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Robin Van Persie mungkin kini bisa mencoret nama Arsenal dari daftar "rencana pelarian" dirinya dari Old Trafford. Pasalnya, The Mirror telah mengklaim bahwa Arsene Wenger tak menginginkan kehadiran eks anak buahnya itu di dalam timnya.
Van Persie belakangan ini dikabarkan mulai tak kerasan di Manchester United dan berencana untuk pergi di musim panas mendatang. Arsenal disebut telah jadi salah satu tujuan utamanya. Namun klaim yang belum lama ini beredar bisa jadi memupuskan harapan RVP untuk kembali ke rumah lamanya.
Wenger disebut lebih mengutamakan Julian Draxler di daftar transfer musim panas mendatang. Pemain Schalke itu juga sempat hampir bergabung dengan Olivier Giroud dkk di Januari lalu, namun batal akibat tak tercapai kesepakatan harga.
Lantas ke mana Van Persie kini harus berlabuh? Juventus dikabarkan siap menampungnya. Namun meningingat kondisi ekonomi klub-klub di Italia, nampaknya ia harus siap gajinya dipotong andai memang memilih pergi ke Turin.
Modus Penipuan Terbaru,
Rabu, 24 April 2013 – 09.45
Kejadian Ini Dialami oleh teman facebook saya ZA, saat menuju Jalan Layang Keranji. Sadar kalau sdang diikuti oleh 5 orang berkendaraan 3 sepeda motor yang semakin lama semakin mendekat, maka ZA menepi dan berhenti di pinggir jalan. Rupanya 5 orang tadi menuduhnya melakukan tabrak lari, ZA yang merasa tidak melakukan hal itu langsung mengelak pernyataan tersebut.
Namun 3 orang masuk kedalam mobil ZA dan meminta pertanggungjawaban, karena korban tabrak lari telah dilarikan ke RS Anandha. Karena ZA terus didesak, maka Ia memberikan uang 200.000 sebagai DP biaya pengobatan korban yang telah dilarikan ke RS Anandha.
Karena kelima orang itu terus mendesak, Akhirnya ZA menyerah dan sepakat menuju RS Anandha, Saat ZA Memutarbalikkan mobilnya, kelima orang tadi sudah menghilang entah kemana. Tidak lama ZA tersadar bahwa 2 handphone BB sudah hilang. Beruntung laptop yang berada di jok belakang mobil masih aman.
Somoga Informasi Ini Bermanfaat,
Dan Mohon komentarnya bagaimana untuk mengatasi masalah yang seperti ini
Saco-Indonesia.com - Publik Indonesia rata-rata hanya mengenal dua jenis kopi, robusta
(Coffea robusta) dan arabika (Coffea arabica). Namun, Indonesia sebenarnya memiliki satu jenis
kopi lain yang tak kalah membuat penasaran, kopi liberika (Coffea liberica). Seperti apa kopi
Peneliti dan pencicip kopi dari Pusat Penelitian Kopi dan Kakao Indonesia (Puslitkoka) di Jember, Yusianto, mengatakan bahwa kopi liberika adalah kopi yang oleh masyarakat kerap disebut dengan "kopi ngongko (nangka)" dan memiliki citarasa unik.
"Kopi ini sering disebut kopi nongko karena bijinya yang besar-besar. kalau dirasakan, kopi ini ada citarasa sayurnya. Seperti kacang panjang mentah. kalau orang Sunda membuat karedok, ada sebagian rasa karedok yang bisa dirasakan di kopi ini," urai Yusianto.
Kopi liberika adalah kopi yang berasal dari wilayah Liberica, Afrika Barat. Kopi ini dibawa ke Indonesia pada abad 19 saat banyak tanaman kopi arabika saat itu terserang penyakit. Saat ini, kopi jenis ini ditanam di wilayah Jambi dan Bengkulu.
Berbeda dengan arabika dan robusta, tanaman kopi liberika berukuran besar, bisa mencapai tinggi 9 meter. Biji kopi liberika juga lebih besar, kadang mencapai dua kali lipat ukuran biji arabika. Yang unik, daun tanaman kopi ini mengandung kafein lebih banyak dari bijinya.
Yusianto mengatakan, kopi liberika adalah salah satu peluang Indonesia. Indonesia bisa mengembangkan jenis kopi liberika untuk diekspor. Saat ini, banyak orang yang belum mengenal jenis kopi ini.
"Kalau ada yang menganggap kopi ini tidak enak, itu hanya karena tidak kenal saja. tak kenal maka tak sayang. Makanya, kita harus kenalkan," katanya saat ditemui dalam acara Press Tour dan Media Gathering yang diadakan Kementerian Riset dan Teknologi, Jumat (17/5/2013).
