Semester på hemmaplan är grejen i sommar och att tälta är ett härligt sätt att upptäcka den vackra svenska naturen. Här är allt du behöver veta för att få bästa tältsemestern.
Betalt samarbete med Hollistay I dessa dagar så är det allt fler som reser i Sverige, och kanske planerar att göra så under kommande sommar. Detta är glädjande tycker vi som tidigare alltid nästan uteslutande gör så under hela året. Här kommer därför tips på ett tidigare inlägg som vi hoppas inspirerar till resande och …
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Who is Ezequiel Campa? More about Ezequiel Campa Bio, Net Worth, Age, Relationship, Height, and Career. [Updated 2024 February]
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Here are new photos (courtesy of fakejellybean) of Kimi taken earlier this year as part of his ambassador role for the Wrangler-Europe franchise. Read our previous posts about Kimi’s Wrangler…
Foto: Pavel BrodskyDrömmer du om att vakna i soluppgången med utsikt över en magnifik fjord? Eller att somna vid foten av mäktiga berg med norrskenet dansande ovanför h
to dance. to spread the beauty and joy of the art, in which human expression is most beautiful. to the superb ability of the...
Animals Taking Seflies. Thread.
SNOW CHAPEL IN THE CZECH REPUBLIC Photograph by RADEK CAMPA @ Panoramio.com Radek Campa took this stunning photograph of the snow-covered chapel of Sts. Cyril and Methodius, lo…
Writer Julia Donaldson reunited with illustrator Axel Scheffler in a new anti-coronavirus campaign with 12 new images showing the Gruffalo adhering to social distancing rules.
Animals interrupting wildlife photographers. A thread: 1. 📸 Dan Dinu
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“5. The Girolamini Library, Naples Credit: Massimo Listri”
Pursuer of Truth and lover of Love. Living in these beautiful VIrginia mountains. Day by day I battle to be the man I'm called to be: dad, brother, friend, entrepreneur and in all ravenously hungry for real adventure and true freedom. This blog is a somewhat blurry reflection of my journey.
It's the audio equivalent of a Buzzfeed list. There's barely a narrative other than posturing. It's not really an album, more a relentless ad campa...
Universalyxa Fiskars X-Series XS-X7 är en specialtillverkad fritidsyxa som är lätt att bära med sig när du ska ut och campa. Perfekt för att klyva småved och spänta tändved. Yxans ultralätta och slitstarka skaft i FiberComp™ minimerar trötthet och gör yxan praktiskt taget obrytbar.
An inspirational memoir-meets-manifesto by Danica Roem, the nation's first openly trans person elected to US state legislature Danica Roem made national headlines when—as a transgender former frontwoman for a metal band and a political newcomer—she unseated Virginia's most notoriously anti-LGBTQ 26-year incumbent Bob Marshall as state delegate. But before Danica made history, she had to change her vision of what was possible in her own life. Doing so was a matter of storytelling: during her campaign, Danica hired an opposition researcher to dredge up every story from her past that her opponent might seize on to paint her negatively. In wildly entertaining prose, Danica dismantles all the stories her opponents tried to hedge against her, showing how through brutal honesty and loving authenticity, it's possible to embrace the low points, and even transform them into her greatest strengths. Burn the Page takes readers from Danica's lonely, closeted, and at times operatically tragic childhood to her position as a rising star in a party she's helped forever change. Burn the Page is so much more than a stump speech: it's an extremely inspiring manifesto about how it's possible to set fire to the stories you don't want to be in anymore, whether written by you or about you by someone else—and rewrite your own future, whether that's running for politics, in your work, or your personal life. This book will not just encourage people who think they have to be spotless to run for office, but inspire all of us to own our personal narratives as Danica does. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780593296554 Media Type: Hardcover Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group Publication Date: 04-26-2022 Pages: 320 Product Dimensions: 5.90(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.20(d)About the Author Delegate Danica Roem, part of the historic group that flipped Republican seats in the 2017 election, is the first out-and-seated transgender state legislator in American history. Prior to her political career, Roem was a journalist and now serves as a frequent guest on national media. She and her work have been featured in USA Today, People, GQ, The New York Times, Elle, and many others, and was the subject of the GLAAD award-winning documentary This Is How We Win.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt Chapter 1 Loser Danica Roem was born September 30, 1984. She received an undergraduate degree from St. Bonaventure in 2006. . . . She either lives with her mother or does not live where she claims to live, which would be potentially illegal. -Friends of Danica Roem self-opposition research for 2019, conducted by Reger Research On the night of November 5, 2019, I looked to my right and saw my partner standing over my right shoulder. I reached up for a kiss, and with the sultry, passionate exhale of a young Sassenach whose dream of seduction has finally been realized, I whispered, "I get to keep my health insurance." At thirty-five, I achieved the fantasy of every progressive suburban woman in Trump's America: two more years of little to no co-pays to make up for my $17,640 salary. I had also just been reelected to the state legislature in Virginia. That was also a thing. Having lived uninsured from August 27, 2015, until February 1, 2018, the allure of two more years of health insurance, which came with my new role as a state delegate, certainly captured my attention. In case you haven't had the experience, living uninsured in your early thirties can be . . . demoralizing. (But, ladies, remember what those same asshole powerbrokers who make it so that we're living uninsured say to us in the first place: "You should smile more!") You get to a point where you start wondering about the choices you've made that have led you to this point (for me, mainly choosing newspaper journalism as a career in the age of the internet). Earning reelection also came with a side benefit: that it would continue to drive transphobic bigots mad over accusations like "Transgender Delegate