Craigslist orlando


2008.01.25 19:34 Orlando

The official subreddit about the City of Orlando and the surrounding communities of Central Florida. For urgent COVID info, see floridacoronavirus.

2016.11.22 16:56 therealduckie Sell your stuff to fellow Orlandoans

A place to sell things, locally, to residents of the Greater Orlando Area.

2013.05.31 19:15 TomPalmer1979 For crossed paths that hope to cross once again

An Orlando Reddit version of Craigslist's "Missed Connections" page.

2023.03.10 17:05 salelouisllc Penny Hardaway nba headliners 1996 figure Orlando magic

Collectable figure: Penny Hardaway nba headliners 1996 figure Orlando magic
This figure box is beat up. This figure size is 3in x 2in x 1in. This figure is in nm condition from what I can see.
submitted by salelouisllc to u/salelouisllc [link] [comments]

2023.02.27 16:55 sutadarkside Lots of questions

Greetings all, I've been interested in space for many years. Recently I've been wanting to take a more hands on approach. Since telescopes are cheaper than rockets, that seems to be the route to go. However I come from the photography world and as such have many questions. I am currently using this kenko lens2scope and an old manual focus 300mm f/2.8 lens (sometimes with 2x teleconverter for a 600 f/5.6). I was able to see and photograph with my phone Jupiter's Galilean moons, the Orion nebula, and the rings of Saturn, so of course I'm now hooked. I believe this setup basically gives me a 30x and 60x spotting scope equivalent. Does anyone know if the lens2scope would change the effective aperture, and if so, by how much? In other words, with the teleconverter on, am I seeing the same amount of light gathering as a f/5.6 telescope, more, less? Do the different eyepieces change the brightness on a telescope? If I have an f/5.6 telescope, and use a 10mm and a 30mm eyepiece, will the image be just as bright in both, changing only magnification, or would one be brighter and one darker? Would my current setup give me roughly the same view as a Heritage 130 tabletop with a 10mm eyepiece (listed as 650mm f/5)? If so, I figure I am probably looking at an 8 inch dob (probably AD8, Z8, or possibly explore scientific unless anyone has any other suggestions) as that seems like a reasonable step up. I live in a bortle 7 (orlando), but can get to a 4 fairly easily, and with some planning and a bit of a drive, a 3. I have a gti, so I don't think the size of the 8 inch will be a problem. I was also looking at the Costco 10inch truss tube by explore scientific as it's cheaper, and could be broken down for storage and transportation, but I've also heard it's a specific model made for costco and is different from the normal explore scientific 10inch truss tube. What are everyone's opinions on the costco 10inch vs one of the full tube 8inches listed above?
My only other real question, because I come from the photography world, and would like to eventually do some astrophotography (either with slr lenses or telescopes), I know dobs are often not recommended for astrophotography. Are there any scopes around the $700 price point that would be better suited for astrophotography and still an improvement from my current visual setup? I have a decent photo tripod, but I doubt it would be good enough for a large scope and tracker. So I would most likely need the scope, legs, and tracker. I've looked at the move shoot move, but I highly doubt it's powerful enough for the 300mm. I've also checked out the star adventurer which states it has a capacity of 11lbs. The lens by itself is almost 6lbs, so it's already above the 1/2 the weight limit rule, and I doubt a more powerful scope would be any lighter. Id really rather avoid spending $1500 on the HEQ5 if I can avoid it. If I find an old eq mount on craigslist or whatever, is there a relatively easy way to retrofit tracking to it?
Thanks to anyone who is able to answer my many questions, I look forward to learning more about the night skys and sharing this hobby with others.
submitted by sutadarkside to telescopes [link] [comments]

2023.02.22 16:52 ClassroomDecorum [USA-FL][H] Steelcase Office Chairs [W] Local Cash

Located in Orlando, FL near UCF.
Thanks for looking! Msg me with any questions.
submitted by ClassroomDecorum to hardwareswap [link] [comments]

2023.01.25 02:20 Duane_Earl_for_Prez Orlando area home brew stuff for free

If anyone is in the orlando area, I’ve got some miscellaneous stuff I’m willing to give away. Just don’t have the space or time anymore. Some kettles, carboys, hoses, copper immersion chiller, etc.
I’ve got a chest freezer and kegerator I’d be willing to sell. Chest freezer is decorated with tons of brewery stickers. Both work fine and have InkBirds, though I think one InkBird needs recalibrating.
Was going to Craigslist this stuff but you people have been so helpful in the past I figured I’d try offer it here first.
If interested let me know and I can send some photos of everything tomorrow.
submitted by Duane_Earl_for_Prez to Homebrewing [link] [comments]

2023.01.19 04:23 ghmflak 12kg or less Single Speed or Fixed Gear Commuter

Looking for a single speed or fixed gear commuter bike. Currently riding a old 90s stump jumper but I’ll be moving to an upstairs apartment and rather not lug up what feels like a 15 kg bike.
So far I’m thinking Fuji Feather or Priority Ace. Unfortunately nothing exists besides Walmart bikes and $3000 road bikes on Craigslist/FB marketplace in my area (Orlando, FL) I do have a Fuji dealer in my area.
submitted by ghmflak to whichbike [link] [comments]

2023.01.01 00:46 Just-a-florida-mom What's fair for a 2/2 timeshare during spring break.

Not using my timeshare this year. I currently can get a 2 bedroom / full kitchen washer and dryer in Orlando from 3/13 to 3/19 which is our Spring Break.

1 bd king
1bd queen
2 sleeper sofas

The timeshare has a pool/ jacuzzi/ fitness center

I was thinking about selling it since I don't want to go I might sell it.

Do you think $1500 is a fair price? that's $250 a night but can sleep up to 8.

The kitchen alone could save a family tons with a crockpot.
I was going to list it on Craigslist but not sure what I should put on it for price. I do have to get a guest certificate so there is a time sensitive part.

Never tried this before so just don't know what to expect. Anyone ever buy someone's week before? I know it happens
submitted by Just-a-florida-mom to florida [link] [comments]

2022.11.30 20:24 Animeman1000 Orlando, FL Looking for a Decently Used Car

Good Afternoon Reddit. I'm in the beginning stages of making plans, looking things up, and making some mental financial decisions to move cross country from Orlando to Oregon, probably. I still haven't made up my mind, but it's looking like it. And I'm nowhere near ready to move, but in my early research, I've found that it can cost a pretty penny, obviously, to pay people to help me move cross country. But if I had my own car, which I don't right now, I could lighten the financial load.
My new job pays decently well, but not enough to go big on a car. I don't have good credit and am working on fixing that...... Anyways, all that just to say that I am looking for a decent car that can make the trek cross country and I've heard Toyota's are good for that. They last long and don't break down a lot if you take good care of them. Any model, except for aesthetic features, is fine. I'm not hooked on Toyota. Just the only one I know is pretty good.
I'm looking around and I see posts like these from dealers. Is this a good deal? Would I be better off finding one that offers in-house financing or should I lease? Or cheaper monthly options? I'd prefer to pay no more than $500/month. Anything else will put me in debt more so than I already am.
I'm also using sites like Cargurus,, and AutoTrader. Just don't have any experience buying used cars. The last time I bought one I was r(ipped) off and don't want that again. The car lasted 6 months, barely drove it in the span, and died.
Any advice and help is appreciated.
submitted by Animeman1000 to askcarsales [link] [comments]

2022.11.28 19:10 Tunnelvised23 I want to create a job search app.

