Rabu, 28 Februari 2018

2018 Oscars predictions: And the winners in all 24 categories will be ... - NOLA.com

2018 Oscars predictions: And the winners in all 24 categories will be ... - NOLA.com

The nominees: “Call Me By Your Name,” “Darkest Hour,” “Dunkirk,” “Get Out,” “Lady Bird,” “Phantom Thread,” “The Post,” “The Shape of Water,” “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.”

What will win: “The Shape of Water.” As award season has dragged on, it’s become clear that this has become a two-movie race, between Guillermo Del Toro’s fantasy romance and Martin McDonough’s entirely unromantic “Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.” While both are very much still in the picture, observant Oscar-watchers undoubtedly noticed that McDonogh wasn’t nominated for best director -- which is no small thing. Only twice in Oscar’s history has the Academy given its top award to a film that wasn’t nominated for best director: “Driving Miss Daisy” in 1990 and “Argo” in 2013. Of course, there’s a chance that “Three Billboards” could still pull of an upset here; since the Academy expanded the field in this category to include as many as 10 nominees, historical precedent hasn’t been as ironclad as it once was. But if you’re playing the odds, you’ve got to favor “The Shape of Water.”

What should win: “The Shape of Water.” I actually go back and forth here, as “Shape of Water” and “Three Billboards” were my two favorite films of 2017, and in that order. But while “Three Billboards” is an undeniably great film, “The Shape of Water” -- with its stellar cast, sweeping score and rich production design -- simply does a better job of capturing the magic of the movies. I don’t think that will be lost on Oscar voters. Neither will the film’s advocacy for love in all of its forms, which makes “The Shape of Water” a movie of the moment.

But don’t forget about: “Call Me by Your Name.” There’s a lot of affection out here for Luca Guadagnino’s coming-of-age romance. With this many films in the field, any of them could become a surprise winner, and “Call Me By Your Name” could be that film.

Ask the 8-ball: There’s been no shortage of talk about “Get Out” and its timely dose of social commentary. Is there any chance it could be a surprise winner? Answer: “Don’t count on it.”



This Is What Life Without Retirement Savings Looks Like - The Atlantic

The NRA's Plan to “Harden” Schools Is Terrifying - Mother Jones

The Myth of What's Driving the Opioid Crisis - POLITICO Magazine

Selasa, 27 Februari 2018

NFL trade tsunami? This offseason could be defined by deals - NFL.com

NFL trade tsunami? This offseason could be defined by deals - NFL.com

This NFL offseason is long on salary-cap space and short on quality free agents. As a result, a tsunami of trades could be forming in the coming months.

It's a shift in player-personnel trends that is overdue. In a copycat league, opposing front offices have surely noticed that no team made more trades for veterans over the last two seasons than the New England Patriots. The world champion Eagles, who rank with the Patriots as one of the two most active trading teams of the decade, deployed three key contributors in the Super Bowl acquired through trades: cornerback Ronald Darby, defensive tackle Tim Jernigan and running back Jay Ajayi. Acquiring veteran talent via trade might just be the new market inefficiency.

Extra cap room makes trading veteran contracts easier. Twenty teams currently have more than $20 million in cap space, according to OverTheCap.com, with 12 teams over $40 million. Most squads also still have a lot more room to create through roster cuts. With so few difference-makers available in free agency, there's an argument that teams have been too fiscally responsible in recent years. Salary-cap space is overrated if nearly every team has enough of it.

To put it another way: NFL teams are smarter than they were a decade ago. Franchises like the Cowboys, which routinely needed to perform economic voodoo to get under the cap, now have room to maneuver. There are fewer terrible contracts with guaranteed money past two to three years. One-year deals were all the rage last free-agency period, a trend that is likely to continue. With the salary cap exploding and most young key contributors re-signing early -- the current rookie pay scale is a big factor here, keeping initial contracts low and motivating players to re-sign early -- it's incumbent upon teams to get more creative finding talent from outside the organization. That's one reason why we could see an uptick in veteran trades this offseason, with Alex Smith's move to Washington being the first of many headline-grabbers.

Smith's trade was instructive. It required the Redskins to have their own house in order with ample cap space to make a commitment to Smith in this season and beyond. The Vikings needed a lot of room when they acquired Sam Bradford just before the start of the 2016 season. The Jaguars weren't worried about cap space when they picked up defensive tackle Marcell Dareus before the trade deadline last season, just like the Seahawks were able to fit tackle Duane Brown on their roster at midseason. Top-of-the-market contracts like Dareus' and Brown's were once albatrosses for organizations that wanted to move on. Now the contracts can double as tradable assets.

So many veteran trades are fueled by finances. Baltimore dealt Jernigan to the Eagles in large part because the Ravens determined they weren't going to pay the impending free agent what he wanted in the future, so why not get some value for him? The Eagles picked up Jernigan on the cheap last April, liked what they saw and wound up giving Jernigan the long-term deal he desired in November.

The NFL will likely never be as trade-happy as the NBA or MLB, where trade machines roam the land and trade deadlines double as national holidays. But tasty trade momentum has steadily gained in pro football since March of 2015, when Jimmy Graham, Sam Bradford, Nick Foles, Max Unger and Haloti Ngata were all dealt in three separate moves occurring within 10 minutes of each other.

That sort of concentrated frenzy might not happen this year, but I expect to hear more trade rumors than ever at next week's NFL Scouting Combine in Indianapolis. If the Patriots and Eagles are relying more on trades in their team-building process, the rest of the league should, too.

Below are some names that could be mentioned in trade talks over the next few weeks, with the obvious caveat that these are just logical names to watch. It's worth noting that many of the biggest trades over the last five years came out nowhere, so the best players dealt over the next two months could be the ones no one sees coming.

Jarvis Landry, WR, Miami Dolphins: Tuesday's early placement of the franchise tag on Landry sends a confusing message. If the primary goal is a long-term deal, why not work on that contract until the very end of the franchise-tag period?

Speculation has already begun that the Dolphins will listen to trade offers, just like they reportedly did with Landry before last season. Remember that Miami used the transition tag on both tight end Charles Clay and defensive end Olivier Vernon and didn't wind up keeping either one of them. The organization could view this franchise tag as the first step toward a possible trade worked out in the back rooms of an Indy steak house.

Vinny Curry, DE, Philadelphia Eagles: The defending Super Bowl champions are the only organization currently in the red cap-wise, according to OverTheCap.com. While they can make some cost-saving moves like cutting Torrey Smith and possibly Brent Celek, the Eagles might be the only team forced to say goodbye to quality veterans this offseason to save some money. General manager Howie Roseman's good problem is that he has too many reasonable contracts on the books.

Curry is still a very effective pass rusher who played a big role in the team's playoff success, but he's due $9 million at a deep position for the team. With so few pass rushers available in free agency, it's not a stretch to think Curry's contract would be attractive to another team.

Another dark horse to get dealt by the Eagles would be tackle Jason Peters because of his high cap number ($10.6 million, according to OverTheCap.com) and the team's success despite his injury last season. Roseman is unlikely to get seduced into bringing the same team back in 2018.

Marcus Peters, CB, Kansas City Chiefs: NFL Network's Mike Garafolo did some digging on the rumored availability of Peters and couldn't quite find a confirmation or denial from the Chiefs' side.

"Don't rule it out," Garafolo concluded on Tuesday's "Up to the Minute" on NFL Network, which sounds like what gets reported when a team is open to listening to offers, but doesn't want to put a "for sale" sign up around the player just yet. (After all, what if no one wants to pay market value?)

Perhaps the Chiefs already realize they won't make Peters one of the highest-paid defenders in football when the time comes, so they are curious about what he could attract with his value peaking. Due just $1.7 million in 2018 with a club fifth-year option for 2019, any team interested in Peters wouldn't necessarily need to work on a contract extension for him right away. He's an incredible bargain at those prices.

UPDATE: The Kansas City Chiefs finalized a trade agreement to send cornerback Marcus Peters to the Los Angeles Rams, NFL Network Insider Ian Rapoport reported Friday.

