When you have the same name as a anime charter / Famous Russin Book Writer!😈💪

The Pact (short 2023)

"Three old school friends meet up after a long time and realise they have each ended up in dangerous marriages. Over coffee, they make a pact to change their lives - but how far are they willing to go?"

A while ago I was made aware of an upcoming low-budget British thriller that was being made. Discussions were had, and ideas for a poster were put forward. Then, as it does, life got in the way and I hadn't heard anything more, until recently that is. The director, Paul Sutton, reached out and asked if I'd be willing to review his now finished film. Of course I absolutely said yes and, based on the final poster, I was looking forward to it.

As it's a short film it's hard to say too much without risking spoilers, so I am going to be as careful as possible in the review.

In my discussions with the director I have promised to be honest, as I always am, so here goes. I really enjoyed this film. It really does look like a low budget film, but that look and style works really well for this kind of intense, dramatic thriller. The nature of the film didn't draw me away from the story being told. If anything I was quickly hit by several WTF moments that actually pulled me in, and had me exclaiming out loud. If this had been in a cinema, and not my office, and I'd been sat next to me I would have been digging my ribs saying "SSHH!"

The three main characters, Jenny, Emma and Evie, played by Danni Shepherd, Ellen Carnazza and Lucy Oke, are all living in extremely tough circumstances that all involve domestic violence in one form or another. They meet up for a drink and, after a while, all tell each other about what they are going through. Then they talk about their options. I didn't know much of anything about the three so going into it I had no preconceptions of them or their talent. Coming out of the film I can honestly say they are all really rather good, and their ability to understand the situations without (I hope) living through them must have been difficult. I did come out with a favourite, but my lips will forever be sealed on that.....

This film is clearly a passion project for Paul, as the writer and director. The story rolls along at a good pace without any parts standing out as unnecessary, or superfluous. Some of the shots were affected by the locations available I suspect, and may have been more effective in slightly larger locations, but again that's not a bad thing when working to a strict budget. You do what you can and Paul absolutely made the most of his choices, creating some pretty claustrophobic, and dark moments.

One thing that really stood out for me was the music. An original soundtrack, composed by Nicole Russin-Mcfarland, worked so well within the story, highlighting some of the strongest moments of the story perfectly.

Overall this is a great example of the proof that indie film-making is still strong and making a resurgence. Already this film has been picked up for a film festival, The White Rose International Film Festival, and that's huge for a movie like this. If you do decide to see this you need to be aware that it does contain scenes of domestic violence and heavily implied sexual assault. but that aside for the moment this getting a 3.5/5 with a recommendation to check it out if the opportunity comes your way.

A Cold Autumn

By Ivan Bunin 

Translated by David Richards

In June of that year he was staying with us on the estate. He'd always been considered one of us, as his late father had been a friend and neighbor of my father's. On the fifteenth of June Franz Ferdinand was killed in Sarajevo. On the morning of the sixteenth the newspapers were delivered from the post office. Father emerged from his study carrying a Moscow evening paper and entered the dining-room, where he, Mama and I were still sitting at the table, and said:    'Well, my friends, it's war! The Austrian Crown Prince has been killed in Sarajevo. It's war!'    On St Peter's Day a crowd of visitors gathered at the house -- it was father's name-day -- and over dinner our engagement was announced. But on the nineteenth of July Germany declared war on Russia.    In September he came to us for just twenty-four hours, to say goodbye before going off to the front. (Everyone at that time thought that the war would soon be over, and our wedding had been postponed till the spring.) So this was our last evening together. After supper the servants brought in the samovar as usual and as he glanced at the windows which were steamed up from its heat, father said:    'What an astonishingly early and cold autumn!'    We sat quietly that evening, only occasionally exchanging the odd insignificant word, hiding our innermost thoughts and feelings with exaggerated calm. It was with the same affected simplicity that father had made his remark about the autumn. I went up the door into the balcony and wiped the glass with a cloth: out in the garden the pure icy stars were sparkling with a sharp brilliance against the black sky. Father was smoking, leaning back on his armchair and absently gazing at the hot lamp suspended over the table; by its light Mama, in her spectacles, was carefully sewing a little silk bag -- we knew what it was for -- and the scene was both touching and chilling.    Father asked:    'So, you still want to set off in the morning rather than after lunch?'    'Yes, if I may, in the morning,' he answered. 'It's very sad, but I still haven't managed to see to everything at home.'    Father let out a slight sigh:    'Well, as you wish, dear boy. Only in that case it's time Mama and I went to bed; we certainly don't want to miss seeing you off tomorrow…'    Mama stood up and made the sign of the cross over her son to be; he bent down and kissed her hand, and then father's. Left alone, we lingered in the dining-room; I decided to set out a game of patience, while he paced from one corner of the room to another. Then suddenly he asked:    'Shall we go for a little walk?'    My heart was growing heavier and heavier, and I answered indifferently:    'All right.'    As he put on his coat in the entrance hall he was still deep in thought, and then with a sweet smile he suddenly recited some lines from Fet:

   'What a cold autumn!    Put on your bonnet and shawl…'

   'I don't have a bonnet,' I said. 'But how does it go on?'    'I don't remember. Something like:

   'Look -- through the darkening pine trees    A fire is arising…'

