A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

Fiddling In The Garden & Remembering Donald Hodgson
Saturday, May 17, 2014



My North Vancouver friend Donald Hodgson (now deceased) used to call me every May. We would discuss our mutual like for that shade-tolerant perennial, the hosta. He would always say, “God, hostas look so fresh and new when they emerge in May. When there are no slug holes. They are pristine. There is nothing better.” And he was right.

The garden is looking pretty good right now as Rosemary and I work on it. We are opening our garden, mid June for the Vancouver Rose Society. All this work for one day seems almost laughable. But it isn’t. At one time it was a lot worse.

I have psoriatic arthritis. A couple of years ago after a day of heavy work I could not move in bed in the evening and I would groan all night. Now with my heavy duty medicine Humira I can move in bed but I still groan. There are things I used to take for granted like snipping and pruning with my Felco secateurs or lopping thicker branches with the lopper. Now I almost cannot do this.

After a few hours of snipping it somehow affects my right elbow and the pain is intense to the point that I am unable to switch on the ignition of our Malibu. But I have to admit that if I pace myself (just a bit) I can somehow work in the garden every day.



Hosta 'Blue Whirls' left & right Hosta 'Yellow River' , fern Onoclea sensibilis


I miss Donald Hodgson right now. The hostas are beautiful and as he would say, they are pristine. But in my now-decade-interest in roses, these plants beckon, too. They have buds. One day there is a bud. The next day, you just might miss that the bud is now open and the rose is glorious.

But best of all is that most of the heavy work is done and now I can fiddle in the garden. I can sit with Casi-Casi on the bench. I can listen to the rustle of the leaves and smell the Rhododendron luteum’s yellow flowers. I can water which is awfully relaxing. And sometimes, if I am lucky, I can even persuade my Rosemary to relax and sit with me.



As I Saw Them
Friday, May 16, 2014






In 1979 Rosemary and I had taken our two daughters, Hilary Anne and Alexandra Elizabeth for a ride in the Royal Hudson. This wonderful train that used to run from North Vancouver (only for tourists) to Squamish had a special rail car with multi-coloured wooden bench seats. At the time Rosemary had shown interest in sharing my own, on photography, and requested I buy her a camera. I gave her a Pentax ME which worked just fine on its automatic mode, particularly when mated to that ever-forgiving Kodak colour negative film.

As our daughters sat down I saw something in my head. With no explanation I asked Rosemary for her camera and snapped this picture. A few months later I printed it in my darkroom (I was a competent colour printer) and went to a New Westminster U-Frame-It. The man who owned the place catered to my silly desire to find coloured mats that somehow went with the colours of the print.

For many years that framed photograph has been hanging on the wall going up the stairs to our second floor. Recently I took it down and placed it in our guest bathroom where I have a whole wall dedicated to mostly family pictures. Today as I sat down (where the king goes alone) I looked at the picture. I noted how I would have never chopped their hands. I noted that Ale’s hat is cropped. And yet… There is a light that is shining on Hilary’s face that is just right. Everything in the picture seems to be just right on a moment that will never return.

Last night I read the introduction to Frank Langella’s Dropped Names - Famous Men and Women as I Knew Them and a little paragraph somehow not quite fits here but somehow it does.

Like elusive fireflies, they flickered for a time, shone brightly, dimmed, and ultimately disappeared. Separate and diverse individuals as they may be, my subjects have in common the inevitable outcome awaiting us all: to live on only in memories. In this case mine. 

A photograph revisited



Vicodins and Percocets -The Goldfinch & War Cries Over Avenue C
Thursday, May 15, 2014







Two weeks ago, on Monday May 5 I took out from the Oakridge branch of the Vancouver Public Library, Donna Tart’s Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, The Goldfinch. It was a fast read which meant that in order not to pay the one dollar a day late fee (a fast read cannot be extended) I would have to read 100 pages per day as this novel is 771 pages long.

I must confess that I finished The Goldfinch on Friday the 16th but I have kept it for a few extra days so I can write this blog.