Emmanuel Sanders, WR, Denver Broncos: The Denver Post wrote that Sanders could be on the trade block after what was one of his lesser seasons, and executive John Elway was noncommittal when asked about the future of his highly paid wide receiver duo (Sanders and Demaryius Thomas). This feels like an offseason where everything is considered in Denver, with Elway looking down every avenue possible to attempt to improve his team.

UPDATE: NFL Network Insider Ian Rapoport reported Thursday that the Broncos plan to keep Sanders.

Trevor Siemian, QB, Denver Broncos: Despite some erratic play in 2017, Siemian put out enough positive tape to interest another team. NFL Network Insider Ian Rapoport reported Wednesday that Siemian is expected to be available in a trade, with 2016 first-rounder Paxton Lynch likely to stay in town alongside a Broncos quarterback acquisition to be named later.

Richard Sherman and Earl Thomas, DB, Seattle Seahawks: The Seahawks openly discussed dealing Sherman last offseason, so it can't be ruled out this offseason. Seattle might not get an offer that makes moving on from its star cornerback worth it, but making safety Earl Thomas available could inspire different results. NFL Network's Michael Silver reported that Thomas could seek a raise this offseason. If the Seahawks choose to blow up their championship defense, this would be the time to maximize a trade haul for perhaps the best safety of this decade.

Nick Foles, QB, Philadelphia Eagles: Foles is about as unlikely as any player on this list to get traded. The Eagles have a Super Bowl MVP insurance plan under contract for $7 million, which is a bargain. Philly isn't likely to be a motivated seller here, but I'd never rule out another team getting stupid-aggressive in search for a quarterback.

Tyrann Mathieu, S, Arizona Cardinals: No player suited up for more snaps than the Honey Badger in 2017, a remarkable achievement after he returned from his second torn ACL. That would seemingly assure his spot on the 2018 Cardinals roster, especially after an uptick in his play late in the season. But his contract and the departure of coach Bruce Arians make it a complicated decision.

Mathieu gets $19 million guaranteed over the next two years if he's on the roster on March 14. That could inspire the Cardinals to renegotiate his contract or potentially examine the trade market for him, especially with talented safety Budda Baker waiting in the wings. I would recommend just paying Mathieu his money. Bank on him continuing to recover his explosive play another year removed from surgery. Mathieu isn't a player who is easily replaced.

Tyrod Taylor, QB, Buffalo Bills: This is another example of how cap space could facilitate a trade. The Bills have enough room under their cap to hold on to Taylor's $18 million cap figure into March, survey the market, and see if another team will give up a draft pick or veteran player in exchange for him. If not, the Bills could wind up just releasing him.

Martavis Bryant, WR, Pittsburgh Steelers: Bryant asked for a trade last season, and the Steelers didn't accommodate the request. With JuJu Smith-Schuster looking like the long-term Robin to Antonio Brown's Batman, perhaps another team could interest Pittsburgh in moving on from Bryant this time.

Eli Apple, CB, New York Giants: A 2016 top-10 pick could be available for pennies on the dollar.

Su'a Cravens, S, Washington Redskins: Cravens was recently reinstated off the reserve/left squad list, but the Redskins might decide to let the 2016 second-round pick start over elsewhere.

Follow Gregg Rosenthal on Twitter @greggrosenthal.



NASCAR heads to Atlanta with a Daytona 500 hangover, driver controversy - Fox News

Is century-old Florida flamingo mystery finally solved? Scientists say yes - Miami Herald

When Scientists “Discover” What Indigenous People Have Known For Centuries - Smithsonian

Worst Roommate Ever - New York Magazine

Worst Roommate Ever - New York Magazine

Alex Miller’s spare room had been on Craigslist for two weeks when, last March, she got the call she’d been waiting for. The man at the other end identified himself as Jed Creek. Creek was a lawyer from New York, but he had grown up just outside Philadelphia, only a few minutes’ drive from Miller’s apartment in the city’s well-to-do neighborhood of Chestnut Hill. Creek explained that he needed a place to stay while he tended to family matters — his mother was old and frail and his older brother was suffering from complications with hepatitis C, he said — and he’d been looking for a place without much luck. “I find Philadelphians to be very difficult,” he said. “A lot of flaky people.”

“I’m not flaky,” Miller, then 31, assured him, “so you’re off to a good start.”

Creek was tall, slim, and handsome, with hair as black as squid’s ink. Though he was 60, he looked to be in his late 40s. When he came to visit the apartment, he brought his dog, a 13-year-old Border-collie mix named Zachary, so that he could meet Miller’s arthritic black Lab, Cosimo.

To Miller, Creek’s arrival felt like a godsend. She was dealing with the sudden departure of a roommate, a looming lease renewal, a bank account kept precariously afloat by part-time work at a juice bar and at a nearby law firm filing paperwork. Here was a courtly gentleman, Miller thought, as she walked Creek through her cluttered apartment, an experienced lawyer who’d lived in Europe and the Middle East. At the end of the tour, they settled on her couch and fell into a deeper conversation. Creek shared his interest in Buddhist meditation; Miller told him about recent romantic troubles and Creek offered advice. The sky outside was turning dusky blue when Creek said, “I like the place, and I like you. If you like me, I could just do this now”—move in, he meant.

His abruptness surprised Miller, but Creek said he could pay her on the spot. He pulled a check from his pocket and made it out for $800. Miller noticed that the upper-left corner of the check was blank, and in the space where his name and address should have appeared, Creek wrote “219 E. Willow Grove Ave” — her own address now made his. He did not write his name. He signed the check in a messy scrawl, the only discernible letter an enormous, looping J. Then he and Zachary hailed an Uber, with a promise to return that evening. Miller asked if he needed any furniture. “No,” Creek said. “I have everything I need.”

Everything Creek needed, Miller saw when he returned, fit inside six Rubbermaid bins and a cat carrier. (It turned out that along with Zachary, he had a desperately shy tabby named Abigail.) He brought no mattress: For a bed, he dropped a heap of comforters on the bedroom floor. It struck Miller that someone who slept like this might not have much in the way of a proper bank account. But the following afternoon, she deposited his rent check and it cleared.

The two quickly fell into a comfortable routine. Creek rose early in the morning and took the dog for a run. He tended carefully to his pets. He spoke to Zachary exclusively in Dutch, which he said he’d learned while living in the Netherlands in the 1980s. He fed the animals well: for Zachary, brand-name kibble; for Abigail, a mix of dry food and organic chicken, which he diced with a serrated silver knife. They spent the nights together on the couch, drinking wine and watching The Rachel Maddow Show, one of Creek’s favorites. One evening, an old hookup overstayed his welcome, refusing to leave despite Miller’s requests. Creek barged into the room and said, “Buddy, I’m living here too. She’s asked you to go, I’m asking you to go. I’ll ask you one more time, or I’ll remove you myself.” The guy left.

Then, on April 5, their 11th day of living together, Miller showed Creek the utility bills and asked for his half, $140.80. Creek refused. The bills, he noted, covered a period before he’d moved in. When Miller pressed him, he texted, “We can handle this in court if you would prefer.” At first the escalation in tone jarred Miller. Looking at the dates, however, she second-guessed herself: Maybe Creek was right.

Strange things began to happen. One evening, Miller came home to find the living-room lights wouldn’t turn on — Creek had taken the bulbs and screwed them into lamps in his bedroom. A few days later, the six chairs at the kitchen table disappeared. Miller knocked on Creek’s door, and when he opened it she saw he’d fashioned them into a desk. Miller had assumed Creek spent his days in court, but neighbors said they saw him loitering on the property throughout the afternoon. He began sprinkling his speech with legalese. When they argued, he accused her of breaking “the covenant of quiet enjoyment,” a technical phrase Miller recognized from her days working for a real-estate agent. When he found a cigarette butt in the toilet bowl one afternoon, he told her flatly that he would not be paying the next month’s rent. As a paralegal, “you should know about the warranty of habitability,” he texted her.