Yusianto menilai, selain arabika, liberika potensial karena pasar ekspornya pun ada. Masyarakat negara tetangga, Malaysia, banyak yang mengonsumsi kopi jenis ini. Dari sisi harga, liberika juga lebih baik dari robusta. Budidaya dan pengembangan kopi liberika perlu dilakukan.
Editor :Liwon Maulana(galipat)
Saco-Indonesia.com - Semuanya tidak ada kata sia-sia dari upaya Anda merapikan dan membersihkan rumah, sekecil apapun upaya itu. Meskipun suatu saat rumah Anda akan kembali kotor atau berantakan, ternyata kegiatan membersihkan rumah membuat tubuh sehat dan bugar.
Kontributor apartmenttherapy.com, Alysha Findley mengatakan, hasil studi mengungkapkan bahwa pekerjaan rumah mampu memberikan hasil serupa dengan menghabiskan satu jam berolah raga di pusat kebugaran. Sementara hasil studi lain mengungkapkan, mengubah perspektif Anda mengenai pekerjaan rumah mampu membuat Anda lebih fokus mengerjakannya, dan lebih banyak membakar kalori.
Penelitian tersebut melibatkan satu kelompok yang terdiri dari 84 pekerja hotel. Setengah dari kelompok tersebut diberi tahu bahwa beberapa bagian otot mereka akan terbentuk dan mereka akan membakar beberapa ratus kalori dengan hanya mengerjakan pekerjaan rumah. Setengahnya lagi tidak diberi tahun.
Hasilnya, kelompok yang diberi tahu ternyata memiliki berat badan, tekanan darah, lemak tubuh, rasio pinggang-ke-pinggul, dan indeks massa tubuh lebih rendah. Jadi, tunggu apa lagi, berikut ini beberapa kegiatan dan jumlah kalori yang bisa Anda "bakar"!
Menurut hasil studi yang dipublikasikan dalam apartmenttherapy.com, Calorie Lab, dan dailymail.co.uk, kegiatan membersihkan rumah terdiri dari beberapa jenis. Menyapu, mengepel, membersihkan lampu, dan berbagai kegiatan lainnya, masing-masing mampu membakar sejumlah kalori di tubuh Anda. Misalnya, Anda melakukan kegiatan seperti menyedot debu atau menyapu lantai. Rata-rata, Anda bisa membakar hingga 240 kalori perjam. Anda bisa mendengarkan musik dan gerakkan tubuh Anda sembari melakukan kegiatan ini. Hasil studi mengatakan, orang yang mendengarkan musik akan melakukan kegiatannya dengan lebih cepat.
Menggosok lantai bahkan bisa membuat Anda membakar 325 kalori per jam. Gosoklah lantai sembari berlutut dan kerahkan tenaga Anda.
Naik-turun tangga pun mampu membakar hingga 250 kalori per jam. Namun, sekali lagi, tanamkan di otak Anda bahwa ketika melakukan berbagai hal ini, Anda tengah berolah raga dan bukan melakukan pekerjaan rumah pada umumnya.
Menjaga anak yang tengah bermain, mengikuti permainannya dengan ikut berlari-lari, menggendong, dan mengangkatnya tinggi-tinggi sepuluh kali juga mampu membakar hingga 205 kalori per jam.
Kegiatan memasak mampu membakar 150 kalori per jam. Namun, usahakan Anda memotong, mencacah, mengulek, menumbuk, dan mencampurkan berbagai bahan masakan dengan tangan Anda sendiri. Minimalisir penggunaan alat elektronik untuk hasil lebih maksimal.
Mencuci baju mampu membuat Anda kehilangan 260 kalori per jam. Pastikan Anda menaruh keranjang cucian di lantai agar Anda terus-menerus membungkuk. Sementara itu, mencuci piring pun mampu membuat Anda kehilangan 200 kalori per jam.
Data lebih detil bahkan disediakan oleh Calorie Lab. Menurut Calorie Lab, kegiatan lain, seperti menyajikan makanan (102 kalori/jam), memberi makan binatang peliharaan (102 kalori/jam), membawa belanjaan (442 kalori/jam), menyetrika (88 kalori/jam), membereskan tempat tidur (68 kalori/jam), memindahkan perabot (340 kalori/jam), menyiram tanaman (102 kalori/jam), bahkan merawat orang tua Anda yang sudah sepuh pun mampu membuat Anda kehilangan hingga 204 kalori per jam.
