By: Tom Duggan – Published in Rumbo 6/1/99
Lawrence Mayor Patty Dowling has admitted that she does not read city contracts. She said that she does not sign the contracts but has someone (she doesn’t know who) rubber stamps the contracts for approval. When the Mayor was asked by Lawyers for Mae Gaskins why the city attorney signed and approved the consultant contracts which she (the mayor) was questioning as improper, her answer was this “ The city attorney approves those contracts as to form, not content.” What that means is that the city attorneys, according to their boss the mayor, do not read what the contracts say, they just make sure all the signatures are in the right place, and someone dates them properly. Is this any way to run a city? Is it any way to spend your money?
Good morning members of the Lawrence City Council, this is your wake up call! Consider yourself put on notice. After all, the very same Mayor Dowling who is admitting to improper spending practices in contractual agreements with the school system, is the same Mayor Dowling who submits budgets and spending appropriations to the council for your approval. Which means, if the council approves them she is no longer responsible for what is contained in those consultant contracts, the council is. How worried do you think that makes them? Plenty!
So says, City Council vice president Marcos Devers. He said last week that he plans on holding everyone accountable on the city side. “I believe we must be held accountable to the people and no one is above the law.” Devers told me in a phone interview. “We were elected by the people to ask questions and hold everyone to the same standard. That means the Mayor, right down to myself, and ever city worker. That is what I intend to do. There are a lot of questions to be asked.”
Devers, the first Hispanic to serve as a city wide Councilor-At-Large, said he, as well as other councilors, are watching the school situation with great interest. “I am not taking any sides,” Devers said, “ but I am very concerned about the way the city is being run and how we are spending money. My intention is to make sure I represent the people who put me here, not politicians. This is the people’s money. The people will have answers.” Marcos Devers, music to my ears!
Devers said other councilors have called for copies of the city contracts to make sure there are no abuses. But the councilors have yet to obtain copies of those city contracts, even though the freedom of information act demands such documents be turned over within 30 calendar days. The person who is spearheading the effort to review all city contracts is District “B” City Councilor Julia Silverio. In her first month on the council she had the courage to stand up, challenge the administration, and take responsibility as a public servant.
District “A” City Councilor Pat Blanchette echoed Devers concern about contracts on the city side, he is calling for a management audit of all city departments. According to the city charter, the city council must order a management audit every eight years. A management audit is to be conducted by the council (not the Mayor) which consists of performance evaluations, checks on duplication of services, and checking the inner workings, efficiency, and accountability of every city department. It’s called checks and balances. But this has never been done in the 14 years of this charter’s existence.
Councilor Blanchette said he called for the audit and the issue was referred to the ordinance sub-committee by Council President Frank Kivell. Blanchette told me that he understands how volatile the school situation is, “I’m not digging for dirt, I’m not looking for anything in particular, I just want the information. I need to know where each department stands. I have to be held accountable too. That’s my job, I work for the public and I take this very seriously.”
And he should take it seriously. With the city comptroller resigning (oh, sorry, retiring) the Mayor under fire for hiring campaign contributors, the department of Revenue conducting audits of their own, an acting receiver appointed by the state department of education, and the rest of the commonwealth watching our every move, any councilor would be foolish not to take it seriously when a chief executive states publicly that she has no idea what she is doing.
The housing authority, community development, police, fire, DPW, finance, assessors, every department in the city needs a major overhaul. Not just a financial audit to see where the money is, but we need to know who the RRC consultants are and why Billy and Sullivan consultants are preparing our budgets. We need to purge community development of the millions in lawyers we pay them when we have city attorneys on the payroll. And there is no better time to start than right now!
Patty Dowling wants to set a standard with Mae Gaskins? She wants to create a set of guidelines for spending and consultants? Then let’s do it across the boar and hold everyone, including her, to the same standard she wants to hold Mae Gaskins to. When we hired Patty Dowling she told us there was a better way. But a better way for who? Lawyers and consultants? Campaign contributors and relatives? Who has seen the better way since Mary Claire Kennedy was thrown out of office for her witch hunt against Jim Scully? It never ceases to amaze me when intelligent people fail to learn from history or other people’s mistakes.
And I will admit to you that Mary Claire Kennedy was right about one thing. I remember her ads against Dowling in the local paper in 1997. They pictured vultures drooling over the city with a caption reading, “Don’t let the out of town lawyers and consultants get a hold of your money!” As much as it pains me to admit it, (you have no idea how much) I would be doing you all a grave disservice if I did not say here in my column that Mary Claire Kennedy was right.
This mayor doesn’t follow the laws, the charter, court orders, municipal policies, ordinances, she didn’t even know how many contracts Dr. Stafford was working under, and she signed the contracts! The amount of money being sucked out of Lawrence under this administration is staggering. Our city budget is over 158 million dollars every year. Drive around the city, where is it? Can you find 158 million dollars worth of improvements?
Over the last three budgets that’s 474 million dollars pumped into Lawrence and I promise you it isn’t going to Lawrence people. Yes, the new council is getting their wake up call bright and early. It’s time they got up, rolled up their sleeves, and went to work. Mike Sweeney and Ralph Carrero have had the courage to do it on the school side. The council looks like they are ready to do it on the city side, now all we need is a new mayor.


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Stoneware Tankards P-4120
Availability: In stock
Hand-thrown in our pottery studio, this simple stoneware tankard is based on 17th century designs. Glazed inside and out with lead-free food-safe glaze. Holds approximately 1 pint. Sizes vary slightly.
Quality is great, whoever packaged it for shipping took great care to ensure it arrived unscathed and i was very appreciative of that. Great product! (Posted on 5/24/2017)

domain: design


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Play fun games for kids, as long as you like. Our kids HTML5 games are both fun and educational. Enjoy your visit, and tell us what you think.
Are you looking for some games to share with your children during the rainy days? On Makmian you can play cool HTML5 games! Have fun!

domain: game


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Bethlehem Township planners tonight voted to allow a developer to pay about half of a required $1.3 million township recreation fee.
Planning commission members said they felt developer KRE Group should only be required to pay $668,839 in recreation fees because its complex of 837 homes and a large commercial plaza on Freemansburg Avenue will include some recreational amenities open to the entire township.
How much KRE pays will ultimately be up to the township commissioners, who next meet Oct. 7. Commissioners President Paul Weiss said he agrees with the reduced amount but all five members will have to weigh in on the fee.
“What was presented to them tonight is what we thought was fair,” said Weiss, who took part in a recent meeting where the fee was negotiated. “I believe they deserve some credit.”
The complex, called Madison Farms, is set to include a pool, clubhouse, seven pocket parks, tot lot, promenades and a sizable bike path. Township planning consultant Tom Comitta said he felt the developer should get credit for amenities that will be open to the entire township but not the pool and clubhouse, which would be private.
The township recreation committee had voted to require KRE to pay about $900,000 in recreation fees but the planning commission unanimously decided on the lower fee.
“This is only a recommendation to the commissioners — the commissioners are at will to come up with their own number,” planning commission Chairwoman Lee Snover said.
KRE officials initially argued that the amenities they’re planning at Madison Farms were worth more than three times the township fees. The planning commission last month voted not to accept a full fee waiver and members said they thought the developer should give some sort of financial contribution to the township recreation fund.
KRE officials have said they hope to start construction on the complex as soon as the recreation fee amount is settled and they obtain a state road construction permit.
Near Route 33 and immediately to the west of Emrick Boulevard, Madison Farms is slated to include 140,000 square feet of commercial space in addition to 570 apartments, 210 town houses and 57 single-family homes. The commercial space, including a ShopRite supermarket, is expected to be built first, followed by the apartments.

domain: economics


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Development of an Artificial Intelligence Model to Guide the Management of Blood Pressure, Fluid Volume, and Dialysis Dose in End-Stage Kidney Disease Patients: Proof of Concept and First Clinical Assessment.
Kidney Dis (Basel). 2019 Feb;5(1):28-33
Authors: Barbieri C, Cattinelli I, Neri L, Mari F, Ramos R, Brancaccio D, Canaud B, Stuard S
Background: Fluid volume and blood pressure (BP) management are crucial endpoints for end-stage kidney disease patients. BP control in clinical practice mainly relies on reducing extracellular fluid volume overload by diminishing targeted postdialysis weight. This approach exposes dialysis patients to intradialytic hypotensive episodes.
Summary: Both chronic hypertension and intradialytic hypotension lead to adverse long-term outcomes. Achieving the optimal trade-off between adequate fluid removal and the risk of intradialytic adverse events is a complex task in clinical practice given the multiple patient-related and dialysis-related factors affecting the hemodynamic response to treatment. State-of-the-art artificial intelligence has been adopted in other complex decision-making tasks for dialysis patients and may help personalize the multiple dialysis-related prescriptions affecting patients’ intradialytic hemodynamics. As a proof of concept, we developed a multiple-endpoint model predicting session-specific Kt/V, fluid volume removal, heart rate, and BP based on patient characteristics, historic hemodynamic responses, and dialysis-related prescriptions.
Key Messages: The accuracy and precision of this preliminary model is extremely encouraging. Such analytic tools may be used to anticipate patients’ reactions through simulation so that the best strategy can be chosen based on clinical judgment or formal utility functions.
PMID: 30815462 [PubMed]

