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Modern family season 5 torrent 04.08.2020

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Remix - Chech Cientos - Marco Marset Leave - Cajetanus Sovereign - Fields Contraindicat - Alex Kravitz Drunk Driving - Gus Bonani Oops feat. Cline - Tommy CT Our Balance - Cravings Please seed! Jimmy Hughes - Steal Away [] 2. Jimmy Hughes - Lollypops, Lace and Lipstick [] 3.

Dan Penn - Close to Me [] 4. Dan Penn - Let Them Talk [] 5. Jimmy Hughes - Try Me [] 6. Jimmy Hughes - Lovely Ladies [] 7. Jimmy Hughes - I'm Getting Better [] 8. Jimmy Hughes - I Want Justice [] 9. June Conquest - Almost Persuaded [] June Conquest - Party Talk [] Jimmy Hughes - It Was Nice [] Dan Penn - Diamonds [] However, with her determination to keep her family happy even in the hardest times, she would take us to the candy shop and on hiking trips in her favorite park.

I vividly remember jumping over the little brook at Regner Park with my older brothers, terrified of falling into the rushing water. These journeys kept us close while She sees beauty and art in everything around her we struggled with poverty and collapse. Thankfully, these trials ended two years later when we moved to Oshkosh to reunite with our father, who had stopped drinking the day Mom left with me and my brothers. I can still taste that early July air and feel the adrenaline pulsing through my veins as the minivan swerved around the block.

It may have been my imagination, but I could feel the car pulsating as if the bass were out of balance. Just sing with Dad. I was only seven, but I felt it. Helter skelter in a summer swelter, the birds flew off with a fallout shelter. And then the car came to a stop at a traffic light as our laughter threatened to drown out the radio.

A couple of cars were lined up behind us and the light was due to change any second. I wish I could see what she sees: a world of abstract personality and beauty ready to be captured and appreciated. All the while, our voices filled the placid summer air. Bye, bye, Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levee, but the levee was dry. There was a limousine ride through the city with my closest friends, belting out pop songs against the New York City skyline.

I furrowed my brow and smiled quizzically at my father, wondering if he was remembering that car ride too. The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly and I hummed one note just softly enough to hear him finish. In the morning, he climbs out of bed to wake his slumbering children.

He first gets my brother Adam up at , then trots across the hallway to pull me out of bed at This burst of sing-songy energy shocks me every morning. While Adam and I prepare for school, my father returns to his room to put on his uniform. Each day, his khaki pants complement a primary-colored polo shirt and a neutral wool sweater.

During warm months, khaki shorts are substi- tuted for the pants. Next, he pulls on his gold-toed socks and single knots his white tennis shoes. He fastens his gold watch with its black leather band on his left wrist, and combs his hair with a black comb, six inches in length. After dressing for the day, my dad doles out five-minute warnings. As Adam and I tromp downstairs, my father follows close behind, offering bits of news from the Middle East, baseball scores, and advice about tests scheduled for the coming school day.

The three of us enter the kitchen, where my mother nurses her coffee and prepares breakfast. Then my dad ventures outside to collect the newspaper. Love you. Being the capable, helpful guy he is, my dad assumes the trash collecting responsibilities in our household. Not for him. The trouble spurs from another pesky waste receptacle: the green can. The green can, originally designed for yard waste, is collected every other Monday.

The city of San Rafael assumes that residents will have only enough yard waste to fill the can every two weeks. Residents loiter outside their homes on Monday mornings, looking to gauge the majority vote on whether or not the green cans should surface. Several years ago, my father designed a system to alleviate the confusion. At the beginning of each calendar year, my father purchases a black, soft-backed calendar book. Not a fan of computerized calendar programs, he continues to use the paper version.

In , he decided to end the confusion surrounding Green Can Mondays once and for all. Around the same time, my dad struggled with another scheduling problem. His hair would get washed two days in a row. In a flash of brilliance, my father decided to coordinate Green Can Mondays with hair washing days. In the following week, he would wash his hair on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, then begin again on the next Green Can Monday.

The plan was infinitely anal but foolproof. Neighbors looked to him for the final word on whether or not the green cans needed to appear curbside. And he often shared it. My father was on top of the world. A few months ago, San Rafael opted to take an environmentally friendly approach by incorporating composting into the regular sanitary services.