Nah, Anda pilih yang mana?
Pasangan Nia Ramadhani dan Ardie Bakrie tengah dalam kegembiraan. Anak pertamanya, Mikhayla Zalindra Bakrie pada Minggu 2 Juni genap berusia 1 tahun.
Di hari spesial itu, pasangan Nia-Ardie merayakan ulang tahun anaknya dengan warga di sebuah taman di Kelurahan Jatinegara Kaum, Jakarta Timur.
Taman yang sebelumnya hanya terkesan biasa pun menjadi beraneka warna akibat sentuhan renovasi ala taman-taman bermain berbayar. Berbagai permainan seperti papan luncur, ayunan, kuda-kudaan, dan lainnya semakin menjadi daya tarik bagi anak-anak di lingkungan sekitar.
Dan 'taman baru' tersebut pun diberikan secara simbolis oleh Ardie dan Nia kepada Kepala Kasubid Pertamanan Jakarta Timur.
"Kami bukan riya atau sombong, tapi karena ini buat kepentingan masyarakat di sini juga," kata Ardie di Taman Interaktif & Sosial, Jl. TB Badarudin, Jatinegara Kaum, Pulo Gadung, Jakarta Timur (2/6).
Saat acara berlangsung, warga sekitar memenuhi lokasi karena memang terbuka bagi seluruh warga, tak terkecuali. Tampak Raffi Ahmad dan politisi menghadiri acara itu. Sang kakek, Aburizal Bakrie pun turut hadir.> Ultah pertama anak Ardie Bakrie - Nia Ramadhani Warga ramaikan
Ms. Crough played the youngest daughter on the hit ’70s sitcom starring David Cassidy and Shirley Jones.Suzanne Crough, Actress in â€˜The Partridge Family,â€™ Dies at 52 | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
THE WRITERS ASHLEY AND JAQUAVIS COLEMAN know the value of a good curtain-raiser. The couple have co-authored dozens of novels, and they like to start them with a bang: a headlong action sequence, a blast of violence or sex that rocks readers back on their heels. But the Colemans concede they would be hard-pressed to dream up anything more gripping than their own real-life opening scene.
In the summer of 2001, JaQuavis Coleman was a 16-year-old foster child in Flint, Mich., the former auto-manufacturing mecca that had devolved, in the wake of General Motors’ plant closures, into one of the country’s most dangerous cities, with a decimated economy and a violent crime rate more than three times the national average. When JaQuavis was 8, social services had removed him from his mother’s home. He spent years bouncing between foster families. At 16, JaQuavis was also a businessman: a crack dealer with a network of street-corner peddlers in his employ.
One day that summer, JaQuavis met a fellow dealer in a parking lot on Flint’s west side. He was there to make a bulk sale of a quarter-brick, or “nine-piece” — a nine-ounce parcel of cocaine, with a street value of about $11,000. In the middle of the transaction, JaQuavis heard the telltale chirp of a walkie-talkie. His customer, he now realized, was an undercover policeman. JaQuavis jumped into his car and spun out onto the road, with two unmarked police cars in pursuit. He didn’t want to get into a high-speed chase, so he whipped his car into a church parking lot and made a run for it, darting into an alleyway behind a row of small houses, where he tossed the quarter-brick into some bushes. When JaQuavis reached the small residential street on the other side of the houses, he was greeted by the police, who handcuffed him and went to search behind the houses where, they told him, they were certain he had ditched the drugs. JaQuavis had been dealing since he was 12, had amassed more than $100,000 and had never been arrested. Now, he thought: It’s over.
But when the police looked in the bushes, they couldn’t find any cocaine. They interrogated JaQuavis, who denied having ever possessed or sold drugs. They combed the backyard alley some more. After an hour of fruitless efforts, the police were forced to unlock the handcuffs and release their suspect.
JaQuavis was baffled by the turn of events until the next day, when he received a phone call. The previous afternoon, a 15-year-old girl had been sitting in her home on the west side of Flint when she heard sirens. She looked out of the window of her bedroom, and watched a young man throw a package in the bushes behind her house. She recognized him. He was a high school classmate — a handsome, charismatic boy whom she had admired from afar. The girl crept outside and grabbed the bundle, which she hid in her basement. “I have something that belongs to you,” Ashley Snell told JaQuavis Coleman when she reached him by phone. “You wanna come over here and pick it up?”