   'What fire?'    'The rising moon, of course. There's a certain autumnal, rustic charm to those lines: "Put on your bonnet and shawl." That's our grandfathers' and grandmothers' time…Oh, my God, my God!'    'What is it?'    'Nothing, dearest love. But I do feel sad. Sad, but contented. I love you very, very much…'    We put out coats on, went through the dining room out onto the balcony and then down into the garden. At first it was so dark I held onto his sleeve. Then the black boughs which were sprinkled with metallically brilliant stars began to stand out against the lightening sky. Stopping for a moment, he turned to face the house:    'Look how the windows are shining in a special autumn way. I shall remember this evening as long as I live.'    I looked at the windows, as he embraced me in my Swiss cloak. I brushed my mohair scarf away from my face and tilted my head back slightly so he could kiss me. When he'd kissed me he looked into my face.    'How your eyes sparkle,' he said. 'Aren't you cold? The air's quite wintry. If I'm killed, you won't forget me straightaway?'    I found myself thinking: 'Suppose he really is killed? Surely there won't come a time when I'll forget him -- though in the end we do forget everything…'    And frightened by my own thought, I answered hurriedly:    'Don't talk like that. I wouldn't survive your death.'    After a short pause he pronounced slowly:    'Anyway, if I am killed, I'll wait for you over there. You live, be happy for a while in the world, and then come to me.'    I burst into tears…    In the morning he set off. Round his neck Mama hung that fateful little bag she'd been sewing the previous evening -- it contained a small golden icon which had been carried to war by both her father and her grandfather -- and we made the sign of the cross over him with nervously jerky despair. Watching him go, we stood on the porch in that state of stupefaction always experienced when saying farewell to someone before a long separation, and all we felt was the astonishing incongruity between ourselves and the joyful, sunny morning around us with its with its hoar-frost sparkling on the grass. We stood there for awhile and then went back into the house. I walked through the rooms with my hands behind my back, not knowing what to do with myself, whether I should sob or sing at the top of my voice…    He was killed -- what a strange word! -- a month later, in Galicia. And since then a whole thirty years have passed. And I've experienced so much through those years which seem so long when you consider them carefully and go over in your memory all that magical, incomprehensible thing called the past which neither the heart nor the mind can grasp. In the spring of 1918, by which time my father and mother were both dead, I was living in Moscow, in the cellar of a house belonging to a woman trading on the Smolensk market who regularly mocked me with her 'Well, your excellency, how are your circumstances?' I engaged in trade myself and, like many others at that time, I sold to soldiers in Caucasian fur caps and unbuttoned greatcoats some of the things I still had -- a ring, a little cross, a moth-eaten fur collar -- and then one day while trading on the corner of the Arbat and the Smolensk market I met a man with a rare beautiful soul, an elderly retired soldier; we soon got married and in April I went off with him to Yekaterinodar. It took almost two weeks to get there with him and his nephew, a boy of seventeen who was trying to make his way to the Volunteers -- I disguised as a peasant-woman in bast shoes, he in a worn Cossack coat and with a newly-grown black and silver beard -- and then we spent over two years on the Don and in the Kuban. In the winter, during the hurricane, we set sail from Novorssiysk for Turkey with a huge crowd of other refugees, and on the way, at sea, my husband died of typhus. After that, of all my nearest and dearest only three remained in the whole world -- my husband's nephew, the latter's wife and their little girl, a child of seven months. But soon after this the nephew sailed off with his wife for the Crimea to join up with Wrangel, leaving the child on my hands. There they too disappeared without trace. And then I lived for a long time in Constantinople, earning a living for myself and the child by back-breaking manual labor. Then, like so many others, I wandered the world with her -- Bulgaria, Serbia, Bohemia, Belgium, Paris, Nice… The little girl grew up long ago; she stayed in Paris and became a model Frenchwoman, very pretty and completely indifferent to me; she used to work in a confectioner's near the Madeleine, using her manicured hands with their silver fingernails to wrap up boxes in satin paper and gold string; and I lived, and am still living in Nice on what God provides… I saw Nice for the first time in 1912 -- and could never have imagined in those happy days what the city would one day become for me!    So I did survive his death, even though I once impetuously said I wouldn't. But when I recall everything I've experienced since that time, I always ask myself: 'What, when all this is said and done, has there been in my life?' And I answer: 'Only that cold autumn evening.' Did it ever exist? Yes, it did. And that is all there has been in my life. All the rest has been a useless dream. But I believe, I do ardently believe that somewhere over there he is waiting for me -- with the same love and the same youthfulness as on that evening. 'You live, be happy for a while in the world, and then come to me…' I have lived, I have been happy for a while, and now, quite soon, I'll come.

   3 May 1944

Writer's Month - Day 29: bed | snowed in

“До свидания, отец!”, rief Jelena ihrem Vater hinterher.

Mit einem zufriedenen Grinsen schob sie die Tür der Villa zu und sah ihre Freunde an.

“Und damit sind wir ihn erstmal los”, sagte sie triumphierend.

Jelena hatte überraschend die Villa ihrer Großtante Masha geerbt. Ihr Vater hatte sie angerufen und zu sich nach Russland geholt. Aber Jelena hatte ihn ausgetrickst und “der emotionalen Unterstützung wegen” Justus, Peter und Bob mitgenommen. Jetzt waren sie alleine in Großtante Mashas Villa irgendwo in der Gegend um Yekaterinburg.

“Dein Vater ist ja wirklich sehr mitfühlend”, sagte Bob sarkastisch.

Die Drei Fragezeichen zogen ihre Schneeklamotten aus. Bob ließ sich auf das Sofa fallen und legte sein rechtes Bein hoch. Die Wanderung hoch zur Villa war für ihn ziemlich anstrengend gewesen.

“Alles in Ordnung?”, fragte Peter.

“Ja, alles gut. Das geht gleich wieder.”

“Brauchst du ein Eispack?”

“Mein Bein ist schon kalt genug, danke, Jelena.”

“Ich habe euch doch gesagt, dass ihr euch warm anziehen sollt.”

“Haben wir doch”, sagte Peter. “Aber hier ist es nicht kalt, hier ist es einfach nur eisig.”

“Für jemanden, der in Kalifornien aufgewachsen ist, bestimmt. Aber es geht noch kälter. Es ist gerade mal Dezember. Du solltest mal Januar und Februar mitbekommen.”

Justus hatte derweil den Kamin angezündet und wärmte sich daran auf. Seine Wangen und Nase waren rot von der Kälte. Jelena lief in die Küche und setzte Teewasser auf. Peter sah aus dem Fenster und beobachtete, wie Schneeflocken wie Wattebäusche vom Himmel fielen.

“Ich hab noch nie so große Schneeflocken gesehen”, staunte er. “Wie schnell das wohl zu einer dichten Schneedecke wird…? Warte mal- Jelena?!”

“Was denn?!”, rief Jelena aus der Küche zurück.

“Könnten wir nicht eingeschneit werden?!”

“Klar! Deswegen hatte mein Vater es ja so eilig, wieder in die Stadt zu kommen. Er hat morgen ein großes Konzert.”