A wonderful idea? Not for my dad. San Rafael announced that compost would go into the green can with the yard waste. With the addition of weekly food scraps, the city assumed that the green cans would fill up much more rapidly and require weekly collection. Our neighborhood was overjoyed; never again would its residents need to question whether to put the green can out on Monday mornings.

As my neighbors celebrated their victory over the confusing waste collection system, my dad suffered. He knew his days of organized hair washing were under attack. How was he to know when to wash his hair if Green Can Mondays no longer existed? Yes, he is a little anal and a little dorky. His calendar schedules every moment of his day, but he is never late for any of our Dear Yanni Dear Yanni, Your music makes tangible memories of my father and love where none existed. His khakis are boring, but buying gifts for him is never challenging.

And his hair-washing system is unbelievably embarrassing but totally functional. His quirks make him the indescribably wonderful father and person he strives to be every day. While his planning may appear boring to some, we equate predictable with reliable, and I can think of no better quality for a father.

And the resolution? Beginning in , my dad will have a new black calendar book, much like the old ones. The hill that led down to the pier was steep, so my mom carried my brother, Jimmy, who was four at the time. We had just finished our mac and cheese; our kitchen smelled like hot dogs and pasta.

My brother was dozing into a dreamy sleep, but I saw bright green flashes every so often that made me stop and stare. My mother turned around at the tallest edge of the hill. She smiled at my interest in these little objects floating around us.

I was too engrossed in them to realize that I had continued to walk. We are going to see the fireworks. What glowed green and floated like the stars in the sky? I was speechless as my blue eyes traced the green lights floating in air. I reached out to touch one and it fluttered away. I was convinced they were butterflies that could glow.

My dad was waiting by the pier and waved to us. She smiled. She sat my brother down beside me and reached up, catching a green light from the dark sky. The little object that beamed the beautiful light was none other than a bug with wings. I touched it, and it fluttered into the sky and glowed once more. My mom picked up my brother again, and we walked onto the pier. He buckled a life jacket securely around me, and my mom handed my dad Jimmy as I sat and looked over the edge and watched the fireflies skim just above the surface of the water.

My dad kissed my forehead softly and I hugged him tightly before he went to start the engine. The water had once been very clean — you could see all the way to the bottom with all the guppies and little fish beneath the surface. Now it was blanketed by a layer of thick, green algae. My brother curled up next to me and my mom sat on his other side. His little brown eyes were peacefully shut and his head rested on my left shoulder so comfortably I could have stayed there in that moment forever. I watched as the fireflies danced over the water like ballet dancers.

I watched as the shore seem to pull farther and farther from us. Opening the lid to the box had released a cloud of dust that tickled my nose. Adjusting my gloves I reached inside, wanting to get this over with. A glint of green and gold caught my eye, and I pulled at the mysterious object. After dislodging it from the mountain of junk on top, I found that it was an old photo. Years of dust and grime sat on the glass, teasing me with a limited view of the picture.

The subject was a woman, beautiful, confident, and radiating life. Her dirty blond hair was curled to frame her face and floated down her back. She wore an elegant, emerald green off-the-shoulder dress. Her eyes were optimistic and she was obviously very glamorous, probably famous. I carefully sprayed a paper towel with cleaner and wiped the glass. The woman came into better focus, and the more I wiped, the clearer it became that this woman — this beautiful, confident young woman — was my mom.

I tore through the house and snatched up a photo of her from last summer. Holding the two side by side, I could almost mistake them for different people. In the old picture, my mom was the star, with her beautiful face and glamorous clothes taking center stage. In the old one, my mom wore frivolous earrings and an intricate necklace; in the recent one she wore simple pearl earrings and no necklace. The two pictures were so different that I could barely wrap my head around it.

When had my mom stopped being a beauty queen and become the woman she is today? Then, for just a moment, I understood. I was looking at the difference between a princess and a queen. In the first one, my mom is young and still imagining what she might do with her life. Curiosity and fire are seen in her elegant dress and flirty smile.