In the Colemans’ first novel, “Dirty Money” (2005), they told a version of this story. The outline was the same: the drug deal gone bad, the dope chucked in the bushes, the fateful phone call. To the extent that the authors took poetic license, it was to tone down the meet-cute improbability of the true-life events. In “Dirty Money,” the girl, Anari, and the crack dealer, Maurice, circle each other warily for a year or so before coupling up. But the facts of Ashley and JaQuavis’s romance outstripped pulp fiction. They fell in love more or less at first sight, moved into their own apartment while still in high school and were married in 2008. “We were together from the day we met,” Ashley says. “I don’t think we’ve spent more than a week apart in total over the past 14 years.”
That partnership turned out to be creative and entrepreneurial as well as romantic. Over the past decade, the Colemans have published nearly 50 books, sometimes as solo writers, sometimes under pseudonyms, but usually as collaborators with a byline that has become a trusted brand: “Ashley & JaQuavis.” They are marquee stars of urban fiction, or street lit, a genre whose inner-city settings and lurid mix of crime, sex and sensationalism have earned it comparisons to gangsta rap. The emergence of street lit is one of the big stories in recent American publishing, a juggernaut that has generated huge sales by catering to a readership — young, black and, for the most part, female — that historically has been ill-served by the book business. But the genre is also widely maligned. Street lit is subject to a kind of triple snobbery: scorned by literati who look down on genre fiction generally, ignored by a white publishing establishment that remains largely indifferent to black books and disparaged by African-American intellectuals for poor writing, coarse values and trafficking in racial stereotypes.
But if a certain kind of cultural prestige is shut off to the Colemans, they have reaped other rewards. They’ve built a large and loyal fan base, which gobbles up the new Ashley & JaQuavis titles that arrive every few months. Many of those books are sold at street-corner stands and other off-the-grid venues in African-American neighborhoods, a literary gray market that doesn’t register a blip on best-seller tallies. Yet the Colemans’ most popular series now regularly crack the trade fiction best-seller lists of The New York Times and Publishers Weekly. For years, the pair had no literary agent; they sold hundreds of thousands of books without banking a penny in royalties. Still, they have earned millions of dollars, almost exclusively from cash-for-manuscript deals negotiated directly with independent publishing houses. In short, though little known outside of the world of urban fiction, the Colemans are one of America’s most successful literary couples, a distinction they’ve achieved, they insist, because of their work’s gritty authenticity and their devotion to a primal literary virtue: the power of the ripping yarn.
“When you read our books, you’re gonna realize: ‘Ashley & JaQuavis are storytellers,’ ” says Ashley. “Our tales will get your heart pounding.”
THE COLEMANS’ HOME BASE — the cottage from which they operate their cottage industry — is a spacious four-bedroom house in a genteel suburb about 35 miles north of downtown Detroit. The house is plush, but when I visited this past winter, it was sparsely appointed. The couple had just recently moved in, and had only had time to fully furnish the bedroom of their 4-year-old son, Quaye.
In conversation, Ashley and JaQuavis exude both modesty and bravado: gratitude for their good fortune and bootstrappers’ pride in having made their own luck. They talk a lot about their time in the trenches, the years they spent as a drug dealer and “ride-or-die girl” tandem. In Flint they learned to “grind hard.” Writing, they say, is merely a more elevated kind of grind.
“Instead of hitting the block like we used to, we hit the laptops,” says Ashley. “I know what every word is worth. So while I’m writing, I’m like: ‘Okay, there’s a hundred dollars. There’s a thousand dollars. There’s five thousand dollars.’ ”
They maintain a rigorous regimen. They each try to write 5,000 words per day, five days a week. The writers stagger their shifts: JaQuavis goes to bed at 7 p.m. and wakes up early, around 3 or 4 in the morning, to work while his wife and child sleep. Ashley writes during the day, often in libraries or at Starbucks.
They divide the labor in other ways. Chapters are divvied up more or less equally, with tasks assigned according to individual strengths. (JaQuavis typically handles character development. Ashley loves writing murder scenes.) The results are stitched together, with no editorial interference from one author in the other’s text. The real work, they contend, is the brainstorming. The Colemans spend weeks mapping out their plot-driven books — long conversations that turn into elaborate diagrams on dry-erase boards. “JaQuavis and I are so close, it makes the process real easy,” says Ashley. “Sometimes when I’m thinking of something, a plot point, he’ll say it out loud, and I’m like: ‘Wait — did I say that?’ ”
Their collaboration developed by accident, and on the fly. Both were bookish teenagers. Ashley read lots of Judy Blume and John Grisham; JaQuavis liked Shakespeare, Richard Wright and “Atlas Shrugged.” (Their first official date was at a Borders bookstore, where Ashley bought “The Coldest Winter Ever,” the Sister Souljah novel often credited with kick-starting the contemporary street-lit movement.) In 2003, Ashley, then 17, was forced to terminate an ectopic pregnancy. She was bedridden for three weeks, and to provide distraction and boost her spirits, JaQuavis challenged his girlfriend to a writing contest. “She just wasn’t talking. She was laying in bed. I said, ‘You know what? I bet you I could write a better book than you.’ My wife is real competitive. So I said, ‘Yo, all right, $500 bet.’ And I saw her eyes spark, like, ‘What?! You can’t write no better book than me!’ So I wrote about three chapters. She wrote about three chapters. Two days later, we switched.”