domain: medical


GETTING grey hair is inevitable as you get older, right? But for one woman, she found herself going grey from the age of 12.
By the age of 29 she had grown so tired of constantly covering up her greys with hair dye, she decided to let them grow out naturally despite jibes that only "old people" should have grey hair like hers.
TikTok user @pipjduma has shared her hair story online and revealed that while she was initially "embarrassed" about going grey so young, she now embraces it.
In fact, she's on a mission to "normalise" grey hair and hopes she can help others who find themselves in a similar situation to her to embrace their natural locks.
In a video that has gone viral on social media, after racking up 1.7million views, she reveals: "I've been growing out my natural grey hair for two years.
"October 2019, when I was 29 years old, I decided I'd had enough of constantly dyeing my hair to cover it up. So I let it grow...
"And let go of all the shame and embarrassment I'd ever felt being so grey at such a young age."
She continued: "I let go of the stigma and idea of a 'beauty standard' and honestly I've never felt so free. I love my greys."
The woman also shared the trolling she can be subjected to because of her grey hairs, with many people telling her "only old people" get grey hairs and she's "too young to have natural greys, you must have dyed it that way".
Explaining why she's decided to share her hair story online, the woman hit back at one person who claimed she was trying to "age more" by rocking silver hair.
Insisting that it was that person's attitude that needs to change not her hair colour, the woman said in another video shared to her profile.
She shared the comment that read: "Why people want to age more with silver hair when they are young!"
When I was 29 years old, I decided I'd had enough of constantly dyeing my hair to cover it up. So I let it grow and let go of all the shame & embarrassment I'd ever felt
The woman said: "I just felt the need to address this particular comment, you know one of the main reasons I decided to document my greying hair and transition online was to help to try and challenge this idea of what 'beauty standards' are supposed to be.
"I spent a lot of my 20s thoroughly ashamed and embarrassed of all my greying hair coming through mainly because of attitudes like this, that seem to tell women - and men - that if you let your grey hair grow through, you are somehow less desirable or you'll be letting yourself go - whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.
"I would just much rather be part of a movement that tells people you can be beautiful at any age, that beauty can mean anything to you and that you shouldn't have to be ashamed or feel embarrassed about a hair colour.
"That is literally all it is at the end of the day, it's just a hair colour. Nothing more, nothing less."
FABULOUS BINGO: GET A £5 FREE BONUS WITH NO DEPOSIT REQUIRED
Plenty of people have shared their support in the comments posted in response to her videos, with many pointing out that people pay hundreds to achieve the same grey look she has naturally.
"People pay good money for this look! It's absolutely stunning," one person shared.
Another revealed: "I just paid £200 for this hair."
A third wrote: "Gorgeous! And I'm sure you're helping normalise grey hair for other women, which is so valuable. There's nothing wrong with our natural states."
One more posted: "Your hair is BEAUTIFUL! Omg."
While others who have found themselves going grey early on too sharing how the woman's videos have helped them to accept their own grey hairs.
One person revealed: "From a 24 year old who is going grey, I needed this."
Most read in Fabulous
Meanwhile, one hair stylist reveals 'I’m a hairdresser and people ALWAYS wash their hair wrong – and there’s one area they always miss'.
And a hairdresser shares why you shouldn't bleach your hair at home after her hair snaps off.


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Sheela Philomena's Profile
A postgraduate in Bio-informatics with long teaching experience, works for news section, writes and edits articles for Medindia.
Written / Edited / Medically Reviewed
Kidney transplantation from people who die over 80 years can be transplanted to recipients and show similar patient and kidney survival rate.
A new non-invasive method to detect infections in prostheses has been developed by a research team.
A laboratory on a chip that combines many functions for easy detection of cancer biomarkers has been designed by scientists.
CRISPR gene editing tool is used to correct mutations in the hematopoietic cells of sickle cell anemia patients.
Decoded Neurofeedback technique is used to amplify high confidence state in study participants.


AutoGuide News Blog
The AutoGuide News Blog is your source for breaking stories from the auto industry. Delivering news immediately, the AutoGuide Blog is constantly updated with the latest information, photos and video from manufacturers, auto shows, the aftermarket and professional racing.
Mercedes-Benz is giving its popular E-Class model a refresh for the 2014 model year, outfitting its front end with a pair of single-piece headlights rather than the classic quad-headlight design which characterized the cars for years.
The updated SLS AMG GT was recently revealed as the companies halo supercar, and soon to be joining the ranks of AMG badged performance machines is the SLC, a small sports car that will rival the Porsche 911.


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3-4-04 - A powerful line of thunderstorms rolled across Texoma Thursday afternoon, leaving several cases of damage in its wake. The worst case of damage was south of Kingston in the Sanders Island View area, where two home received major damage. One home lost an entire porch while another lost part of its roof. High winds preceded the storms, but then increased in power with gusts of 70 miles an hour as the rain fell.
In Fannin County, the city hall in Ector was damaged when the roof was peeled back. The metal roof then landed on power lines, which caused the evacuation of city hall and the adjoining fire department. No one was hurt but crews used chains to hold down what's left of the roof until they can get it properly fixed.
The storm line crossed through Garvin and Murray counties and damaged a travel trailer as well as a barn. It also snapped some power poles. Electricity was knocked out for around 900 customers in Ringling, Oklahoma but has since been restored.