In the second, my mom knows life. She knows what it means to worry and be afraid. She also knows what it means to love three children forever. She has known a thousand laughs and rainbows, with the rainy days that come with them. In between the two pictures my mom lived. It was then that I knew, without a doubt, that both pictures were my mom, and that she was happy in both and beautiful in both. However, in the first she was merely pretty because she did not yet know the meaning of beautiful.

He enjoys talking to himself in awkward stutters. Introducing him to others typically leaves me red-faced because of the way he stumbles over words or mentions things irrelevant to the conversation. When we play cards, he takes it so seriously he forgets that it is a friendly game. It might seem that these unpleasant qualities would make my father a less than ideal role model.

Yet in the past few years I have gained a new perspective of him, letting me see that he does have the traits of a true hero. On a Thursday afternoon in , I decided to check the stocks, something that had become a habit of mine because of a school project. The stock price had declined a whopping amount since the last time I had checked, and it had been falling rapidly in the past few months. The next day I snuck down the stairs in the middle of the night when I heard the garage door close.

My father had just come home after 48 hours at the office. I watched my mother greet him with an embrace, and they stood in the kitchen for a while as my father shook in her arms. He had folded all of his cards, my mother later told me. It was the first time I ever saw him cry. Feeling a mixture of awe and empathy, I stood in the dark and watched his shoulders heave in silent sobs. In just a week my father had gone from successful businessman to unemployed; a man I had viewed as passionate and strong in his work now looked weak and fragile.

Soon after this fateful weekend, I was helping my father clean out his office, unsure whether he or I would ever return to anything like it. I saw a tear roll down his cheek as he carried out the final box. A year and a half later my father had grown a permanent smile, making it hard to remember the time when he had folded his cards and donned the poker face of unemployment. None of our friends or family could have predicted anything spectacular would come of it.

To our family, it signified the end of an age of struggling, and the introduction of an era of Sunday night poker tournaments and impromptu trips across the country. My father placed sixth in the November World Series of Poker, beating almost 6, others. However, when he had his game face on the grin went into hiding behind pursed lips and unfeeling eyes; he sported an intimidating poker face.

If he had applied this new talent to the business world two years ago, my father told me, he would have raised against unemployment, not folded. In the days since that horrible weekend, my family and I have made a giant leap from huge corporation to small private business along with my father. It became so apparent to our family what kind of stress and change he had endured, and I learned much about my father in the process. When my father lost his job, he did not sit around and mope like the rest of his colleagues.

He got a job within a matter of months and enjoyed the extra time he had at home. Even though he may slouch on the couch at unreasonable hours watching highstakes poker, even when he was unemployed, he never stops working. The plywood bench is too small, the trembling silence not small enough. Another faint ring sounds and my size 2 Skechers shake the plywood planks they rest on. Her voice silences the tremors. I can hear it travel across polished cherry wood and echo off red toile wallpaper.

My chest wrenches, and my neck is soaked with tears. Acrylic paint forms a vermilion second skin over my knuckles, the result of set-painting and getting the details right. Six other girls, silhouetted like crepe-paper puppets, wait anxiously for me to just finish up, say good-bye. The sky is a swollen navy balloon, too large to even fathom, the picnic table I lie on much too fathomable.

I secretly wish I did. Its thick wooden sides are covered with carved scenes from Vietnam, and its dirty clasp is creaky. While I was never told not to look inside, the box seemed to hold the exact weight of secrecy needed to intrigue an year-old girl. He has gnarled, crimson hands that swap newspapers with my pale ones every Sunday morning. He has wiry gray hair that I never got to see in its original black. He has thick bifocals which he squints through at a Howard Zinn piece, and a thick goatee that quivers when he tries to convince me that my Doris Kearns Goodwin is no match for it.

Despite the occasional melee over our differing politics, the cards suggest hero worship. One shot of eight siblings crammed into a single frame stands out; they are freckled and laughing with crimped and feathered dark hair. The people in the pictures look like muddled variations of the small army of cousins we see at Christmas.

My dad presides over them with quiet attention, just as he does in more recent family photos. Layer three is alien to me. Crumpled photos of unknown men lie undisturbed within their white borders. They all wear opaque black shades and are squinting at the beating sun. They sport loose camouflage pants and utility vests, their chests bare but for glowing dog tags. None of them looks particularly concerned with having his picture taken.