Hello I want to create a job search app such as searches thru every major city for example I have a json list of major cities San Francisco, Orlando, Los Angeles .. ect So I would like to search all cities at once what's the best method for doing this?
submitted by Tunnelvised23 to symfony [link] [comments]

2022.11.13 23:15 slytheryin89 Best Place to sell a used leather sectional(Help/Advice)

Best Place to sell a used leather sectional(Help/Advice)
Hi, I hope I posted this in the right section, but since I am in Orlando I thought here? I have been trying to sell my leather couch sectional for the past week now. Originally Paid 3,400k from Ashley furniture store. That's not including taxes and fees. With taxes and fees was close to 4k. So anyways I've only had it less than a year, still in good condition and the couch is currently still selling at Ashley furniture at their discounted price for 3,600k. Here is the link
I wanted to get at least 1,800k from it. And I posted it everywhere, craigslist, FB marketplace, and offer up. Nothing but scammers on craigslist and FB marketplace did get some movement at least on offerup. One offer was for 600 and my last offer was 1k. I wanted to sell it fast, but am I asking too much for my couch, or is 1k the best I will ever get from it? I heard couches are really hard to sell. Just wanted some help/advice on this.
submitted by slytheryin89 to orlando [link] [comments]

2022.11.10 02:54 puppysearchbot Florida

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submitted by puppysearchbot to puppysearch [link] [comments]

2022.11.03 02:59 2earlyinthemornin 90 Day Fiancé: Circus (now casting in Orlando...posted on Craigslist via Sharp Entertainment?!)

90 Day Fiancé: Circus (now casting in Orlando...posted on Craigslist via Sharp Entertainment?!) submitted by 2earlyinthemornin to 90dayfianceuncensored [link] [comments]

2022.10.31 00:22 TheBigMJM Re-Homing pets using Craigslist.

I was talking to an owner of a pet rescue and adoption center and she told me some very disturbing information which I hope can be useful and enlightening to Orlando pet owners and future pet owners.
She told me that people tend to use craigslist as an easy way to rehome pets or just sell them to people that nefariously act like they want a pet to take care of. approximately 70% of the people who buy or take custody of these pets for rehoming are using the pets for food for other pet animals like pythons and the lake. She also said that many of the dogs they used to train fighting dogs and sometimes use them to fight.
So I just want to pass that information onto you guys. Please don’t use craigslist to rehome or sell any kittens or pets. It’s just not worth the risk of having your sweet and caring pets killed or maimed in a terrifying way.
submitted by TheBigMJM to orlando [link] [comments]

2022.10.19 14:55 kiplet1 [City of Roses] no. 17.5: The light is thicker, now – her Brother’s things – Why – a Sound too big to hear

[City of Roses] no. 17.5: The light is thicker, now – her Brother’s things – Why – a Sound too big to hear
previous Table of Contents next
The light is thicker now, the clouds a blank grey haze tinted with a wash of blue hung high above. It isn’t raining anymore. The sign over the storefront she’s walking past says 4 Wheel Parts Performance Center. The next sign down is orange and says Aaron Motel in white and yellow letters. Color TV, Air Conditioning. Wifi and Phone. Weekly Rates. Micro Refrig. Slung from one hand a paper bag, a briefcase the other, sword in its sheath laid flat like a furled umbrella through the handles. Smoke streams back like a banner from the cigarette in her mouth.
Into the motel parking lot, past a couple of pickups, a purple minivan with a set of stickers in the back window, white cartoon stick figures of a zombie family, a mother zombie and a father zombie and two zombie kids and a dog chewing on the leg of one of the kids. The motel’s a single storey, long and low, another set of units detached at the back of the lot. Red doors, curtained windows, dark maw of an air conditioning unit beneath each window, over and over and over again. She’s checking numbers on the doors, crosses over, steps up on the sidewalk by the one that says 109. Sets the bag down, shifts the briefcase from the one hand to the other. A last drag on the cigarette and she flicks it away. She knocks.
A minute or two before the door’s jerked open, a burst of music, skittering percussion and keyboards, thumping bass, “What?” snarls a big man in cargo shorts and a big black T-shirt printed with the image of a thickset man in a dark hoodie backlit by blue-white fog. Ghost Dog, it says. The Way of the Samurai. He squints. “Shit, Jo? Damn. You doing pretty well.”
“Can I come in?” says Jo. Night is cool, a voice is singing. Night is calm. Nothing’s missing, nothing’s wrong.
“How’d you find me? Dammit, Abe,” he yells into the room, “turn that down.”
“You’re a creature of habit, Timmo,” says Jo. “You only got like five joints you stay at. Zach out at the Nordic says hi.”
“That fucker?” says Timmo. The music still as loud behind him.
“So can I come in?” says Jo.
“Like I say,” he says, eyeing her hair, her leather coat the color of butter, stepping back. “You doing well.”
The only light inside’s what makes it through the clouds and curtains and what shines from the screens of a handful of laptops, a couple on the empty bed, over on the dresser by the dead television set, one on the other bed where a tall guy’s lying on his belly, bare feet dangling off the edge, enormous chin on the keyboard. Little speakers dot the pillows, a big one hulks on the floor between the beds. “Abe!” bellows Timmo. Nothing’s missing, nothing’s wrong. Tell us what you want. Abe looks up, his small eyes wet and red. “It’s all a lie,” he says. “It’s all a goddamn lie.”
“Well turn it down,” says Timmo.
“They tell you in the name of it, man,” says Abe, stabbing the screen with a blunt finger. “Something’s Wrong. That’s what it’s called, man.”
“Well maybe work it out between you and the headphones,” says Timmo.
“Headphones, yeah,” says Abe, scrabbling through the cables on the bed, coming up with a stainless steel oversized set he wraps around his neck. “Sit,” says Timmo, propping himself against the other bed.
“What?” says Jo, and the room’s plunged into silence as Abe jacks into one of the speakers on the pillows, even the tinny dregs of music sealed away as he settles the headphones over his ears. “What can I do you for?” says Timmo, his scraggled hair, his wispy beard a pale halo about his leer.
Jo’s looking over the two beds, the one chair in the room piled high with plastic shopping bags stuffed with clothing. She sets the briefcase and the paper bag down, leans back against the dresser by the dead television. Rubbing her one hand with the other she looks up at Timmo. “I need a gun,” she says.
“I don’t deal black jack clips!” says Timmo, loudly.
Jo says, “What?”
“I don’t deal that kind of product,” he says.
“Sure you do,” says Jo.
He sniffs, scratches his cheek. “The hell you need a piece for,” he says, and then, “no, wait, I got it. You need it so’s you can rob a bank to get the money to pay me for it.”
“I’ve got a hundred bucks in my pocket,” says Jo.
He snorts. “I don’t even peek at Craigslist for less than one seventy-five.”
“One fifty,” says Jo.
“One sixty, and I’m cutting it to the bone because I like you so much, girl.”
“One fifty,” says Jo, bending down, tugging the sheathed sword free of the briefcase, “and I’ll throw this in.” She nudges the briefcase across the carpet with her foot. Abe snorts and swipes at the mousepad of his laptop, one hand on the headphones. Punches the spacebar a couple of times, and again. “The hell is that,” says Timmo.
“A decent briefcase,” says Jo, “full of porn.”
He cocks an eyebrow elaborately at that, leaning down to pick it up. Unbuckling it, pulling it open. “Paper!” he says. “Damn, that’s kicking it old skool.”
“Vintage,” says Jo. “We have a deal?”
“Keep your money,” says Timmo. “Give me that sweet machete. I can get you one fuck of a lot of gun for – ”
“You don’t touch the sword,” says Jo.
Timmo blinks, lips working. Swallowing his grin. “The hell you fixing to do, girl,” he says.
“Go hunting,” says Jo.
He sets the briefcase down. “Okay,” he says, “okay. Don’t tell.” Picks up a laptop. “No skin off me.”