“Und was passiert dann mit uns?!”

“Nichts!”

“Beruhige dich, Peter”, sagte Justus. “Eingeschneit zu werden ist nicht so schlimm, wie du denkst. Ich nehme an, wir haben ausreichend Vorräte.”

“Haben wir”, bestätigte Jelena.

Sie kam mit einer Kanne Tee und vier Tassen ins Wohnzimmer zurück und stellte sie auf den Tisch.

“Langweilig werden wird uns auch nicht. Das Haus hat eine Bibliothek und einen Fernseher und ich habe ein Deck Karten, ein Schachbrett, ein paar Filme und meine Geige. Außerdem haben wir hoffentlich alle unsere Gehirne dabei. Wir kommen schon klar. Solange ihr mir nicht erfriert…”

“Und was ist mit dir? Frierst du nicht?”, fragte Bob.

“Ach was. Ich bin Russin und in Sibirien geboren. Ich bin kälteresistent.”

Schon bald wurde es spät. Draußen war es stockduster. Keine Straßenlaternen, keine Skylines in der Ferne. Die Drei Fragezeichen gingen nach einem langen Tag ins Bett.

Mittlerweile war es wirklich unglaublich kalt. Bob rollte sich in seinem Bett zusammen und zog sich die Decke bis an die Nasenspitze, aber die Kälte kroch noch immer bis unter seine Haut. Er versuchte, einzuschlafen, fing aber bald zu zittern an. Seufzend wickelte er sich in die Decke ein und kletterte aus dem Bett. Er schlurfte zur Tür und den Gang entlang. Gerade, als er an die Tür zu Peters Zimmer klopfen wollte, ging sie auf. Peter erschreckte sich fast zu Tode, als er sah, dass jemand vor seiner Tür stand.

“Was machst du denn da?”, fragte er leise. Er hatte sich ebenfalls in seine Decke gewickelt. “Kannst du nicht schlafen?”

“Mir ist kalt”, murmelte Bob. “Kann ich bei dir schlafen?”

“Ich bin auch nicht viel wärmer.”

“Und warum bist du wach?”

“Albtraum.”

Da öffnete sich plötzlich eine Tür weiter hinten im Gang. Justus schielte vorsichtig durch den Spalt. Als er seine Kollegen sah, kam er ganz aus dem Zimmer und lief zu ihnen.

“Sag bloß, dir ist auch kalt”, sagte Peter schmunzelnd.

“Glaube ich nicht”, sagte Bob.

Er legte seine kalte Hand auf Justus’ Wange. Augenblicklich schreckte der erste Detektiv zurück.

“Um Himmels Willen, Bob, du bist ja fast eingefroren”, hisste Justus.

“Und du bist hier draußen, weil du nicht alleine schlafen wolltest.”

“Nicht direkt.”

“Doch direkt.”

Peter kicherte leise.

“Und was machen wir jetzt?”, fragte er.

“Wir stürmen Jelenas Zimmer”, entschied Bob.

“Sie wird uns durchs Haus jagen.”

“Das stimmt, aber dabei wird uns wenigstens warm. Just, was sagst du?”

“Einen Versuch ist es wert.”

Also schlichen die drei Detektive zu Jelenas Zimmer. Langsam und leise öffneten sie die Tür. Jelena lag in ihrem Himmelbett, die Decke bis ans Kinn gezogen. Die drei Jungs umzingelten leise ihr Bett. Vorsichtig stupste Bob Jelena an.

“Jelena. ... Jelena…”

“...Was?”

“Kann ich bei dir schlafen?”

“Verzieh dich.”

Aber Bob dachte gar nicht dran. Er zog ihr die Decke weg.

“Hey!”

Jelena setzte sich hin und wollte nach der Decke greifen, aber Justus war gleichzeitig auf der anderen Seite auf ihr Bett gekrochen und machte sie mit einer Umarmung bewegungsunfähig. Im selben Moment kletterte Peter am Fußende aufs Bett und grinste.

“Was wird das, ein Attentat?”, fragte Jelena sarkastisch und fuhr mit ihren Fingern über Justus’ Handrücken.

“Sowas ähnliches”, sagte Justus ruhig.

Er legte seinen Kopf auf ihre Schulter und blieb so sitzen.

“Das ist nicht fair, Just”, sagte Peter beleidigt. “Du kriegst sie nicht für dich alleine.”

“Genau, Erster, sei nicht so egoistisch”, stimmte Bob zu.

Peter legte einen Arm um Justus und Jelena und zog mit dem anderen Bob an sich heran, der auch aufs Bett gekrochen war.

“Kaum seid ihr mal nicht zu Hause und ihr kommt nicht eine Nacht ohne mich klar”, murrte Jelena. “Also wirklich. Und ihr wollt nächstes Jahr 18 sein?”

“Wenigstens haben wir den Mut dazu und lassen uns nicht von unseren Problemen auffressen wie du”, gab Bob zurück.

“Ich hasse dich.”

Bob gab ihr einen Kuss auf die Stirn.

“Ich dich auch.”

“Können wir wenigstens wieder unter die Decke kriechen? Sonst erfrieren wir alle.”

“Ich dachte, die Kälte macht dir nichts aus”, sagte Peter grinsend.

Jelena rollte mit den Augen.

“Jetzt schnappt euch endlich die dumme Decke, ihr Idioten.”

Wenig später lagen sie dicht aneinander gekuschelt in Jelenas Himmelbett, wenn auch nach einer langen Diskussion, wer wo liegen durfte. Irgendwie hatten sie es doch geschafft, dass alle zufrieden waren - sogar Jelena. Sie schloss seufzend die Augen und ließ sich in den Schlaf abdriften. Dass sie selbst kurz davor gewesen war, in den Gang raus zu gehen, musste jetzt niemand mehr wissen.