The book had two NY Times reviews. One on the front page of the Sunday Book Review Magazine was written by the likes of Stephen King. The second review was by the Times’ Michiko Kakutani who wrote the following:

Ms. Tartt has made Fabritius’s bird the MacGuffin at the center of her glorious, Dickensian novel, a novel that pulls together all her remarkable storytelling talents into a rapturous, symphonic whole and reminds the reader of the immersive, stay-up-all-night pleasures of reading.

My guess is that Kakutani must have been out to lunch (at Carnegie Deli, perhaps) when she wrote that. I was never really able to read those 100 pages per day because I felt the same way about this novel as watching horror movies as a boy.

I remember my father taking me to see Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein. When one of the hapless guys (I do not remember which one) approaches the coffin in which Bela Lugosi is about to wake I placed my hands in front of my face. I did not want to see what was going to happen. In the same way the intensity of The Goldfinch forced me to close it every night.

The only other novel in my memory in which the protagonists seem to inhabit a world or stupor and unreality is Jerome Charyn’s 1985 novel War Cries Over Avenue C. When I read it I felt as if the characters were all hallucinating as Martin Sheen did in his hotel room in Apocalypse Now.

Avenues A, B, C, and D form a dirty appendage to Manhattan’s Lower East Side: These Alphabet Blocks have become Indian country, the land of murder and cocaine. Though there are still pockets of Ukrainians, Russians, Poles, Italians and, Germans on and around Avenue A, such pockets have little bearing on the internal affairs of the new Indian country. The population is still overwhelmingly Catholic but even the faithful at Mary Help of Christians, when asked about their own Alphabetville, will answer that Christ stopped at Avenue A.
War Cries Over Avenue C - Jerome Charyn


An every-other-day habit was still a habit, as Jerome had often reminded me, particularly when I didn’t stick too faithfully to the every-other-day part. New York was full of all kinds of daily subway-and-crowd horror; the suddenness of the explosion had never left me, I was always looking for something to happen, always expecting it just out of the corner of my eye, certain configurations of people in public places could trigger it, a wartime urgency, someone cutting in front of me the wrong way or walking too fast at a particular angle was enough to throw me into tachycardia and trip-hammer panic, the kind that made me stumble for the nearest park bench; and my dad’s painkillers, which had started as relief for my nigh-on uncontrollable anxiety, provided such a rapturous escape that soon I’d started taking them as a treat: first and only-on-weekends, then an after-school treat, then the purring aetherous bliss that welcomed me whenever I was unhappy or bored (which was, unfortunately, quite a lot); at which time I made the earth-shaking discovery that the tiny pills I had ignored because they were so insignificant and weak-looking were literally ten times as strong as the Vicodins and Percocets I’d been downing by the handful – Oxycontins, 80s, strong enough to kill someone without tolerance, which person  by that point was definitely not me; and when at last my endless-seeming trove of oral narcotics ran out, shortly before my eighteenth birthday, I’d been forced to start buying on the street. Even dealers were censorious of the sums I spent, thousands of dollars every few weeks; Jack (Jerome’s predecessor) had scolded me about it repeatedly even as he sat on a filthy beanbag chair from which he conducted his business, counting my hundreds fresh from the teller’s window. “Might as well light it on fire, brah.” Heroin was cheaper – fifteen bucks a bag. Even if I didn’t bang it – Jack had laboriously done the math for me on the inside of a Quarter Pounder wrapper – I would be looking at a much more reasonable expenditure, something in the neighborhood of four hundred a fifty dollars a month.
The Goldfinch – Donna Tartt


They called her tiger lady. No one knew why she’d come to these badlands, this villa of analfabeticos. She didn’t sell coca leaves to the turistas. She carried a pair of .45s under her heart. At first they thought she was with the federales, a spy in God’s little house. But El Presidente Reagan wasn’t smart enough to rent a Talmud torah. No, she was a fugitive, one of their own kind. She’d gathered a little army around her, fugitives like herself. A twitching maniac and a Russian bear. And this grab-bag army chased gypsy thieves out of the projects and obliged the Medicaid mills to lower their price. She was the little Hebrew godmother with cacarañas in her face, memories of smallpox. She stole nothing from shopkeepers. Her cacarañas kept the peace.
War Cries Over Avenue C – Jerome Charyn

Both novels scared the hell out of me. The Goldfinch because its main protagonist pops pills with what seems a logical purpose. War Cries Over Avenue C, filled with images of a place that resembled a magic realism gone bad convinced me that its author, Charyn, must have been consuming drugs in huge quantities.