She wraps the shirt about herself, winds the two ribbons at its bottom about her waist, ties them in a lop-sided bow. Hooks the black and gold vest from where it’s slouched at the foot of the bed whipping it up over her head, letting it shimmy down her arms in a tidy twirl that leaves the vest settled on her shoulders, the heels of her hands pressed to her forehead, her eyes closed. A deep breath. Her hands all blotched and smeared with filth fumble the loose buttons down the front of the vest heavy with gold embroidery, fighting to seat each one in its buttonhole, working down to the bottom to discover she’s done it up wrong, off kilter, and she jerks each button back out again.
“Your brother’s things,” says the old woman by the door.
More slowly now, with trembling hands she’s redoing the buttons of the vest, mouth quirked.
“Why do you have them out,” says the old woman. Her heavy pink robe with a tangled garden of tea-roses embroidered about the thick shawl collar. Glossy white hair gathered into a thick braid draped over a shoulder.
“You brought them out for Jo,” says Ysabel. “The night she was here. You burned her shirt.” She sits on the edge of the bed and slips a foot into a high black moccasin boot. “Whoever brought my things back from her apartment didn’t know to hide this away in the attic again, or wherever it was it was.”
“Take it off,” says the old woman. “We’ll put them back now. You shouldn’t wear that.”
“Should,” says Ysabel, lacing up the other boot. “Shouldn’t. Who cares.”
“I’m not the Princess anymore, Gammer,” says Ysabel, looking up. Her hair hangs loose in clotted, crusty hanks about her filthy face. A streak of something dark has dried flaking from her nose to the corner of her mouth, along her chin. “I’ll never be the Bride. Who cares what I wear. It’s all gone to hell.”
“Ysabel!” A jerking step into the room at that.
“I couldn’t turn the medhu!” She springs to her feet. “You were wrong, Gammer. Wrong. I am broken.”
“You are not broken, child,” says the Gammer. “There’s no King yet for you. That’s all.”
“Mother can’t, either,” says Ysabel. “It’s all gone to hell. All of it.”
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“It has,” snaps Ysabel. “It’s been hell. For a long time. A very long time.”
“Ysabel. Please.”
“Since my brother was killed. At least. And the King went mad. And mother, she,” stepping around the bed, toward the Gammer. “No. It’s been longer than that, hasn’t it. Since he was born. And mother, her sister – ” and the Gammer slaps her.
A laugh, a sob, a catch in her breath, “Hell,” says Ysabel, and the Gammer lifts her hand again, “damned here,” says Ysabel, straightening, the Gammer stepping back, eyes wide, nostrils flared, “all this time. No more.”
The Gammer lowers her hand then, lays it absently on her breast. Pulling her robe more closely about herself. “I came to ask,” she says, chin dipping as she swallows, “if you knew what they were doing, downstairs.”
“No,” says Ysabel, spreading her hands. “I don’t. I’ve just come from my bath, you see.”
The Gammer presses back against the open door as Ysabel steps out into the hall. “Wait,” she says, reaching after her. “Child, wait. A few days more! It will all be set a-right when the King comes back. He will. He will!”
“Why,” says Ysabel, with a glance back over her shoulder.

“Hell of a view,” he says.
Past the open reception area, the little nooks of pastel armchairs, past the glass walls lining a couple of conference rooms and their empty leather chairs arrayed about identical broad wood tables, windows open on a dizzying height above the river, a dull sheet of old steel under the high blank haze of the sky that loses itself in the rumpled wooded folds of hills to the left, dotted with pockets of houses, lined here and there with little shelves of condominiums along this ridge or that, the swoop of the freeway bridge across it so far below, so small, the grain towers along the riverbank, the container ship anchored alongside a toy that might be picked up dripping with one hand, the pits dug here and there among the warehouses and the parking lots, the skeletal cages of red-black iron rising under the white and blue and yellow stalks of cranes. Another building going up there, a bulky rambling thing, its frame of wood, the color of it raw and bright. A flicker of movement, a white fuselage, a plane lumbering down from the oceanic sky, falling for the lights of the airport winking far off to the right.
“May I help you?” says the receptionist, her black hair pulled back in a simple bun, a small but ornate brass telephone headset clipped to one ear.
He cranes up his worn black leather jacket creaking, his shock of pinkish orange hair bobbing, peering past her at the letters hung on the wall, precisely serifed things cut from some heavy, leaden metal that say Welund, Rhythidd, Barlowe & Lackland. “I’m here to see Welund,” he says.
“Mr. Welund has no appointments this afternoon,” says the receptionist.
“Perhaps he’s left something for me? An envelope?”
“Your name, sir?”
“Perry,” he says. “Lymond Perry.” Leaning close, brow crinkled in apology over his bulging eyes. “It might have been quite some time ago.”
“I’ll ask,” says the receptionist.