Hearing about Creek’s behavior, Alex’s mother asked her daughter for his phone number, then plugged it into Google. She found two articles and didn’t finish reading them before picking up the phone and calling her daughter. “Alex, we have a big problem,” she said. “Jed Creek is not who he says he is.”

Creek’s legal name was Jamison Bachman. In 2012, Bachman had shown up at the home of a woman across town named Melissa Frost, claiming to be a New Yorker whose home had been destroyed in Hurricane Sandy. Overcome with pity, Frost let him in — and nearly lost her house. In an expensive and frightening ordeal that dragged on for months, Bachman slowly laid claim to the space, using his intricate knowledge of tenancy laws to stay one step ahead of her. He scuffed up the floors, kicked down the doors, and clogged the toilets with cat litter. “He went from being this cordial, polite person who understood he was a guest in my house,” Frost said in one of the articles, “to someone who was approaching me aggressively and flat-out saying, ‘This is my house now.’ ”

I reached out to Frost this past summer, having read about her encounter with Bachman. Over the years, she told me, other roommates had written to her; working with them and with public records, I soon identified a dozen victims of Bachman’s, spread up and down the East Coast. Bachman, these stories made clear, was a serial squatter operating on a virtuosic scale, driving roommate after roommate into court and often from their home. But Bachman wasn’t a typical squatter in that he did not appear especially interested in strong-arming his way to free rent (although he often granted himself that privilege); instead, he seemed to relish the anguish of those who had taken him in without realizing that they would soon be pulled into a terrifying battle for their home. Nothing they did could satisfy or appease him, because the objective was not material gain but, seemingly, the sadistic pleasure of watching them squirm as he displaced them.

The roommates’ stories often start with a desperate arrival: Some emergency pushes Bachman to their doorstep; without a place to spend the night, he and his pets would be wandering the streets. For Frost, it was the hurricane, and for Miller, a sickly relative in need of Bachman’s aid. But for others, an alcoholic roommate or a sudden change in employment did the trick. Brash and confident, Bachman swaggers into their home, sizing up the place. He notes his education at Georgetown University (a master’s in history) and the University of Miami (where he got his law degree); he describes how he makes a living “doing litigation” and tutoring “youngsters” online; he promises that he’s clean and respectful and requires nothing more than a quiet room and a fast internet connection.

Some roommates took pity; others were desperate themselves. When Sonia Acevedo, a 49-year-old vet tech from Brooklyn, saw Bachman’s U-Haul pull up outside her beachside condo in Rockaway Beach, Queens, in the spring of 2012, she prayed to God in thanks: To a woman struggling to make mortgage payments, the $1,400 check Bachman wrote on the spot looked like salvation.

Things started off smoothly, as they always did. “Those first three months were perfect,” Acevedo recalled. She and Bachman ate breakfast together while the sun rose over the beach, talking about little things — errands, pets, politics. It even seemed, early on, like a friendship might be forming. Shortly after Bachman moved in, one of Acevedo’s cats died. When Acevedo returned from the vet that afternoon, Bachman met her at her car, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m so, so sorry,” he said, pulling her into a hug. Acevedo was struck by the tenderness of this moment. Eventually, she grew comfortable enough to invite Bachman to the beach at Jacob Riis Park, where she sunbathed topless. “He was very respectful.”

Often, the first signs of trouble were easy to downplay: In many cases, roommates came home to find a chandelier removed, a bookshelf filled with unfamiliar books, a couch or potted plant shifted slightly this way or that. These incursions, almost imperceptible, seemed calculated to unsettle. Suspecting Bachman was entering her room while she was at work, Acevedo once placed an empty wine bottle behind her bedroom door, so anyone going in would knock it over; when she returned, she opened the door without thinking and then braced herself, but the bottle did not fall, having been moved several inches away. Michael Oberhauser, a 31-year-old composer and music theorist living in northwest D.C., welcomed Bachman into his apartment in the fall of 2016. Almost immediately, tensions arose around a red bath mat of Oberhauser’s, which Bachman picked up and tossed away in the corner every time he used the bathroom. “I asked him about it, and he said, ‘Oh, yeah, I was going to clean it,’ ” Oberhauser told me. “So I put it back, and he kept on throwing it out.” Eventually, Oberhauser duct-taped the mat to the floor. Beneath it, he placed a note reading, simply: WHY?

If Bachman’s intentions were at first unclear, in most cases, by the time the second month’s rent came due, they became unmistakable. Time and again, Bachman’s roommates were informed that some minor discomfort they’d inflicted upon him (a dirty living room, a dish left in the sink) had voided their lease — and meant that Bachman wouldn’t be paying his rent. They considered him a guest in their home, but he made it clear that he saw it the other way around. “The effort he put into doing this was life-consuming,” Frost told me. “When things got bad between us, he stopped leaving the house, because he thought I might change the locks.” To her, Bachman appeared to function as if he were “at war.”

One Saturday, she told me, she unplugged his microwave and brought it upstairs to his room, telling him he couldn’t keep his things in the common areas. Bachman shouted that she had “no right to touch his things,” she said, and used the microwave to push her slowly backward, until she was teetering on the edge of the staircase. A friend intervened, and Frost called the police. Sometime after the cops arrived, a calico cat of Bachman’s named Emma disappeared, and Bachman wrote to Frost in fury: “YOU ARE THE PROXIMATE CAUSE OF MY CAT’S DISAPPEARANCE AND PRESUMED DEATH … DO NOT COMMUNICATE WITH ME AGAIN UNLESS IT IS THROUGH YOUR ATTORNEY.”

Yet even after all of this, Frost approached him to try to negotiate a peaceful exit. She offered to return the money he’d paid in November and to help him find a new place to stay. Hearing her entreaties, Bachman just laughed. When Frost burst into tears, Bachman pretended to comfort her, she said. “He goes, ‘You’ve got your whole life in front of you. You’re pretty, and you’re talented, and you’ve got this house — well, you don’t have this house anymore. This house is my house.’ It was like something out of a movie.”

Jamison Bachman's former roommates share their horror stories.

It would not be accurate to call Bachman a con artist; his tactics involved relatively little artifice and even less artistry. What Bachman craved was a fight; the goal was to get his roommates to sue him. “I’m happy to have her file an eviction notice,” he told a reporter in 2013, while squatting in Frost’s home. “She files the filing fee, and then I piggyback on the filing fee and hit her with the counterclaim. That’s just tactics.”

Bachman’s legal training came late in life, after he’d returned from those years abroad. He got his law degree at the age of 45, and his instructors at Georgetown and the University of Miami remembered him as a “remarkable” student with “extraordinary talents,” a star researcher whose contrarian style made classroom discussions lively. “In 20 years of university teaching,” one Georgetown professor wrote in a letter of recommendation, “I have encountered very few people of his caliber.”

Bachman may have started his legal education late, but he wasted no time putting it to use, tangling with at least three people in housing disputes before he’d even graduated. Yet, bizarrely, he never took the final step in legitimizing his career: In 2003, he failed the bar exam on his first try and never bothered to take it again. His legal skills were thus limited to a single client — himself.

In his disputes with roommates, he cited precedent exhaustively and leaned confidently on legal shibboleths, but often undercut his own claims with personal jibes and snide remarks — wanting to demonstrate mastery and authority but also to bully. One woman, suing for the repayment of more than $36,000 in debts, became, in Bachman’s words, “bitter and a woman scorned”; alleging she’d given him herpes, Bachman countersued her for the “tortious transmission of an incurable venereal disease.” Another target, having pointed out Bachman’s tendency to clog his roommates’ toilets with cat litter, elicited the statement: “Correct me if I’m wrong, as I only have two graduate degrees, but my understanding was that the proper place for shit is in a toilet.”