When I asked Charyn directly, a man who sops his plate of finished spaghetti with a piece of bread like an educated Frenchman, he simply told me that the novel represented the reality of his life.

Both Tartt and Charyn (many more than Tartt’s three) have written in these two novels about a New York that goes beyond Times Square and the Met. Worse (or is it better?) Tartt removes her shell-shocked Theo Decker as thirteen-year-old to an unreal (to me for its perverse authentic-sounding reality) suburb of Las Vegas where every drug I have not taken is consumed and smoked with chips, beer and vodka by two precocious and scary teenagers-from-hell.

Without going into too many details I am living in proximity to a similar teenager-from-hell. One more reason why I could not read Tartt’s The Goldfinch with the rapidity that NY Times’s Kakutani mentioned.

Looking at my teenager-from-hell I remember the first time I was asked about my stance on drugs around 1973 when I was teaching high school in Mexico City. I was aware even then that there were questions that could never be answered as black or white without considering the consequences that such an answer would concur. Politicians of the US Republican-type do not seem to know about his and they pontificate on abortion, God, guns, global warming and Darwinian fossils to their peril.

My answer was as follows: There are two ways to enjoy a tomato. You can buy one at a supermarket. You take it home and you slice it. You sprinkle a liberal amount of MSG and black pepper and you enjoy it. Or you pick a ripe tomato from the vine, with a salt-shaker in hand and you take a big bite and splatter stuff all over your shirt.

My class seemed to understand my drift and I was never asked again. But my friends were constantly trying to get me drunk or high. It all made me think of my grandmother’s Selecciones del Reader’s Digest (she read it in Spanish) in that section called The Power of Positive Thinking. It made me think of the opposite and how I have an extremely powerful version of negative thinking. I have popped sleeping pills a few times to sleep only to tell myself that because I had taken these pills I would not sleep.

Some 34 years ago while baking in the sun at Wreck Beach my friend Maurice D. urged me most strongly to put some really good hash into my Petersen’s pipe (I was smoking Three Nuns – None Nicer at the time). I did and after a while I asked Maurice to hand me my water bottle. He brusquely asked me, “Why don’t you get it yourself?” I told him (it came out as a stutter), “Because I can’t.” Those opiates make me stutter and I hate losing control of my speech. I cannot stand the smell of pot. Tobacco (I have not smoked for 20 years) is unique in that it smells differently to all other lit weeds.  

It was 20 years ago while sitting on a stool listening to a Vancouver alternative scene band at Gary Taylor’s Rock Room that I was approached by a friendly and chubby woman, “Are you Alex?” I answered in the affirmative so she asked me to place my hand in front of her. She deposited a largish pile of white powder. I did not want to do. She gesticulated her instructions. I snorted the stuff up my nose. Later she returned and asked me, “What was it like for you?” My answer, “It was like going up the stairs from the NY City subway up to the street. I was hit by a barrage of fresh cold air.” My answer did not seem to have been the right one. I never saw her again.

To make this longish blog short I can only state that I am a person with a phobia of addictions of any type and that my knowledge of opiates and their kind is limited.

I have no memory if War Cries Over Avenue C ended well and I am not about to tell you that The Goldfinch ends well or not. I just defy you to get the novel and see if you can read 100 pages per day.

My hope is that my teenager-from-hell does see the light. Meanwhile I will just put my hands up to cover my face and try not to look through my fingers.         



Carmelo Sortino - The Man Who Cooks With His Hands
Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Carmelo Sortino & Roberta Baseggio


Last Monday my friend Tim Turner invited me to go to a cooking class at IlCentro, the Italian Cultural Centre.