domain: news


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If this is a tomb, then where’s the body?” Beth swept her flashlight over the empty bier against the wall. The couch was big, bronze, and impossibly well preserved. The Celt buried here must have been at least six foot. She could imagine his strong limbs and broad shoulders resting atop the soft furs. She stifled an impulse to stroke the downy pelts. Everything inside the mound was too fresh, too pristine, too perfect, from the spirals and whorls carved on the passage walls to the brightly woven tapestries decorating the central chamber, which should have crumbled to dust at the first whispered breath of outside air.
“Grave robbers,” Frank said with a dismissive shrug. It was an economical gesture, the slightest twitch of shoulders neither broad nor muscular. Funny how she hadn’t minded his narrow shoulders—or his narrow mind—when they were married. All she had seen was his boyish charm and dark good looks.
Frank had no imagination. But when Beth stepped inside an ancient tomb, she could close her eyes and see the past, conjure whole lives out of shards of pottery and heaps of ash.
The first time it had happened, she’d been seven years old, playing in her mother’s jewelry box. The iron brooch had drawn her like a magnet. It was surprisingly delicate for such heavy material, a circle of black metal chased with swirling knots, fastened with a pin through the center. In the past her mother had warned her not to touch it, but this time her mother wasn’t there and Beth couldn’t resist.
When her fingers closed around the cold metal, a shock traveled up her arm and visions filled her head: a woman, a stone circle, the forest floor. The images rushed past her, and it was only later, after years of work, that she learned to control them, to search them like the pages in a book, to speed them up and slow them down like a film.
Not that she had to work hard at the moment. This find was unprecedented. More lavish than any Celtic burial she’d ever seen—if it really was a burial.
The grave goods were all here: the bier and the wagon, the drinking horn and cauldrons. They were standing beneath a symmetrical, man-made hill, sixty meters across, inside a vaulted chamber eleven meters square. It all fit with what they knew of thousands of years of Celtic burial practices. It even smelled right. Like green grass above and new-tilled earth below. But it felt wrong.
She strobed the burial wagon with her flashlight. Gold. Lots of it. Bright yellow, high karat. A pair of daggers, several torcs, a set of shoe ornaments, and a two-handed sword with a hilt of hammered gold. Symbols of a potent, vibrant masculinity, extinguished two millennia ago. The weapons of a chieftain or a warrior king. They were dazzling, but they shouldn’t be here, not neatly laid out in the bed of the burial wagon, not if the tomb had been raided before. It didn’t add up. “Grave robbers don’t steal bodies and leave gold behind.”
“Then the body was eaten by scavengers. Wolves, maybe,” Frank offered. He fingered one of the glimmering neck rings lying on the wagon.
Nothing destroyed artifacts faster than handling. The first rule for touching ancient objects was don’t. Frank knew that, but Frank thought rules were for other people. When she’d been a young and impressionable graduate student, she’d thought that was cool. Part of Frank’s sophisticated appeal. She knew better now.
“Wait,” she said. “Use my gloves.” She tucked her flashlight under her arm and dug into her jacket pocket. No gloves. She shifted, tried her pants pocket, and dropped her flashlight.
It hit the floor and went out.
The darkness was absolute. Beth felt the massive weight of the hill above them, the deep chill of the stone walls. She’d never been skittish underground before, but she was unsettled now.
She needed the flashlight. It couldn’t have rolled far, but the darkness scrambled her bearings. She reached for the wall—and brushed Frank’s groin instead.
She jumped back, but he grabbed her wrist and tugged her hand over his crotch. “I should have remembered. Burial chambers make you hot. The bier looked sturdy enough if you feel like a trip down memory lane.”
That was a street she’d rather not revisit. She had worked too hard to learn to resist Frank’s allure. “No thanks.” She yanked her wrist back. “This is all wrong. It’s a Stone Age monument filled with Bronze Age treasure, as though this tomb remained in use for thousands of years. And no one is buried here. This place was sealed tight as a drum. It hasn’t been robbed or scavenged, but it’s got everything a burial needs, except a body. Doesn’t that bother you?”
She could hear him moving about the chamber. “Nope. Collectors don’t buy mummies, Beth. They buy objets d’art. Corpses don’t fund university chairs, and they don’t underwrite expeditions. They don’t get you invited to lunch with the minister of culture. Gold does.”
She couldn’t see him, but he must have moved closer again, because she felt a breath tickle her neck. It was disturbingly arousing, which was bizarre, because while she’d always felt attracted to Frank, drawn by his almost hypnotizing charm, she’d never found Frank’s attentions arousing. She only understood that in hindsight, of course. What she had felt, during their courtship, was flattered. She’d basked in the attention of her idol and thought she was special.
A hand ghosted over her breast and her nipple hardened. She bit back a moan. “Stop that.”
The hand was gone.
Click. Light bloomed in the darkness. Frank had the flashlight. On the other side of the tomb.
The hair on the back of her neck rose. “I need to go outside.”
Frank looked at her, puzzled. “What’s with you?”
“Nothing. I just need air.” She tried to get herself under control. There was nothing to fear underground. She’d climbed down into a dozen burial mounds in her career. Archaeology wasn’t for the easily spooked, or the claustrophobic. She tried to tell herself that the breath on her neck, the hand at her breast, had been air currents. Or Frank messing with her. But the air in the room was completely still, and she’d never seen Frank move that fast for anything.
Frank smirked. “The locals have you rattled, don’t they? With all that talk about fairy mounds and the bowls of milk and honey they leave outside their doors. You spend so much time writing down their superstitions, you’ve started to believe them.”
“Their folk ways,” she said, finding comfort in the familiar, arguing with Frank, “are what helped me identify this tomb.”
“Satellite photography identified this tomb,” he replied. “And all the others we’ve found.”
But they both knew that wasn’t true. Beth didn’t need aerial photographs to find Celtic sites. Maps would do, even crudely drawn ones. All she needed was an idea where to look. Folklore always pointed the way. When a village said the nearby hill was a fairy mound or the clearing in the woods was a Druid circle, Beth could touch the spot on the map and know. A shudder would pass through her and something low in her belly would clench.
It was why Frank—handsome, sought-after Frank—had courted and married her.
“None of this gold,” she said, putting the past from her mind, “will end up on the antiquities market, or in the university museum. We signed strict agreements with the Irish government before we started digging.”
Frank shrugged once again. She didn’t like that shrug. He was caught last year in Mexico City trying to board a plane with his pockets stuffed full of Mayan seals. Naturally the university had pulled strings to smooth the whole thing over. They couldn’t have their golden boy spending the night in a Mexican jail.
She would have to watch him. Catalog the mound as quickly and thoroughly as possible before anything went missing. She had a feeling that if they took anything that didn’t belong to them from this tomb, they’d face someone—or something—much more dangerous than the police.
The digging woke him. He sent his mind out through the roots and the soil, to the west slope of the hill, where sometimes a sheep wandered and a shepherd followed, though not for many years now.
The locals knew better than to disturb his sleep. They preferred the Good Neighbors quiet beneath their hills. The Fair Folk, the Beautiful People, the Lords and Ladies; the Irish had many names for his kind because they were afraid to call the Aes Sídhe what they were: bored, cruel, wicked, and soulless. Conn knew he was all three, his humanity worn away long ago, because immortality bred contempt for life. But he judged he’d slept long enough to rekindle his appetites, to dull some of the viciousness—the fatal flaw of the undying—he’d sensed in himself when he’d last walked in the world.
He knew it when he felt the girl.
She wasn’t a child of the local earth. He could sense that. But she had the old blood, dancing hot beneath moon-pale skin. His cock stirred. Appetite. Desire. He would have her. The villagers would offer her up with the milk and the honey, glad he wasn’t asking for one of their own. They had to. There was no one to gainsay him. Their new priests had no power over the earth or the trees, no power over the Fae.
He liked her hair. Chestnut. Her curves, soft like the hills. And her eyes, bright, brown, cow-like. He had not encountered a woman so appealing to him in decades. Her beauty was not the passing flower of youth, but the enduring elegance of classical proportions. Full breasts, a defined waist, and lush hips. She climbed the hill with a hunter’s stealthy, athletic grace, and he imagined how sinuously she would move beneath him in his bed.
She had a man with her, another foreigner—slender, almost pretty, but not of the blood, and weak. Brother, father, husband, he couldn’t tell. The man’s aura was clouded like bog water. Unlikely to fight for her, but easy to kill if he did. The sort who failed to defend his woman’s honor, then asked for compensation when she was ravished.
He smiled at the thought. Firm, warm, living flesh beneath him, engulfing him. Digging through the sweet green grass to reach him. Her eagerness was touchingly human. He would enjoy spreading her, drinking in her pleasure and her release. If she pleased him as much as he hoped, he would keep her for a time. And then he would leave her, unable to taste mortal food or enjoy a mortal man’s bed, because he could not change his nature. Ancient, cold, tethered to the world only through the vicarious pleasure and pain—the one had no savor without the other—of humans.
Yes, he would have her, but he must satisfy more basic appetites first. He took his spear and his knife and passed through the hill—earth, wood, water, grass—changing from one thing to another, channeling his essence through each living particle, because all living things were one with his kind, to emerge in the wood at the other side of the village, and hunt.
Beth couldn’t shake her unease or, if she was honest with herself, her unwanted arousal. She tried to tell herself that her concerns were real and mundane: Frank and the gold. She’d hired a watchman to camp at the site overnight and planned to return first thing in the morning to catalog the contents of the tomb before her ex had a chance to palm anything, but that wasn’t why she was still sitting in the curtained window seat in the taproom of the inn where they were staying, nursing her half pint of bitter. Worrying about Frank’s sticky hands shouldn’t make her nipples hard and the place between her legs throb.
The pub attracted a rough crowd at night. She normally didn’t stay this late, but after the incident in the tomb, the thought of returning to her room alone was unappealing. She wanted lights and people.
But not company. She’d already fended off the advances of an unsavory local, a granite-dusted young quarryman who hadn’t taken her rejection kindly. Now he was nursing his drink and his resentment at the bar.
Of course Frank and his current “research assistant” were there, too.
When Beth and Frank were married, he was more discreet with his graduate-student hookups. He never picked the youngest or the prettiest ones, and at least maintained the pretense of evaluating their credentials. But no longer. Christie Kelley wasn’t bright. She didn’t have brains, or brawn, which would at least have been useful on a dig. She was whip thin and, Beth suspected, starved herself to stay that way. Fragile. A decided antidote to Beth’s feminine curves.
Beth had been naive enough, the first time one of her “hunches” paid off, to allow Frank to take the credit. It had been a remarkable find, a hill fort that had at one time contained at least thirty houses. Wind and weather had so changed the topography that the outline was no longer visible, even in aerial photography, but Beth had felt it there when her fingers brushed the site on the map. She had known.
Frank had convinced her that the university would never fund them if she led the dig, never publish their findings if she authored their paper. She was only a graduate student, after all, and didn’t have Frank’s Ivy League pedigree; plus he was already a full professor and a name in the field.
Her hill fort had made his career.
She’d been living with him when they’d started their second expedition and too besotted with her idol to argue for credit. He knew so much about their field, had met so many of the heroes in her professional pantheon, traveled to so many of the places she longed to go. Just being with him, she could feel a little of his personal glamour wear off on her.