The result, hammered out in a few days, would become “Dirty Money.” Two years later, when Ashley and JaQuavis were students at Ferris State University in Western Michigan, they sold the manuscript to Urban Books, a street-lit imprint founded by the best-selling author Carl Weber. At the time, JaQuavis was still making his living selling drugs. When Ashley got the phone call informing her that their book had been bought, she assumed they’d hit it big, and flushed more than $10,000 worth of cocaine down the toilet. Their advance was a mere $4,000.
Those advances would soon increase, eventually reaching five and six figures. The Colemans built their career, JaQuavis says, in a manner that made sense to him as a veteran dope peddler: by flooding the street with product. From the start, they were prolific, churning out books at a rate of four or five a year. Their novels made their way into stores; the now-defunct chain Waldenbooks, which had stores in urban areas typically bypassed by booksellers, was a major engine of the street-lit market. But Ashley and JaQuavis took advantage of distribution channels established by pioneering urban fiction authors such as Teri Woods and Vickie Stringer, and a network of street-corner tables, magazine stands, corner shops and bodegas. Like rappers who establish their bona fides with gray-market mixtapes, street-lit authors use this system to circumnavigate industry gatekeepers, bringing their work straight to the genre’s core readership. But urban fiction has other aficionados, in less likely places. “Our books are so popular in the prison system,” JaQuavis says. “We’re banned in certain penitentiaries. Inmates fight over the books — there are incidents, you know? I have loved ones in jail, and they’re like: ‘Yo, your books can’t come in here. It’s against the rules.’ ”
The appeal of the Colemans’ work is not hard to fathom. The books are formulaic and taut; they deliver the expected goods efficiently and exuberantly. The titles telegraph the contents: “Diary of a Street Diva,” “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” “Murderville.” The novels serve up a stream of explicit sex and violence in a slangy, tangy, profane voice. In Ashley & JaQuavis’s books people don’t get killed: they get “popped,” “laid out,” get their “cap twisted back.” The smut is constant, with emphasis on the earthy, sticky, olfactory particulars. Romance novel clichés — shuddering orgasms, heroic carnal feats, superlative sexual skill sets — are rendered in the Colemans’ punchy patois.
Subtlety, in other words, isn’t Ashley & JaQuavis’s forte. But their books do have a grainy specificity. In “The Cartel” (2008), the first novel in the Colemans’ best-selling saga of a Miami drug syndicate, they catch the sights and smells of a crack workshop in a housing project: the nostril-stinging scent of cocaine and baking soda bubbling on stovetops; the teams of women, stripped naked except for hospital masks so they can’t pilfer the merchandise, “cutting up the cooked coke on the round wood table.” The subject matter is dark, but the Colemans’ tone is not quite noir. Even in the grimmest scenes, the mood is high-spirited, with the writers palpably relishing the lewd and gory details: the bodies writhing in boudoirs and crumpling under volleys of bullets, the geysers of blood and other bodily fluids.
The luridness of street lit has made it a flashpoint, inciting controversy reminiscent of the hip-hop culture wars of the 1980s and ’90s. But the street-lit debate touches deeper historical roots, reviving decades-old arguments in black literary circles about the mandate to uplift the race and present wholesome images of African-Americans. In 1928, W. E. B. Du Bois slammed the “licentiousness” of “Home to Harlem,” Claude McKay’s rollicking novel of Harlem nightlife. McKay’s book, Du Bois wrote, “for the most part nauseates me, and after the dirtier parts of its filth I feel distinctly like taking a bath.” Similar sentiments have greeted 21st-century street lit. In a 2006 New York Times Op-Ed essay, the journalist and author Nick Chiles decried “the sexualization and degradation of black fiction.” African-American bookstores, Chiles complained, are “overrun with novels that . . . appeal exclusively to our most prurient natures — as if these nasty books were pairing off back in the stockrooms like little paperback rabbits and churning out even more graphic offspring that make Ralph Ellison books cringe into a dusty corner.”
