Attendance Form Please Fill Out The Following Form And Return It To A: Fill & Download for Free

There's things that happen in a person's life that are so scorched in the memory and burned into the heart that there's no forgetting them. - John BoynelI was about 14. My father was very violent, oppressive, and an alcoholic. His health started to decline fast right around my 14th birthday. My mom was a saint, but in the ‘60s she had few options and my father bashed her around the house like a piñata. She started drinking like her husband, but unlike him, she was never abusive or cruel. I imagine her drinking was to temper the sting of of loneliness, lessen the pain of her beatings, and muster the courage to explain a missing tooth or black eye to 1 or more of her 7 kids.At around the time of my 16th birthday, in 1977, my father was rushed to the hospital. He had smoked about 2 packs a day and drank morning, noon, and night. He thought it was cute that we would occasionally pour his Gallo port wine in the his morning mug, just as the local grocery store attendants thought it was cute a 7 year old would purchase a pack of cigarettes for their father at 50 cents a pack as I did 8 years earlier in the late 1960s - it was a different time.As a child, I remember my father constantly waking me up at 4:30 or 5 am. I would have to do a paper route in all types of weather. NO exception. Then I would have to cut wood in a forest about a mile away, dragging the fallen logs on a toboggan so he could be warm near the fireplace with his mug of Gallo wine. He did this to save electricity by not heating our bedrooms, or the rest of the house.Many times I would be ordered to go cut wood in minus zero weather. I would fall asleep in school the next morning after one of his drunken marathon lectures that ran late (11PM) into the evening only to be awakened at 5am do work and go to school, only then get the crap beat out of me if I got a “C” on a test I was too exhausted to take, or was not allowed to study for the prior night because I was out cutting wood and forced to listen to the insane rambling of an angry drunk man.I was always hungry and scared as hell. My clothes were all full of holes and my hair cut to what my father called a “buzz-cut”. A buzz-cut was a typical hair cut for a conservative white, middle-class ‘60s kid, but my father’s version included actual cuts to the scalp as his drunken hand dug the razor into my skin as he dragged the razor across my head, raking my scalp. It was a hard thing to explain to girls at school who made it a point to make fun of my impromptu punk pompadour at recess every couple of months.But on the flip side, these girls would take turns touching my hair and head as they felt my uneven coiffure, or examined the cuts on my scalp. I figured it was worth the attention at the time, and, I imagine, it fulfilled a sort of tactile need as the only form of physical contact I remember as a child was my father’s fist connected with my head or body. I just kept quiet and hid in books to escape it all when I could, and I didn’t socialize too much outside of school out of embarrassment. In the house, I would try to be silent as a mouse so as not to attract my father’s attention and risk stirring the beast from a drunken slumber.Even the “poor kid” in school took pity on me and sometimes shared what little he had of his lunch. I usually just had 2 pieces of bread, uncut, and a slice of baloney which I had no intent of making public knowledge and open for discourse. But at the age of 13, a nun made a point to scold me in public about not having it cut down the middle. She made seem like it was a sin not to have a dessert like a Twinkie or a Pop-Tart. She did this several times throughout the year and in front of the entire cafeteria, which is probably why I harbor an irrational hate for Twinkies, Pop-Tarts, and penguins to this day. The kid often gave me half his Pop-Tart. I think he thought we were best friends, but I only hung around him as he had Twinkies and Pop-Tarts. Basically, he was a source for food and a distraction.I had learned at an early age to manipulate people in order to get something like a treat or attention. And it was a great way to deflect attention from me. I would pick out the weakest member of the herd and use them to improve my own status in a group by befriending them, only to later turn the group against him/her. But not until I got things like food. Whatever it took to get what I wanted was all that mattered. It was all about me and I thought the poor kid was a fool for sharing what me and my siblings considered a rare delights in our house. I wouldn’t have shared anything with him or anyone else. Sharing was for kids and stupid people - just ask my dad.The “poor kid” later told me he was confused because I seemed worse off than him. My father was well-known in the community. He had financed things like a garden near a town square were I spent many-a-hot days digging weeds between the ages of 6 and 13 while my dad drank chilled wine and puffed on his