On the day in 2015 when he faced off against Jill Weatherford, a South Carolina Realtor whose tenants had taken him in, he showed up in a sweat-drenched suit, having walked the four miles to the courthouse in the Charleston sun. He had somehow compiled a list of her past tenants and began rattling off the names, falsely accusing Weatherford of being a slumlord. “I said, ‘I’ve never met this man in my life,’ ” Weatherford told me. “I’ve been doing this for 33 years and never seen anything like it.” When he stepped before Judge Marvin Williams in Philadelphia, to accuse Melissa Frost of destroying his property, Williams told him, “I find you to be totally incredible. I don’t believe a word you say — and, frankly, you’re frightening.”

In most instances, the counterclaims and self-defenses Bachman advanced failed resoundingly — but the result seems to have been almost beside the point. He would eventually disappear, but never before the acrimony reached a crescendo. In 2005, he was hired to teach at the Thornton-Donovan School, a private school in New Rochelle. The headmaster offered him an apartment in a beautiful home on a peaceful street near campus. According to one former roommate, Bachman began boasting about how much he’d impressed the school — so much, he said, that they were already considering making him the school’s next headmaster. (On the website Rate My Teachers, the only student who left a review of Bachman wrote: “He scares me …”) In the spring, when the school informed him that his contract would not be renewed, he withheld his rent in protest and refused to move out of the faculty apartment, until, after two months, the school evicted him.

Arleen Hairabedian, a 43-year-old professional dog walker living in Queens, allowed Bachman to stay with her in June 2006, after his eviction from the school. At the time she took him in, Hairabedian and Bachman were casually dating, and Hairabedian lived in a railroad apartment above a hobby shop in Richmond Hill, in a building so close to the elevated tracks that the passing trains rattled the windows. Hairabedian made Bachman guarantee he’d stay no longer than two months, she told me, “and he promised.” But two months became six, six months became a year, one year became four. Bachman only ever paid one month’s rent to Hairabedian, but she was trapped by her own conscience: She knew that if she moved out, she’d be foisting Bachman on her landlord.

So she stayed, the tension slowly rising. In October 2010, more than four years after Bachman had moved in, she opened up the bills and “just lost it,” she told me. She turned to Bachman and demanded he pay for the cable. Bachman told her he wouldn’t. “I’m not a violent person,” Hairabedian said, but rage overcame her and she slapped him. In response, Bachman grabbed her throat; she pulled herself free and ran out to the street for help. Although they lived in the same home, they acquired protection orders against each other — which legally required them to remain 100 yards apart. The only way to satisfy that demand, Hairabedian decided, was to finally file for his eviction, so on a November morning she and her landlord went to the Queens County Civil Court and put in the paperwork. When Bachman learned what she’d done, he retaliated, filing a police report that claimed she’d come at him with a knife and persuading the police to arrest her (Hairabedian says she never attacked him). Hairabedian was forbidden to go near the apartment — which meant Bachman now had full possession of her home. Taking advantage, he began dropping off her cats at kill shelters.

Bachman’s outbursts were becoming scarier. Mark Gainer, a former principal oboist of the Charleston Symphony Orchestra, told me that Bachman moved into his home in the spring of 2015 and promptly began walking around with a baseball bat over his shoulder. On January 10, 2017, Bachman arrived at the home of Neville Henry, a 40-year-old Bermudan immigrant living in South Philly. According to Henry, Bachman sent pictures of himself ahead of time, but when he showed up on Henry’s doorstep, “I didn’t even recognize who he was. I said, ‘Can I help you?’ Then he said he was in a relationship with someone for years and they took everything from him and he wanted a fresh start.” Henry let him in. A week later, Bachman came after him with the broken leg of a coffee table. Then Bachman abandoned the house and later sued Henry, trying to recoup his rent. Two and a half months after that, Jed Creek moved into Alex Miller’s apartment.

Bachman’s roommates described him as a man whose life had gone awry — and, in fact, it had. As a kid, Bachman had been groomed for greatness. His parents raised him in Elkins Park, an old, elegant neighborhood of close-clustered homes on the northern border of Philadelphia. His father owned a construction company, and his mother stayed at home; his brother, Harry, four years Jamison’s senior, was handsome and multitalented, juggling the varsity soccer team and the school productions of Camelot and Brigadoon. Where Harry was outgoing and humble, Jamison was ostentatiously self-confident. “He was the cockiest kid you ever met,” said Bob Friedman, one of Jamison’s closest childhood friends. Jamison harbored no doubts about his own abilities: He earned high marks, excelled at tennis, and spent his free time devouring books on the history of Western civilization. Unlike other students’, his high-school yearbook entry records just a two-line quote, attributed to Bismarck, that appears in retrospect like a mission statement: “Fools say that they learn by experience. I prefer to profit by others’ experiences.”

According to Friedman, Bachman had an almost unquenchable competitive streak and very little interest in a fair fight. Weekend after weekend, he forced Friedman to play an obscure, multi-hour board game called Midway, which simulated the 1942 Pacific Theater battle in which American airmen devastated the Imperial Japanese Navy. “The game was slanted toward the Americans winning,” Friedman said, “and he was always the Americans.”

Although by any reasonable comparison, his older brother would turn out to be the star, Jamison was supposed to be the golden boy. “His parents made him think he was the Christ child, that he could do no wrong,” Friedman told me. He remembered Jamison’s mother, Joan, as “a Carol Channing type,” an “ebullient” woman who pinched her son’s cheeks; his father, Jim, was more taciturn but “nothing but upbeat” when it came to his younger son’s prospects. “They doted on him. It was always ‘You’re doing great, champ’ or ‘You’re the best,’ ” said Friedman. It got to “the point where it was almost phony — it was over-the-top. It felt like they were both performing a role.”

For his part, Jamison had one model: his maternal grandfather, Abraham J. Brem Levy, a prominent attorney in the city. In the 1950s, Levy had co-founded a criminal-defense firm with Samuel Dash, who would go on to serve as chief counsel to the Senate Watergate Commission in 1973. As a trial lawyer, Levy became a fixture in the local papers, orchestrating theatrical rhetorical feats like arranging for an actress to walk into the room at the emotional high point of his closing statement in a murder trial. Bachman boasted throughout his youth of his grandfather’s success to anyone who would listen. Decades later, on his personal website, Bachman would note that his passion for the law extended back to childhood. “My grandfather started taking me to his murder trials when I was just a boy,” he wrote.

Bachman enrolled at Tulane University in the fall of 1975, but his time there was rocky and brief, ruptured by a horrific incident in January at the Sigma Chi house, just off campus. Although Bachman was not a member of the frat, he told Friedman he’d been hanging around the house with a friend from Elkins Park, a boy a year older named Ken Gutzeit. Suddenly, a man had appeared with a knife and slashed Gutzeit’s throat. “The word Jamison used was beheaded,” Friedman told me. According to news reports, Gutzeit was killed by a 25-year-old student librarian named Randell Vidrine. The two were said to have been feuding since the previous fall, after Vidrine called campus police on Gutzeit for eating a cheese sandwich among the stacks. (“I know it sounds incredible, but from what we understand they never argued about anything else,” a police spokesperson told a reporter at the time. “It was always about the sandwich.”) Gutzeit stumbled onto the frat-house steps and bled to death, surrounded by Bachman and some two dozen other witnesses. (A grand jury declined to indict Vidrine.)

After Bachman returned home in the summer of 1976, family and friends found him shaken. He appeared oddly paranoid. He ranted to Friedman about a rising tide of anti-Semitism and threats to the State of Israel. Those close to him worried that Gutzeit’s murder had served as a mental breaking point. (A therapist who later evaluated Bachman noted that he was “excessively dependent on the world” to take care of him and wondered if this indicated a personality disorder, but eventually concluded only that Bachman was depressed.) Clearly distraught, Bachman spent the summer getting high. And then he dropped off the map.