This centre, Slocan at Grandview Avenue, of almost constant activity is not to be confused with that other centre of constant activity the Istituto Italiano di Cultura on West Hastings. It is in the latter that in a series of evenings I watched the projection of Montalbano, a magnificent Italian TV series about a police inspector in Sicily. The series is most respectful to the novels of Sicilian Andrea Camilleri.

Through the years I have marveled at how a country like Italy (the Germans and the Americans have lots more money) can have such a large cultural presence in Vancouver where not only are cooking classes offered, but lessons in Italian, baroque concerts and lectures on opera and the navy of the ancient Romans.

If I understand correctly, the Istituto will be closing its doors in September because of severe budget cuts. This will mean that it will be on the shoulders of IlCentro to parade to our benefit all that is good and wonderful about Italy. Few might now that there is a museum at IlCentro where you can explore the contributions of Italians to our city.

But back to the cooking classes.

There were 18 of us in one of the ballrooms of IlCentro. We faced chef (and artist) Carmelo Sortino. Many who live in West Vancouver might remember his restaurant there, Carmelo’s. Working with Sortino was a delightful young woman with a black Prince Valiant haircut, a lithe body and who with her demeanor reminded me of Audrey Hepburn steering a Vespa around Rome with Gregory Peck in tow. Alas! Roberta Bassegio is not Roman, (better still!) she is Venetian. With Sortino born in Sicily, the team we faced pretty well represented two aspects in opposite ends of Italy.

Chef Sortino, a low key chef was hands on from the beginning. While I consider myself a pretty good cook I learned lots, from how to cut with a knife, how not to (never cut basil or sage) do things to learning, finally that making ravioli from scratch is something I want to pursue now.

He cooked our three course meal:

1. Chef’s Choice of Assorted Bruschetta
2. Spinach and Cheese Ravioli with Butter and Sage Sauce
3.Filet Mignon with Porcini Mushroom Sauce, Roasted Small Potatoes and Asparagus
4. Dessert –Sicilian Cannoli

With breaks between, we ate the dish and a man, Donne DiPasquale, who looked exactly like American actor William Bendix poured us wines from the firm he represents, Stile Brands. Imagine my delight when the DiPasquale asked me to choose from two different white wines, as his voice was just like William Bendix’s!

With DiPaquale I met IlCentro Cultural Coordinator, Giulio Recchioni, who with his dark eyes and little beard looked like he could easily have been haunting the ancient alleyways of Mantua with doublet and rapier.

This group of Italians made this Argentine (me) feel at home. The food was terrific and simple to make. Of course it was made simpler by the fact that Miss Baseggio represents the German made Thermomix and with that machine (it is compact) you can do anything except, perhaps clean the kitchen sink. It can steam, grate, mix, make pasta, make pizza dough, butter and incredibly when you add the ingredients the machine has a built-in scale.

I have since then found out that Carmelo Sortino is an artist, a painter who specializes in fruit and landscapes. This troubles me as I would be truly undecided if I were to be invited up to his flat in West Vancouver to see his etchings or invited to check out Miss Baseggio’s Thermomixes, and her ballerina slippers at her place. 


As we were about to leave I pointed out Turner’s socks to Sortino who commented, “Just like the logo for Juventus.”

What would be my wish list now? I would like to attend a class with Sortino cooking the recipes that his fellow  Sicilian, Salvo Montalbano loves. Eggplant would certainly be in that menu.





Mower Heaven
Tuesday, May 13, 2014







I married Rosemary in 1968 and after all these years there are many times when we need not communicate what we are thinking. We know. As sometimes described as a peculiarity of identical twins, Rosemary can start a sentence and I will finish it as if our brains were joined somewhere above (or perhaps below) our medullas oblongata (or that could be medulla oblongatas).

Today I picked our new Craftsman mower at Sears in Richmond. At this stage of my gardening career I never thought I would need to buy a new mower. I think only newly married couples can get excited about jointly shopping for a new fridge. But now if Rosemary and I were to do such a task I would be as limp as a defective crisper.