Winston cigarettes in the shade a few feet away. He would harshly critique my horrible gardening skills as if it was my fault the garden had never made it to the finals in the international Pritzker Architecture award. (Amateur landscape category I imagine.) But his “community service” explained where all his, and my, money went. The town may have had flowers because of him, but there was no bread to feed his own kids, and nobody knew our dark secrets. And it was clear to me he didn’t care about me, or about our family. And that is what I thought it was to be an adult; selfish and only out for yourself.My dad had the best of everything and everyone in the town and made sure everyone knew it. It was impression management at its finest. There was so much more that went on behind the scenes, and it was VERY brutal. At one point, around age 13, I thought he was going to kill me. I really thought that i was going to die. I really felt that there was no-where to turn.At the age of 14, my older brother was ordered by my father to go to military school. So we all packed in a car, all 9 of use and headed up to Norwich University. All the way my father chain smoked as me and my siblings gasped for fresh air. We made it to the ceremony just in time. My father was in a bad mood after a 4 hour dive and the fact that he was getting low on Gallo wine which he drank all the way while driving up to the school. He said he wasn’t feeling well, but he didn’t seem sick. He just seemed to be excessively irritable which was a by-product of what we kids called “moody-juice.” The terms was used by me and my siblings to alert each other it was going to be a rough day, expect a beating, hard work, humiliation, possibly a drunken makes-no-sense lecture, and shaming at some point in the day - and that happened a lot, so the code was useful. It was every kid for him or herself. On this day, we are in full Moody-Juice mode and ready for anything.My older brother later said he didn’t want to go to military school and my mom later apologized to him for allowing it, but he saw it as a way to escape the insanity. My dad’s behavior had infected all of us with growing up and selfishness was a byproduct of the sickness.Once at the ceremony, in the parking lot, the younger siblings and I were told to wait near the car for a few hours as my dad and mom went into the event. I remember about an hour into the ceremony, an ambulance sped by. I turned to my sister and joked, “I bet that’s dad.” We all laughed and giggled - but I really did wish it was him. A little bit later, my mother came to the car. She was white as a ghost. Something really bad had happened to my father.My father was admitted to a hospital Vermont, near the University. My mom drove us home to Connecticut that day. At least she didn’t smoke. My father stayed in the hospital for several weeks and was transferred to a hospital in Manchester, CT. He spent several weeks in the hospital. My mother asked that I visit him. I told her I didn’t want to as I didn’t even think he liked me. My mom ordered me to go visit him, but I refused. It was great not having him around and I didn’t want to see him. But I began to understand my mom was adrift in the same rickety old boat and riding the same treacherous waves as me. After a while, I gave in, and went.When we went into the hospital, my father remembered all my brothers and sisters. When it was my turn, he just turned his head, screwed up his face, and asked my mom, “Who is he?” My mom nervously chuckled and told her who I was. He just looked confused. I turned around an walked out of the room with a smile on my face. My mom soon raced after me as i walked down the hall. “he didn’t mean that”, she said. I turned around and told her it was okay and I didn’t care.I really didn’t care. In my mind, it was officially the “year of Marty.” When my father was in the hospital for all those months and I was beyond his reach, I grew my hair long and my grades improved. I could take warm showers as even cold showers where a luxury prior to his hospitalization, and I had bought a new pair of Levi jeans that actually fit. As time progressed, I would hang around with friends, old and new, which i never did before. And any money I made cutting lawns or delivering papers went in MY pocket, not his. Things were changing for the better and I was going to capitalize on it. I, Me, Mine was more than the title of a popular song to me. It was my motto and I had to make up for lost time.I dropped the paper route and learned quite quickly to sleep in late on Saturdays and Sundays. Screw church, my father would force us to go as he sat at home blitzed on cheap wine and girl’s roller-derby. But he wasn’t around to enforce that policy anymore. And it didn’t seem to make sense to worship God anyway, as i saw him as the very reason I was in that hell in the first place. He hadn’t listen to my countless prayers begging for safety as a kid, so fuck him.My mom cared for the younger kids during my father’s time in convalescence at the hospital and at home. I