Friedman didn’t see him again for 20 years, when Bachman called him out of the blue and said he was living in D.C. The two met at a bookstore in Crystal City, “and it was like finding a long-lost brother,” Friedman said. “We got very close, very quickly.” Bachman said he had been living in Israel, where, he claimed, he had served in the Israel Defense Forces. There, he had fallen in love with a Dutch woman, whom he had followed home. In the Netherlands, he had studied Japanese at Leiden University, a school that catered to international students. (The early 1980s marked the zenith of the Dutch squatting movement.) Shortly after the reunion with Friedman, Bachman broke up with his girlfriend, and Friedman invited him to stay at his family’s home in the suburbs out by Dulles airport. “He was never a problem, perfectly well behaved, a great guest,” he said, though after a while Bachman started to make Friedman’s wife uncomfortable.

In the two decades since that paranoid summer in Philadelphia, Friedman and Bachman had notably diverged. After a career in journalism covering the White House for PBS, Friedman had worked with Lee Atwater to launch an international barbecue-restaurant franchise called Red, Hot & Blue; Bachman said he was stocking books and writing copy part-time for a news program (sometimes he mowed lawns). Pitying Bachman, Friedman hired him as a manager at a local Red, Hot & Blue. Bachman showed up for his first day of work in a suit and tie, telling employees he’d been brought on as a consultant to turn the business around. Friedman fired Bachman and, not long after, asked him to move out. Friedman couldn’t help but feel perverse satisfaction: “I was the one supposed to turn out like him, and he was supposed to turn out like me — I was doing well and he was not, and it wasn’t supposed to be that way.” Bachman, he added, “was very jealous of the fact I turned out well. Proud but jealous. He would say, ‘You’ve done well for yourself; you’ve got a wonderful wife, wonderful children, you’re playing tennis …’ ”

Bachman’s brother’s success offered perhaps a sharper contrast still. Harry had earned a degree in architecture from Cornell, married a psychologist from Paris, and raised two daughters in a quaint, Colonial-style home on a quiet street in Elkins Park — a sort of suburban fairy tale of making good and sticking close to your roots. But Bachman’s parents, according to Friedman, were ashamed that their younger son hadn’t similarly flourished.

When Jamison talked about his family, it was often with resentment; sometimes he noted what he perceived as his parents’ better treatment of his brother, as if it explained his failure to launch properly in adulthood. He told one interlocutor that his father, Jim, had paid for Harry’s college education but had refused to do the same when he wanted to go back to school around age 40 — a sign, in Jamison’s eyes, of open and unforgivable favoritism. School-based status was a running concern for him: “He clearly had a competitive thing with me,” Frost said. “The fact that I had gone to UPenn was a point that he consistently brought up when he was trying to tear me down. He would say, ‘Oh, your Ivy League degree won’t help you with this, will it?’ ”

Bachman’s resentment toward his father festered so much that, as Jim lay dying of cancer in the mid-aughts, his son declared he would skip the funeral and had “no regrets” about it. And several roommates told me that Bachman expressed a deep-seated hatred for his mother. “Jamison would say, ‘At least you had a mother. I didn’t have a mother after the age of 8, because I had a mind of my own and she didn’t like that,’ ” Hairabedian told me. “I guess that’s when their relationship started to go downward.”

As he said he would, Bachman sat out his father’s funeral in New York. But shortly afterward, he returned home, where the fate of his father’s estate was being determined, expecting to receive a portion of the money. But, he told Acevedo, his mother claimed it for herself. “He was furious,” Acevedo told me. “He said, ‘She didn’t leave us one cent. Not one cent.’ ”

By the time he arrived at Alex Miller’s home in March 2017, the only consistent presences in Bachman’s life were his pets, Zachary and Abigail, whom he called his “children.” A few days after Alex and her mother, Susan, discovered his true identity, Susan Miller let herself into Alex’s apartment unannounced and Bachman came roaring out at her. “What are you doing in my home?” he said. “This is my daughter’s home, Jamison,” Susan said. Bachman’s face went pale: It was the first time either of the Millers had acknowledged they knew his true name.

Bachman had brushed off Alex’s demands that he leave with the mantra “I’ll see you in court.” So on April 26, Alex took letterhead from the lawyer she worked for and typed out a notice of demand. “Local police authorities have been alerted as to your previously recorded disputes as a tenant in sufferance,” she wrote. Bachman ignored the letter. Alex put out a listing for a new roommate, but when she brought one woman by to see the room, Bachman refused to open the door.

By May 1, Miller had a plan. That night, a dozen friends, her mother, and a few neighbors arrived for a party that she described on Facebook as “a send-off … for the Serial Squatter Jamison Bachman,” meant to reclaim the space and signal he wasn’t welcome. She knew he started the online tutoring sessions he led to support himself in the evenings, so she told everyone to arrive at seven o’clock, prime time. She handed out mixed drinks made with Jameson whiskey. She blasted rap — which Bachman hated — from her stereo. She went online and found photos of Frost, which she printed and (“to psychologically fuck with him”) taped up in the bathroom above votive candles, so Bachman would see them. “I wanted him to know I knew his past,” she said, “and to have to face the people he’d harmed.”

The partyers could hear Bachman in his room, shouting into his computer. Around 11 o’clock, Bachman emerged with a box of cat litter and dumped its contents into the toilet. Then he huffed out of the apartment with a backpack slung over his shoulder, Zachary slinking along behind him. Emboldened by Bachman’s absence and whiskey, Miller’s friend took a drill to his bedroom door and removed the knob.

As the party wound down, friends implored Miller to stay with them for the night — Frost had warned the Millers about provoking Bachman. But Miller refused. She went to bed with her door open and slept poorly.

Before dawn the following morning, Miller heard Bachman rise unusually early and leave the house. She crossed the hall into the bathroom and was brushing her teeth, thinking she might be able to slip out to work while he was gone, when the front door opened. Bachman barreled down the narrow hallway and, with a fist, slammed the bathroom door open. He pushed her against the wall, his hand at her throat, but when she screamed, he retreated. She followed him to his bedroom.
Standing half in the doorway, she shouted, “Who the fuck do you think you are?” Bachman sat on his heap of quilts, dicing the cat food with the serrated knife — and then he was coming back at her, the knife in hand. He leaned against the door to shut it, and as she pulled back, her leg got stuck between the door and the frame. “You’ve made a grave mistake,” Bachman growled, jabbing the knife toward her through the opening. It sliced her thigh. Blood smeared the door. When it opened wide enough, Miller pulled her leg back and ran to her room to hide.

That morning, two police officers arrived from the 14th District. According to their report, they found Bachman polite, cooperative, and apologetic. But when they saw the cuts on Miller’s legs, they arrested him. Bachman was charged with aggravated assault and other felonies and sent to jail, and Miller obtained a protection order.

Without Bachman around, Zachary wandered the house aimlessly. Abigail, who had hidden in Bachman’s blankets since the day they moved in, emerged for the first time, her legs stiff, and took up a spot on Miller’s bed. Inside Bachman’s room, the heap of comforters still lay on the floor, and Bachman’s computer sat upon his makeshift desk of kitchen chairs. In folders, Miller found hundreds of pages of court filings against previous roommates, which she and her mother would use to track down other victims, and, in the back of his closet, she came across a blue box: a cleaning kit for a .380 caliber pistol and a box of bullets. Alex and Susan turned the house inside out looking for the gun. They cleaned out cabinets, peered into the air-conditioning vents, rented a metal detector and scoured the lawn. But the gun was nowhere to be found.

At one point, Harry and his wife, Caroline, had taken Jamison into their home in Elkins Park, only to learn what living with him could be like. Harry was not keen to experience that again, but it hurt him to know his younger brother was holed up in a jail cell. On June 17, Harry bailed him out. A few weeks later, the Millers arranged to meet Bachman at the local precinct to return his belongings. The morning of the exchange, Bachman stood outside the station, filming the Millers with his phone and narrating their arrival. As police observers hovered nearby, they handed him the Rubbermaid bins and Abigail. But Bachman was enraged when they declined to give back Zachary — they had sent him to live with a woman in the suburbs, and the judge had permitted her to keep him. As the Millers left the station, Bachman pulled up alongside them in a rented car and rolled down his window. “You’re dead, bitch,” he said, before speeding off. She turned around and reported him for violating the protection order, and a few weeks later he was rearrested.