“Disgusting,” he says, and the ringing whine of steel on leather.
The Guisarme looks up at that. “Mooncalfe,” he says. Nodding away the woman next to him in a houndstooth skirt and white blouse, pince nez perched on her nose. She takes the little plastic baggie from his outstretched hand, scoops up the bulging plastic shopping bags at her feet, and hurries away, careful of the boxes here and there, the trunk its lid ajar, the little tables empty now of knick-knacks lined up before the sofa. “Where have you been.”
“About my business,” says Orlando. His shirt is white and open at the throat, his long skirt blue and wrapped with a black sash. His bare feet whisper over the rugs.
“If it’s for the Queen, or the Princess,” says the Guisarme, holding up a hand to caution the man in the green coveralls behind him, “you may speak with me. You should speak with me. There’s much to talk about.”
“My business is my own,” says Orlando. The man in the green coveralls is looking from the meagre few of plastic baggies left on the table by the Guisarme’s side to Orlando’s sword, the long and gentle curve of it, the hilt in both his hands, rough black cloth wound about the yellow-white of bone. The man in the green coveralls takes a step toward the table and the Guisarme waggles the fingers of his forestalling hand. “There is no threat,” the Guisarme says. “Put up your blade, sir.”
“I disagree,” says Orlando.
“Name it,” says the Guisarme. “We’ll face it, together.”
“I think not,” says Orlando, and with a long smooth step his blade whicks up, snaps down, splintering the table, scattering the baggies in a cloud of glittering dust. “The threat, you see,” he says, his sword up over his head, turning just to face the Guisarme, “is me. Draw your sword.” The man in the green coveralls has left.
“We have no quarrel,” says the Guisarme, the bundle of fanfold printout clutched to his chest.
“You’re disgusting,” says Orlando. “I finally resolve to take my best last night, only to find you here before me, paying off the help, and rummaging through couches for loose change. Draw your sword.”
“We cannot maintain this house,” says the Guisarme, stepping back. Bumping against the chair behind him. “Changes must be made if we’re to keep the court intact – ”
“What do I care for the court?” The blade lowers, angles, the tip of it scraping the bundle of paper. “I will not ask a third time.”
“I cede the field to you, sir,” says the Guisarme. With a wrench of Orlando’s wrists the blade-tip digs and whips the paper up and away unfluttering tumbling to the floor. “You’ve won whatever you imagine this to be! Now, please, speak with me!”
“No,” says Orlando, and he slashes open the Guisarme’s chest. The Guisarme sits heavily in the chair behind him, catching an arm of it, managing not to fall. Looking ruefully down at the slit in his pinstripe jacket, the vest, his yellow shirt beneath, blotted by a sluggish trickle of something pale. He looks up, at the painting hanging on the wall above, a roughly bearded man in a long black gown, a blanket over his shoulders, a red cravat about his throat, sitting on a stump in a dark wood. His black-gloved hand on the stock of a long rifle leaning butt against the ground. A shapeless fur cap on his head. “This was my favorite suit,” he says, rolling his head over to watch Orlando stalk away, blade up again, “Ysabel!” he’s roaring in the foyer. “Princess! Duenna Queen of Roses! Show yourselves!”
“Shut up,” says Ysabel Perry. Halfway down the stairs above him in her black trousers, her blousy white shirt, the gold vest. One hand on the railing, her hair all wilding threads and clotted hanks about her face and shoulders.
“Well,” says Orlando, his sword still in his hand. “A Prince now, not a Princess. Where’s your mother?”
“Neither,” Ysabel’s saying, then, “Indisposed.” A step down, and another.
“Fetch her.”
“I warn you,” he says, pointing his sword at the front door behind him. “Waiting on the sidewalk is a gallowglas of my own. I’ll call her in, she’ll dog my heels. We’ll see then what my blade might do.”
“I will go with you, Mooncalfe,” she says, “but you must go with me, and leave your monster at the gate.”
“I warned you,” snarls Orlando, swinging his sword to point at her as she takes another step, and another. “Shut up,” she says again. “There’s nothing for you here, not even me. Leave them all alone. There is no Queen, not anymore, and there will never again be a King in this city.”
He nods, at that, and says, “Not Prince, nor Princess, then, but prophet.” She lays her hand against the flat of his blade and pushes it aside, coming down the last few steps. “Very well,” he says, and he wrinkles his nose. “You reek.”
“You’ll not have me?”
“Oh, I’ll make what use of you I can.” He offers his arm. She takes it.
“Ysabel?” The Gammer’s querulous voice cuts through the silence of that house. Above them, behind them, she’s clinging to the curling rail of the staircase, still in her heavy pink robe shawled with roses, her long white braid dangling over one shoulder. “Go back,” says Ysabel. “See to mother.”
“Stop,” says the Gammer. But Ysabel’s hand is on the knob. “Don’t say such things,” says the Gammer. “Don’t leave. The King will come back. There is hope.”
“No,” says Orlando, as Ysabel opens the door. “There isn’t.”
“Ysabel!” cries the Gammer, as they step out onto the shallow porch between the thick white columns. On the sidewalk outside the gate waits the big woman in her long black coat, leaning back against the gleaming bulk of a white SUV, her hands in white lace gloves, her wide lips painted white. Orlando shuts the front door, smiling in turn under his one good eye. “You have no idea what I will do to you,” he says to Ysabel.
She looks sidelong at him and shakes her head. “You have no idea if it will work.”
He’s taking the first step off the porch when a sound too big to hear blows the front door open, staggers Ysabel, sends him askew to his knees on the steps. The blinding flash. Car alarms going off up and down the street and the sound of broken glass, falling. Her face terrible in the harsh light shining from the greatsword in her hands the Gammer’s striding across the foyer and her voice too loud and deep she cries, “You will stop – ”
Gathering himself Orlando springs from the steps his sword up and out slashing before him and it’s suddenly gone quiet and dark. Crouching in the doorway he looks back to see nothing behind him but the neatly cut white braid falling limply to the porch, and Ysabel, back against one of the white columns, her hands over her mouth. “You,” she says, “you – ”
“Quiet,” he says, his hand on her arm, pushing her down the steps before him.
The sound of the gun cocking is quite clear in all that silence.
Still on the steps above her Orlando stops. “This is hardly fair,” he says.
In the street the dark figure of a man wearing a pale hat with an absurdly high crown. One hand up, an enormous pistol cocked and pointed at Orlando. The other holding up a little phone so he can eye the number he’s thumbing. “Nothing to be fair,” he says, from somewhere under his enormous grey mustache. “Ain’t no duel. It’s justice. I seen you take our Gammer’s head, and you will answer for that, to the Duke if no one else.”
“You forgot one thing,” says Orlando, and then, “Gloria?”
Grunting the woman on the sidewalk’s pushing herself up from where she’s fallen by the wheel of that SUV, and as her head crests the hood the Shootist sees her, phone dipping, gun pulling up and just to the side, and that’s when Orlando leaps –
White shirt blue skirt fluttering over the gate the sidewalk the parked cars sword a curl of light in the greyly shadowed street turning in his hands to come down a pop of a gunshot whine of a bullet the Shootist crumpling to the pavement. Orlando pushing himself up black hair hanging like a curtain. The Shootist coughs, and something dark and wet spatters from his mustache.
“Wow,” says Gloria, leaning against the fender of the SUV.
“It seems she didn’t like you,” says Orlando, climbing to his feet. His hands empty. A sudden gust of wind lofts the pale hat, skimming it away down the street. The whooping of the car alarms is back.
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2022.10.14 19:58 MrCoolsLoading Mr. Cool's Loading (ORLANDO AND SURROUNDING AREAS)
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2022.09.27 20:12 maiksucre Is this a good price?