By the time of their third major discovery they were married, and from the outside their partnership appeared perfect. They were a globe-trotting academic couple, invited to lecture at cultural institutions around the world. When Beth’s name appeared as coauthor of their treatise on the new findings at Hallstatt, everyone assumed that her role was that of devoted academic spouse: editor, cataloger, subordinate. When she insisted on an equal share of the credit, he began sleeping with his students again, and she refused to identify any more sites for him. Then he betrayed her in an act that still turned her stomach whenever she thought about it. After the divorce, she found herself shut out of grants to dig unless she partnered with her ex-husband.
Beth almost felt sorry for Christie Kelley, nestled in a corner table at the other side of the taproom with Frank, sipping her half pint and staring up at him with starry-eyed adoration. She could remember feeling like that about him.
Beth had never met anyone before him who’d shared her fascination with the ancient Celts. She had not connected them with the iron brooch in her mother’s jewel box until she was fourteen, on a class trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, when the guide had led them past a gallery that Beth had known she had to enter. The compulsion was so strong that she’d been parted from the group and was standing alone in a vast hall in front of a massive glass case before she’d even realized what had happened. Her teachers and classmates, oblivious to her defection, had continued on to the Greek and Roman galleries.
In the hush of that empty chamber Beth had felt it, the same thrill her mother’s brooch had given her, magnified a hundredfold. Though the brooch had been snatched away and hidden, Beth had always continued to be aware of its location. There were similar brooches in the case. Several in iron, two in silver, one in gold. Pennanular, she later learned. Moon shaped. She’d pressed her fingers to the glass, longed to touch them, then gone home, searched out her mother’s brooch, and started to learn to harness her strange ability. That summer she’d begun volunteering every weekend at the museum, desperate for a chance to touch the objects in that gallery.
Christie Kelley wasn’t enamored of Frank for his knowledge of Celtic archaeology, though. That wasn’t even her specialization. Her thesis was focused on the early Maya. No, she was attracted by Frank’s charm, his fame, his power in the department. His patronage could make or break her career. No wonder she stared up at him with such slavish adoration.
But Frank wasn’t looking at Christie now. He was looking straight across the room at Beth, smiling. He winked, then produced one of the glittering torques from the tomb out of his pocket. He slid it around Christie Kelley’s twig-like neck, then basked in her fawning praise. Beth had fallen for the same tricks when she was his student. Frank playing the great archaeologist, Schliemann, decking his wife in the jewels of Troy.
Only, this wasn’t the nineteenth century, and archaeologists didn’t loot graves. They cataloged them, preserved them, wrote about them for the public. The torc belonged in the tomb. She contemplated getting up and retrieving it. With a sinking feeling, she realized she couldn’t. Not here, in public. She would look like a shrew. The jealous ex-wife snatching jewelry away from the pretty young girlfriend. Ugh.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose. There was something behind her. Something outside the window. She tried to tell herself that the inn was old and the windows drafty, but the danger was real, and she knew it in her bones. Whatever was out there, it had power over her. It intensified the low throb between her legs and made her breasts ache. She had to get out of the bar, away from the window.
She stood, jostling her table and sending beer slopping over the rim of her glass. The bartender darted a quick, worried glance her way. Of course he did. She was behaving like a drunk. But the couple at the next table was also staring at her as was the quarryman at the bar. Was her blouse unbuttoned? She looked down to check, felt even more foolish. Her nipples were pebbled, visible through the soft cotton of her blouse.
She looked back up. Now the quarryman and his buddies were smirking, but the bartender and the old-timers near the fire were studiously looking the other way. Was she imagining all this? She felt flushed, awkward, self-conscious. She couldn’t remember a moment like this since middle school—everyone aware of her and ignoring her at the same time. Except Frank and his floozy in the corner, too absorbed in themselves to notice.
She edged out of the window seat and ran smack into the quarryman. And his friends. Five of them. “Don’t leave yet. Stay and have a drink with us,” he drawled, backing her into the alcove. She could smell whiskey on his breath. She darted a quick look at Frank, still absorbed in Christie Kelley. No help there.
“No thanks. I was just leaving.” His friends were sliding onto the bench behind her, cutting off her retreat.
And the thing outside the window, the danger her body could feel like an icy wind, was growing closer. She had to get out of there.
There was no room to maneuver, but she knew from her earlier clumsiness that the table wasn’t screwed to the floor. She grabbed the apron of the heavy wooden top and shoved. The bastard menacing her swore and jumped back, and she scrambled past him.
She fled from the room, into the front hall, and straight into the neat, silver-haired landlady. “I’m so sorry,” Beth murmured, trying to steady the tottering innkeeper. Mrs. McClaren was one of her best sources of local folklore, had talked for hours about the fairy mound when Beth had first visited last spring. The woman was tiny and frail, eighty years old if she was a day, but her grip on Beth’s wrist now was like a vise.
“I’ve got to change your room, dear,” she said. It was an ordinary enough statement, but Mrs. McClaren sounded as spooked as Beth felt.
“Now isn’t a good time, Mrs. McClaren,” Beth said, trying to loosen the woman’s hold.
“I’ve got a nice room right across the hall with an iron latch on the door,” she persisted.
“An iron latch won’t keep him out.” Beth recognized the speaker. The old man sitting behind the desk was Mr. O’Donovan. The locals accounted him a great authority on the sídhe, the mythical, semidivine inhabitants of the fairy mounds, but when Beth had approached him on her first visit to Clonmel, the man had refused to speak to her. When she’d returned with Frank, the old man had marched up to them and told them to leave the mound alone. Then he’d marched off and never said another word. Until now.
“Who are you talking about, Mr. O’Donovan?” Beth asked.
His eyes were wild and his smile was gleeful. Beth didn’t like that at all. “You know who. You came here looking for them. You woke the worst of a bad lot. I warned you not to dig in the mound, but you wouldn’t listen, and now he’s come for you.”
“Bite your tongue, old man,” Mrs. McClaren said, and turned to Beth. “Pay no mind to him. Sit here for a minute and I’ll have your things moved across the hall into the nice room with the batten door. An iron latch and iron bands. Old as the inn. Strong in the earth,” she said, as though she was recommending chocolate biscuits or vanilla cake, something ordinary and pleasant.
“Won’t keep him out,” the old man cackled. “It would take iron windows and iron walls and an iron floor and a roof of iron to keep him out. And even then, he’d get to you. And it’s no more than you deserve. No decent woman goes searching for the likes of them.”
It was too much. Beth bolted. Up the stairs, into her room with the brass doorknob, and the brass bolt, and the brass window latch. She locked all three, then took a deep breath and rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window.
“Don’t let them frighten you.” The voice was musical. Wind in the forest. Deep and primal. Musky sweet like honey. It compelled her to turn and behold the speaker, who leaned casually against the door she had just locked.
The man was well over six foot, and his skin was the ivory of Viking raiders and Celtic heroes. His hair was pale gold and arrow straight, woven in slender braids. She recognized the silver dagger at his hip, twin to the blade in the tomb, tucked into a wide leather belt that cinched soft fawn trousers. His linen tunic was embroidered by the same hand as the tapestries in the burial chamber, and around his neck was a torc finer than the one Frank had palmed that afternoon.
Strong limbs and broad shoulders in soft pelts. It flashed through her mind, and though the rational academic in her said no, the woman in her said yes, this is him. The Celt from the tomb. Rational Beth said, It’s some local joker playing with you, but irrational Beth, the Beth who could feel the old places through maps and pictures, heard a voice whisper, The Good Neighbors. The Fair Folk. The Lords and Ladies who dwell in the earth. The Sídhe.
You’ve always known they would come for you.
Conn had chased the deer for miles, not because he had to, but because he enjoyed feeling the grass beneath his feet and the wind in his hair, and because prey deserved the dignity of the hunt. He roasted and ate his fill, washed in the stream that ran down toward the mill, and left the carcass hanging outside the mill door so that word might spread. “Bring your tithe to the mound,” they would say. “Keep your daughters inside. One of the Old Lords walks abroad, and requires meat for his table.”
The inn he remembered. He could feel the age of it in the timbers, could read its history through the wood. A stand of living trees four hundred years ago, hewn and new, rooted to this place. He had liked it then, with its thatched roof and shuttered windows, better than the stone buildings the invaders brought. He liked it less now. The building was the same, but it stank, inside and out, of black iron and burning smoke. The filthy tar of the long dead beasts under the earth was poisoning the living wood and clay, driving the clamorous engines that rumbled past at unnatural speed, drowning out the sounds of the birds in the trees and the wind in the meadow. The girl was here. And her weak man. And another foreigner, a different woman. Younger. Callow. She smelled of base metals and dead beasts, too, bright and clattering like the smoke engines.
He entered the low door of the inn, and the old man sitting by the fire nodded. “I warned her,” he said. “She wouldn’t listen to an old man. But here you are, come to claim her. And it’s no more than she deserves.”
“Quiet!” The old woman curtsied, the creak in her arthritic knees audible as the snap of the fire. She tried to keep her eyes downcast, but her gaze was drawn to him. He knew the glamour he cast, irresistible even to a woman long past youth, wondered what it would be like to be obliged to woo a woman, to win trust and affection, rather than receive them as his due.
He followed the trail of the woman, his woman, her scent now spiked with fear, into the common room. The crowd fell silent as he entered. all save the granite-dusted men clustered in the window seat, where she had been. He could feel her lingering warmth there, see the print of her lips on her unfinished glass of ale.
He strode to the table, lifted the beaker, and licked the taste of her mouth from the rim. Summer fruit and honey wine.
He addressed the biggest of the quarrymen. “Where is the woman who was sitting here?”
The big man stood. Almost as tall as a Fae. Conn caught another tendril of the woman’s scent, all panic and indignation, clinging to the man’s clothes.
“What’s it worth to you, pretty boy?” the man asked. His friends laughed. Memory, it seemed, was growing short in Clonmel. The quarryman reached for a lock of Conn’s hair, and faster than the human eye could see, Conn seized the man’s wrist and broke it. Beneath the skin, the two long bones jostled and splintered like dry kindling.
The man screamed. His nearest friend swung a fist at Conn. Foolish. But this one hadn’t touched the woman, so Conn decided not to maim him, and merely picked him up bodily and dropped him onto the table, shattering it.
The rest thought better of challenging him.
“Where is the woman?” This time he addressed the room at large.
“Upstairs,” said the bartender.
The callow girl who smelled of metal, and was, he noticed with amusement, wearing one of his lesser ornaments filched from the mound, tugged at the sleeve of the foreigner. “Frank,” she said. “What’s going on? Why doesn’t someone call the police?”
“She’s right,” Frank hedged, nodding at the bartender. “You should call the police.”
“For the love of God, shut up,” said the bartender.
But the woman persisted. “Aren’t you going to do something? He’s threatening your ex!”
This was entertaining. Conn watched as the foreigner—Frank—deliberated. The man wished to keep both women, not because he valued either one, but for status. The arrangement was an old one, a woman to make his home, and another to warm his bed. But this Frank was a fool. He had made a queen out of his concubine, and a drudge out of an empress. No good could come of it, and he deserved to lose both.