When I went to the see the grand old man of things Craftsman at Sears (I call him the old man because I have never asked for his name even though he has now sold me three lawnmowers) I said, “My mower works just fine but I need a new one. This one is 7 years old.” He looked at me and said, “It has rusted out.” He knew!

Until today, and even today I was careful to wear my glasses. Since the upper part of my mower has gaping holes from the rusted out top, when it mows the clippings, dust, dirt, dangerous, little pebbles and I have a most intimate relationship.

I am putting the mower in the back lane with a sign that will read “It still works if you patch up holes.” To make sure that if someone wants to take it home and might put it into a car trunk I decided to mow until the gas ran out. In fact I was able to mow the entire boulevard and the front lawn before it did. I then place it by the new mower and took these two pictures with my Fuji X-E1. 


I went into the kitchen and told Rosemary, “I almost finished the whole garden before the gas ran out.” And thinking exactly what I was thinking she answered, “It is kind of sad.” To which I added, “It is only a lawnmower but you are right. It is sad.”

The old mower has been faithful even though I have tempted that terrible mechanical reprisal of all things mechanical, resistentialism, by never having changed the air filter or the oil. I just kept adding oil every year. This mower would have out-competed my former mother-in-law for resilience under pressure. I am sad to see her (mowers must be of the female kind I believe) go. She looks so forlorn in my back lane waiting for some poor soul to take her away to what could be a new life in those Elysian Fields-of-the-sky (not the one in Hoboken, site of the first organized baseball game and birth place of Frank Sinatra). She (my mower) would mow forever on a perfect lawn and would never need gas, oil or blade sharpening. And the sweet smell of the cut grass would not be polluted by that of weeds of any kind.

Perhaps gardeners and their mowers do eventually meet again. Will that happen to me?




Utilis - Not
Monday, May 12, 2014





Insomnia provides me with plenty of time to reflect on things in the solitude of my bed as my wife Rosemary sleeps beside me. Last night I was doing what I have been doing for some years. This is to compare words in the two languages I speak, English and Spanish; and how their definitions, while the same,can still have a meaning that affects me differently if I think of it in one or the other language.

In English we have useful, of use, and useless. Connected to it is a similar word utility which comes from the Latin root utilis.

It seems that in English utility is a word used for things. We have those necessary utilities, gas, electricity and water. And we might ask, “What is the utility of that object?”

In Spanish the separation between those two words is almost nonexistent even though we can use usar (to use) and utilizar (to use) with no difference.

A person can be útil or inútil and so can animals, plants and objects.

And útil also defines school supplies. Before your first day of school you must gather or buy your útiles.  Kitchen appliances are utilidades de cocina.

As I thought about this last night it occurred to me that the idea that a person can be useful or not is much more shocking and damning in Spanish. I am an inútil. Age makes us all, little by little be pushed to the edge of the circle and at some point we fall off into the abyss very much as those who warned Columbus not to go West in his three caravels.

A camera of old, those that I own have a connection called a PC connection. This outlet in most non digital cameras (and in high end digital ones) allows the photographer to connect a wire (which usually has on the other end a two prong connection similar to the one which you use to mate a lamp, or radio to the wall. These PC chords were notoriously unreliable and I always carried more than one with my equipment. Sooner or later the chord’s tip would wear out (deform) and when you connected it to the camera, somehow the flash would not be triggered.

In my scan here you will note the curious brass device on the top left. This handy tool makes the tip of the PC chord round and tight. It is a useful tool that would be useless to the new generation of photographers. I am a walking example, an inútil. Soy un inútil


That last sentence is shocking because of its brevity. In English it would be I am a useless person.



That Goldfinch On Hold
Sunday, May 11, 2014


Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch is available at the Vancouver Public Library. They have 63 copies and 521 holds on it. Consider that this Pulitzer Prize winning novel packs 771 pages. I wonder how long I would have to wait if I put a hold on it now.

The fact is that last Monday when I went to my Oakridge branch there was The Goldfinch as a one-week-fast-reed staring at me and daring me to take her out. I did. The young librarian said to me (with a perverse sort of smile), “As I see it you will have to read 100 pages per day. If you return it late Monday night after we are closed it will still be seen as returned on time.