Imprisoned again, Bachman grew frantic about his cat, which had been left behind in an Airbnb after his arrest. He called Harry, concerned about getting bailed out immediately so that he could get back the cat, but it had been fostered out to someone by an animal shelter while he was in jail.

On October 28, Harry bailed him out a second time. Jamison asked to stay at Harry’s house in Elkins Park, but Harry refused. Caroline Bachman was out of town to see their newborn grandchild, with plans to have Harry meet her the following week. But even from afar she feared what kind of argument might ensue if Jamison, now free, made an appearance at the house, and she asked Harry to stay elsewhere.

Shortly before seven o’clock on the evening of November 3, Harry stopped home on his way out of town. As he pulled up in Caroline’s red Ford Escape, an unwelcome sight confronted him. “Guess who just showed up just as I drove in,” he texted Caroline. “No, don’t guess.” It was Jamison.

Harry had been scheduled to arrive in upstate New York later that night, but he never made it. When Caroline called the police, an officer went to canvass the home and, at first, seeing that the red Ford Escape was gone, assumed he had left. But when police returned later that day they noticed a trail of blood leading from the sidewalk to the front door. When they entered the home, they found it in gory disarray: The dining room was blood-spattered, a “fresh” hole had been made in the wall, and shards of a shattered serving dish littered the floor. They followed “bloody drag marks” to the basement door, which had been blocked by a box. They opened the door and there, on the stairway, lay the body of Harry Bachman.

Soon, police discovered a red Ford Escape in the parking lot of a hotel up the road, bloody towels inside the car. Jamison had checked into Room 102 the night before, under the name Harry G. Bachman. Around 10:30 p.m., a SWAT team broke down the door, and what happened next is unclear: The police originally reported that Bachman submitted “without incident,” but an affidavit filed a few weeks later claims he rushed the swat team, swinging a lime-green campfire ax at them “in a figure-X pattern.” As the police hauled him before the camera for his mug shot later that night, his face swollen and his shoulders hunched, Jamison focused his eyes in a dazed squint. A thin streak of blood slithered down his left cheek.

Bachman’s preliminary hearing was set for the morning of December 11. At nine o’clock, I entered a low-slung district court building in Elkins Park, a few minutes away from the little stone house where Harry had died. The courtroom comprised just a few cheap stackable chairs and two wooden tables. The space was tiny, and it struck me how close Bachman would be — no more than a few feet away from me. After months of talking to those forced to live with him, I felt oddly nervous.

The room, however, remained empty. After five minutes, a clerk came in. “Are you here for the nine o’clock?” she asked. “It’s been canceled.” Jamison Bachman was dead. A few days earlier, he’d hanged himself in his cell at the Montgomery County prison.

The news of Bachman’s death rocked his former roommates. When I told Arleen Hairabedian, she burst into tears. “I wanted him to suffer,” she said. But she also sounded like someone who’d spent a lot of time trying to navigate around Bachman’s anger. “What if he just wanted somewhere to stay and he showed up and his brother said he didn’t want him there and it escalated? What if he was desperate? Here I am, making excuses.”

The deaths of the Bachman brothers left Alex Miller wracked by guilt. “I feel responsible for all of it,” she told me not long after. But along with guilt came relief: The trial was canceled, and she would no longer have to face him in court. There would be no more looking over her shoulder when she left the house, no more worrying about the gun. She was ready to move on.

In August, Miller and a friend — someone she’s known for half her life — finally settled into another apartment, in a quiet neighborhood just across the city line. On the January morning I last visited her there, the air was warm, and from the bushes issued the frenzied song of the common house sparrow. Inside, Miller was busy on the phone: Her roommate, she explained, had moved out a few weeks earlier, and she was fielding calls from potential replacements. I could hear her vetting them: “How old are you? What was your situation before this? What do you do for work? Do you have three references?” So far, only one visitor of four — a “no drama” restaurant manager who worked long hours — had caught her interest. And there had been a scare. “One woman showed up on a Sunday after church, and she had her purse, a miniature poodle, and a duffel bag,” Miller told me, as if to say, Can you believe it? As the woman stood on the front step, eyeing her expectantly, Alex shut the door.

*This article appears in the February 19, 2018, issue of New York Magazine. Subscribe Now!



Maryland braces for invasion of lanternflies, races to slow their spread - Baltimore Sun

An open letter from a furious Henrico teacher - wtvr.com

An open letter from a furious Henrico teacher - wtvr.com

The following commentary was written by a Henrico Public Schools teacher and originally published here. To submit a commentary for consideration on WTVR.com, click here.

Dear every elected official,

Nowhere in my contract does it state that if the need arises, I have to shield students from gunfire with my own body. If it did, I wouldn’t have signed it.

I love my job.

I love my students.

I am also a mother with two amazing daughters.

I am a wife of a wonderful man.

I have a dog that I adore.

I don’t want to die defending other people’s children; I want to teach kindness and responsibility…and Art History.

That’s what I am supposed to do each day.

Blocking bullets? I am not supposed to do that.

I imagine that if someone was trying to kill my students, that I would try to save them with all my being. I probably would jump on top of a child to save her life. And yes, I might be one of those heroic teachers that the media writes tributes to after their death.

But I am furious that I would have to make this sacrifice.

I am incensed that my own children would lose their mother because I chose to be a teacher.

I chose to be a teacher knowing that on most days I would not be able to use the bathroom until 4 p.m.

I chose teaching knowing that I would be grading papers all weekend and working far beyond the hours of my contract.

I chose to teach even though it meant that I would miss every awards assembly and field trip that my daughters asked me to attend.

I even signed up to sit in a counselor’s office with a teenager on my lap, holding her as she sobbed through an anxiety attack.

I signed up to ask a child if they were considering committing suicide and then relaying this terrifying information to a parent.

It seems like a lot to agree to, but truly I knew what I was getting into.

I did not sign up to be ripped apart by a spray of bullets that came from a semi-automatic rifle.

At the end of my teaching contract, it says that I will perform “other duties to be assigned.”

I do not interpret these words “as bleeding to death on the floor of my classroom.”

The anger that courses through my body after a school shooting in this country is accompanied by pure panic. I am terrified of my own children dying in school, first and foremost, but I am also terrified that the responsibility that sits on my shoulders as a teacher is far greater than I can rationally accept.

On Back to School Night, I look out at the gazes of the parents in front of me as we silently make a pact.

“I am giving you the most precious part of me with the knowledge that you will shield my child’s body with your own when the need arises.”

They say this with their eyes.

I agree to this responsibility and make a silent unbreakable oath before them.

As I am telling them about the 20,000 years of global art history that I will be teaching their child, I am also agreeing to die.

When I am in the parent’s place at my daughter’s school, I am asking the same of her teacher. This teacher may end up being the only thing blocking a bullet aimed for my daughter’s head.

I am furious.

How dare you force me to choose between my own children and those that I teach. How dare you allow powerful adults who love guns to be more important than a generation of children growing up in fear.

I don’t want to spend mornings memorizing my children’s clothing so I can identify them later. I don’t want to spend professional development hours learning how to save a few more lives by setting up barricades. Sometimes when a kid is driving me crazy in class I think to myself: “Would I die for you? Would I lose everything to save you from harm?”

I have my moments when I shake my head NO.

Instead of making dead teachers into saints, make them safer when they are still alive. Make it possible for schools to have smaller class sizes, so that we can get to know our students and look out for the ones who need help. Hire more counselors and school nurses and social workers and psychologists, so that many people are caring for each child. HELP us prevent this. Take away guns from people who will murder us. Stop taking money from the NRA and proving how soulless you are. Keep us safe so I can do my job. How dare you put me into constant danger so that you can be reelected. How dare you make me choose between saving children or making my own children motherless. How dare you make me into a hero, when I just want to teach.