feigned interest in helping out, but she would encourage me to go out with my friends. I think she knew I was happy for once, and she wanted me to enjoy my teen years like a normal kid. Or maybe she felt guilty at being so powerless to stop the abuse. It didn’t matter to me. I was getting all I wanted and more. And I wanted more.My mom and I became best friends. She would take me to a dinner late at night and let me drink coffee. I felt like an adult. She would talk to me about life, and I would talk about me. And she would listen and listen and make me feel so important and like I could do anything. We would talk about art and literature and history. She would take me to museums and lectures. It was like I was talking to a different person I had never met before who was interesting and smarter than my dad. And she liked me. It was great.That’s not to say there weren’t problems. I was kicked out of the private school I attended. My offense was refusing to cut my hair. But my mom had my back. I was actually in shock. My dad would have shaved me bald, call me a commie hippie, beat the crap out of me, work me to the edge of death, then shuttle me off in the middle of the night to some priest *seminary - but only after I cut all the lawns of the entire Archdiocese owned property in the greater Hartford area. My mom just labelled the event “ridiculous” as it was my hair. She transferred me to a public school with no punishment. In fact, she sided with me. It was my hair.And at the public school, I was an “unknown”. I wasn’t the kid in ratty clothes, scrapped up scalp, or skinny kid who falls a sleep in class. I was a nobody, with no history - and that was perfect in my opinion. I was introduced to beer and pot at and started going to parties on the weekends when invited like every other white, middle-class kid my age. Not wild and crazy, just now and then. the point was, I was free. At least until my dad was discharged from the hospital.When he was discharged a few weeks later, my father had to be cared for at home. For several months, my mother, my sister, and my little brother attended to my father’s needs as he lounged around in the living room 24/7. He couldn’t do much. And I just continued to do what I wanted to do. He was just there to be ignored. If he got angry and yelled, I just walk away. I never talked to him and I no longer feared him. He was weak and vulnerable. It was poetic justice in my eyes. I had parties to go to and girls to flirt with. It wan’t my problem.One Friday, there was shouting coming from living room where my father was. He was being nasty and my little sister was upset and crying after being treated like crap for trying to take care of him. I was in my bedroom watching a show on my new TV set i had just purchased with money I raised doing odd jobs. Since my dad was in the living room 24/7, i wasn’t planning on watching it there. I turned off the TV and walked to the kitchen where my mom and sister were. I didn’t ask what was going on. I just took a drink of milk, ran a comb through my long hair, and left for a party to escape the madness.The next morning I woke up in my bedroom. I sat up and watched TV in bed. Something unheard of when my father was in control. I was watching cartoons. It had become a sort of tradition to party on Friday, sleep in on Saturday, and wake up mid-morning and watch bugs Bunny while thinking about the pretty girl I had talked to the night before.That particular morning was no different until my mom burst in pleading with me to come down stairs. “I think your father is dead! Please help me!,” she screamed. I rolled my eye. I sighed. I walked down to the living room. 3 of my sisters, my little brother, and my mom stood in the corner of the room. I knew the moment I saw my dad he was dead. I touched his cheek, and it was cold as ice. He stared at me with glassy eyes. I just looked in those hollow eyes and thought, “not so tough now ass-hole.”My mother called my name and brought me back to earth. She snapped, “Marty!” and then asked “Is he dead?” I mumbled, “yeah” and walked into the kitchen. “What are you doing!?,” she cried. I told her I was going to call an ambulance. I got on the phone and they asked what was wrong. I told them my father is dead. They asked my all these questions like “are his eyes moving blah blah.” I cut them off, “Can you just get here? I have things to do” and hung up the phone.One of my sisters yelled at me, “Why are you telling them that?! WHY?!” I calmly stated I was just telling them the facts. I turned around and walked back up to my room. My mom asked frantically, “where are you going?!” I just turned and said the following to my mom, “I was watching TV.” She and my siblings just looked at me slack-jawed. My mom again told me she needed my help. She started to put new pajama pants on him. I told her in a stern manner to stop and let the ambulance people deal with the body, and stated that they didn’t care if he had clean pajama bottoms, or cloths in general that they will probably just cut off. I thought didn’t