It is Sunday night and it is 10:55. I am on page 400. I believe I might read 100 more pages tonight.

My scenario, my logical scenario is that I will finish it by Wednesday and will owe just a couple of bucks.

This novel is very good (that sounds lame so I will then just say that it is very, very good). It is the perfect book to be reading close to and on Mother’s Day because the protagonist, when the novel begins, is 13 years old and he has an especially close relationship with his mother. To escape a rainstorm they go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in NY City. There is a terrorist bomb that explodes inside and our protagonist’s mother dies. The novel is really about how this boy handles his loss.

I was very close to my mother because like Theo Decker my father left the house when I was almost (younger in fact) Decker’s age. On most days I remember my mother especially when I look at my youngest daughter Hilary or her youngest daughter Lauren. Both resemble my mother. On a day like today I always feel that guilt that every son from time immemorial must feel about not having told one’s mother, “I love you,” enough times. Or worse still to remember situations when I had been unkind. I want to shower my mother’s two doppelgängers with as much kindness as I can muster for my past failings.

I have a feeling that I am not alone in this but that I am lucky to have that pair to keep the memory of my mother alive within.



     

Previous Posts
Mumbai's Zona de Tolerancia

An Encounter with the Exotic at the York Theatre

Lauren & Casi-Casi Met Up

Edwin Varney - Unstampable

Edward Clendon River - Michael Turner & Modigliani...

The Progression of an Idea.

