000 on a production at the beautiful Cailloux Theater gives our students opportunities that really expand their education" said Schreiner Director of Theatre Jeffrey Cunningham. "The large space, the investment in scenery, costumes, lighting, and musicians, and even sharing the stage and wings with the wider community - all of those are experiences that we can only offer through this partnership musical project."
Cunningham also designed the complex scenery for this show, which is being realized by a mix of P2K volunteers and Schreiner Tech Theater students who are constructing and painting the large set pieces under the supervision of P2K Technical Director Nicholas Boland.
This year's partnership project will present Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Me and Juliet," a little-known musical the pair penned just after creating the huge hit "The King and I," and a few years before their crowning achievement, "The Sound of Music."
With classic R&H music, lyrics and a typical "boy meets girl" story line, "Me and Juliet" looks behind-the-scenes at the cast, crew and audience of a long-running Broadway hit. Its best-known song is "No Other Love Have I," which became a number one hit for Perry Como in 1953.
Show dates are Feb. 3-19, with performances on Fridays and Saturdays at 7:30 p.m. and Sundays, Feb. 12 and Feb. 19 at 2:30 p.m. Tickets range from $24 to $28, or just $15 for all students and children.
"Me and Juliet" is designated as Schreiner's "Centennial Musical," part of the university's year-long 100th Anniversary celebration.
Saturday, Feb. 4, is especially set aside as "Schreiner Night" at the show, with all current and past students, faculty and staff invited to gather to enjoy the show together, and partake in a post-show reception which is also offered to the general public with no change in admission price.
Tickets can be purchased at the Cailloux Box Office, either in person from 10 a.m. to 1 p.m. Monday to Friday, 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Saturday, or by phone at (830) 896-9393. They are also available online at CaillouxPerformingArts.com, where modest convenience fees will apply.
Added security at City Hall
Garcia, Baroody team up again
HC Astronomers to meet Feb. 6 in Fredericksburg
Pets of the Week – February 1, 2023
Antlers battle to the end, edged by Champion
KISD trustees mull 2023-24 district calendar, start date Aug. 14


Butterkist, the nation's number one popcorn brand (current MAT share 37.5%*), is set to uncover incremental sales for retailers with the launch of its new taste-intense Discoveries range.
Butterkist Discoveries has been developed to meet consumer demand for more adventurous flavour fusions. The new temptingly moreish flavours of Hickory BBQ Pulled Pork (80g, MRRSP** £1.49) and Sweet Chilli & Zesty Lime (80g, MRRSP £1.49) will join the already successful Salted Caramel (160g, MRRSP £1.49). The expertly blended combinations capture the consumer desire for sweet and savoury flavour associations, a market which has increased by 109 per cent year on year*.
With British popcorn culture on the rise (currently worth £100.7m*), Butterkist Discoveries will offer a new, superior and flavoursome experience for popcorn lovers looking to cater for a sociable snacking occasion like a picnic, BBQ or gathering with friends and family.
Butterkist, a brand with a 100 year heritage, creates some of the nation's best-selling SKUs including Cinema Sweet, Toffee and Sweet & Salted (the fastest growing flavour year on year*). The Butterkist Discoveries range will broaden the brand's traditional flavour portfolio, appealing to new shoppers. For those looking for guilt-free snacking, the recipes are made from wholegrain, a good source of fibre.
Commenting on the launch of the new Butterkist Discoveries range, Anjna Mistry, senior brand manager at Butterkist, said: "Butterkist Discoveries is all about uncovering a new flavour experience in popcorn, whilst keeping true to our brand which always delivers on taste. It is a hugely exciting time for us as we open up the opportunity to enjoy popcorn in a new way. We believe we've identified an opportunity in the market for retailers to drive incremental sales as we head into BBQ, picnic and the big summer getaway season.
The new Butterkist Discoveries range will be available in leading supermarkets, convenience stores and wholesalers from July onwards.
To build on its range of impulse formats and to further meet consumer demand for products with a blend of sweet and savoury, Butterkist has also extended its range of popular Sweet & Salted products into multipack and single serve packs.
The new Butterkist Sweet and Salted multipack (6 x 15g, MRRSP £1.68) and Sweet and Salted single serve bags (27g, MRRSP £0.55) boast Butterkist's newly-developed 'Best Ever' recipe. Made from rapeseed oil, containing less than 60 per cent saturated fat and using wholegrain the range is perfect for consumers searching for healthier snacking alternatives for snacking on-the-go with maximum taste.
The new Butterkist Sweet & Salted single serve packs and multipacks will be available in leading grocery, convenience and wholesale channels from July.
For stockist details or enquiries call 01977 692500. More information on Butterkist, please visit www.butterkist.co.uk or visit the Butterkist Facebook and Twitter pages.