“I’ll go check on her,” Frank said to the woman. But Conn held up a hand, and two strong villagers—memories apparently in good working order—grasped the outlander’s shoulders and held him there.
Conn smiled. He enjoyed seeing the man humbled. It was one of the delights of waking. Food and drink and sex and the taste of mortal emotion. Salt and sweet. Anguish and joy.
He took the stairs two at time. The hall was long and dark, the only light coming from beneath the door at the end. Her room. He crossed the hall and passed through the door.
She stood at the window, her temple resting against the smooth pane, her fingers wrapped around the brass latch. She thought it would keep him out. He would show her otherwise.
“How did you get in here?” she asked, wondering at what point it would be appropriate to scream. If this was a prank, some tasteless joke cooked up by Frank, she would look like a fool.
Her question seemed to amuse him. “I passed through the door.”
“Get out,” she said. She ran through all the possible explanations for this man in her head. A crazed reenactor. One with an improbably thorough knowledge of the grave goods she’d excavated only hours ago, and a lot of free time to spend at the gym. A thief who had plundered her discovery, and then come straight to visit her, decked in the loot. None of it made any sense.
Unless she was delirious. She’d contracted malaria in the Yucatán last year, but an attack in this climate seemed unlikely. Perhaps she was really out of her mind with fever and this was all a bizarre dream, her mind conjuring a hero to fit the discoveries she’d made in the tomb, a body to fill that empty bier.
And what a body. Biceps she wouldn’t be able to circle with both hands, whorled with sinuously inked tattoos. Thighs like tree trunks, sturdy, muscled, virile. The drumbeat between her legs sped faster.
She realized she was staring, openmouthed, at his body. Just short of panting.
Over a complete stranger who was probably some local lunatic with a fetish for Celtic jewelry and—dear God, were his nipples pierced beneath that shirt? And why did the thought make hers contract to hard points? What was happening to her?
“Speak your name.” That voice again.
She obeyed before she realized what she was doing. “Beth.”
“Beth,” he repeated. “It tastes like a meadow after rain. Beth. It pleases me. Show me your breasts.”
She reached for the shoulder of her blouse, started to push it down, then stopped. What was she doing?
“Go ahead,” he instructed. His voice was music that reached deep into her soul, made her want to join the dance.
She shook it off, said, “No,” but it was like the tide, lapping at her, and the urge came back even stronger. She wanted to expose her breasts. Because she wanted him to touch them. She fought it.
He knew. “Why resist,” he asked, “when surrender will bring so much pleasure? When you want to be on your back, beneath me, filled.”
She almost came from the thought alone and remembered with frightening clarity that she had never experienced a climax with another person in the room. She’d never come with a man. Or, at least, she had never come with Frank, the only man she had ever been with. And this one was a total stranger, and probably deranged. The thought was a tiny spark of sanity, and she clung to it. “Who are you?”
“I’m Conn.” As though that explained everything.
That seemed to amuse him. “Of the Aes.”
“Aes,” she repeated the syllables. “That just means ‘people’ in Gaelic.”
“You are pedantic as a Druid,” he said drily, but he also sounded amused. He crossed the room and touched her hair, stroked it. And she let him. She enjoyed it, was lulled by it. And by his voice, which went on, “You came to the mound looking for me. Surely you knew what you would find there. Only the Aes Sídhe, the people of the mounds, the Tuatha Dé Danann dwell in the hills.”
He was smug, like Frank, because he was handsome and women threw themselves at his feet. She hated that. And herself, a little, because she’d fallen for it, once. She latched on to her irritation, tried to use it to keep her head clear. “I am not some gullible tourist. I have a PhD in archaeology,” she snapped. Or tried to snap. It came out more of a moan. She leaned into his touch, so sure, so deft. “The Tuatha Dé Danann are not real. They’re a myth. The old Celtic gods recast by Christian monks as early Irish kings and heroes. The Fair Folk. The Good Neighbors. The Lords and Ladies . . .” she trailed off, blinked, looked down to find his hands at her collarbone. “The Fae.”
“Who worship beauty. Their own,” he said, sliding the soft cotton off her shoulders, letting it rasp her nipples, exposing her to his hungry eyes, “and that of others.” His skin brushed hers, an electric jolt, accompanied by a whisper in her mind.
Never let them touch you.
She ignored it. Nothing had ever felt so sweet as his hands on her breasts. Lifting them, testing their weight, rubbing the sensitive curve beneath the areolas, thumbing the tight nipples. Murmuring approval and admiration. Frank had always called her breasts teats and jugs, said they were too large to be tasteful. Had handled them roughly, as though annoyed with himself for being drawn to them despite their gaucheness.
This was different. This was . . . worship. This man—no, that joy-killing voice whispered, this is not a man—compared them to summer fruit, then bent his head and tasted them, his tongue latching on to her swollen buds and suckling, first gently, then with greater force. A hint of teeth, sharp, smooth, scraping over her sensitized flesh.
She was losing herself to his touch and his voice. “Your man leaves you wanting,” he murmured. “Let me ease you.” He pressed her down to the bed and she went willingly. Or part of her did. Another part of her was screaming inside, telling her this was all wrong, that she had to stop him, that something irrevocable would happen if she didn’t.
But the mischievous voice, the voice that wanted to know what it was like to enjoy a man, said, he’s a handsome stranger. You are having a casual hookup. Women do it all the time. Frank cheated you of this in college, stole your youth. Take it back.
“Frank isn’t my man,” she said, wondering why it was so important she tell him that.
“Lie down,” he coaxed. God, he was gorgeous. He was kneeling on the bed, his golden braids falling like silken ropes over her breasts. His eyes had appeared amber when she first saw him, now they were golden, catlike, feral. Wrong. But she no longer cared if this was wrong, so she didn’t look in his eyes. She looked at his chest—strong, muscular, only the finest scattering of golden hair over his pecs, leading down, down, where her hand wanted to go.
She pushed at his shirt. He obliged her and pulled it off, smiling down at her. His regard warmed her, made her feel alive and free and comfortable in her body. Beautiful, even. Though nothing could be as beautiful as his body. She ran her hands over his torso. Yes, those were tiny golden rings in his nipples. And a swirling pattern of scars, whorls, and dots that stirred some memory she could not quite grasp, over his rib cage. She ran her fingers over the rings and he hissed, a sharp intake of breath that told her he was pleased, and that made her feel powerful.
She couldn’t stop herself. She spread her legs, felt him push her skirt up and cup her sex. His touch felt like fire through her wet curls. She writhed, and her hand brushed the iron bedstead.
Cool and rough. Cold iron. Cleansing. She opened her eyes to see the creature poised over her with crystal clarity. Still blond. Still beautiful. With his hand between her legs. But fox faced. Cruel. It hurt to look at him. His eyes were cold, the planes of his face sharp and merciless. A perfection so alien it stopped her breath.
His fingers stroked. So good. She wanted this. Her grip loosened on the iron. His image blurred, became seduction itself, and she teetered on the edge for a heartbeat. Then she gripped the bedstead hard and screamed.
The words that came out were not English, and the sound was not her voice. But the meaning was clear: GET OFF ME!
Her cry threw him across the room. He hit the wall like an earthquake.
And the bastard laughed.
She’d tossed him across the room with the force of a geological event and all he did was throw his shoulders back and laugh. Never mind that she had no idea how she had done that.
He wiped a trickle of blood away from the corner of his mouth, then licked it off his hand, seeming to savor the taste and the violence at the same time.
She shivered, frustrated desire and revulsion making her sick. “What are you?” she asked.
He smiled. “You know what I am. And you were enjoying it. But the question is, what are you?”
“I’m an archaeologist,” she said, although it was hard to stand on her dignity with her arms wrapped convulsively around the iron headboard. Topless. “And I’m done with your little role-play. I’m sure the Lord of the Fae thing goes over big at your D and D game, but I’m an academic, not some American rube susceptible to your made-up Celtic mysticism.”
“Then let go of the iron.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Because you know that cold iron has power. It lets you see clearly, hear clearly, think clearly. It cuts through glamour like a blade.”
He was right. His voice did sound different. It was still musical, but no longer a haunting melody, more like listening to an orchestra tune, when you could hear all the individual instruments. And some of them were shrill, ugly, dissonant.
“Fine. I’m sure this is a dream or a delusion, but we’ll play by your rules. The iron has power. I can see you clearly now. And I don’t want you.”
Without his glamour, his face was far more expressive. More human. And right this second, a surprising mix of disbelief, wounded pride, and puzzlement. “Then why did you come to the mound?”
The floorboards outside her door creaked. “Beth?” It was Frank, his voice muffled by the door. “Is someone in there with you?”
Conn raised an eyebrow. “Your man has found his courage.”
The doorknob rattled.
“I told you. He’s not my man.”
Then a higher pitched voice, Mrs. McClaren’s, said, “I can’t be giving you keys to another guest’s room.”
“She’s not another guest; she’s my wife.”
Her Celt raised an eyebrow. “We’re divorced,” she said in response.
“Then he has given up his right,” her mad Celt came to the bedside, “to see you like this,” and pulled up her blouse, then stepped away. Her hands were still wrapped around the iron, so his proximity had only a muted effect on her, but the casual kindness of the gesture made her want to cry for all the years of her life when she had received none. And this, from a mad stranger.
The key scraped in the lock. Conn stepped back and settled his wide shoulders against the cracked wall. A casual pose, entirely at ease, like he owned the place. Like he owned her.
The door opened.
Frank barreled in, ready to play the hero, then stopped when he saw Conn. “What the hell is going on here?”
Mrs. McClaren bustled in. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him,” but she said it more to Conn than to Beth, and she said it with decided deference, and that was decidedly odd.
“I’m fine, Frank. We were talking about the mound. And the Aes Sídhe.” Both true. “But we’re finished here,” she said.
It was a dismissal.
Mrs. McClaren drew in a sharp breath and held it. Frank looked confused. And her enigmatic visitor cocked his head. “If you wish to know more about the mound, you know where to find me.” He bowed. It was a small gesture—courtly, rigid, and fraught with hurt pride. Then he walked out the door.
Beth watched him go, and felt bereft.
“You could have answered the door, Beth.” Frank chided. “That guy broke somebody’s arm downstairs.”
“I’m fine,” Beth said. She wasn’t, but the last person she wanted help from was Frank. She wasn’t certain herself whether she’d almost had a one-night stand or nearly been assaulted. But his concern surprised and touched her.
“That’s what you get for picking up locals in bars,” Frank said.
So much for his concern. Frank turned on his heel and left.
Mrs. McClaren lingered and cast a knowing eye over all the things Frank had missed: the crack in the wall, the drooping shoulder of Beth’s blouse, her white knuckles still clutching the iron bed frame.
The old woman sat on the edge of the mattress, her expression puzzled. “He let you go. I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
“Do you know him? Conn?” Beth loosened her grip on the iron headboard but found she wasn’t ready to let go altogether.
“That one, no. He hasn’t been about since before my time. His kind, yes. And I can tell you this: they’re as rotten inside as they are beautiful without. I always envied my sister her looks, until she captured the fancy of one of them. She went off with him in sixty-eight. They could hide in plain sight in those days, with their fancy clothes and their long hair. But our mother knew what he was. She tried to warn her, but my sister wouldn’t listen. When I finally caught up with her, she was living on the street in Dublin, nothing but skin and bones. Wouldn’t eat or drink. Didn’t sleep. Just sat there waiting for him to come back. There was nothing to do but bring her home to watch her waste and die.”
Then she looked Beth straight in the eye and said, “Lord only knows what possessed him to let you go tonight, but you can’t count on his mercy if you should meet him again. Run. Now. As far and as fast as you can.”