Boeing 747 The Queen of the Skies

In Search of My Relevance With The Goblin Market

Marv Newland's Scratchy - Itching Us On

Rain



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11/2/08 - 11/9/08

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11/16/08 - 11/23/08

11/23/08 - 11/30/08

11/30/08 - 12/7/08

12/7/08 - 12/14/08

12/14/08 - 12/21/08

12/21/08 - 12/28/08

12/28/08 - 1/4/09

1/4/09 - 1/11/09

1/11/09 - 1/18/09

1/18/09 - 1/25/09

1/25/09 - 2/1/09

2/1/09 - 2/8/09

2/8/09 - 2/15/09

2/15/09 - 2/22/09

2/22/09 - 3/1/09

3/1/09 - 3/8/09

3/8/09 - 3/15/09

3/15/09 - 3/22/09

3/22/09 - 3/29/09

3/29/09 - 4/5/09

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4/12/09 - 4/19/09

4/19/09 - 4/26/09

4/26/09 - 5/3/09

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5/10/09 - 5/17/09

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5/24/09 - 5/31/09

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8/23/09 - 8/30/09

8/30/09 - 9/6/09

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9/20/09 - 9/27/09

9/27/09 - 10/4/09

10/4/09 - 10/11/09

10/11/09 - 10/18/09

10/18/09 - 10/25/09

10/25/09 - 11/1/09

11/1/09 - 11/8/09

11/8/09 - 11/15/09

11/15/09 - 11/22/09

11/22/09 - 11/29/09

11/29/09 - 12/6/09

12/6/09 - 12/13/09

12/13/09 - 12/20/09

12/20/09 - 12/27/09

12/27/09 - 1/3/10

1/3/10 - 1/10/10

1/10/10 - 1/17/10

1/17/10 - 1/24/10

1/24/10 - 1/31/10

1/31/10 - 2/7/10

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2/21/10 - 2/28/10

2/28/10 - 3/7/10

3/7/10 - 3/14/10

3/14/10 - 3/21/10

3/21/10 - 3/28/10

3/28/10 - 4/4/10

4/4/10 - 4/11/10

4/11/10 - 4/18/10

4/18/10 - 4/25/10

4/25/10 - 5/2/10

5/2/10 - 5/9/10

5/9/10 - 5/16/10

5/16/10 - 5/23/10

5/23/10 - 5/30/10

5/30/10 - 6/6/10

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6/13/10 - 6/20/10

6/20/10 - 6/27/10

6/27/10 - 7/4/10

7/4/10 - 7/11/10

7/11/10 - 7/18/10

7/18/10 - 7/25/10

7/25/10 - 8/1/10

8/1/10 - 8/8/10

8/8/10 - 8/15/10

8/15/10 - 8/22/10

8/22/10 - 8/29/10

8/29/10 - 9/5/10

9/5/10 - 9/12/10

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9/19/10 - 9/26/10

9/26/10 - 10/3/10

10/3/10 - 10/10/10

10/10/10 - 10/17/10

10/17/10 - 10/24/10

10/24/10 - 10/31/10

10/31/10 - 11/7/10

11/7/10 - 11/14/10

11/14/10 - 11/21/10

11/21/10 - 11/28/10

11/28/10 - 12/5/10

12/5/10 - 12/12/10

12/12/10 - 12/19/10

12/19/10 - 12/26/10

12/26/10 - 1/2/11

1/2/11 - 1/9/11

1/9/11 - 1/16/11

1/16/11 - 1/23/11

1/23/11 - 1/30/11

1/30/11 - 2/6/11

2/6/11 - 2/13/11

2/13/11 - 2/20/11

2/20/11 - 2/27/11

2/27/11 - 3/6/11

3/6/11 - 3/13/11

3/13/11 - 3/20/11

3/20/11 - 3/27/11

3/27/11 - 4/3/11

4/3/11 - 4/10/11

4/10/11 - 4/17/11

4/17/11 - 4/24/11

4/24/11 - 5/1/11

5/1/11 - 5/8/11

5/8/11 - 5/15/11

5/15/11 - 5/22/11

5/22/11 - 5/29/11

5/29/11 - 6/5/11

6/5/11 - 6/12/11

6/12/11 - 6/19/11

6/19/11 - 6/26/11

6/26/11 - 7/3/11

7/3/11 - 7/10/11

7/10/11 - 7/17/11

7/17/11 - 7/24/11

7/24/11 - 7/31/11

7/31/11 - 8/7/11

8/7/11 - 8/14/11

8/14/11 - 8/21/11

8/21/11 - 8/28/11

8/28/11 - 9/4/11

9/4/11 - 9/11/11

9/11/11 - 9/18/11

9/18/11 - 9/25/11

9/25/11 - 10/2/11

10/2/11 - 10/9/11

10/9/11 - 10/16/11

10/16/11 - 10/23/11

10/23/11 - 10/30/11

10/30/11 - 11/6/11

11/6/11 - 11/13/11

11/13/11 - 11/20/11

11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

1/29/12 - 2/5/12

2/5/12 - 2/12/12

2/12/12 - 2/19/12

2/19/12 - 2/26/12

2/26/12 - 3/4/12

3/4/12 - 3/11/12

3/11/12 - 3/18/12

3/18/12 - 3/25/12

3/25/12 - 4/1/12

4/1/12 - 4/8/12

4/8/12 - 4/15/12

4/15/12 - 4/22/12

4/22/12 - 4/29/12

4/29/12 - 5/6/12

5/6/12 - 5/13/12

5/13/12 - 5/20/12

5/20/12 - 5/27/12

5/27/12 - 6/3/12

6/3/12 - 6/10/12

6/10/12 - 6/17/12

6/17/12 - 6/24/12

6/24/12 - 7/1/12

7/1/12 - 7/8/12

7/8/12 - 7/15/12

7/15/12 - 7/22/12

7/22/12 - 7/29/12

7/29/12 - 8/5/12

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8/12/12 - 8/19/12

8/19/12 - 8/26/12

8/26/12 - 9/2/12

9/2/12 - 9/9/12

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9/16/12 - 9/23/12

9/23/12 - 9/30/12