Putin in No Hurry to Congratulate Biden

LOS ANGELES (OnlineColumnist.com), Nov. 9, 2020.--Waiting until he gets the green light, 68-year-old Russian President Vladimir Putin sees to rush to congratulate 77-year-old former Vice President now president-elect Joe Biden for winning the  Nov. 3 election.  While Putin waits patiently to see if 74-year-old President Donald Trump concedes, he’s in no rush to congratulate Biden, knowing Biden’s history, along with his late buddy Sen. John McCain (R-Az.) of tough talk against the Kremlin. Putin remembers well Dec. 31, 2016 when former President Barack Obama and Biden ousted 35 Russian diplomats, with former Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton that Russin stole the election from her.  Biden’s continued his anti-Kremlin rhetoric insisting that Moscow was up to no good in 2020.  Without any proof, Biden finds Russia his favorites scapegoat.

Putin and Trump developed good rapport, compared to the 1962 Cuban Missile Crisis atmosphere created by Obama and Biden.  But by far the most incendiary rhetoric, 17 U.S. intel agencies said in 2017 that Russia interfered in the 2016 election, fingering Trump in a FBI counterintelligence operation, insisting Trump conspired with the Russians to win the 2016 presidential election.  Putin took notice of the outrageous claims made by U.S. intel officials, all of whom like to blame Moscow for their own failngs.  Putin was listening carefully to Biden at the Oct. 22 Presidential Debate blame recent allegations of corruption against he and his 50-eyar-old son Hunter on “Russian disinformation.”  Putin’s had it with corrupt U.S. politicians blaming Moscow, trying to cover-up their own corruption and malfeasance

Putin sees Biden as continuing the anti-Russian rhetoric, not seeing the same opportunity to improve relations with the U.S.  Trump tried his best to improve U.S-Russian relations but was sabotaged at every turn by Democrats accusing him of Russian collusion.  Hillary’s bogus “Steele Dossier” was used by former FBI Director James Comey, before he was fired by Trump May 9.   When Comey was fired, corruption in the Democrat-led Congress pressured former Deputy Atty. Gen. Rod Rosenstein to appoint 75-year-old former FBI Director Robert Mueller as Special Counsel to investigate Russian meddling and alleged Trump collusion.  After wasting 22-months and spending $40 million, Mueller’s mob of angry Democrat prosecutors found nothing.  So Putin knows the Cold War hawks in the U.S. Congress that like to blame the Kremlin for everything.

            Russia will of course congratulate Biden once Trump concedes or when the world passes Trump by with his futile lawsuits.  But, for the time being, Putin’s in no rush to congratulate Biden for his big win.  “We believe it would be proper to wait for an official announcement,” said Putin’s spokesman Dmitry Peskov.  “In any case, we hope that it will be possible to establish a dialogue with the next president of the United States and to agree on paths toward normalizing our bilateral relationship,” said Peskov, letting hope spring eternal.  But based on how it went with Obama, Putin isn’t holding his breath that he’s going to get Biden to change his anti-Russian stripes at this point.  Biden’s campaign accused Trump of an inappropriate relationship with Putin, accusing Trump of sick preferences for dictators.

            Putin’s well-aware of the fake accusations of Russian meddling in the U.S. election, especially knowing that Biden won the election.  Suddenly, talk of Russian meddling has disappeared because Democrats don’t need a scapegoat like Hillary, after she lost to Trump in 2016. Watching from afar the U.S. government charge Trump with a conspiracy with the Kremlin has to show Moscow how utterly sick American politics has become in the United States.  Listening to Biden blame Russian disinformation for his egregious corruption blacked out by U.S. media told Moscow everything they need to know about the so-called Free Press in the United States.  About the only thing free about the U.S. press today is that writers don’t wind up in a ditch for writng critical pieces about their government.  That about all that’s left.

            Putin watched during Trump’s four years in office of his own government spying on his 2016 campaign and presidency.  Now he’s asked to keep and open mind about a U.S. government that likes to blame Russia for acts of egregious corruption in the U.S. Watching Biden in particular call charges of corruption against hin and his son “Russian disinformation” tells the whole story of how U.S. politicians exploit Russia to deny their own wrongdoing.   Putin sees Biden in the same mold as Obama and Hillary, looking to undermine Putin’s rule. Putin recalls  when Hillary, as Secretary of State, tried to undermine his election, promoting the opposition and street demonstrations in Moscow.  Putin saw a real opportunity with Trump to improve U.S.-Russian Relations. He watched the U.S. Congress undermine his good will.

About the Author

John M. Curtis writes politically neutral commentary analyzing spin in national and global news.  He’s editor of OnlineColumnist.com and author of Dodging The Bullet and Operation Charisma.

(mä vaan tartten jonkun jonka kans vaahdota musiikista) (elias gouldin huvilakatu on niin hyvä biisi ja born without bonesin baby ja stone ja casey bolles on tyyliin 10 ja sen biisit saa mut itkemään ja entäs toi 21savagen uus levy ja hitto et tykkään russin tyylistä ja hei ei sovi unohtaa old school eminemii) (ja lorden writer in the dark hitto vie oon myös alkanu lämpeemää j. colelle vaik en ennen kauheesti fiilannu ja mallory merkin north american ride sattuu sieluun parhaalla mahollisella tavalla)

Writing-An Essay On The Organization Of Experience

The protection, detrimental or constructive have sparked conversation and analysis into these matters. Even though racism, racial discord and the use of too much pressure by police officers is not a new matter place, the seemingly enhance of unarmed people remaining shot by law enforcement, social media encounters of racism and misuse of police methods by folks reporting men and women of shade for infractions these types of as studying in their dorms (Wootson, 2018) or hosting a barbeque (Fernow, 2018) have opened the door for much more investigation (Bejan, Hickman, Parkin and Pozo, 2018).

rnOne location of investigation issues the position of implicit bias in racial interactions, specially in regard to police interactions with people of color (Plant and Peruche, 2005 Correll, Park, Judd, Wittenbrink, Sadler and Keesee, 2007 Spencer, Charbonneau, Glasser, 2016). Implicit bias holds to the plan that persons are unaware of their have biases that affect their behavior, generally in a discriminatory manner (Selmi, 2018).

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California lawmaker, governor reach deal on vaccine bill

The author of a hot-button California bill limiting medical exemptions for vaccinations on Friday accepted Gov. Gavin Newsom’s last-minute demand for additional changes, setting up a final series of votes before lawmakers adjourn for the year next week.