she watch the TV show EMERGENCY about the paramedics? She just stood there speechless holding pajama bottoms in front of her as my siblings wailed tears in sorrow. I sighed again, and told them I would go outside and wait for the ambulance. She had totally ruined a perfect Saturday morning for me. I was pissed AND relieved. My dad wasn’t coming home from this trip to the ER. Bonus.The ambulance over-shot the house. For some reason, I started laughing hard. My sisters were crying. My mother was visibly in shock. The neighbors came to comfort her and the others. The ambulance driver who was clearly confused at my jovial attitude. After they took my dad away, the neighbors comforting my family said they were sorry. I relied, “Why? Don’t be sorry, this is a good thing.” They just looked at me in horror. Their daughter, who was my age, came up to me and asked if I was okay. I asked her if she wanted to check out my new tent in the back yard. I saw an opportunity open up and was going take advantage of it.But my plans were dashed as my mom told us to all get into the car, and we followed the ambulance to the hospital. My younger brother started to cry. He was very scared we would end up in the “poor house” with dad gone. I told him not to worry and that life would be much better for us all now. One of my sisters yelled at me for saying such a thing. My mother just said, “He’s right. Things will be much better now.” And we were all silent for the rest of the trip. We all knew it too.At the hospital, we occupied our time in the waiting room talking about small things and things to be done and who would do those things. Who would call his sisters and who do we call first? What should we do for dinner? Things like that. But I didn’t want any part of it, with the exception of what to have for dinner. I had a totally new life ahead of my and I was going to make the best of it right out of the starting gate.Soon the doctor came in and told us my father was dead on arrival. He was very kind in his delivery. My mom broke down and the children followed in communal mourning in the waiting room. I sort of didn’t understand why she was crying. I refocused my attention on a Ring-Ding stuck in the snack machine that I wanted. That was the most important this to me at that time. As I was bang on the machine, a man from the ambulance car came into the room VERY fast. He handed my mother, who was crying and holding children who were crying, a bill. A freaking bill.I think that’s when I grew up. I may not have shared her grief, but I was devastated in seeing her so upset and helpless. I grabbed the bill from the guy’s hand, crumbled it up and tossed it to the floor. I told the guy he had no class, and he knew where we lived so he could have mailed it there instead of doing this now, and to fuck off. I want to protect my entire family. I made all the phone calls for my mom, and tried to help with burial arrangement as best I could. But from that point on, I tried to think less of me and more of my mom and family.Later that evening, one of my sisters started crying and saying how it might have been her fault her father died. she was upset earlier that evening and had later forgotten to give him his medication. I had heard the commotion but left to go to a party. I told her that I had given him the medication when i returned. I really had not done such a thing, but I didn’t want her to live with the thought that she was somehow responsible for his death. He had drunk himself to death and no pill could have repaired the years of habitual smoking and alcohol abuse. I guess it was my way of protecting her.It was no longer about me, about me deciding how long my hair would be, or about what parties i would go to, or what girl I liked at said party, or cartoons on a Saturday morning. It was about helping my mom and protecting her as best I could - just like she tried to do protect me as best she could against terrible odds when I was a child. It was about protecting my family.Part of being an adult, i think, is thinking less of yourself and more of others. This I began to learn at the age of 14.Me. 1977. 16 yrs. At a dinner for my father’s funeral. Long hair and wide collars ruled! During the funeral, we were all shocked at all the individuals who came to pay respects to that monster. I sat in the smoking lounge the entire times and “enlightened” anyone who spoke well of my father.*One day, my father came to the school. He was drunk. The staff asked him to leave. He did. When I got home he flew into a rage. I was force to stand for hours and late into the night in the middle of the living room as my father lectured, berated my very existence, yelled, cursed between hard slaps to the head, and promised to send me away to be a priest seminary and “never” to be seen or heard from again. I never gave him the satisfaction of crying. I wanted to, but I because I knew he wanted me to cry - I just look straight ahead and took it all.