Is this a good price?
Also how old are this chairs?
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2022.09.27 08:15 Busy_Entrepreneur_14 Penny Hardaway nba headliners 1996 figure orlando magic

This figure box is beat up. This figure size is 3in x 2in x 1in. This figure is in nm condition from what I can see.
submitted by Busy_Entrepreneur_14 to u/Busy_Entrepreneur_14 [link] [comments]

2022.09.22 15:44 ZachariahG [UR] Heaven

New York isn’t for everybody. No one told me that when I was a kid. Twice a year, until I was sixteen, Mom would pack us up and drive from Orlando to New York City and we’d ride the trains, walk the silhouetted streets, buy cart food and dollar pizza, and drink more soda than we could afford. It was the two times a year we all agreed to be happy.
We’d spend the rest of the year playing a game of “remember when”; a desperate clutching for the delight of the midnight ball drop, and the rampant barbecues and fireworks of July 4th. Sometimes I wondered why we didn’t pick up and move there. Then we’d be happy all year round, instead of just for New Years and one week in July. But now, having lived in New York, I don’t think that would’ve worked, even if we could’ve afforded it. We were a family of unhappy dreamers, addicted to the effigies of our imagination, and resistant to the minor offerings of everyday life. If we’d moved to New York, we never would’ve seen her again.
I was the sucker who fell for it. At twenty-two-years-old, with a fancy degree in finance - that I’d gotten because of its associations with Wall Street and because I didn’t want my career to end, like Mom’s had, as the unlucky owner of a meager souvenir shop - I found a one-off craigslist job to drive a newly leased Toyota Rav-4 to New York and told Mom, Dora, Nancy, and Craig that I would see them on New Years.
They were so proud of me then. “I’m soooo jealous!” they said, and “you better send us pictures!” and “I can’t believe you’re gonna live near Times Square, that’s so cool.” (Our concept of New York’s geographical size was notably lacking - if you lived in New York, you lived near Times Square). Mom was the only one who showed any disappointment - “I would've given you the shop in a couple of years, you know” - but even she couldn’t disguise her esteem. “New York huh, look at you such a big shot, Florida too hot for ya?” She smirked when she said it; that was all she offered as far as esteem.
I dropped off the Rav-4 at a late-night garage in Flatbush and asked the worker how I could get to Times Square. I wanted to go back to where I’d originally fallen in love with New York, as an eight-year-old from a quiet Florida backwater with my world suddenly galvanized with flashing lights and colors and buildings that held up the sky. It was mine now, as much as it was anyone else's, and I wanted to give it a proper hello.
The worker laughed and said he’d never been to Times Square and that it was some ways away. Which struck me as odd.
One bus, two trains - one ill-chosen and going in the wrong direction - and two hours later, I arrived.
I climbed out of the subway at 42nd street, rising out of the ground and into that bustling wonderland with the same reverence I had when visiting for the very first time. A short-breathed “wow” escaped my lips and I cravingly absorbed my surroundings.
On the corner, two families, joined by vacation, wolfed down a healthy meal of ice cream and hot pretzels. The rest of the city seemed to pass and happen around them, so stuck and certain was their midnight snack. A few paces behind me a circle of suited men and boys hugged each other goodbye, one-by-one, with precisely executed backslaps and handshakes and fistbumps. They looked as though they’d just waltzed out of the richest “welcome to manhood” party there ever was; boys had become men, and men had blown way too much money. Over on the next block, a food cart crashed into another food cart and the two owners had a short screaming match before coming to terms and moving along, leaving some vegetable droppings behind for the pigeons.
I shook my head, baffled and quietly exhilarated. There was never this variety of simultaneous happenings anywhere else in the United States. And here I was, a part of it. I zoomed out for a moment and watched, broadly, as the semi-connected mass organism of strangers labored along in the August swelter. Everyone was there, just as I remembered them.
“Fucking tourist,” someone said, rushing past my right ear.
“No, I live here now,” I wanted to say after them. But they were gone.
I smiled. I live here now.
I looked up and slowly spun around, ogling the spires as they skewered like bayonets into the heavens. A solitary trumpet player blew victory notes directly across the street, as though announcing my arrival; like I - a kid from Nowhere, United States - was somehow important to this great concrete behemoth. My eyes watered, my chest expanded, my smile reached my ears and wouldn’t shrink. I felt like the protagonist of a classic New York movie, standing there spinning, camera spinning, nauseous with enthusiasm for all I was going to accomplish and discover in the greatest city in the world. NYC. The big apple. Home.
The doors to the A train closed just as I sprinted onto the platform. “No, no, no, no, come on!”
I hustled over to the conductor's window. “Please!” I shouted. “I need to make this, please, she’s gonna throw out all my shit!”
The conductor stared past me, bored. He opened the window, spat out his gum, and closed it again.
I threw a balled-up tissue at him and it fluttered harmlessly between the platform and the tracks. “Come on man! Have a heart!” I tried. Pathetic, admittedly. But people have done worse in the subway.
The train rolled out of the station, screeching like it was arguing with the tracks.
“Ever heard of WD-40 dickheads!” I shouted.
The train disappeared into the tunnel, characteristically indifferent to me or anyone else, and the platform went still.
My landlord had left me a voicemail that morning saying she was going to throw out my “garbage” - she was already calling my stuff garbage, the monster - if I didn’t show up to claim it by 4 PM. Trouble was, I only woke up at 2:43 PM. And had inexplicably decided to eat a put-together brunch with my on-and-off friends-with-benefits, Mindy, before checking my phone. I was so zen from the mushroom experience the prior night that when I got out of bed I said to myself, out loud, like a fool, “fuck technology,” and went to find a healthy meal.
Never fuck technology. Love technology with all your heart.
The next train was coming in fifteen minutes. If I waited I would arrive in Astoria at ten after 4. I couldn’t just sit around in the station stepping in gum while everything I owned was in mortal peril an hour away.
I ran out of the station and ordered an Uber. It was a waste of what little money I had, but what else was I to do? Between being broke and losing all my possessions, I’d take being broke every time. I’d been broke before, I’d be broke again. Big whoop. It was almost a right-of-passage in some areas of New York to announce, after a poetry slam or over mason jars of kombucha, that you were broke and didn’t know how much longer you were going to make it in the city. But I’d never lost all my shit before. It felt like part of my body was somewhere else and my landlord was kicking it in the balls.
“What about tenant’s rights?” Mindy had shouted after me earlier, as I ran for the door with sunny-side-up running down my face.
“Doesn’t apply!”I said, fighting with the top lock.
“Why not? Of course it applies, she can’t just kick you out, that’s illegal.”
“I’ll explain later, thanks for the food!” The rusty bolt clanked open and I ran out the door.