And one, already with a small patch of gray in his black hair and a cigarette between his teeth, has a rifle slung across his back as naturally as though it were an extra appendage. The ease with which he holds the weapon shocked the year-old, saddened the year-old, and drove the year-old to finally ask her father what the jungle war was like.

There was no charming, romantic love story behind their union. There were no roses or chocolates or love letters. My mother never crept out onto her balcony to secretly meet my father in the moonlight; my father never swept my mother off her feet and rode away with her on a Art by Melissa Woodbridge, Fayetteville, GA horse into the sunset.

My parents were not high school sweethearts, they were not a college couple — they were not even friends. They were strangers who met for the first time the night before their engagement. My mother is a spontaneous and impulsive optimist — a free spirit whose philosophy is to live in the present.

My father is a realist who tirelessly plans for the future because he cannot take a single step without first thinking it through. My mother is artistic and creative; my father is as logical as they come. My mother is a night- time critter; my father is a morning person. My mother finds beauty in the plainest things; my father seeks perfection in everything. Whoever said that opposites attract never met my parents. As their bitter year-old daughter, I played the part of the obstinate child trying to force together two puzzle pieces that were never meant to fit.

It took me years, but I finally stopped fixating on the friction between my parents and instead learned to appreciate their poignant ability to function as two unique halves of an unconventional whole. Instead of brooding in the box was a rectangle of white paper with a name unknown to me smeared across it in charcoal. I had seen my mother search for this name on a black slab in Washington, D. My dad knows how to play Barbie and lay a brick foundation.

He can curse like a sailor and imitate Julia Child. He wears paint-stained clothes out to dinner but tips generously. While my dad shouts, I have a calm speaking voice. My addiction to current events, fiddling fingers, and quietly simmering temper are inherited from him. The man I once considered an enigma is now the driving force behind my education. There, I can exert a kind of strength that a year-old boy with an M79 grenade launcher cannot.

It is time I took the lead from my dad and became his champion instead. Instead of sulking about the heated arguments that threaten the stability of my home, I have learned to relish the comforting patching-up process that always follows. Instead of mourning the idea that my family has been on the verge of shattering twice, I know to celebrate the fact that against all odds, it has twice saved itself from devastation.

I am the living, breathing manifestation of this lasting unconventional image, a confusing compilation of countless contradictions. My birthday is in August, but my favorite season is winter. I love Starbucks, but I do not drink coffee. I am afraid of heights, but I dream of one day climbing Mount Everest. It used to bother me that such fundamental aspects of my personality conflict so vehemently with one another. However, after growing up in the loving home that my parents managed to build together despite their apparent incompatibility, I have developed a unique perspective of myself and the world.

In my eyes, contradictions are things of boundless beauty. The most delicious desserts juxtapose a hot, chocolatey brownie and cold vanilla ice cream, the most entertaining movies stir both tears and laughter, and sometimes, the most hopeless situations inspire the most hope. I discovered this fact when I was just five years old and got trapped in a bathroom stall. The stall door reached from the floor to the ceiling, and I remember feeling as though the walls were closing in on me and the stall was becoming smaller and smaller.

I started to hyperventilate. I remembered screaming and crying hysterically, and when I was finally able to open the door, I knew I would never be able to think of small, crowded spaces the same way again. Some say that claustrophobia is not a real thing, but it is for me. As I grew up, some activities caused me so much anxiety that I could not enjoy them. I learned to avoid situations that could make me freak out and make my phobia noticeable.

I became ashamed of it, always wanting to hide it. If I was not able to avoid a small space, I did what I could to keep my anxiety in check and mostly unnoticed. That is — until middle school. In my sixth-grade theater class, we did a unit on Japanese theater, and made masks, like those that Japanese actors wore in shows. In order to make one, other students would put plaster on our faces as we breathed through a straw.

I told my teacher that I was uncomfortable doing this, but she asked me to try. As the plaster covered my entire face, I began to hyperventilate. Gasping, I tore the mask from my face and broke down crying. From then on, my claustrophobia worsened and became part of my daily life. Whenever I had the option of taking the stairs or the elevator, I would choose the stairs. I preferred to stand on the edge of crowds. Leaves are clumped in my hair, dirt smears my face, and cuts run the length of my left foot.