Gets Transgender Prescriptions Paid by Transgender Taxpayers!" or some shit like that. ("I think the transgender taxpayers would be quite happy about that," says my transgender partner upon reading that sentence.) On a much more macro level, though, winning reelection also punctured that last lingering bit of resentment left over from 2017: that I was a flash in the pan, that 12,077 people wouldn't be so dumb as to reelect a transgender metalhead reporter stepmom in 2019 after they'd see what a disgraceful heathen she'd be with power-heathen, perhaps, but certainly not a disgraceful one. Well, I guess there was some validity to that: only 12,066 people voted for me the second time (I knew I should have knocked on doors in Mulder Court and Scully Court in Manassas one more time . . .) for a voter retention rate of 99.9 percent-and that was without any statewide candidates at the top of the ticket to drive up turnout. That's 'cause your girl ran a reelection campaign that roughly boiled down to "Danica 2019: I did a good job. Please vote for me to keep doing a good job." he reason I ran for office in the first place is because . . . well . . . I was asked. A couple of times. Data from Emerge America-an organization that trains Democratic women to run for office across the country (and one of the organizations I trained with to prepare for my run)-shows that women are more likely to run for office after being recruited to run, while men are more likely to take the initiative to run. While that's certainly not universal, it just so happened to pan out in my case, if for no other reason than to make the heads of transphobic bigots explode. There were a lot of reasons that ultimately led me to declare my candidacy, but suffice it to say that my "Oh, hell no" dismissiveness toward the idea took some time to thaw. The first person to ask me to think about running was James Parrish, who led the LGBTQ rights organization Equality Virginia (EV) in Richmond. He asked me about it in February 2016, when I drove down to the General Assembly four times in just over a month to advocate against anti-LGBTQ bills. I had never been involved with activism before this point. Getting involved to actually advocate for an issue instead of just covering other people doing it for the newspaper made me feel uncomfortable as hell in that I never wanted my neutrality as a reporter questioned. At the same time, I also felt like I was in a unique position to actually connect with some of the Republican legislators and win their votes because I knew them after covering them as a reporter for years. Yet to throw another curveball into the wind . . . most of those legislators hadn't seen me in person since I changed my name, corrected the gender marker on my legal documents, and left the Gainesville Times half a year earlier. After almost a decade of the neutrality I'd held as a journalist, I knew I wanted to get involved at this level and I had some hope that I could convince a few legislators not to fuck over my life and the lives of their trans constituents. Yet by the time I would leave the capitol, I would just collapse in my car, usually with a pulsating headache and an occasional vomit on the side of the 9th Street. That, as you'll find out later, became a recurring theme for how my body processes anxiety: via explosive and-well, let's go with messy-catharsis. Anyway, I had stopped by James's office on one of my trips down to talk and coordinate because I didn't want to step on Equality Virginia's toes and duplicate efforts. We knew then-Gov. Terry McAuliffe would veto any of these anti-LGBTQ bills and we just barely had the votes to sustain any veto in the state house. Still, we both had a larger mission: kill the bills before they even reached the House floor, which we managed to do with seven out of nine of them, leading us to run out the clock on one bill and Governor McAuliffe to veto the remaining one live on the radio during WTOP's "Ask the Governor" segment. We considered it a win-win: the bill didn't go through, and it functioned as a warning to the other anti-LGBTQ bills not to enter the governor's office. When James and I started talking about Bob Marshall's anti-LGBTQ bills, that led to a conversation about the 2017 election. "Why don't you run?" James asked me. It was the first time anyone had asked me to run for office, that day in February 2016-and I ruled it out because the 2015 Democratic nominee for the same seat, Don Shaw, was preparing to run again. But still the question sat there. I don't know how to describe it exactly other than to say that someone asking me to run for office felt like a giant steel gate had materialized in the middle of my life path. It suddenly loomed over everything I was doing and why I was doing it. I could say no and the gate would lift; I would go on with my life as it was. Saying no is easy in that way. No is comfortable; it delivers you right back to where you were. You know what you're getting when you say no; life is predictable, knowable. It's like never making it past your freshman year's "Iron Man," "Crazy Train," and "Enter Sandman" mixed tape because God forbid you might find out Black Sabbath, Ozzy Osbourne, and Metallica wrote songs you don't hear on FM radio. But what was that, exactly? I'd just taken a job as a reporter at the Montgomery County Sentinel, a newspaper in Maryland, mostly so I could be closer to my partner and stepdaughter who both lived in that county. After all, nothing says commitment and love like a forty-eight-mile commute from Manassas in D.C.-region traffic. This at least gave me the option of occasionally spending the night up there when I didn't have band practice or other obligations back home. After the first eight or so months of that job, in which I had a brief refreshed feeling after a few investigative pieces, I started to stagnate again. By June 2016, I had been building my career as a journalist for ten years and was bur
We often hear the photographer gets awards for their showing off photographs of Wildlife , but have you ever heard of wild Photographers? This means that animal
20. Bodleian Library Oxford, UK Credit: David Iliff
Girl Guide Blanket Exhibit - Smart Gallery, Social Museum and Art Gallery. Skipton
Мэри Эллен Марк родилась в 1940 году в Пенсильвании, США. В середине 1960-х годов, переехав в Нью-Йорк, стала профессиональным фотожурналистом. Героиновые наркоманы и цирковые актеры, демонстрации против войны во Вьетнаме и трансвеститы — люди всегда оставались главным в ее занятии фотографией. С…