The views expressed in this commentary are those of Rebecca Field and not the views of the Henrico County Public School System. Click here to submit a commentary to WTVR.com.

37.602381 -77.557029


Senin, 26 Februari 2018

Who Was Marjory Stoneman Douglas? - The American Prospect

Who Was Marjory Stoneman Douglas? - The American Prospect
AP Photo/Wilfredo Lee

Law enforcement officers block off the entrance to Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida

There’s nothing on the Parkland, Florida, Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School website about the woman whose name adorns the school, so its students may not realize that in rising from last week’s tragedy to speak truth to power, they are following in Douglas’s activist footsteps.

Douglas would certainly see a bit of herself in Emma Gonzalez, the poised and eloquent young woman whose speech electrified her classmates, teachers, parents, and the whole country at a Fort Lauderdale rally on Saturday, only days after a gunman entered her school and killed 17 people.

“If the president wants to come up to me and tell me to my face that it was a terrible tragedy and how it should never have happened and maintain telling us how nothing is going to be done about it,” said the 18-year-old senior, “I'm going to happily ask him how much money he received from the National Rifle Association.”

Douglas, who challenged the political and business establishment of her day, would be proud of the students’ courageous efforts to galvanize a movement for gun control, which now includes a nationwide walkout by students and teachers scheduled for April 20.

Douglas was a journalist, writer, feminist, environmentalist, and progressive activist, best known for her staunch defense of the Everglades against efforts to drain it and reclaim land for development.

Born in Minneapolis in 1890, Douglas attended Wellesley College, where she earned straight A’s and was elected “Class Orator,” graduating in 1912. It was at Wellesley that she first got involved in the women's suffrage movement. 

In 1915 she moved to Miami to work for The Miami Herald, which was owned by her father. The next year she joined the American Red Cross in Europe in the midst of World War I. She spent much of her time writing articles for the Associated Press from France, Italy and the Balkans. When the war ended, she remained in Paris to care for displaced war refugees. That experience, she later wrote in her autobiography, “helped me understand the plight of refugees in Miami 60 years later.”

Returning to Miami in 1917, Douglas continued working at the Herald, and jumped into the struggle for women’s rights. That year she traveled to Tallahassee with three other women to campaign for the women's suffrage amendment before Florida state legislators.

“We had to speak to a committee of the House, which we did,” she recalled in a 1983 interview. “It was a big room with men sitting around two walls of it with spittoons between every two or three. And we had on our best clothes and we spoke, as we felt, eloquently, about women's suffrage and it was like speaking to blank walls. All they did was spit in the spittoons. They didn't pay any attention to us at all.” 

(Although the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, giving women the vote, was adopted in 1920, Florida did not officially ratify it until 1969.)

Post-World War I Miami was still a small Southern city, governed by Jim Crow laws, with fewer than 20,000 residents. Many Miami police officers were members of the Ku Klux Klan, which was gaining momentum. One night Douglas was driving back from the beach with her father when they came upon the KKK preparing to march in their masks and sheets.

“A masked man on horseback rode up in front of my father and said, ‘this street is closed,’ and my father said  ‘Get out of my way!’ and drove right straight ahead, through them and scattering them and everything; they couldn’t stop him,” she recalled years later. “We were all yelling and screaming in defiance, we were so mad.”

Despite his liberal sympathies, Douglas’s father initially relegated her to writing for the paper’s “society” page, covering weddings, tea parties, and other so-called “women’s issues.” She rebelled, insisting on covering more hard-hitting topics, and was soon writing editorials, columns, and articles that expressed her concern for civil rights, better sanitation, women's suffrage, and responsible urban planning. In 1923, she wrote a ballad lamenting the death of a 22-year-old vagrant who was beaten to death in a labor camp, titled “Martin Tabert of North Dakota is Walking Florida Now,” that was printed in the Herald and read aloud during a session of the Florida Legislature, which passed a law banning convict leasing, in large part due to her writing.

After leaving the Herald to become a freelance writer in 1923, she published more than 100 short stories and nonfiction articles in the Saturday Evening Post and other popular magazines, as well as several novels and a number of books on environmental topics. Her most influential work, the 1947 bestseller The Everglades: River of Grass, “changed forever the way Americans look at wetlands,” according to her New York Times obituary. The book transformed popular views of the Everglades from a worthless swamp to a treasured river. Many environmentalists have compared it to Rachel Carson's influential book Silent Spring, published 15 years later. “There would most likely be no Everglades wilderness without her,” the Times noted.

In 1941, Douglas wrote the foreword to the Work Projects Administration's guide to the Miami area, part of the New Deal’s controversial Depression-era Federal Writers’ Project American Guide series, designed both to provide jobs for out-of-work writers and to compile detailed histories and descriptions of the nation’s cities, regions, and cultures. Douglas served as the Miami Herald’s book review editor from 1942 to 1949 and as editor for the University of Miami Press from 1960 to 1963. 

According to a profile of Douglas on the National Park Service website

In the 1950s, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers rose to the top of her list of enemies. In a major construction program, a complex system of canals, levees, dams, and pump stations was built to provide protection from seasonal flooding to former marsh land—now being used for agriculture and real estate development. Long before scientists became alarmed about the effects on the natural ecosystems of south Florida, Mrs. Douglas was railing at officials for destroying wetlands, eliminating sheetflow of water, and upsetting the natural cycles upon which the entire system depends.

To do battle with the Army Corps of Engineers and others, in 1969, at the age of 79, Douglas founded Friends of the Everglades. One of its first campaigns was to protest the construction of a jetport in the Big Cypress portion of the Everglades. President Richard Nixon scrapped funding for the project due to the efforts of Douglas and her environmentalist colleagues.

She continued to work to preserve the Everglades for the rest of her life. Her tireless activism earned her the nickname “Grande Dame of the Everglades” as well as the hostility of agricultural and business interests looking to benefit from land development in Florida.

In 1948, angered by the fact that many black residents of Coconut Grove, the racially segregated section of Miami, had no running water or sewers, Douglas led a successful campaign to pass a law requiring all Miami homes to have toilets and bathtubs. She also set up a loan operation for the black residents of Coconut Grove to borrow money interest-free to pay for plumbing work.

Douglas was a charter member of the South's first American Civil Liberties Union chapter in the 1950s. In the 1970s she campaigned for the Equal Rights Amendment, urging the state legislature to ratify it. In 1974 she cofounded the Friends of the Miami-Dade Public Libraries and served as its first president. In the 1980s Douglas lent her support to the Florida Rural Legal Services, a group that worked to protect migrant farm workers, especially those employed by the sugar cane industry near Lake Okeechobee.

In 1985 Douglas campaigned to get the Dade County School Board to provide a building for the Biscayne Nature Center. Six years later, the Florida Department of Education endowed $1.8 million for the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Biscayne Nature Center in Crandon Park. The headquarters of the Florida Department of Environmental Protection in Tallahassee is called the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Building. 

Broward County named its new high school for the 100-year-old Douglas in 1990. Among many awards, she received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Bill Clinton in 1993. She died at age 108 in 1998. 

Several books—including An Everglades Providence: Marjory Stoneman Douglas and the American Environmental Century by Jack Davis (2009), The Swamp: The Everglades, Florida, and the Politics of Paradise by Michael Grunwald (2006), and her autobiography, Marjory Stoneman Douglas: Voice of the River, written with John Rothchild (1987)—tell the story of this remarkable fighter for social and environmental justice.

“Be a nuisance where it counts,” Douglas once said. “Do your part to inform and stimulate the public to join your action. Be depressed, discouraged, and disappointed at failure and the disheartening effects of ignorance, greed, corruption and bad politics—but never give up.”

The students at Douglas High may not know it, but in translating their anguish into activism, they are carrying on in the tradition of their school’s namesake. 



WRITE TEAM: Equal playing time in youth sports? - MyWebTimes.com

WRITE TEAM: Equal playing time in youth sports? - MyWebTimes.com

I recently attended a sporting event where I witnessed a father talking to his distraught daughter.