My tongue scrapes my ragged front teeth — through the taste of blood, dirt, and skin — to an upper lip severed in two. Here is my body, sinking into the earth as it holds me in place. When talking to friends, I avoided facing them, making sure I had open space in front of me.

It seemed that did all these things subconsciously. I did not realize how much claustrophobia affected my life until eighth grade, when my class was discussing death and what we thought would be the worst way to die. Many of the answers — like being shot or drowning — kept being repeated, until it was my turn. I said that being buried alive would be the worst way to die. When people asked why, I told them that it is not only a drawn-out death, but it also includes my worst fear: small spaces.

My heart starts to race, and all of a sudden I am not able to breathe correctly. My breathing becomes ragged as I gasp for air, and I get dizzy and start seeing black spots. Recently, when my school had a tornado drill, 50 girls squeezed into a small bathroom. The room quickly became overheated, and my heart rate spiked.

The only way to calm myself was to close my eyes and focus on my breathing. I breathed in for five seconds and exhaled slowly. I repeated this relaxation technique until the drill ended. When others discover my phobia, they say it explains a lot about why I act the way I do. If I even think about these stressful situations, I can feel myself start to panic. A week before I took a nap in an unusual spot: a coffin. A moment later I was breathless with my arms splayed open, praying for something to grab onto.

As I fell through the air, the music from The Beatles — Falling, yes I am falling, and she keeps calling me back again — played in my head. I felt no physical pain, but I could feel my thoughts tighten as they clung to the idea of life. I was too young to die. I alternated between feeling and thinking. The moments of feeling were calm and relaxing, while thinking made Spiral Fracture Dragging around a feckless weight where a leg should be is harder than anyone would think.

The pounds of plaster pulled down as though a cable were attached to my toe and the devil had ahold of the other end. I could feel the break always, the pain a chisel chipping each instant at bone already suffering from being split by a moment of bizarre torque on an icy sidewalk where my body went one way and my leg another. I chill even in a warm room, and I tremble when I dream of advancing too hastily on a cold day when the ice solidified and my crutches were so easily yanked away by the air.

It took too much energy to think, so I decided I would let go. The warm hands of firefighters lifted and strapped my still body onto a board connected by a long rope to a helicopter. I opened my eyes and admired the blue sky.

Suspended in air, I had left my fear of death on the ground. The bright yellow dots created a sea of silence and quickly percolated into fluorescent hospital lights. I tried to speak but there was nothing to be said. Untroubled, I glazed over as the doctors frantically cut off my shirt and pants. Naked I lay free and open, empty of concerns, full of presence. I watched the kind-faced surgeon as he delicately sewed my lip back together.

My eyes latched onto my surroundings: the ceiling, the lights, the moving fan. Their expression of helplessness was familiar, except now, I saw my parents as people who were not living, but letting life live them. I met death that day and went to sleep that night with a new appreciation for the living. Ranked in the top 50 public universities surveyed by U. To learn more, visit gobama. Michigan Ave. Chicago, IL Visit us www.

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The two were inextricably linked, but one could not excuse the other. The story begins in a small diner with sparkling, red-cushioned stools and a brick-lined kitchen window. Without his presence, my reasons for winding my way through the kitchen gradually diminished.

The heat was unbearable, the stench odd and uncomfortable. I felt snobbish for not wanting to ask about their well-being or even learn their names. I became her buttress and she mine — for each year, it seemed I gained a decade of maturity. But as my independence and strength flourished, a perverse intolerance grew in me. Suddenly I was 14 and I was avoiding the kitchen at all costs. For years, I failed to address my discomfort with the kitchen staff. I thought it fair to assume that growing up going to a private school with the children of cubicle workers and CEOs excused me from an obligation to associate with minimum-wage workers.

Flash forward again: just past the summer of ninth grade. My brother had worked in the restaurant for a few months. On this occasion, my brother, my mother, and I had taken the same car to the restaurant together, a rarity. New classes, new teachers, a new building, new rules — so much has changed in my life. Therefore, I wish to express to you my deepest thanks for proliferating an ideology that has been around since the beginning of time, and one that has comforted me in my darkest hours: that women are inferior and should be subject to objectification by men.