Copulating paperbacks aside, it’s clear that the street-lit debate is about more than literature, touching on questions of paternalism versus populism, and on middle-class anxieties about the black underclass. “It’s part and parcel of black elites’ efforts to define not only a literary tradition, but a racial politics,” said Kinohi Nishikawa, an assistant professor of English and African-American Studies at Princeton University. “There has always been a sense that because African-Americans’ opportunities to represent themselves are so limited in the first place, any hint of criminality or salaciousness would necessarily be a knock on the entire racial politics. One of the pressing debates about African-American literature today is: If we can’t include writers like Ashley & JaQuavis, to what extent is the foundation of our thinking about black literature faulty? Is it just a literature for elites? Or can it be inclusive, bringing urban fiction under the purview of our umbrella term ‘African-American literature’?”
Defenders of street lit note that the genre has a pedigree: a tradition of black pulp fiction that stretches from Chester Himes, the midcentury author of hardboiled Harlem detective stories, to the 1960s and ’70s “ghetto fiction” of Iceberg Slim and Donald Goines, to the current wave of urban fiction authors. Others argue for street lit as a social good, noting that it attracts a large audience that might otherwise never read at all. Scholars like Nishikawa link street lit to recent studies showing increased reading among African-Americans. A 2014 Pew Research Center report found that a greater percentage of black Americans are book readers than whites or Latinos.
For their part, the Colemans place their work in the broader black literary tradition. “You have Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, James Baldwin — all of these traditional black writers, who wrote about the struggles of racism, injustice, inequality,” says Ashley. “We’re writing about the struggle as it happens now. It’s just a different struggle. I’m telling my story. I’m telling the struggle of a black girl from Flint, Michigan, who grew up on welfare.”
Perhaps there is a high-minded case to be made for street lit. But the virtues of Ashley & JaQuavis’s work are more basic. Their novels do lack literary polish. The writing is not graceful; there are passages of clunky exposition and sex scenes that induce guffaws and eye rolls. But the pleasure quotient is high. The books flaunt a garish brand of feminism, with women characters cast not just as vixens, but also as gangsters — cold-blooded killers, “murder mamas.” The stories are exceptionally well-plotted. “The Cartel” opens by introducing its hero, the crime boss Carter Diamond; on page 9, a gunshot spatters Diamond’s brain across the interior of a police cruiser. The book then flashes back seven years and begins to hurtle forward again — a bullet train, whizzing readers through shifting alliances, romantic entanglements and betrayals, kidnappings, shootouts with Haitian and Dominican gangsters, and a cliffhanger closing scene that leaves the novel’s heroine tied to a chair in a basement, gruesomely tortured to the edge of death. Ashley & JaQuavis’s books are not Ralph Ellison, certainly, but they build up quite a head of steam. They move.
The Colemans are moving themselves these days. They recently signed a deal with St. Martin’s Press, which will bring out the next installment in the “Cartel” series as well as new solo series by both writers. The St. Martin’s deal is both lucrative and legitimizing — a validation of Ashley and JaQuavis’s work by one of publishing’s most venerable houses. The Colemans’ ambitions have grown, as well. A recent trilogy, “Murderville,” tackles human trafficking and the blood-diamond industry in West Africa, with storylines that sweep from Sierra Leone to Mexico to Los Angeles. Increasingly, Ashley & JaQuavis are leaning on research — traveling to far-flung settings and hitting the books in the libraries — and spending less time mining their own rough-and-tumble past.
But Flint remains a source of inspiration. One evening not long ago, JaQuavis led me on a tour of his hometown: a popular roadside bar; the parking lot where he met the undercover cop for the ill-fated drug deal; Ashley’s old house, the site of his almost-arrest. He took me to a ramshackle vehicle repair shop on Flint’s west side, where he worked as a kid, washing cars. He showed me a bathroom at the rear of the garage, where, at age 12, he sneaked away to inspect the first “boulder” of crack that he ever sold. A spray-painted sign on the garage wall, which JaQuavis remembered from his time at the car wash, offered words of warning:
WHAT EVERY YOUNG MAN SHOULD KNOW
ABOUT USING A GUN:
MURDER . . . 30 Years
ARMED ROBBERY . . . 15 Years
ASSAULT . . . 15 Years
RAPE . . . 20 Years
POSSESSION . . . 5 Years
JACKING . . . 20 YEARS
“We still love Flint, Michigan,” JaQuavis says. “It’s so seedy, so treacherous. But there’s some heart in this city. This is where it all started, selling books out the box. In the days when we would get those little $40,000 advances, they’d send us a couple boxes of books for free. We would hit the streets to sell our books, right out of the car trunk. It was a hustle. It still is.”