domain: artistic


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Turn-Key Controls kept pace with front-running North Enderby Timber in North Okanagan Soccer League play Wednesday.
Turn-Key fell behind early but rallied for a 4-2 win over the Revelstoke Stallions in a game play at Blackburn Park in Salmon Arm.
The win moved Turn-Key to 13-1-2, three points back of NET, who improved to 14-1-2 with a 6-0 win in Salmon Arm over the Outlaws.
Down 1-0 at the half, Turn-Key continued to keep the ball on the ground and move it through central midfielders Fabrice Fanfani and Oben Tabe, who would share Nolan’s Pharmasave Man of the Match efforts.
Fanfani tied the game early in the second half with a left-foot volley off a scramble in the box.
Revelstoke would jump out in front again 2-1 with another breakaway goal before Tabe would even up the game after beating multiple defenders on top of the 18 and spinning away for a low finish to the bottom left corner.
Sam Nolan would put the Controllers up for good with a run from central defence again beating the goaltender from just outside the 18-yard box.
Youngster Lendrit Ademi would continue his torrid summer scoring streak after taking a long ball to the corner from Taylor Horsting and beating the Revelstoke defender and goaltender to put the game away for good.
The Stallions are 6-8-1.
At Salmon Arm Savings and Credit Union Little Mountain Park, North Enderby Timber ran its unbeaten streak to 14, shutting the door on the Outlaws.
Brent Poulsen supplied four goals with Lucas Ross and Chris Ovens adding singles.
For Ross, it was his last game with the Timber before heading off to play university soccer in P.E.I. He scored the opener with a top corner header off a Poulsen corner kick.
Ovens, fresh off an airplane from Germany, added some first half insurance with a similar goal getting low enough to head in the Poulsen corner kick.
Adam Marwood, Andrew Stein and Ross helped set up three of Poulsen’s four markers on the night.
Jared Townsend earned the clean sheet.
The Outlaws fell to 1-12-3.
At Marshall Field, Salmon Arm Courvas scored the winner with seven minutes remaining to edge Monashee Surveying 4-3.
The winning goal came with the homeside reduced to nine players for the final 15 minutes, following the ejection of two Monashee players for picking up double yellow cards in the match.
Brandon Ashworth, Dustin Boreen and Brett Korberg, with a strike from midfield on the kickoff after a Courvas goal, catching the Salmon Arm keeper off his line, scored for the surveyors (3-12-2).
Courvas remains in third place at 8-5-3.
n NET finished second and Turn-Key finished third in the High Rec division of the 16-team Vernon Co-Ed Soccer Tournament at Marshall Field.
Penticton took first place in the division.

domain: sports


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These tips have been gathered to help you become a better photographer and to bring new life to your photos. This is a helpful collection to assist the novice, who is eager to take it to the next level.
Try using different shutter speeds and remember what works for a specific situation. You can capture moments that happen in a blip or blur larger time periods together. In general, fast shutter speed work best for action shots, whereas slow shutter speeds are ideal for shooting still-lifes, landscapes and other static images.
To get a high quality image, you will need a good camera. A dSLR camera is a great option for taking high-quality shots. This is what kind of camera most photographers have been using, if you want to take good photos this should be what you want to buy.
Try things that you think would be interesting and new; don’t be afraid to explore. An original point of view or an original take on an old subject will give you a personal style that attracts attention. Avoid cliched poses or shots that you have seen millions of times. Find unique angles, and do not be afraid to let your creative side loose.
This is a tip you can use in photography. You need to experiment with shutter speeds. These are labeled S, A, M an P on your camera. The “P” stands for program mode. This setting is fully automated and will set both the shutter speed and aperture for you. For general use, the “P” setting is the right one to choose.
If taking pictures with people in them, blur the background slightly. If the background is just as in focus as the subject, it takes the eye away from where you the viewer should be looking. This is most easily accomplished by moving your subject further away from the backdrop.
Go ahead and walk around your subject as you shoot to find an eye-catching angle. Try shooting the subject matter from above it, below it, to the right of it, to the left of it, etc.
You might want to join a club or group that specializes in photography, or perhaps, find another person who has the same interests as you. You can learn a lot about technique from other people, as long as you are careful to maintain your unique perspective. Compare your pictures to the ones your friends took to see how one subject can be seen differently.
Consider sending along some advance advice on how your subjects will want to dress when you are setting up a group photograph. While it is not necessary for everyone to wear the same color, complementary colors create more visual impact. You should get them to wear warm or neutral colors, this will good with all backgrounds. If subjects want to show off some bright colors, clashes can be avoided by setting off the colors with black clothing.
Adjust the focus to create a unique photograph. A smaller f-stop number, or depth of field, will focus on your main subject, and make the background blurry in comparison. This strategy is especially good for portraits where the person is standing near the camera. If you want everything in the composition to be in focus, use a larger f-stop. This works well to photograph landscape.
This article has provided you with advice to get you on the path of photography excellence. The tips above were hand-picked to guide beginning photographers toward the skills they need to really succeed in the field.


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The ESC Speed Control Air Valve Connector Push-In Fitting is a type of pneumatic fitting that allows for precise control of air flow in a system. This fitting is typically used when it is necessary to adjust the flow rate of compressed air into a pneumatic system to ensure that the system operates correctly.
The Speed Control Air Valve Connector Push-In Fitting is designed to be easily installed with Male NPT threading on one end and a push-connection for easy tube installation at the other to be quickly connected to tools or equipment. This fitting is made of durable materials like Nickel-Plated Brass, POM plastic and NBR Seals for leak-proof connections.
The Speed Control Air Valve Connector Push-In Fittings are available in all standard sizes, with the threaded port ranging from 1/8” NPT to ½” NPT male threading and the push connect size for 1/8” to ½” tubing and the NPT threading comes pre-coated with Teflon. These are engineered with a needle design to provide precise adjustments to air flow.
These fittings are commonly used to control the speed of pneumatic actuators and cylinders, to adjust the pressure in a system, to regulate the flow of air and maintain the correct pressure at all times. In systems where the compressor supplying air is too high these are these are essential to have on hand to drop the pressure down to a safe level for your equipment and other components. This valve can handle working pressures of 0-150PSI.
This is 2 pack of Speed Control Connector Fittings.


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Hi, my name is Arthy and I'm a photographer based in Dubai & London. Please feel free to get in touch to see how we can work together, I'd love to hear from you! Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org
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Last night’s delight: Pasta with ricotta and tomato, with baked fish and some seasoned spinach on the side.
I got hooked on a penne with ricotta and tomatoes dish at Sal’s in Radford, Virginia–an excellent vegetarian choice on the menu of the only Italian place in town. (Yeah, it’s been “serving up the finest Italian food for the last 30 years”, in a way. :)) Before long, I figured out how to make something similar at home, which also has the benefit of being really quick and easy.
Normally, I would make this with gluten-free penne, but the only thing we had in the house today was some tricolore rice fusilli. This is very much a “what can I do with what we have on hand?” meal, since I’ve been sick and haven’t been able to get out shopping for a while. Thus the frozen fish and spinach. But, it turned out tasting pretty good.
I went pretty simple with this one, and plonked some frozen fish fillets in a baking dish. (Any white fish would do, but we had haddock.) Then I decorated it with some grey sea salt for extra flavor, coarsely ground pepper, dried parsley mostly for color, some butter, and a sprinkling of capers. (The jar was sitting next to the butter dish, and it added a nice flavor touch. I almost wish my husband hadn’t gotten me hooked on those yummy little pickles! ;)) It went into the oven, covered, at about 350F / 180C for what I think should have been 35-40 minutes, but I forgot to start the timer. When it came out, I drizzled some lemon juice on top. It wasn’t a bad combination.
When the fish has about 20 minutes to go, you can start cooking the other stuff.
Pasta with Ricotta and Tomato
I used fresh rosemary in here, since the weather is still mild enough here that it’s a reasonable idea to go outside and snip off some. Basil is another tasty option. Frozen also works well; in a pinch, you could use dried herbs, but it’s just not the same. I grow some herbs, and try to keep baggies of a few kinds chopped up in the freezer. They’re available commercially, but not cheap!
- 4 tbsp. (100mL) olive oil — you could use less, but why? 😉
- An onion, quartered and sliced
- 3 – 4 cloves garlic, halved and thinly sliced
- 1/4 tsp. coarsely ground pepper
- Dash red pepper flakes
- 1 can chopped tomatoes (14 oz./400g) — an equivalent amount of fresh is better, in season, but canned works
- 1 tsp. salt
- Few sprigs of fresh or frozen rosemary (basil is good, instead)
- 8 oz. (250g) tub of ricotta
- 8 oz. (250g) gluten free pasta, cooked
Put the pasta water on to boil.
Sauté the onion in the oil until it just starts turning golden. Add the garlic, pepper, and red pepper flakes, and let it cook a minute longer. Pour in the tomatoes, and add the salt and chopped rosemary or basil. Let the sauce cook over medium heat for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes have thickened a bit.
If necessary, you can hold the sauce warm at this stage until the pasta is ready. Just before serving, stir the ricotta into the hot tomato mixture, very gently heating it a bit if need be. You don’t want to make it bubble after the cheese goes in, or the creamy texture will curdle in an unpleasant way.
Eat it while it’s fresh, because most GF pastas will swell up and go mushy if they sit in a sauce. Rice is not as bad about that as corn, IME.
Steam-fried frozen spinach
I’ve found that steam-frying any kind of frozen vegetable (usually with no added liquid) is a pretty good way of jazzing it up. But, that applies to vegetables in general. 😉 This is a little more complicated than the usual “little bit of flavorful fat, and a sprinkle of seasoned salt of some kind” version, but not by much.
- 2 tbsp. olive oil
- 2 cloves finely minced or crushed garlic (I have fallen in love with the Taj frozen cubes of crushed garlic here! In this case, half a cube.)
- A little ground pepper and a sprinkling of red pepper flakes
- 1 lb. / 500g frozen baby leaf spinach (chopped would work)
- 1 tsp. salt
- About 1 tbsp. of lemon juice, to taste
- Sprinkling of sunflower seeds, on the plate (optional)
Heat the oil in a heavy, medium-sized pan over medium heat. Fry the garlic for a couple of minutes, then add the peppers and let it cook while you get the spinach out of the freezer. Throw in the spinach and salt, stir it around some, turn up the heat to medium-high, and cover the pan. Peek at it and stir occasionally until it’s all thawed, then take off the lid to let some of the liquid evaporate if necessary. Only cook it for a few minutes after it’s thawed. (If you’re using loose frozen spinach instead of the nuggets we get here, it will cook a lot more quickly.) When it’s done, stir in the lemon juice, and sprinkle some sunflower seeds on each serving if you like.
I hadn’t tried the sunflower seeds on spinach before, but the little bit of taste and texture variation worked really well. I bet chopped walnuts or pecans would be just as good.