You see, throughout my life, this concept has pervaded my world. However, some people have a different view. They actually believe that a woman is more than just a body to be ogled. There are some crazy people in this world who think that women have brains and that their thoughts and opinions have value! I am glad that this view will certainly not be infesting the hallowed halls of our school because you fine young gentlemen are sticking to your guns and displaying the sort of sexist behavior that young ladies should expect from men.

Now, it is true that you have not directly confessed to me your misogynistic views. But I have based my conjectures on a thorough analysis of your behavior. Exhibit A: Whenever our Algebra class has a You insist on asserting your male dominance I had adopted silent classist discrimination on in uncomfortable awe as my brother ambled down the line, offering hugs, high-fives, and waves to all the men in the kitchen, including dishwashers.

He, too, had lost his father and his reason to venture into the kitchen among the dark, looming figures. He, too, spent the fruit of their labors on luxuries like video games, computers, and a car. So where had my inhibitions come from? My awareness of social class inhibited me from bonding with the kitchen workers. I had never before acknowledged the discomfort they stirred in me, the involuntary clench of my fingers around my purse, the irrational fear and mistrust with which I regarded them.

Profanity usage spikes sharply when our teacher is a female, and you have an increased tendency to make crude jokes. However, when our sub is male, these comments suffer a steep decline. So bravo, boys! Youth should respect authority figures, which do not include women or the elderly. Exhibit B: You insist on asserting your male dominance, despite the fact that the ratio of boys to girls in our class is I commend you for not overlooking anyone and continuing to show every single female just how important — or unimportant — she really is.

And you do this in ways that accommodate every type of learner! For those of us who are audio learners, you make inappropriate, degrading noises. This is a nice surprise, as I had feared this type of behavior had ended in seventh grade. Boy, did you prove me wrong! For those of us who are visual learners, you give us anatomy lessons using the white board. COM At the root of it, I had adopted silent classist discrimination.

Now, as I weave my way through the kitchen, the heat and stench do not suffocate me as much as the unbearable sense of shame. I offer strained grimaces to those I once ignored: a lame white flag of surrender. I consider speaking but have no words. A thousand excuses rise to my defense, but the truth is as clear as it is contemptible: somewhere in the back of my mind, buried beneath the explanations of a damaged family life and a private-school culture, there exists a link between socio-economic stability and moral worth in my skewed evaluation of a person.

Exhibit C: Not only do you possess virtuous ideas, but you believe in putting them to action. On many occasions, you have taken jabs at girls, and succeeded in making them uncomfortable. I loved watching Nancy bubble in her answers. In closing, I want to express my gratitude to you for demeaning the girls in our class, and women in general. You have succeeded in making me realize my rightful role in society, and in making me feel degraded.

I receive such a comforting feeling knowing that you think me no more than an object of your objectification. If misogyny can outlast my school change, then it surely will continue to stand the test of time. Last October, my teacher used the movie, based on the book by Peter Benchley, to teach us about literary elements in a novel.

She talked about it so much that I finally decided to read the book. I became obsessed with sharks, recording TV shows, checking out piles of books, and spending hours reading about sharks online. I would sit next to the underwater viewing area at Shark Lagoon in the Aquarium of the Pacific, watching the sharks circle the tank, irked each time someone called one of the blacktips a great white which have only successfully been held in captivity by the Monterey Bay Aquarium , or mistook the male sandtiger hovering in the center of the tank for a mako.

But the truth is, these stereotypes are about as true as Nazi- UFO conspiracy theories. In the years following Jaws-mania, he repeatedly admitted that almost all the behaviors exhibited by the shark in his story were incorrect or misinterpreted, and that he would never have written it with the knowledge of sharks we have today.

Out of the nearly seven billion people on the planet, about five are killed by sharks each year. You are more likely to be When the sharks die, we all die killed by toasters people per year , chairs , coconuts , lightning 60 , dogs 45 , or vending machines Forty times more people will be hospitalized for injuries involving Christmas tree ornaments than shark attacks this year in the U. A pilot flying over the Gulf of Mexico saw a large school of sharks. Then a few people got attacked by sharks.