One old neighborhood asset that the Colemans have not shaken off is swagger. “My wife is the best female writer in the game,” JaQuavis told me. “I believe I’m the best male writer in the game. I’m sleeping next to the best writer in the world. And she’s doing the same.”From T Magazine: Street Litâ€™s Power Couple | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
Imagine an elite professional services firm with a high-performing, workaholic culture. Everyone is expected to turn on a dime to serve a client, travel at a moment’s notice, and be available pretty much every evening and weekend. It can make for a grueling work life, but at the highest levels of accounting, law, investment banking and consulting firms, it is just the way things are.
Except for one dirty little secret: Some of the people ostensibly turning in those 80- or 90-hour workweeks, particularly men, may just be faking it.
Many of them were, at least, at one elite consulting firm studied by Erin Reid, a professor at Boston University’s Questrom School of Business. It’s impossible to know if what she learned at that unidentified consulting firm applies across the world of work more broadly. But her research, published in the academic journal Organization Science, offers a way to understand how the professional world differs between men and women, and some of the ways a hard-charging culture that emphasizes long hours above all can make some companies worse off.
Ms. Reid interviewed more than 100 people in the American offices of a global consulting firm and had access to performance reviews and internal human resources documents. At the firm there was a strong culture around long hours and responding to clients promptly.
“When the client needs me to be somewhere, I just have to be there,” said one of the consultants Ms. Reid interviewed. “And if you can’t be there, it’s probably because you’ve got another client meeting at the same time. You know it’s tough to say I can’t be there because my son had a Cub Scout meeting.”
Some people fully embraced this culture and put in the long hours, and they tended to be top performers. Others openly pushed back against it, insisting upon lighter and more flexible work hours, or less travel; they were punished in their performance reviews.
The third group is most interesting. Some 31 percent of the men and 11 percent of the women whose records Ms. Reid examined managed to achieve the benefits of a more moderate work schedule without explicitly asking for it.
They made an effort to line up clients who were local, reducing the need for travel. When they skipped work to spend time with their children or spouse, they didn’t call attention to it. One team on which several members had small children agreed among themselves to cover for one another so that everyone could have more flexible hours.
A male junior manager described working to have repeat consulting engagements with a company near enough to his home that he could take care of it with day trips. “I try to head out by 5, get home at 5:30, have dinner, play with my daughter,” he said, adding that he generally kept weekend work down to two hours of catching up on email.
Despite the limited hours, he said: “I know what clients are expecting. So I deliver above that.” He received a high performance review and a promotion.
What is fascinating about the firm Ms. Reid studied is that these people, who in her terminology were “passing” as workaholics, received performance reviews that were as strong as their hyper-ambitious colleagues. For people who were good at faking it, there was no real damage done by their lighter workloads.
It calls to mind the episode of “Seinfeld” in which George Costanza leaves his car in the parking lot at Yankee Stadium, where he works, and gets a promotion because his boss sees the car and thinks he is getting to work earlier and staying later than anyone else. (The strategy goes awry for him, and is not recommended for any aspiring partners in a consulting firm.)
A second finding is that women, particularly those with young children, were much more likely to request greater flexibility through more formal means, such as returning from maternity leave with an explicitly reduced schedule. Men who requested a paternity leave seemed to be punished come review time, and so may have felt more need to take time to spend with their families through those unofficial methods.
The result of this is easy to see: Those specifically requesting a lighter workload, who were disproportionately women, suffered in their performance reviews; those who took a lighter workload more discreetly didn’t suffer. The maxim of “ask forgiveness, not permission” seemed to apply.
It would be dangerous to extrapolate too much from a study at one firm, but Ms. Reid said in an interview that since publishing a summary of her research in Harvard Business Review she has heard from people in a variety of industries describing the same dynamic.
High-octane professional service firms are that way for a reason, and no one would doubt that insane hours and lots of travel can be necessary if you’re a lawyer on the verge of a big trial, an accountant right before tax day or an investment banker advising on a huge merger.
But the fact that the consultants who quietly lightened their workload did just as well in their performance reviews as those who were truly working 80 or more hours a week suggests that in normal times, heavy workloads may be more about signaling devotion to a firm than really being more productive. The person working 80 hours isn’t necessarily serving clients any better than the person working 50.
In other words, maybe the real problem isn’t men faking greater devotion to their jobs. Maybe it’s that too many companies reward the wrong things, favoring the illusion of extraordinary effort over actual productivity.