I was not going to explain later. If she knew I’d been selling cocaine out of my apartment - and that my landlord, after discovering my criminality, had kindly given me a few since-expired months to find a new living space - she would’ve deleted my number and taken out a restraining order. Mindy was new to New York and, while she considered herself somewhat of a shroom expert, she was ferociously against every other drug. "There’s a difference between productive and destructive drugs, I never do destructive drugs, it’s so dumb, like why are you putting something in your body that has been proven to ruin lives?” When she pontificated about any other substance than shrooms she turned into Nancy Reagan, but with a higher-pitched voice and fewer obvious political aspirations. I would just nod along and remind myself never to tell her how I was making enough money to afford my own apartment. She thought I still did consulting.
I climbed into the Uber without confirming my name and told the driver to go as quickly as possible. He said he would. But on the very next turn, we got stuck behind a garbage truck.
“I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at me in the rearview. “There’s nothing I can do.”
When we finally made it to the top of the block - our particular sanitation workers were having deep and meaningful conversations between each grab-and-toss - he inexplicably continued straight, following the barricade on wheels.
“Why didn’t you turn?” I said. “We need to get out from behind this thing.”
“The GPS is telling me to go straight so I’m going straight.”
“You don’t have to listen to the GPS for everything, it’ll reroute you, you can’t just follow a garbage truck because the GPS tells you to, the GPS doesn’t know about the garbage truck and it doesn’t know I’m in a rush.”
“Look man, I don't know these streets, I’m new to Uber in New York, okay? You’re making me uncomfortable, I trust the GPS, I don’t know you, you are not a GPS.”
I fell back into my seat. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this - who would continue following a garbage truck? You’re like Michael Scott from the Office, have you ever seen that show?”
“Yes, everyone has seen that show.”
“You remember when he drove into a lake because he wouldn’t go against his GPS?”
“You’re being rude, sir.”
“Well that garbage truck is our lake and you’re making sure we drown.”
The Uber driver jerked his wheel to the right and hit the breaks. “Out. Get out of my car.”
“What? You can’t do that, you can’t just kick me out.”
“I’m an independent contractor, this is my car, and you’re verbally harassing me. Leave my car please.”
“How did I verbally harass you? I referenced a popular TV show because the situation reminded me of it.”
“You compared me to one of the dumbest, most ignorant characters in Television history. I think that’s verbal harassment. You don’t have to agree with me but you do have to get out of my car.”
I snorted and opened the car door. “You’re gonna have to get a lot thicker skin if you’re going to make it in New York.”
“You’re gonna have to get a lot less rude if you’re gonna make it anywhere, Andy Bernard.”
I slammed the door and muttered “asshole”, coveting my own private retort. The driver showed me his middle finger, drove up behind the garbage truck, and stared me down for a good twenty seconds uninterrupted.
For a moment my frustration bubbled over into fury and an image flashed across my mind of me stomping on the Uber driver’s windshield and shouting “what’s your GPS telling you to do now you piece of shit!” It only occurred to me later that had I gone through with it and succeeded in breaking the windshield I would’ve fallen straight through the glass and probably ended up in the ER. I didn’t have money for the ER. I was a small-time drug dealer, passing time until the memory of my flame-out at Heinemann and Heinemann faded, and stopped being brought up at interviews and financial networking events. I was no Pablo Escobar. I couldn’t even hide my activities from my seventy-five-year-old landlord, never mind making it a career.
My fury turned away from the driver and towards the city. That careless, loveless, apathetic, frozen metropolis - where I’d landed and lost more jobs in four years than anyone in my family had in their entire lives - seemed determined to break me.
A group of students giggled past me, gallivanting and yipping and sweating their way around SoHo. I remembered when I lived in their New York; the sparkling opportunity capital of the United States. It had been a while. Now, even when Manhattan was at full boil, it still felt colder than the arctic.
I walked to the corner to scan for train stations and called my landlord. It went to voicemail. “Please don’t throw out my stuff,” I said. “I’m trying to get to you, I’m doing my best. I’m sorry I didn’t move out, you’re one-hundred-percent right, you gave me a chance and I squandered it and I’m so so sorry about that, but please, please, all I have is in that apartment. Everything. Please. I’m on my way.”
I hung up.
“Hey!” someone shouted.
I looked over. It was the Uber driver. He’d finally made it to the corner behind the garbage truck and was leaning out his open window.
“What? Did you change your mind?” I said.
“No,” he said, stifling excitement. “I just got back from the future, and I went to your funeral, and guess what? Nobody came.”
“That’s from Andy Bernard. You’re Andy Bernard.”
“Oh. Sure dude. Thanks for going through so much effort to deliver that.”
“Anytime. Nard Dog.”
He gave me one more middle finger, rolled up his window, and made a left onto the avenue. In the opposite direction of the garbage truck.
I held my forehead and laughed. What does this goddamn city have against me?
I made it to my apartment at 4:45, with my chest heaving, legs trembling, and hope nearly gone. I’d sprinted straight from the N train at 30th Avenue, slowing down only to call Ms. Mullens and leave exceedingly supplicative voicemails. She would, at the very least, be entertained, when she got a moment to sit down and listen to them.
I jabbed my key into the lock, turned, and nearly broke my wrist. The knob was now the color of fresh bronze. When I left it was peeling, dirty, and without a discernible shade. “Ms. Mullens!” I shouted. “I know you’re around here somewhere! Could you please let me into my apartment?” No one answered. A door opened and closed down the hall and two red-eyed hippies walked by me and entered the elevator. I waited until they were gone before calling for the landlord again. Silence.
I stabbed the useless key into the wall until it hung there, fixed in seven layers of paint. That apartment was my home for three years. I’d slept there, ate there, cried there, had the best sex of my life there, had the worst sex of my life there, got sick there, said my first genuine “I love you” there, broke up there. It was everything to me. It was home.
“So you’re damaging my building now, eh?”
I swung around.
Ms. Mullens was standing at the top of the stairs, her seeing blue eyes pinched in anger.
There you are!” I said. “Where’s all my stuff? How come you changed the lock on my door already? Do you know what I did to get here? Do you have any idea the special kind of New York hell I went through to make it here only - yes, only! - forty-five minutes late?”
She lifted her brow. “You are talking a lot and very fast. Like someone with no integrity.”
“Fine! Do you want it shorter? Here it is in one sentence: where’s my stuff, slumlord.”
Ms. Mullens shook her head and her eyes glazed over. “Very sad, very sad.”
“Yes! Yes! Very sad, I’m such a tragedy, think of my mom, think of how hard it would be if I call her and tell her all my stuff were thrown out?”
Ms. Mullens continued talking to herself. “Eh, but you can’t go around being sad all the time, you need a lot of time and money to go around being sad. Eh. Maybe one day.”
“No, no, not one day, today, you can be sad today, feel it, really feel it, please, I just want my stuff. If I’m going to be homeless at least don’t let me be penniless. Don’t throw out my stuff. Please.”