Democratic state Sen. Richard Pan of Sacramento amended a companion bill to reflect the governor’s wishes, days after lawmakers sent Newsom a bill cracking down on doctors who sell fraudulent medical exemptions.

Pan said in a statement he appreciates Newsom’s commitment to sign the bill and the amendments, which he says will “ensure we maintain the community immunity needed to protect our kids.”

The amendments would give school children grace periods that could last several years on existing medical exemptions. For instance, a kindergartener with an exemption could retain it through 6th grade, while a 7th grader could be exempted through high school.

That is similar to the phase-out period allowed when California eliminated personal belief vaccine exemptions in 2015, officials said.

Another new provision could revoke any medical exemptions written by Robert Sears, a Southern California doctor who has been disciplined by the Medical Board of California for writing an improper vaccine exemption.

The provision would apply to exemptions written by any doctor who has faced disciplinary action, but at this time Sears is the only California doctor to be disciplined regarding vaccine exemptions, said Carlos Villatoro, a medical board spokesman.

Sears told The Los Angeles Times it would result in hundreds of his patients losing their exemptions.

“This seems like a broad overreach from a government that is supposed to protect its medically fragile children,” he said.

Other changes would make it clear that enforcement will start next year, meaning doctors who previously granted a high number of medical exemptions won’t face scrutiny.

They also would remove a requirement that doctors swear under penalty of perjury that they are not charging fees to fill out medical exemption forms. And one change would ensure that an expert panel reviewing appeals of exemption denials could consider additional information from the doctor beyond the exemption form.

Newsom spokesman Nathan Click said the governor would sign the bill once the new amendments have also won legislative approval.

“These amendments clarify legal and administrative processes in SB276 in order to ensure medical providers, parents, school administrators and public health officials know the rules of the road once it takes effect,” Click said in a statement, referencing the bill number.

Newsom’s 11th-hour demands had roiled the Legislature and frustrated the bill’s supporters, all of whom were caught by surprise when he announced them in a tweet this week.

It prompted several newspapers across California to editorially question the freshman governor’s commitment to limiting vaccine exemptions during a year of record measles outbreaks.

Senate President Pro Tem Toni Atkins, a fellow Democrat from San Diego, said both chambers plan to vote on the companion bill on Monday, with the understanding that Newsom would then sign the original measure.

Signing the bill would also counter opponents who have threatened and harassed Pan and other lawmakers over the pending legislation, she said: “It is important that we send the message that loud and violent will not drown out reason and science in how we govern California.”

The last-minute amendments are unlikely to mollify opponents who have swarmed the Capitol and had hoped Newsom might veto the bill, given his insistence on significant changes in June and again this week.

But the compromise pleased the bill’s supporters.

American Academy of Pediatrics, California, chief executive Kris Calvin and Vaccinate California executive director Leah Russin both praised Newsom and Pan for working out their differences.

Russin called the agreement “a victory for science over fear and for sound public health policy over conspiracy and misinformation,” while also urging Newsom to immediately sign the bill already on his desk.

Calvin said her group supports the amendments if it means both bills become law.

“We are perfectly satisfied that this bill will satisfy its objective of making sure that bogus medical exemptions are uncovered … while protecting valid medical exemptions,” Calvin said.

———

Associated Press Writer Kathleen Ronayne contributed to this story.

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Writer's Month - Day 13: night

Auf dem Heimweg fängt es zu regnen an und Jelena schlägt spontan vor, dass die Jungs bei ihr übernachten. Bald ist Alkohol involviert und dank ein paar Pokerkarten nimmt die Nacht eine ganz andere Wendung.

This is something very different for me. It's also a bit mature.

Justus, Peter, Bob und Jelena radelten in der Dunkelheit zurück nach Rocky Beach. Am Himmel waren weder Mond noch Sterne zu sehen. Dicke, dunkle Wolken bedeckten jeden letzten Zentimeter. “Wir sollten uns beeilen”, sagte Bob. “Ich glaube, es fängt gleich an zu regnen.” “Wir hätten mit dem Auto fahren sollen”, murrte Peter. Da fiel ihm auch schon der erste Tropfen auf die Nase. “Heute Mittag sah es noch nach deutlich besserem Wetter aus”, verteidigte sich Justus. “Und der Wetterbericht hatte auch keinen Regen vorhergesagt.” “Der Wetterbericht hat aber auch nie Recht”, maulte sagte Peter. “Bis wir zu Hause ankommen, sind wir bestimmt klatschnass.” Bob grinste und fing ein paar Tropfen mit der Hand auf. “Vor allem Jelena wird ihren Spaß haben. Stimmt’s?” Jelena schüttelte schmunzelnd den Kopf. “Bob, du hast genauso ein weißes Hemd an wie ich. Du wirst genau die gleichen Probleme haben.” “Aber du bist ein Mädchen”, erinnerte Peter sie. “Hat mich das jemals interessiert?” “Stimmt auch wieder”, sagte Justus. “Ich muss sagen, es hat mich schon immer verwirrt, dass es anscheinend einen Unterschied zwischen BHs und Bikini-Oberteilen gibt. In einem läuft man herum und will angesehen werden, aber wenn man im anderen gesehen wird ist es ein Skandal.” Peter und Bob sahen sich amüsiert und verwirrt an. Jelena schien dieses Thema aber nicht zu stören. “Ganz genau!”, rief sie. “Es ist einfach sinnlos. Ich meine, ich kann es ja noch einigermaßen verstehen, wenn Leute sauer werden, wenn wir ohne Oberteil rumlaufen. Unsere Brüste zählen ja offiziell als sekundäre Geschlechtsmerkmale. Aber das ist ja eigentlich kein Grund, dass wir sie im Gegensatz zu Männern bedecken müssen. Das ist bei keinem anderen sekundären Geschlechtsmerkmal der Fall.” “Kannst du das Mal für Leute übersetzen, die vielleicht in Bio nicht aufgepasst haben und sich mit dem Thema nicht so stark beschäftigen?”, fragte Peter zögerlich. “Männer sind Arschlöcher”, sagte Jelena knapp. Bob schüttelte lächelnd den Kopf. “Das hatte ich mir schon gedacht.”