The daughter was not currently getting as much playing time as her teammates and she was very visibly upset about this. Instead of going and complaining to all the parents in the bleachers or going to the coach to complain, the father asked his daughter these questions: “When was the last time you have been to the gym to work on your skills? Have you been working in the weight room? Have you had a good attitude? Have you been working like a team player?”

She could not answer these questions for her father. He then responded to her, "This is one person’s problem, yours. You need to make it so they have no choice but to leave you in because you are that good and valuable to the team.” I want to give kudos to this parent for putting the responsibility back on his daughter and making it a life lesson. He did not handle this all-to-common situation by engaging in the whispering bleacher banter or yelling profanities at the coach throughout the game. This father chose to put responsibility on his daughter to make her realize that she needed to improve her performance and her attitude if she wanted to increase her playing time.

By the time kids reach the junior high level the idea of equal playing time should not be seen as a requirement. Lower level activities require equal playing time, enforce no-cut policies, and do a great job at allowing kids to hone their skills and try new roles, positions, etc. so they can find their strengths. By the time kids reach junior high they are competing for larger goals and they are preparing for high school level competition. Not everyone is going to get equal playing time. Not everyone is going to get an A on his or her test. Not everyone is going to get the same amount of stage time. Not everyone can be first chair in the band. Not everyone is going to be a starter. People earn these things by their performance.

When you are on a competitive team of any kind you have to realize you are competing! You are competing not only as a team, but also you are competing for specific spots and roles. This is not a bad thing. This is a time to find strengths and weaknesses. It is a time to find likes and dislikes. It is a time to learn life lessons.

We cannot expect everyone to have the resilience of Rudy Ruettiger, but an attitude like his paired with hard work, listening to coaches, showing up to perform and displaying good character and teamwork can benefit a player as well as the whole team.

Unfortunately, even with hard work and great attitudes, some kids just aren’t cut out for certain activities. Me, for example, I am never going to be a performance singer. No matter how much I practice or how many voice lessons I pay for I am never going to be a good singer. Even if I got a spot on the choir I would know I would never be a soloist. We all must understand our capabilities.

Parents need to help their children by setting a good example of sportsmanship instead of instilling entitlement. If you join a competitive activity and you are not able to honorably ride the roller coaster of emotions then maybe competitive activities are not one of your strengths.

  • DR. KRISTIN HEREDIA lives in Ottawa and is loving everything life has to offer. She can be reached by emailing stephanies@mywebtimes.com.


'Bachelor' Arie Luyendyk Jr. Explains Those 'Awkward' Dates With Lauren B. - Glamour

'Bachelor' Arie Luyendyk Jr. Explains Those 'Awkward' Dates With Lauren B. - Glamour

Only a few weeks are left until the most dramatic season finale of The Bachelor ever airs. (Trust us: This time it might actually be true.) So far, it's pretty obvious Lauren B. has won over Arie in a way we never saw coming—or truthfully, could understand. Nothing against Becca or Kendall, but there's something different about Arie the minute he's around the 25-year-old tech sales rep from Virginia. Even Bibiana, who lasted on the show for only a few weeks—picked up on the connection.

"In our group date setting, he was different with her," Bibiana tells us. "He was saving the Paris date for Lauren. You’ve never really seen Arie nervous about girls liking him until Lauren comes around, and then [in the hometowns] he’s legit freaking out." But…their dates are just so, well, boring. What are we not seeing that Arie clearly is? We needed answers, so we asked Arie himself at the "Women Tell All" taping (which airs next Sunday) to spill on that—and more. Careful: Some light spoilers ahead.

Glamour: Plenty of things that happen on The Bachelor aren't shown, whether it's because of editing or time constraints. What in particular were you surprised didn't air?

Arie Luyendyk Jr.: Where do I start? On some of the dates, there were some really cute moments that I’ll always remember that weren’t on TV. That’s normal because they have to edit it and make it entertaining, so a lot of the time the drama wins over the romance. I think in the latter part of the show you see more romance.

Glamour: Which brings me to your recent dates with Lauren B., which look boring as hell.

AL: [Laughs.] Correct.

Glamour: What are we not seeing there? You two say you have this deep connection, but we’re watching this thinking, Huh?

AL: [Laughs.] Well, you'll see in the bloopers [that will air as part of the "Women Tell All" special] that there's a moment we’re covered in pigeons. We took polaroid pictures all around Paris. There were a lot of cute moments. The way the Bachelor dates are shown, it is really a summary of the date. There were awkward moments on that date, maybe some more than on other dates.

Glamour: Even you said, “She’s hard to read.”

AL: In the beginning, yeah. I think she had trouble opening up in front of the camera and being herself, so that is why she got that second date in a row. I thought, Hey, there could be something really amazing here. I need to see if I can bring that out of her and see her personality. I feel like she’s a little uncomfortable on camera, so let’s have another date.

Glamour: Did you ever ask her why she signed up for this show if she doesn’t feel comfortable on camera? [Laughs]

AL: It’s hard. I mean, no one really knows how they’re going to act or react when they’re in front of cameras. For some people, like myself, those cameras sort of melt away after the first few days. Some people are uncomfortable the entire time. I think that’s just something that you’ll never really understand until you’re in it.

Glamour: You walked away from her during dinner in Italy when she said she was falling in love with you, and then you walked away at the dinner table at her parents' house….

_AL: I know!

Glamour: I’m like, "Why does he keep walking away when he’s with Lauren?!"

AL: [Laughs.]

Glamour: I mean, we know why you walked away at the dinner table at her parents house because it was getting a bit uncomfortable—or maybe the producers needed you to film something—but why did you get up and walk away during dinner in Italy?

AL: I think there’s this unspoken rule that the Bachelor isn’t allowed to express how he feels. Watching previous seasons back, I didn’t know what I could or couldn’t divulge in that moment. So I feel like that was sort of a pivotal moment for me, because it was the first time I was having these strong feelings in this environment. I wanted more than anything to just tell her how I felt. Some editing was done there….

Glamour: So you talked to someone—perhaps a producer—to ask permission for what you could say?

AL: Yes. Correct. And you know, I think my nerves got the best of me too with her. I was always a little bit more shy or nervous around her just because I felt my feelings were further along than hers, which is an awkward position to be in as the Bachelor. [Laughs.] You have all these relationships where people are so ready to fall, and then you have some people who you’re trying to read and see where they’re at. For me, it was a little anxiety and also questioning what I could and couldn’t say in that moment.

Glamour: Last question for you about Lauren. She says in the hometown dates that you guys are so alike. How so?

AL: Oh, we are very alike. I think we’re very alike in the way that…our perception on things, our mannerisms, the things that we say. I think on the dates you’re not seeing a lot of our personality, so it’s hard because you’re not seeing our entire relationship. That’s going to play out in the time to come for sure.

Glamour: Early on when Becca had her one-on-one shopping spree date, the women in the house remark that you’re totally going to marry her. Now that we know she's one of the final three contestants, what is it about her that makes you think she could be your future partner?

AL: Since our first date, she’s the type of person that feels like she’s at a point in her life where she’s ready to get married. She’s gone through a lot of difficult things with her family, so I feel like she’s very mature for her age. She just has a great perspective on life. She’s the type of person that listens very well. After that first date I knew she was just so easy to talk to, so it made our relationship progress in a very natural way.

Glamour: Finally, we have to talk about Krystal. Things get contentious at the "Women Tell All" taping. What's your opinion of her now?

AL: It’s just difficult because as the Bachelor you’re only seeing it through your experience on the show. But for me, watching it back, I’m seeing a whole other side. Now I’m feeling what the viewers were feeling in that I was fooled in a way by her. It's frustrating to watch it back. I don’t want her to receive any sort of hate through social media—that is something that I feel very strongly about. People should keep their opinions to themselves in a way, but I stood up for her up until this point. But after watching clips [where Krystal uses some strong language about Arie and the women], I was like, The gloves are off.