9/30/12 - 10/7/12

10/7/12 - 10/14/12

10/14/12 - 10/21/12

10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

11/4/12 - 11/11/12

11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

11/25/12 - 12/2/12

12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

12/16/12 - 12/23/12

12/23/12 - 12/30/12

12/30/12 - 1/6/13

1/6/13 - 1/13/13

1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

2/17/13 - 2/24/13

2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

3/17/13 - 3/24/13

3/24/13 - 3/31/13

3/31/13 - 4/7/13

4/7/13 - 4/14/13

4/14/13 - 4/21/13

4/21/13 - 4/28/13

4/28/13 - 5/5/13

5/5/13 - 5/12/13

5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

6/2/13 - 6/9/13

6/9/13 - 6/16/13

6/16/13 - 6/23/13

6/23/13 - 6/30/13

6/30/13 - 7/7/13

7/7/13 - 7/14/13

7/14/13 - 7/21/13

7/21/13 - 7/28/13

7/28/13 - 8/4/13

8/4/13 - 8/11/13

8/11/13 - 8/18/13

8/18/13 - 8/25/13

8/25/13 - 9/1/13

9/1/13 - 9/8/13

9/8/13 - 9/15/13

9/15/13 - 9/22/13

9/22/13 - 9/29/13

9/29/13 - 10/6/13

10/6/13 - 10/13/13

10/13/13 - 10/20/13

10/20/13 - 10/27/13

10/27/13 - 11/3/13

11/3/13 - 11/10/13

11/10/13 - 11/17/13

11/17/13 - 11/24/13

11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

1/12/14 - 1/19/14

1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

2/9/14 - 2/16/14

2/16/14 - 2/23/14

2/23/14 - 3/2/14

3/2/14 - 3/9/14

3/9/14 - 3/16/14

3/16/14 - 3/23/14

3/23/14 - 3/30/14

3/30/14 - 4/6/14

4/6/14 - 4/13/14

4/13/14 - 4/20/14

4/20/14 - 4/27/14

4/27/14 - 5/4/14

5/4/14 - 5/11/14

5/11/14 - 5/18/14

5/18/14 - 5/25/14

5/25/14 - 6/1/14

6/1/14 - 6/8/14

6/8/14 - 6/15/14

6/15/14 - 6/22/14

6/22/14 - 6/29/14

6/29/14 - 7/6/14

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7/13/14 - 7/20/14

7/20/14 - 7/27/14

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8/10/14 - 8/17/14

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8/31/14 - 9/7/14

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9/21/14 - 9/28/14

9/28/14 - 10/5/14

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10/19/14 - 10/26/14

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11/2/14 - 11/9/14

11/9/14 - 11/16/14

11/16/14 - 11/23/14

11/23/14 - 11/30/14

11/30/14 - 12/7/14

12/7/14 - 12/14/14

12/14/14 - 12/21/14

12/21/14 - 12/28/14

12/28/14 - 1/4/15

1/4/15 - 1/11/15

1/11/15 - 1/18/15

1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

2/15/15 - 2/22/15

2/22/15 - 3/1/15

3/1/15 - 3/8/15

3/8/15 - 3/15/15

3/15/15 - 3/22/15

3/22/15 - 3/29/15

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4/5/15 - 4/12/15

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11/8/15 - 11/15/15

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11/22/15 - 11/29/15

11/29/15 - 12/6/15

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12/13/15 - 12/20/15

12/20/15 - 12/27/15

12/27/15 - 1/3/16

1/3/16 - 1/10/16

1/10/16 - 1/17/16

1/31/16 - 2/7/16

2/7/16 - 2/14/16

2/14/16 - 2/21/16

2/21/16 - 2/28/16

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3/13/16 - 3/20/16

3/20/16 - 3/27/16

3/27/16 - 4/3/16

4/3/16 - 4/10/16

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4/24/16 - 5/1/16

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5/8/16 - 5/15/16

5/15/16 - 5/22/16

5/22/16 - 5/29/16

5/29/16 - 6/5/16

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11/20/16 - 11/27/16

11/27/16 - 12/4/16

12/4/16 - 12/11/16

12/11/16 - 12/18/16

12/18/16 - 12/25/16

12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

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2/19/17 - 2/26/17

2/26/17 - 3/5/17

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3/19/17 - 3/26/17

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4/2/17 - 4/9/17

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4/30/17 - 5/7/17

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5/21/17 - 5/28/17

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9/10/17 - 9/17/17

9/17/17 - 9/24/17

9/24/17 - 10/1/17

10/1/17 - 10/8/17

10/8/17 - 10/15/17

10/15/17 - 10/22/17