Die Drei Fragezeichen kauerten sich auf ihren Fahrrädern zusammen. Mittlerweile regnete es wie aus Gießkannen. “Sagt mal, Jungs”, sagte Jelena, während sie sich die nassen Haare aus dem Gesicht strich, “was haltet ihr von einer Übernachtungsparty? Bis zu mir sind es um die zwanzig Minuten weniger im Regen als nach Rocky Beach.” “Klingt gut”, sagte Justus. “Tante Mathilda wäre das bestimmt lieber, als dass ich mir eine Erkältung einfange.” Bob nickte. “Unsere Eltern werden es verstehen. Stimmt’s Peter?” Peter nickte nur als Antwort. Der Regen floss ihm schon längst den Rücken herunter. Umso kürzer er das ertragen musste, desto besser. “Fahr vor”, sagte er knapp und musste direkt darauf niesen.

Fünf Minuten später kamen sie vor dem Tor von Jelenas Villa zum Stehen. Sie stiegen von ihren Rädern, schleppten sie hinter den Zaun und krochen dann ins Haus. Bob schüttelte seine nassen Haare. Peter ächzte. “Jelena, du hast doch garantiert Lust, uns die Sachen zurückzugeben, die du von uns geklaut hast, damit wir uns was Trockenes anziehen können, oder?”, fragte er. Als er Jelena ansah, sah er augenblicklich mit knallroten Wangen wieder weg. Ihr Hemd war komplett durchsichtig geworden und natürlich hatte sie mal wieder nichts darunter an. “Zurückgeben?”, wiederholte Jelena. “Absolut nicht. Aber ausleihen, das schon.” “War das Hemd, das du gerade anhast, nicht auch mal meins?”, fragte Bob nach. “War es”, sagte Jelena. Justus hatte unterdessen etwas Anderes entdeckt. “Ist das Vodka?”, fragte er kritisch nach und deutete auf eine Flasche auf dem Wohnzimmertisch. Jelena rollte mit den Augen und lächelte fies. “Jushka… Ich bin Russin… Mein Blut besteht aus Vodka. Außerdem ist es nicht explizit verboten, unter 21 Alkohol zu trinken. Man darf ihn nur nicht verkauft bekommen.” Sie legte ihre Hände auf seine Schulter und flüsterte ihm ins Ohr: “Außerdem weiß ich ganz genau, dass du auf Whiskey stehst.” Justus schubste sie mit einem spielerischen Augenrollen weg. “Also, Jungs. Ich gehe mich umziehen und bringe euch euer Zeug. Dann werden wir einmal in unserem Leben zu normalen Teenagern und trinken was. In Ordnung?” “Von mir aus”, sagte Peter. “Davon wird einem wenigstens warm.”

Wenige Minuten später kam Jelena mit einem Stapel Klamotten wieder. Sie selbst hatte sich einen alten Hoodie von Peter übergeworfen, der für sie wie ein Kleid war. “Zum Glück hatte ich meine Haare geflochten, sonst wären die morgen noch nass”, sagte sie ächzend. Sie zog das Haargummi aus ihren Haaren und zerrte die einzelnen Strähne auseinander. Schließlich schüttelte sie wild ihre Haare, damit sie sich wieder richtig anordneten und öffnete den “geheimen” Alkoholschrank von ihrem Vater. “Also, Jushka. Whiskey?” “Gerne”, seufzte Justus. Er zog sich um und ließ sich auf eins der beiden Sofas fallen. “Kann man bei dir auch Tee bekommen?”, fragte Bob. Er machte sich kaum die Mühe, sein Hemd ganz zu zu knöpfen. Hier störte das niemanden. “Mit einem ordentlichen Schuss Rum?” Jelena schmunzelte. “Klar.” Sie stellte eine Flasche Whiskey und eine Flasche Rum auf den Tisch und lief in die Küche, um Wasser heiß zu machen. “Peter, was trinkst du?”, fragte sie, als sie wieder zurück kam. “Er will Sekt”, sagte Bob, bevor Peter antworten konnte. “Er traut sich nur nicht, weil das ein ‘Mädchengetränk’ ist.” Peter wurde rot. Jelena kicherte und holte eine Flasche Sekt aus dem Schrank. Sie schloss ihn mit dem Fuß und stellte die Flasche auf dem Tisch ab. Sie schnappte sich die Rumflasche. “Tee kommt gleich, Andryusha”, sagte sie. “Gläser sind in dem Schrank da.” Sie fuhr Peter auf dem Weg in die Küche durch die Haare. Wenig später kam sie mit einer Tasse Tee zurück. Mit einem Lächeln stellte sie sie Bob hin. Endlich saßen sie zusammen im Wohnzimmer, jeder mit dem Getränk seiner Wahl. Lächelnd stießen sie an. Sofort als Bob seinen ersten Schluck nahm, sah er Jelena schief an. Jelena schmunzelte. “Ordentlich genug?” “Sehr ordentlich”, sagte Bob. Justus schüttelte den Kopf und nahm einen weiteren Schluck Whiskey. “Was ist denn?”, fragte Peter unschuldig. “Na, probier mal”, sagte Bob und er reichte ihm die Tasse. Peter sah die Flüssigkeit kritisch an und trank. Dann lachte er und gab Bob die Tasse zurück. “Ist da überhaupt Tee drin?” “Klar”, sagte Jelena. “Ich bin doch kein Betrüger.”

“Ich will mal Absatzschuhe tragen”, sagte Bob, nachdem Jelena ihm noch ein Glas rum angedreht hatte. “Wirklich?”, fragte Peter kichernd. Jelena war sofort dabei. “Was ist deine Schuhgröße?”, fragte sie und stand auf. “Ehrlich jetzt?”, fragte Bob überrascht. “10.5, aber-” “Bin gleich wieder da.” Jelena lief mit ihrem Glas in der Hand die Treppe hinauf und kam nur wenige Sekunden später mit knallroten High Heels in der Hand zurück. Bob schien seine Worte wieder zurücknehmen zu wollen. Aber dafür war es jetzt zu spät. Peter und Justus jubelten, als er die roten Schuhe anzog und Jelena ihm beibrachte, wie man darin lief. Einige Minuten später stieg Peter von Sekt auf Vodka um. Als nächstes versuchte er, einen Kozachok zu tanzen, weil er dachte, dass das doch einfach sein könnte - und wurde dabei von Jelena ausgelacht. Eine Runde später holte Jelena ihre Make-up-Paletten, die sie fast nie benutzte. Der Abend wurde immer später und die Gespräche und Ideen immer wilder.