She blinked for a few seconds and leaned up against the wall. “I haven’t thrown out your stuff.”
“Oh thank God! Thank you! I could just kiss you! Thank you so much! Oh my goodness, I thought I was gonna—”
“I gave it all away.”
My entire body lurched and then stopped. Everything slowed down, except for the ringing in my ears. “What. What. WHAT!”
Ms. Mullens pulled my key out of the wall and brushed away some loose flakes of paint. “I was planning on throwing everything out when I came over here this morning, but then I saw what you had in there and remembered apartment 3B - the rent-controlled apartment, I’ve been trying to get them outta here for years. They told me last year they’d move out if I bought them furnishings for their next apartment. And I thought, tada! You have nice furnishings! Why not give your stuff to apartment 3B? Instead of throwing it out. So that’s what I did.”
Ms. Mullens moved past me and opened what used to be my apartment. The space was completely bare, just hardwood floors and crusty white walls. Unrecognizable.
“I don’t understand,” I squeaked. “How did you get it out so quickly? It’s barely an hour after 4.”
Ms. Mullens paced around the apartment, testing out the light switches. My light switches. “Oh, right,” she said. “I did tell you 4 PM, didn’t I? Well, once I came over here in the morning and thought of this idea I just decided to get it over and done with. Why sit on a good idea, ya know? So I moved it all to a storage space in Forest Hills. 3B is eyeing a neighborhood there for their next apartment.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I thought it would stop the squeaking. It didn’t. “Let me get this straight, just so I understand. Even if I would’ve gotten here perfectly on time - the time you chose - I still would’ve been too late to save any of my stuff?”
“Oh. Yes. I suppose so.” Ms. Mullens' eyes suddenly grew wide and she pointed a crooked finger at my shoes. “Out! Out! Out! Get out!”
I stumbled back and looked down. “What? What do you want from me? You wanna fuck me more than you already have?”
“I don’t want that in my building! Get out! Or take off your shoes and throw them down the dumbwaiter!”
I lifted my feet one at a time and looked under my shoes. The grooves in my right sole were caked with gum and feces - a parting gift from a vile city. “Oh. Shit.”
Ms. Mullens retrieved a broom from the closet and brandished it at me. “Get 'em off, son. I know you had a hard day but that doesn’t mean you get to track poop all over a fresh apartment.”
A hard day. Ha. I stared past Ms. Mullens into my barren apartment and the anguish of my entire failed life crawled up my throat and watered my eyes.
“Oh, don’t do that, don’t cry, that’s not fair to cry and make me feel bad about all this.”
I tried to speak. Couldn’t.
“No, no, no, you had many chances to set yourself straight,” she said. “I could’ve gone right to the police when I found out, but I chose not to cause I thought you were a fine young man - other than the drug dealing, of course, that wasn’t exactly a shining star on your record as far as I’m concerned - but overall you were fine. And you messed up. You messed up and now you’re gonna have to deal with the consequences. Everyone has to deal with consequences at some point. Especially in this city.”
I ignored her and pulled out my phone.
“Good,” she said, calming down. “Call yourself a car service or something, go stay at a friend's apartment for a few nights.”
“Hello, ma?” I said into the phone. “Yeah, um, no I’m not fine actually. Am I what? Yes, I’m crying. I’ll tell you about it later I just need a favor from you now, please. Just, yes, um, can you book me a ticket home? I’ll tell you later, I promise. Thank you so much. Yes. I love you too. Thanks. Bye.”
Ms. Mullens pushed the broom against my feet. “Just… if you would please take your calls outside. It’s the same phone service outside as inside, ya know?”
I sat down on the hardwood and closed my eyes and quiet tears streaked down my face.
“Oh come on! Stop it already, you’re going through a rough patch, big deal, you’re young, go do something a young person would do. And don’t forget, this might even be good for you. Like a growing experience.”
I started laughing. Despairing full-body laughs that were just as steeped in suffering as the crying had been. I grabbed ahold of the wall radiator to keep me sitting upright.
Every year thousands of people flocked to Manhattan with the song “New York, New York” playing in their imagination, thinking, hoping one day those iconic lyrics would apply to them, that they’d be able to say, with pride and esteem, for having toiled and won, that they could’ve made it anywhere else in the world because they’d made it in New York, New York. But what Sinatra didn’t mention in his anthem, what I didn’t consider when I drove a one-way Toyota from Orlando to New York, was that every year, at the same time thousands of dreamers entered the city, thousands of cynics left.
“Ms. Mullens,” I said, regaining my composure.
“Not everything that fucks you in the face is a growing experience. Sometimes you’re just getting fucked in the face.”
A few years after I moved back to Florida, the family started doing New York trips again. Mom’s gift shop had seen a sudden uptick after being featured on a popular YouTube travel vlog and started attracting tourists from across the country. They all wanted to meet her. She’d become something of a sensation after responding to the vlogger's question of “what do you guys do for fun around here” with “beastiality” and the straightest face anyone had ever seen. “Na I’m just kidding ya, I’m kidding ya,” she’d said after a few thickly awkward seconds. “We have the same fun ya’ll do.” Then she’d pointed at the vlogger’s GoPro. “We just don’t feel the need to tell everyone about it.”
I didn’t join the family on their New York vacations. I’d come to hate it as severely as I’d ever loved it. It was everything to me, for years. In my childhood and adolescence every essay, every yearbook, every presentation, every birthday wish was about New York in some way. My dreams, both waking and asleep, were disproportionately set in downtown or midtown - such went the silly renderings of my childish Manhattan paradise. I had loved it, dearly, and it had beaten me up and spat me out.
I might’ve been able to accept the beating if New York had paused a moment to see me, understand me, know me, and then kick me in the face, with some degree of intention. But my demise was happenstantial, inconsequential to a frenzied over-populated ceaseless beast of a city. It had crushed me like an elephant crushes a bug - it happened to be moving, and I happened to be under its heel.
I wouldn’t return to New York for another fifteen years. And I would never see Times Square again. Dreams became more and more infrequent until I stopped having them altogether. Eventually, I started working at the gift shop with Mom. She didn’t know how to organize all the new money that was coming in and I helped her get everything systematized.
“Finally putting your degree to use, eh sweetie?” she'd say, nearly once a month.
“Yup,” I’d respond, staring blankly into an excel sheet.
And that was all there was.
Years later, one of my nieces asked me what I thought about her moving to LA. She wanted to become a make-up artist in Hollywood and heard I was the right person to ask about cross-country relocations (somehow I was still known as the adventurous uncle; familial reputations had a way of outliving their truth).
“Do you think I should do it?” she said, her eyes a-sparkle.
I shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Why not?” she frowned.
I drank down the rest of my stale coffee and closed my laptop. “Well, Gracey dear, if you never go to heaven, you’ll always have what to look forward to.”
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2022.08.29 21:26 GMEStack Eureka!