KATHMANDU, Nepal — When the dense pillar of smoke from cremations by the Bagmati River was thinning late last week, the bodies were all coming from Gongabu, a common stopover for Nepali migrant workers headed overseas, and they were all of young men.
Hindu custom dictates that funeral pyres should be lighted by the oldest son of the deceased, but these men were too young to have sons, so they were burned by their brothers or fathers. Sukla Lal, a maize farmer, made a 14-hour journey by bus to retrieve the body of his 19-year-old son, who had been on his way to the Persian Gulf to work as a laborer.
“He wanted to live in the countryside, but he was compelled to leave by poverty,” Mr. Lal said, gazing ahead steadily as his son’s remains smoldered. “He told me, ‘You can live on your land, and I will come up with money, and we will have a happy family.’ ”
Weeks will pass before the authorities can give a complete accounting of who died in the April 25 earthquake, but it is already clear that Nepal cannot afford the losses. The countryside was largely stripped of its healthy young men even before the quake, as they migrated in great waves — 1,500 a day by some estimates — to work as laborers in India, Malaysia or one of the gulf nations, leaving many small communities populated only by elderly parents, women and children. Economists say that at some times of the year, one-quarter of Nepal’s population is working outside the country.Nepalâ€™s Young Men, Lost to Migration, Then a Quake | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
Mr. Alger, who served five terms from Texas, led Republican women in a confrontation with Lyndon B. Johnson that may have cost Richard M. Nixon the 1960 presidential election.Bruce Alger, 96, Dies; Led â€˜Mink Coatâ€™ Protest Against Lyndon Johnson | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
The career criminals in genre novels don’t have money problems. If they need some, they just go out and steal it. But such financial transactions can backfire, which is what happened back in 2004 when the Texas gang in MichaelTake the Money and Run | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
Mr. Bartoszewski was given honorary Israeli citizenship for his work to save Jews during World War II and later surprised even himself by being instrumental in reconciling Poland and Germany.Wladyslaw Bartoszewski, 93, Dies; Polish Auschwitz Survivor Aided Jews | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
Mr. Paczynski was one of the concentration camp’s longest surviving inmates and served as the personal barber to its Nazi commandant Rudolf Höss.Jozef Paczynski, Inmate Barber to Auschwitz Commandant, Dies at 95 | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
WASHINGTON — During a training course on defending against knife attacks, a young Salt Lake City police officer asked a question: “How close can somebody get to me before I’m justified in using deadly force?”
Dennis Tueller, the instructor in that class more than three decades ago, decided to find out. In the fall of 1982, he performed a rudimentary series of tests and concluded that an armed attacker who bolted toward an officer could clear 21 feet in the time it took most officers to draw, aim and fire their weapon.
The next spring, Mr. Tueller published his findings in SWAT magazine and transformed police training in the United States. The “21-foot rule” became dogma. It has been taught in police academies around the country, accepted by courts and cited by officers to justify countless shootings, including recent episodes involving a homeless woodcarver in Seattle and a schizophrenic woman in San Francisco.
Now, amid the largest national debate over policing since the 1991 beating of Rodney King in Los Angeles, a small but vocal set of law enforcement officials are calling for a rethinking of the 21-foot rule and other axioms that have emphasized how to use force, not how to avoid it. Several big-city police departments are already re-examining when officers should chase people or draw their guns and when they should back away, wait or try to defuse the situationPolice Rethink Long Tradition on Using Force | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
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Mr. Napoleon was a self-taught musician whose career began in earnest with the orchestra led by Chico Marx of the Marx Brothers.Marty Napoleon, 93, Dies; Jazz Pianist Played With Louis Armstrong | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
Fullmer, who reigned when fight clubs abounded and Friday night fights were a television staple, was known for his title bouts with Sugar Ray Robinson and Carmen Basilio.Gene Fullmer, a Brawling Middleweight Champion, Dies at 83 | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
Ms. von Furstenberg made her debut in the movies and on the Broadway stage in the early 1950s as a teenager and later reinvented herself as a television actress, writer and philanthropist.Betsy von Furstenberg, Baroness and Versatile Actress, Dies at 83 | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
Under Mr. Michelin’s leadership, which ended when he left the company in 2002, the Michelin Group became the world’s biggest tire maker, establishing a big presence in the United States and other major markets overseas.FranÃ§ois Michelin, Head of Tire Company, Dies at 88 | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016
A former member of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Mr. Smedvig helped found the wide-ranging Empire Brass quintet.Rolf Smedvig, Trumpeter in the Empire Brass, Dies at 62 | PAKET UMROH BULAN JANUARI 2016