Am nächsten Morgen wachte Bob mit einem brummenden Schädel auf. Er ächzte und setzte sich auf. Das Knirschen einer Kaffeemaschine hallte in seinem Kopf. Da fiel ihm auf, wo er war. Er lag zur Hälfte auf einer Couch in Jelenas Wohnzimmer, zur anderen auf dem Boden. Peter und Justus lagen in ähnlich komischen Positionen im Zimmer. Jelena war nicht zu sehen. Überall lagen Kleidungsstücke verteilt. Das lag daran, dass keiner von ihnen mehr irgendwas an hatte. “...Jelena?”, fragte Bob unsicher in die Leere. Er hätte auch rufen können, aber irgendwie wollte er nicht, dass Justus und Peter aufwachten. Dieser Plan ging allerdings nicht auf. Justus regte sich und stöhnte. Er rieb sich den Kopf. “Was zum…?” “... Morgen”, sagte Bob verwirrt. “Ist es überhaupt Morgen?”, fragte Justus nach. “Keine Ahnung”, antwortete Bob. “Morgen, Jungs”, sagte da Jelena und kam mit einer Kaffeekanne und vier Tassen ins Wohnzimmer. Sie war komplett nackt. Justus vergaß bei dem Anblick, sich abzustützen und fiel mit dem Gesicht zuerst auf das Sofa zurück. Bob blieb die Luft weg. “Jelena… Du hättest dir auch was anziehen können”, stammelte er verwirrt. Jelena rollte mit den Augen. “Du könntest auch aufhören, mich anzustarren. Offensichtlich stört es dich nicht, dass ich nackt bin. Und du hast genauso wenig an.” Sie stellte die Kaffeekanne und die Tassen auf dem Wohnzimmertisch ab. Da rührte sich Peter, der mit dem Kopf auf dem Tisch eingeschlafen war. “Das hier ist deine Schuld”, sagte Justus entschieden, nachdem er sich wieder gesammelt hatte. Jelena ächzte verächtlich. “Woher sollte ich wissen, dass ihr keinen Alkohol vertragt?” “Warte mal”, unterbrach Bob. “Soll das heißen, dass du dich an mehr erinnerst? Ich weiß fast nichts mehr.” Jelena kicherte. “Viel weiß ich auch nicht mehr. Du bist in High Heels rumgelaufen, Peter wollte einen Kozachok tanzen und Justus hat sich schminken lassen - davon ist aber nicht mehr viel übrig.” Sie deutete auf die Pokerkarten auf dem Tisch. “Ich würde mal vermuten, dass wir Strip Poker gespielt haben. Das ist dann wohl ziemlich spaßig geworden.” Sie zwinkerte Justus zu, der gerade die Knutschflecken an Bobs Körper entdeckt hatte. “Du hast selbst welche”, sagte sie ihm. Peter rieb sich die Augen. “Was ist- Heilige-!” Mehr brachte er nicht raus. Sein Blick war an Jelena fest geheftet. An ihrem schlanken Körper, ihrer perfekten Haut, den Narben und den Knutschflecken. Jelena lachte. “Gefällt dir der Anblick?” Sie posierte kurz und fiel dann lachend zu Boden. “Du solltest dich sehen! Gestern warst du noch deutlich direkter.” Justus schenkte sich seufzend einen Kaffee ein. Kurz dachte er daran, ihn mit Whiskey zu mixen. Das war alles gerade etwas zu viel für ihn. Aber Alkohol klang gerade gar nicht gut. Er wollte lieber wissen, was in der letzten Nacht passiert war. Peter rieb sich verwirrt den Kopf. Das alles ergab für ihn gar keinen Sinn. Bob nahm Justus nur die Kaffeekanne ab. Er schob Peter eine Tasse Kaffee hin und goss sich selbst eine ein. Peter leerte die Tasse fast in einem Zug. “Das ist das Verrückteste, das mir je passiert ist”, ächzte er. Jelena goss sich auch einen Kaffee ein. Bob schmunzelte. “Ich wünschte, ich könnte mich erinnern, was wir angestellt haben. … Und wer das hier zu verantworten hat.” Er stupste einen der Knutschflecken an Jelenas Hals, woraufhin sie kurz zusammenzuckte. “Bob, lass das, ich bin da empfindlich”, murmelte sie leise. Die Jungs lachten. “Empfindlich, ja?”, fragte Justus. “Dann haben wir ja endlich deine Schwachstelle gefunden.” Jelena wurde rot und versteckte sich hinter ihrer Tasse. “Klappe, Jushka.” Bob schmunzelte. “Glaubt ihr, man könnte das mal wiederholen?”, fragte da Justus. Jelena verschluckte sich fast an ihrem Kaffee und Peter riss die Augen auf. Bob lachte nur. “Von mir aus gerne”, sagte er. “Peter?” “Äh- Ich… Ich meine… Wenn… Ja?”, stammelte Peter. “Jelena?” Jelena seufzte und grinste plötzlich. “Mein Vater kommt so schnell nicht zurück, also… Wir können hier gerne regelmäßige Pokerabende machen.” Sie zwinkerte den Jungs zu.

Russian Imperial Afternoon Tea Workshop at Raffles Makati

This summer, tea lovers and aficionados can take their love for afternoon tea to the next level with the Russian Imperial Afternoon Tea Workshop at the Writers Bar. This is the third in their Royal Afternoon Tea series which previously featured themed sets from Queen Marie Antoinette of France and Queen Victoria of Great Britain. Now, its time to socialize with Russian aristocracy as Raffles Makati brings us another enchanting afternoon tea.