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2022.08.29 05:12 CapriciousK I lost an heirloom

I was around 12 at that time. It was the 90's and my mother won a vacation to Orlando FL and we stayed in a hotel. Usually our vacations were camping in a tent so being in a hotel was fancy for us. I wanted to be fancy too. When we were packing, I decided to bring the only heirloom that was handed down from my great grandmother to my aunt, and then me. It was a small gold heart locket with a small gemstone in the middle. I also brought my beloved gold hoop earrings that my mom bought for me.
I didn't want to lose them when we left the hotel so I set them proudly on the top center of the dresser and we headed out. When I came back, the room had been cleaned and the locket and earrings were gone. At that time I thought it was all my fault and thought my parents would be mad at me so I didn't say anything.
It's been almost 30 years and I still look back frequently thinking how dumb I was to bring the only nice, sentimental jewelry that I owned with me. I should have just left it at home where it would have been as safe.
I sometimes find myself looking at eBay, Etsy, Craigslist to see if I could find it. Even if I did find it, I probably wouldn't be able to afford it looking at how much vintage jewelry costs.
If anyone knows someone who cleaned rooms at an Orlando hotel in the 90's and they gave you earrings or a heart locket, please let me know. I'd be willing to pay for them. They were both very unique and I could draw pictures of what they looked like.
I'm so ashamed and angry at myself for being so stupid. I want to get past that but I'm finding it hard to let it go.
Hopefully at least that could be a lesson for someone else, in addition to myself. If you're younger and have nice jewelery, keep it safe and never bring it anywhere. Especially do not leave it alone in a hotel.
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2022.08.27 06:26 Fearless_Ant4603 Why does recession happen?

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Psg case is one the best colleges in Tamil Nadu for studying arts and business. The infrastructure facilities and the education system are really good it's actually worth studying here, there is good teaching staff which motives us do so much better not in studies but also for a better future. via
What are long term effects of rheumatic heart disease?
Ruptured heart valve (medical emergency that may need surgery to replace or repair the heart valve) Atrial fibrillation (irregular heartbeat) Endocarditis (inflammation of the inner lining of the heart) Heart failure due to inflammation of the heart muscle. via
How many peacekeeping operations are currently taking place?
There are currently 12 UN peacekeeping operations deployed on three continents. via
What do you call an economic recession?
A recession is a macroeconomic term that refers to a significant decline in general economic activity in a designated region. It had been typically recognized as two consecutive quarters of economic decline, as reflected by GDP in conjunction with monthly indicators such as a rise in unemployment. via
How can we stop recession?
Expansionary policy can do this by (1) increasing consumption by raising disposable income through cuts in personal income taxes or payroll taxes; (2) increasing investment spending by raising after-tax profits through cuts in business taxes; and (3) increasing government purchases through increased federal government ... via
How do I get the old Weather Channel app back?
To reinstall the app on Android:Click the Google Play Store on your device.Go to My apps and games.Select the Weather Channel.Tap Uninstall to remove the app on your device.Search Live Weather app.Download the app.Restart your device. via
Do players get paid in The Spring League?
Players at the Spring League are not paid but receive lodging and food for the duration of the three-week program. The promise? Consideration by NFL and CFL scouts, and enough game and practice film to continue their campaigns to get signed. via
How does The Spring League work?
ELITE PRO D-LEAGUEnn The Spring League is the premier professional football development league in the United States and abroad. The majority of players who participate in The Spring League have spent time on an NFL active, practice, or pre-season roster. The Spring League consists of eight teams. via
Do players in the XFL get paid?
The average pay in the XFL was roughly $55,000, but tier 1 quarterbacks we're paid between $150k and $500k; which brings the average way up. via
What is the National Institute for genealogical Studies?
The National Institute for Genealogical Studies was established to assist all genealogists---from family historians to practising professionals---by providing studies in a variety of genealogical topics. via
Who is the XFL owned by?
Johnson, a former college football star who first made his name as WWE's The Rock, acquired the defunct XFL league from WWE owner Vince McMahon for $15 million in 2020. McMahon launched the XFL in 2000 in partnership with NBC as a bid to add more edge to the action on the gridiron. via
How does a recession turn into a depression?
2 Moreover, a recession is marked by economists as two consecutive quarters of negative GDP growth, even if those periods of contraction are relatively mild. A depression, on the other hand, is marked by a drop in a year's GDP over 10% or more. via
Why is PSG not affected by financial fair play?
PSG was not punished then, while City was handed a two-year Champions League ban by UEFA in February 2020 for FFP breaches when it was found to have overstated revenue from sponsorship between 2012 and 2016. Yet the Court of Arbitration for Sport overturned that ban. via
Is the Great Recession the same as the Great Depression?
The term Great Recession is a play on the term Great Depression. An official depression occurred during the 1930s and featured a gross domestic product (GDP) decline of more than 10% and an unemployment rate that at one point reached 25%. via
Which industries do well during recession?
Ball and Dynan say the most “recession-proof” industries that offer strong job security during economic downturns include:health care.government.computers and information via
Is PSG owned by one person?
Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani, the Emir of Qatar, has been PSG's owner since 2011 through Qatar Sports Investments (QSI). via
Who plays right wing for PSG?
Right-Wing: Ludovic Giulynn The French winger scored 16 goals in three seasons as PSG finished as high as fourth but as low as 13th. via
What jobs thrived during the Great Depression?
In that decade, significant professional careers were accounting, law and medicine. The Great Depression lasted during most of the 1930s; however, as the country began its slow progress toward economic recovery, retail and service jobs also increased. via
Why does recession happen?
Economic recessions are caused by a loss of business and consumer confidence. As confidence recedes, so does demand. A recession is a tipping point in the business cycle when ongoing economic growth peaks, reverses, and becomes ongoing economic contraction. via
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submitted by Fearless_Ant4603 to MilanNews [link] [comments]

2022.07.16 03:03 GregLou617 I responded to an ad for a 20s year old pop punk band as a 37 year old..

and I'm slightly terrified, lol. I haven't been in a band for a pretty long time, but I've kept up on my chops, and I think I can still hang.. Wish me luck!
Ad for reference..
submitted by GregLou617 to poppunkers [link] [comments]

2022.06.29 00:17 mnicbling Looking for housing or roommate close to UCF Downtown

Hi! I'm an upcoming student at FIEA in fall 22. I'm interested in living close to downtown.
Can anyone recommend any good options or maybe someone looking for a roommate?
I have found a 2b house near downtown for $1500 if anyone is interested in sharing the rent.
submitted by mnicbling to UCFstudenthousing [link] [comments]