Soon the media was even telling people Cuba was sending killer sharks to get even with America. As upsetting as this was to me, what disturbed me even more was the massacre of the animals. The documentary follows activist Rob Stewart as he fights to save sharks. Stewart shows how the growing hunger for shark fins in Asia leads to cruel and illegal activities.

I stared blankly at the ground during the scenes in the documentary that showed sharks having their fins hacked off, and, still alive, being thrown back into the sea to sink and die. As many as million sharks are killed each year, primarily for their fins. This is three sharks per second, or about 1, an hour. At this rate, scientists estimate that most species of sharks will be extinct in 10 years. The great white shark, at 3,, is more endangered than tigers, polar bears, and snow leopards.

New Guinea River and Bizant River sharks are now under individuals. Sharks are perhaps the most endangered group of species on the planet. But why should anyone care when there are cuter, cuddlier animals to save? See, sharks are the top dogs of the ocean. Sharks eat smaller creatures below them in the food chain. When the sharks die, the plankton dies, and when the plankton dies, we all die.

The answer is simple — there are. Phytoplankton not only produce oxygen, they also absorb carbon dioxide, a greenhouse gas. So the decline in sharks is one of the causes of global warming. And around the world there is an epidemic of intermediate predators multiplying exponentially without their top predator.

The Sea of Cortez used to be full of gargantuan schools of hammerhead sharks. But because of the demand for shark fin soup, fisherman finned sharks until the sea was literally red with blood. Now it is extremely rare to find sharks in the Sea of Cortez, and so Humboldt squid populations have boomed. In Chesapeake Bay, without the coastal sharks to prey on them, cownose ray populations have exploded to 40 million individuals, and they are destroying the scallop beds.

My teacher and I arranged a trip to visit Assemblyman Mike Gatto, to encourage him to support AB , a bill that would ban the possession of shark fins in California, which is second to China in shark-fin consumption. Over summer vacation we visited Senator Liu, who also voted in favor of Finally Governor Jerry Brown signed the bill, making it law. However, along the way it was changed so that restaurants can still use fins until Rock salmon, for example, is actually another name for a kind of dogfish.

Fishing nets kill thousands of sharks, dolphins, turtles, and whales each year. Many of these nets are used to fish for tuna, which like sharks, are extremely endangered. I met him three years ago, when I was without a care in the world for anyone but myself. Today, I have a totally different perspective. However, Jack turned my life around on that warm spring day. After meeting him, I became more aware of what I said, how I acted, and my attitude toward life.

The snow was starting to melt and winter and spring were in a furious brawl. As I walked home from the bus stop that day, my mind was elsewhere. Walking into my house, I noticed my dad fiddling with the DVD player. I started complaining how hard my work was, how awful my teachers were, how annoying my brother was, how long and unbearable the walk home had been.

I was even complaining about my father not listening to me. At 12, I was unbelievably self-centered. My father pressed the play button and walked out of the room, leaving me to watch a film. I will never forget that movie. My eyes filled with tears as images of mentally and physically challenged children playing baseball flashed across the screen.

Challenger not only gives the children a team to play on, but a sense of belonging that they may lack in their difficult life. After the short film ended, my father asked what I thought about Challenger. I suddenly became much more interested.

At dinner that night, my family discussed Challenger. My older brother was interested in Ahomeless man searching desperately for work. A single mother refusing to let go of the past. A disfigured war veteran, unable to fit in anywhere.

With a lot of ambition and a big dream, Trevor begins a project, starting with a simple idea in social studies class, that would change the world forever. I was not excited about the thought of giving up my free time to volunteer. Noticing my behavior, my father told me he expected me to help as well. I spent a few weeks complaining and worrying about the first practice. My father had been too busy organizing the program, recruiting players, and ordering uniforms to deal with me.

Often it was my mother who listened to my complaints. She always said that I was being selfish. I ignored her since I was busy worrying about the initial awkwardness of not knowing how to interact with a special needs child. I was frightened of the responsibility. As Sunday approached, I became overwhelmed with nerves. I sat with my dad and other volunteers waiting for the players to arrive. A few cars pulled up, and some players were introduced to their buddies.