To make it more special, Raffles Makati has invited Ms. Sheryl Ebon, a certified Tea Sommelier and founder of a local tea brand Teavolution® Manila, for a series of workshops this summer at the Writers Bar. Participants can bask in a rich session covering tea history, art & ceremony, culture, and basic knowledge on how to make the perfect cup of tea. Afternoon Tea lovers are invited to join in from 3:30pm to 5:00pm on three special afternoons on February 28, March 28, and April 25, 2018 at only P2,650 for two persons. I wanted to broaden my knowledge about this exquisite past time so I attended their first workshop last week and went home with a new appreciation for this delicate ritual.

My first encounter with afternoon tea actually happened right here at the Writers Bar. Before, I thought that tea was just like any other beverage but it was not until I experienced the Afternoon Tea at Raffles that I began to appreciate the tradition and complexities woven into this classic ritual. The workshop was attended by a small group of participants which made the discussions casual and free-flowing. Ms. Sheryl opened with a short history of how tea began in China in 2737 B.C. and eventually traveled over to the rest of the world. 

Joining us at the table was the always-elegant Monique Toda, Director of Communications at Raffles Makati. Afternoon tea is an elegant pre-evening tête-à-tête popularized in Europe with its own history and traditional ceremonies. Each country has developed their own tea rituals so it is really interesting to know how it blends into their cultures and traditions.

It was surprising to find out the different varieties of tea depending on how they are processed and that the tea bags we normally use are actually the lowest type. Teavolution Manila (www.teavolutionph.com) is one of the few retailers here that offers loose leaf and high quality teas so they know what they are talking about.

Ms. Sheryl then followed with the specificity of Russian tea tradition, while also giving us a taste of the world famous Russian Caravan black tea blend. The blend was inspired by the tea camel caravans traveling to Russia in the 19th century.  

One peculiar Russian tradition is to put strawberry jam or any sweet item into the cup before pouring the tea. I have never seen this done before but I guess the Russians also have a sweet tooth like Filipinos do and like their tea sweet.

The Samovar is considered as an integral element of Russia's rich history. This is a heated metal container Russians traditionally use to heat and boil water. They usually drink tea throughout the day, especially with their cold weather, so every house has one of these.

We poured the Russian Black Caravan Tea over our cups and had a sip. The tea is quite strong but the sweet flavors of the strawberry jam made it a fruity and sweet blend.

To make it a complete Russian Afternoon Tea experience, a medley of sweet and savoury delicacies was also served to us on this three-tier tower, inspired by the era of Imperial Russia. 

Starting February 1 until April 30, 2018, the Russian Imperial Afternoon Tea is served daily at the Writers Bar from 2:30pm to 5:30pm. This comes with your choice of tea from Raffles Makati’s finest selection of flavors courtesy of Master tea blenders Harney and Sons, including the Russian Caravan blend. An assembly of Russian-inspired savoury and sweet bite-sized delights is then presented, delicately prepared by the hotel’s master chefs. You can Indulge in this delectable collection for only P1,150 for two persons (without the workshop).

The first plate consists of savory items which includes Kanapki, an open sandwich topped with smoked salmon, salmon roe, and herbed sour cream. It also has a Pirozhki which is a small pie stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes, goat cheese, roasted peppers, and artichoke.

This colorful and savoury tart is a Capelin Fish Roe with cream cheese, boiled egg, and lemon. Rounding off the plate is the Pickled Herring Blinis, a Russin pancake with beet purée, horseradish cream, quail egg, and caviar.

No afternoon tea set is complete without scones. The Russian Afternoon Tea comes with Cranberry & Orange Scones served with strawberry jam, clotted cream, lemon curd. What I found more interesting though was the sweet Russian Tea Cakes or tea cookies made simply with flour, butter, and rolled into powdered sugar.

The topmost layer is where all the desserts can be found. Let’s start with the Moloko Pitchye (left), a soft chocolate covered candy made from chewy meringue milk souffle and which literally means bird’s milk. The Fabergé Egg Sugar Cookies (right) are designed to look like the iconic jeweled Fabergé eggs which the Tsars gifted their wives and mothers during special occasions. At the back is the Chocolate Korolevsky or King’s Cake, a layered cake traditionally made in the imperial cities in Russia and eaten by aristocracy.

It’s hard to miss the macarons and these are special Honey & Roasted Apple Macarons. Beside them is the Zefir Strawberry Tart with sliced and whipped Strawberry purée in gelatin.

Also on display at the Writers Bar are fine English tea cups and sets from Wedgwood, which has graced the tables of royal families.  Bits and Bobs owner Mila Lee, who also joined our afternoon tea workshop, showed me the various cups and mugs which I really found so elegant and charming. The quality of the tea is highlighted even further when you use these exquisite cups. 

We did not discuss it, but we all came here wearing red dresses! I would like to thank Raffles Makati for giving me another wonderful and memorable afternoon tea experience here at the Writers Bar. I’m happy to spend the afternoon with Ms. Monique and Ms. Mila in such a classy location. Make your reservations now for the March 28 and April 25 workshops because slots are limited. Time for my tea!

Russian Afternoon Tea Workshop

Writers Bar, 1 Raffles Drive, Makati Avenue, Makati City

795-1840

www.raffles.com/makati

www.facebook.com/RafflesMakati

10 astonishing facts about Ukrainian varenyky Varenyky (vareniki/dumplings) are known all over the world and Ukraine is the motherland for this wonderful dish. The national love immortalized varenyky in poems, songs, movies, and even monuments! 1. Varenyky are popular across the globe, and abroad they have other names, shapes, and fillings. A traditional Ukrainian varenyk is twice bigger than a Russian pelmen and four times larger in size than an Italian ravioli. Ukrainian varenyky are half moon shaped, Russin pelmeni have a round form, and Italian ravioli have mostly a square shape. In Poland and Belarus varenyky are called kalduny and their recipes are similar to Ukrainian ones. 2. Famous Russian and Ukrainian writer Mykola Hohol often mentioned varenyky in his novels. Born in the village Sorochyntsi, in Poltava, he was fond of Ukrainian cuisine, varenyky in particular. In his novel “Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka”, Hohol described in detail the way Paciuk swallowed his varenyky with cheese and sour cream, while in his n...↴ http://ukrainian-recipes.com/10-astonishing-facts-about-ukrainian-varenyky.html