domain: food


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(Editor’s note: Each week during Black History Month, we’ll run a profile of an African-American who is a positive role model. This is the first part in a five-part series.)
The church on East High Street is empty, save for the man who’s trusted enough to possess a key. It’s Monday afternoon. The street is quiet. School traffic has already passed through.
Forrest Tyrone Burton’s vision for the youth of the community fills the otherwise empty church.
His advice to young people in Springfield and Washington County?
“To dream as high as you can possibly dream,” he said. “And don’t give up on your dream. Dream to the fullest.”
Above all else, he said, put God first.
“…and everything will be added unto you,” he said.
Burton works in Lebanon and lives in Louisville. He’s been a surgical assistant at Spring View Hospital in Lebanon for 18 years, he said. He’s been teaching other nurses in Louisville how to perform CPR and first aid, among other things, for the last eight years.
That he works in a field that involves caring for other people is no surprise.
Helping people, and respecting them, has been part of his life since he was young.
“My parents have always, they’ve always taught us to respect other folk and to treat people the way you want to be treated,” he said. “That’s always with me. I’ve always treated people with the utmost respect.”
People tell him that he seems always willing to help, always willing to share and do things for other people.
“That’s my upbringing,” he said.
Music has been a part of his life for a long time, as well.
He performed in the high school band (Washington County High School, class of ’89) and sang in the chorus.
He said he sings at weddings, local and out-of-state.
Burton said he also had the honor of singing the national anthem at the retirement of a good friend who was in the military.
Earlier last month, he worked with children and youth to perform at the Martin Luther King, Jr. celebration at the River of Life.
He said he told one of the event organizers that he really wanted to get the youth involved at the celebration.
“Because they are really going to be taking over this thing,” he said. “We’re getting older and I just wanted them to be a part of that, just to let them know what the true meaning of it is.”
With the group he worked with serving as the foundation, Burton said he wanted to start a community-wide children and youth liturgical praise dance and drill team.
Race and gender doesn’t matter, he emphasized.
“What my main focus with that is to get these kids so the streets don’t get them,” he said.
He said he wants the youth of this community to know that there is life outside of Springfield.
“You don’t have to stay in Springfield,” he said. “That’s not where I want you to be. I don’t want your mind focused on, ‘OK, I have to stay in Springfield, I have to get a job at INOAC or a local factory.’”
Burton said he wants the youth in the community to see different things. For instance, he mentioned considering a college that is out-of-state.
“My motto is, ‘I want to feed them, so they will grow and not starve them and let them die,’” he said.
Burton said the community-wide group would use Johnson Chapel AME Zion Church for now.
“If we grow out of it, hopefully I can get a facility that will let us (practice there),” he said.
He’s been a member at the church for 18 years, he said, proudly.
There he serves as the minister of music. He presides over the children and youth praise dance team, as well as the children and youth choir. He leads the adult choir, and the men’s chorus.
His background has also earned him seats on the children’s theatre board at the Opera House, as well as on the board of the African American Heritage Festival.
Race relations in Springfield, he said, have come a long way.
“As far as the politics side of it, now you have blacks that are on the board now,” he said. “Whether it has been school board or whether it has been on city council. When I was coming up as a child, I didn’t see that. I just did not see that at all. They may have run, but they didn’t get a seat.”
Political progress is a positive sign, he said.
“That shows me that that’s an improvement and that it’s moving. There’s movement,” he said.
Outside the sun shines and the weather feels like April instead of January. The street is still empty. The man with the key locks up, leaving the church with the echoes of his conversation of hope and ambition.

domain: sociology


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Taiwan manufacturer representatives tour Borderplex region in search for new sites
Representatives of Taiwan manufacturing companies are window shopping in the Borderplex region this week.
A 19-person delegation made up of representatives of two large Taiwan business associations and representatives of 13 Taiwanese companies are taking part in a tour of El Paso, Santa Teresa, New Mexico and Juarez, Mexico through Friday. They are hosted by the Borderplex Alliance economic development organization based in El Paso.
Their aim is to "better understand the landscape of the automotive supply chain" in this region and identify potential facility sites in the United States for electric vehicle suppliers, including semiconductor manufacturers, Tony Yuan, a board member of the Taiwan Electrical and Electronic Manufacturers Association, said at a June 30 press conference in El Paso.
Several Taiwan companies already have operations in Juarez, and are looking to expand, he said. Two Taiwan semiconductor-related manufacturers are putting factories in Phoenix and Sherman, Texas, Yuan noted. "And I'm sure many more will follow," he said.
Vic Kolenc may be reached at 546-6421; firstname.lastname@example.org; @vickolenc on Twitter.


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Our mentors in the Low-Residency MFA in Creative Writing write, teach and publish across genre; engage in interdisciplinary projects; take care of the communities of which they are a part; and, most of all, approach the twenty-first century writing life with invention, pragmatism and creativity. With like-minded faculty to aid them, students at OSU-Cascades are encouraged to cultivate the spontaneity, innovation, courage and commitment the writing life demands.
Jenna Goldsmith is the interim program lead for the MFA in creative writing. Her writing has been featured in Utterance, Rabbit Catastrophe Review, What Rough Beast, New Delta Review, The Waggle, disClosure: A Journal of Social Theory, and ISLE: Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature and Environment. She is a Story Catcher Festival Mari Sandoz Emerging Writer and was the inaugural winner of the Kentucky Writers Fellowship from the Baltic Writing Residency. Her poetry chapbook, Genesis near the river was published in 2019 with blush books, and she is ¼ of Portland-based artist collective Danger Punch, which published The Landscape in 2019 (Publication Studio Hudson). Her poetry chapbook, Suppose the room just got brighter, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2021. Her website is jennalgoldsmith.com.
T. Geronimo Johnson
T. Geronimo Johnson’s debut novel "Hold it ‘Til it Hurts" was a 2013 PEN/Faulkner finalist. "Welcome to Braggsville," a dark, socially provocative comedic novel about four liberal college kids who attempt to stage a lynching during a Civil War reenactment, was released in the US and UK in early 2015 by William Morrow. "Welcome to Braggsville" was on the 2015 National Book Awards Longlist for Fiction and won the Gaines Book Award for 2015. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in Best New American Voices, the LA Review, and Illuminations, among others. He has taught writing and held fellowships—including a Stegner Fellowship and an Iowa Arts Fellowship—at ASU, Iowa, Berkeley, Stanford and WMU. Geronimo’s academic interests include new media, creative writing pedagog, and the film essay. He believe that, as a writer, it is his duty to tell a compelling story of human interest, one that diverges from the strained optimism animating the artificial inosculation of literacy (read: knowledge of self) and liberty (read: transcendence). Of course that often means avoiding half the words in the previous sentence: writers must be both in the world and of it. T. Geronimo received his MFA from the Iowa Writers' Workshop and his M.A. in Language, Literacy, and Culture from UC Berkeley. He is a Niroga-certified yoga instructor and trained rally driver. His website is geronimo1.com.
T. Geronimo's teaching and research specialties include new media art, trans-media narrative, curriculum design, creative writing depagogy, urban education, transformative life skills, social justice and the arts, arts intervention, digital and community publishing, digital composition, rendering the dramatic as didactic, writing as a collaborative practice, representing vs. recreating oppressions, writing for hostile audiences, and difficulty vs. accountability
Christopher Boucher is the author of the novels "How to Keep Your Volkswagen Alive" (Melville House, 2011) and "Golden Delicious" (Melville House, 2016). Chris received his MFA in Fiction from Syracuse University in 2002, and he currently teaches in the English Department at Boston College; he’s also the managing editor of "Post Road Magazine." Chris’s academic interests include postmodern and contemporary fiction, hybrid texts and digital humanities. Chris lives in Watertown, Massachusetts with his wife and two children. In his free time, he plays the five-string banjo.
As a writing teacher, Chris emphasizes the intrinsic value of a regular writing practice; he sees it as a mode of inquiry – a way of listening in the world. He looks forward to working with writers at OSU to cultivate an artistic practice that is rigorous, sustainable, ever-evolving and always surprising.
Creative Nonfiction and Fiction
Beth's third book "Anxious Attachments" (Autumn House Press, 2019) has been long-listed for a Pen America Literary Award for the Art of the Essay and is a 2020 Oregon Book Award Winner. Taken together as a larger narrative, these essays are about the power of love to revise who we are, what we believe, and what our story is. Her second book, "Anthropologies: A Family Memoir" (University of Iowa Press, 2011), is a vivid archive of memories that layers scenes, oral histories, portraits, and dreams in a dynamic cross-cultural mosaic. Her short story collection, "Not a Matter of Love" (New Rivers Press, 2006), won the Many Voices Project Prize for work that is “aesthetically challenging and has a social consciousness.” Her essays and stories have been published in many fine journals including The Sun, The Southern Review, and Ploughshares. Read more at bethalvarado.com.
The best piece of advice she ever heard came from Toni Morrison, who was then working on "Beloved": “Never look away from the story.” Beth has an MFA in Fiction from the University of Arizona, an M.A. in Literature from Stanford University, and she studied creative nonfiction on a fellowship in Prague, Czech Republic.
At the University of Arizona in Tucson, she taught for the Honors College and the English Department. In 2011, she founded a Writers’ Salon in Tucson for nontraditional students; she has also taught Blended Genre classes for the University of Arizona Poetry Center and book-arts courses to Hispanic and Native American high school students.
Fiction and Poetry
Three things drive my teaching: keeping sight of each others humanity; how we interact with each other because of the personal landscapes — historical, cultural, physical, emotional, spiritual, and economic — that have shaped us; and how we might work toward a collective good. These same concerns inform my writing, and I choose my vehicle (fiction, essays, poetry, political journalism), based on the form that would best serve the emotional truth I wish to convey.
I grew up in Sri Lanka, a country where girls and women are honored both for their grace and for not taking any bull; where opinions are stated clearly and in the open, most specially when we disagree, but where the argument is kept separate from the relationship; and where friendship is assumed before it has to be proved. These things tend to differentiate me from my American peers. Serendip was the name, in Arabic, for my country in 361 AD, whose essence was captured in the invention of the word serendipity in the 18th century. As such, I’ve learned to stay wide open to the beauty that chance happenings afford us, and thrive in environments where people love without boundaries, give freely of their wealth and of themselves, enjoy the pleasure of food and drink and dance, and find humor in pretty much everything. Even the darkest things. Particularly those.
Poetry and Fiction
Jennifer Tseng was born in Indiana and raised in California by a first generation Chinese engineer and a third generation German American microbiologist. Her first book The Man With My Face (AAWW 2005) won the 2005 Asian American Writers' Workshop's National Poetry Manuscript Competition and a 2006 PEN American Center Open Book Award. Her second book Red Flower, White Flower (Marick Press 2013), winner of the Marick Press Poetry Prize, features Chinese translations by Mengying Han and Aaron Crippen, and her novel Mayumi and the Sea of Happiness (Europa Editions 2015) was a finalist for the PEN Robert W. Bingham Prize for Debut Fiction and for the New England Book Award. MAYUMI is available in English and Italian and is forthcoming in Danish. She received a Mass Cultural Council’s Artist Fellowship in 2020.
Tseng earned an MA in Asian American Studies at UCLA, an MA in Fiction at University of Houston, and she was twice a Fiction Fellow at the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown. She has taught Asian American Studies and Creative Writing at UCLA and Hampshire College respectively and was the 2015 Jack Kerouac Writer-in-Residence at University of Massachusetts, Lowell.
Mia Susan Amir, Geraldine Brooks, CA Conrad, Karen Finneyfrock, Rebecca Morgan Frank, Raquel Gutiérrez, Kristiana Kahakauwila, Colleen Kinder, Deborah A. Miranda, Elizabeth A.I. Powell, James Prosek, Justin Taylor