Just as I sighed with relief, I saw a car pull up. My father introduced himself to the boy and his mother and called me. Knees shaking, palms sweating, tongue dry, I shuffled over. Is that okay, Jack? Instantly I was crushed. Oh boy, this will be a long season. I spent most of the first practice sitting with Jack and his mother as we got to know each other. Jack has development issues in his leg muscles, causing him to walk on the balls of his feet, which makes him unbalanced and wobbly.

He also has a speech delay, so he speaks slowly and can be hard to understand. Later that evening, my mother asked me about my injured in the Vietnam War, wrote on the board on the first day of school — a simple project that would eventually turn into a nationwide effort. Trevor would find one person to help out, one situation to change for the better, and that person would be required to do the same for three others. This would continue as a chain reaction until the whole world had been affected.

But even though things seem hopeless at points, the project eventually gets going and gains national media attention. Soon, the whole community is paying it forward, then the whole state, then the whole country, and eventually the whole world. This book is moving and inspiring in more ways than one. It shows that no matter how small or insignificant we might think we are, we can change the world for the better.

This anger stuck with me until the second practice. That Sunday when I saw Jack arrive, I became frustrated. I bet he hates me. However, I reminded myself that I was there to help him. That practice and the next few were painfully awkward and difficult.

I was scared that I would embarrass myself. I was frustrated and discouraged. However, I was determined to make this boy like me. Unfortunately, I was still focused on myself, wanting to prove that I was likeable. As the weeks passed, I learned a lot about Jack. I grew to understand his physical limitations, what made him laugh, and how to teach him. Things started to change in me. I was suddenly excited for practice. I loved spending time with him, because I loved to see him smile.

Watching Jack laugh brought me such joy, the feeling was inexplicable. Through Jack, I started to understand the difficulty of living life with developmental challenges. In spite of these challenges, a bond formed between us. My outlook on life changed because of Jack. I stopped complaining about practice because I knew it was my time to go make him happy.

I also slowly stopped complaining about a lot of things. Every time I got mad or frustrated, I would think, What about Jack? Jack made me appreciate what I had and not take things for granted. Through his eyes, I started to gain a different understanding of life.

I worked with Jack for several years, and each year I learned more life lessons. I thought this program would be a waste of time I would dread every week, but it has turned out to be the best experience of my life — and one that I look forward to continuing. I have gained so much more than I have given. COM lasting impact. When I was reading this book, I could relate to the characters in a lot of ways, which is what makes this a great story and a modern classic.

With a wide range of characters and scenarios, the situations here are applicable in to any type of reader. Inspirational and moving, it maintains a dynamic plot that keeps the reader involved and interested. His songwriting comes from his experiences, and he readily offers up stories that have inspired him to write his chart toppers.

As a sucker for country music, I was pleasantly surprised by his selections. The album contains a versatile Full of catchy country tunes blend of songs. The title track is a break from the first two upbeat songs. It starts off as a sweet, endearing song about never-ending love between two high school students, but it takes an unexpected turn and becomes a somber song of loss.

Once in a while you hear a riff or a lead that makes you think, Man, these guys could do so much better. The vocals stick to basically the same low growl the entire time. The saving grace is that while everything is about as generic as can be, nothing is done explicitly wrong. There is nothing here that stands out as bad; in fact nothing really stands out. A decent song played ten times over just makes for one painfully average album. This compilation is rich with synthesized strings, soul-stirring Soul-stirring vocals vocals, and a refreshing title track that is simply instrumental, though no less amazing.

The general feeling this mystical music brings to mind is a soulful, playful emotion, combined with fun staccato rhythms that fade into a lovely legato. Enya has a remarkable capability to create gorgeous music without becoming stale or dull. Each song is different, but there is an overall flow that both heals and uplifts.

This collection of songs is dazzling and intense. Lead vocalist Gavin Rossdale, now married and a parent, Lacks the anger and angst of grunge still brings his hypnotizing voice that captures you as soon as you hear it. The objective is simple enough: build a city however you like. Managing virtual people can be tricky. It starts when you acquire a plot of land to begin constructing your city. There are three modes: God, Mayor, or Sim a virtual person. Change the landscape to your liking and start a city when you are ready.

Will you provide your Sims with what they need to stay happy or mint money for yourself? Your virtual citizens make no concessions when demanding what they want. Any problem in the city and they will holler at you.

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