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I am currently working full time on my Vanilla WoW leveling guides. Soon there will be a 1-60 speed leveling guide for Alliance, along with in-game guide versions available for my members area. As of right now, there is no members area, but if you would like to show support for my efforts into this project, you can simply donate to me via Patreon if you like (you will get some cool rewards in return). Or you can donate directly with PayPal if you like. All donations are highly appreciated and they will only motivate me more to continue making the best vanilla WoW leveling guides on the web.
Nov 15 Thank you for the demo I just want to say thank you to Blizzard for the demo. I seriously had so much fun - so much more fun than I've had trying to play wow in YEARS. I know not everything was 100% accurate to classic, but it was just a demo so that doesn't worry me too much. I still had a million times more fun playing that demo than retail in any case. THE THINGS I LOVED: (1) I died so much. Like... SO MUCH, and that's alright! Once I finally finished whatever it was I was doing, it felt really rewarding! My group and I were actually laughing when we party wiped. No one insulted anyone or pointed blame, we just had fun. (2) Things took time. The journey mattered, it wasn't just about hitting end game asap. I felt accomplished at the end of all those time consuming things I did. (3) I had fun exploring! I spent so much time just running around, not knowing what the heck to do, but that was FUN. I had FUN getting lost and finding treasure chests. (4) Seeing the classic models again! Tbh, the races all look rubbery and stupid now... I honestly think the old racial looks are nicer. (5) Reading quests was necessary again, so the story mattered to me. No one booted me from the party for "taking too long" because I wanted to read. (6) The community! There were actually people doing RP stuff and talking in character. Everyone in the chat was just having fun. (7) All of the inconveniences - running out of mana, no mounts, running slowly on foot, little or no flightpaths... These things are fun because they're not just handed to me. I had to work hard and play the game to get things. (8) People constantly buffed other players, because that small boost could be the reason you didn't die when a roaming centaur attacked you from behind. THE THINGS I WAS CONCERNED ABOUT: (1) I've heard rumors about possible sharding... PLEASE DO NOT SHARD. PLEASE. I can understand if it's temporary just for the initial launch, and only for starting zones. I think that is a decent enough compromise for the inevitable problem of overpopulation for the first few weeks. But if we're talking about full scale realm sharding, PLEASE DO NOT! Cross-realm features and sharding are what ruined communities in wow, same with dungeon finder and other such things, and these features are very unwanted for a classic player like me. (2) The elite raptor I tamed as a hunter was not stronger than the non-elite raptor I tamed at the same level. In classic, elite animals had better stats as hunter pets once tamed, compared to the same non-elite version of that animal at the same level. (3) I think the mana and health regen rates were a bit too high? I'm not certain, but if they were I honestly want them to be genuine. It's okay if it's hard - challenges make games fun! Anyway, thank you again! I had a ton of fun, and as long as classic is true to classic with all of its pros AND cons, I feel certain that it will be a success.Sarai10 Nov 15
Long-expected World of Warcraft Classic is confirmed to come in summer 2019. WOW Classic major content will be released in 6 phases, and you could learn the schedule and some information on character creation below. When is WOW Classic release date? World of Warcraft Classic is planned to release this summer on August 27, 2019. This will be a global release, and you could learn the times for each region on the...
Nov 13 WoW Classic BlizzCon Demo Pre-Download Hi everyone! We’re incredibly excited for you all to get your hands on the WoW Classic BlizzCon demo next week, and to help make things as smooth as possible, we’re making the client available to download for Virtual Ticket holders starting today. Over the next 24 hours, we’ll be enabling the ability to download the WoW Classic demo through the Battle.net app for players who have purchased the BlizzCon Virtual Ticket, as well as standard BlizzCon ticket holders who have added their Virtual Goodies code to their Battle.net account. If you don’t see the option to install the demo right away, don’t worry – you’ll still have plenty of time to download the client before the demo goes live during BlizzCon next week. We can’t wait for you to get a peek at what we’ve been working on, and hope you enjoy this preview of what’s to come!Ythisens156 Nov 13


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Tips for Online Gambling
If you enjoy gambling, you may or may not have discovered the convenience of online gambling. Now, the thrill of a casino can be brought into your home with a few computer keystrokes. Say goodbye to long drives to the casino. You can munch on take-out, gamble in your pajamas, and you never have to wait in line. Is there a strategy that can help you win a lot of money via online casinos? Perhaps you are looking for tips for online gambling.
If you are a poker fan, you probably love hearing stories like the story of Chris Moneymaker. The accountant turned poker player transformed a hobby into an entire career, leaving his mark forever in the world of professional poker. For a $39 entry fee, Moneymaker bought a seat in a PokerStars online tournament. His win was a huge one, earning him a $10,000 seat in the World Series of Poker 2003. Now, the 2003 World Series of Poker Champion is a millionaire and representative for PokerStars. Maybe you are inspired by his success. By following some tips for online gambling, you can try your luck and maybe follow in this famous player’s footsteps.
The most important of all tips for online gambling is to remember that real money games are in fact real money games. Although this sounds like stating the obvious, the truth of the matter is that people often tend to play more loosely in online forums. This one of the tips for online gambling is so important because you need to keep track of your money at all times. Pay attention to how much you have spent. At a live casino, you may be really conscious of your chips. If your stack is getting low, you notice quickly since they are staring right at you… disappearing before your eyes. In an online game, the cartoon-like chips may all look the same. Keep track of what you’ve spent.
Another one of the important tips for online gambling is to choose not to make huge deposits into your gambling account. Most sites require you deposit funds before playing. Don’t deposit more than you intend to spend. You may regret it later.
Another of the important tips for online gambling is to check out online tournaments. If you are a poker aficionado with dreams of grandeur, your greatest hope is probably to one day seeing yourself at the WSOP Main Event. You can almost picture it now. You are sitting beside a player like Brunson or Ivey. Online tournaments often boast very low entry fees with the potential for a huge reward. If you really got lucky, you might earn an entry fee to the World Series of Poker.
The most important of all tips for online gambling is to choose games where your decisions matter. If you play a game such as Texas Hold’em, you have a better chance of winning than if you play a game such as roulette. If you enjoy games like slots, roulette, and other games of chance, you may want to try low-limit versions of those games or even enjoy a free game.
The best tips for online gambling are to simply treat your gaming experience as you would at a live casino. Never spend more than you can comfortably afford to lose, and above all – make sure you are playing at reputable casino sites. Check them out thoroughly, make sure they have been in business for a while, and maybe even conduct a simple computer search to see what kind of customer feedback has been offered. It is better to be safe than sorry. Imitation scam sites lure customers in hopes of gaining their banking information. Make sure to gamble intelligently.
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domain: hobby