**Me and my siblings never really talked about our childhood, except in jest, and this was very rare. One of my older brothers, the one who escaped in the 1970s and never looked back, emailed me in 2005. One of the conversations we had was a brief trip down memory lane. I still have a printout of the email I found stuffed in one of my journals. He said he remembered the following:I lived in a house in New England with broken windows and no heat during the winter other than a fireplace in the living room.The house had one faucet of running cold water in the entire house.There were animals that dedicated and urinated throughout the house. You had to walk around on tippy toes as to not get animal waste on you.The house was infested with fleas. [It was so bad] the oldest brother got kicked out of got kicked out of a public pool because the lifeguards thought that the flea bites all over his body was some type of infectious disease.I had to steal food from the local grocery store.The ceilings inside the house were falling in and in parts of the house you could see into the attic.The kitchen was in gross disrepair. The dishwasher did work, the doors were off the cabinets, junk was piled everywhere.Throughout the house there were large amounts of garbage. Some late nights we would be awakened to “clean up” one of the piles.Parents would fall asleep in the living room every night from drinking.Children had to walk to the neighborhood package store (liquor store) to by a gallon of Gallo Port.One son was constantly yelled [and told] that he was stupid and retarded and would only be good in sports.Father would drive car with seven kids in it and his coffee cup [was] filled with the Gallo Port.Dozens of fully functioning rifles and pistols were scattered through the house. Children [we] would play with them.Birthdays and holidays would be cancelled or threatened to be cancelled because of some minor infractions…(I was going through my many journals and the paper copy dropped out.)

To save my time and yours as well, please go through What exactly is "Google Summer of Code" or GSoC? How do you apply for it and what is the eligibility criteria?but if you don't want to click on another link, I am copy pasting the content here from the answer written by Ashish Kedia (Truely Genius) himself.P.S : The following content is copy pasted from the link above. I don't think anyone can answer it any better than him, so I am just pasting it here again. To find the real answer, please follow the link mentioned above."Google Summer of Code is program to promote open-source development. It is organized by Google every summer since last decade. It runs for 12 weeks from mid May to Mid August. Students contribute to open-source repositories and get paid by Google in return. It's a great way to spend summer vacation.EligibilityYou must be a student. That's it. No other criteria. Age, Country, Qualification - no criteria. If you have a student ID card, you are eligible.Edit:Turns Out You have to be 18 years old for participating in GSOC !Application ProcedureThis is not a program where you fill up a form and get selected.First, the interested open-source organizations apply. They are shortlisted by Google. The students will code for these organizations and the organization has to mentor the student. in GSoC 2014, around 190 organizations were selected including the big organizations like Mozilla, KDE, etc. The list of organizations selected is announced around mid-February.Every Organization had a Idea's Page or a Wiki Page in which they publish the list of possible projects. Some even have a to-do list. Students can browse through organizations and check out the projects. If they like any project they can contact the organization or the mentor itself via the organization's Mailing List. One can come up with his/her own project which is even better. Generally, each organization wants the student to show some background in the area of the project (fast learning abilities + keen interest is fine too), and familiarity with tools like version control system (Git Hub is the most popular). One has to demonstrate his/her skills which can be achieved by fixing some bugs. Generally there will be a list of known bugs/issues in a repository and some of them are really simple to fix. One can even try to find, report and then fix a new bug. One has to install that particular repository on their system, get comfortable with it and understand (at least the basics) what's going on. Past Open-Source Experience is a big plus although not necessary.Student application period is between 1st to 3rd week of March. Once the student has demonstrated his/her abilities, they have to apply via Melange. They have to write a project proposal. This proposal should outline the project objectives, technical/implementation details, timeline and end deliveries. One can ask the concerned mentor to review his/her proposal before submitting. One student can submit up to 5 project proposals. However, at max only 1 project is assigned to each student.On an average one has to devote at least 35 to 40 hrs each week during the summer for their GSoC Project.BenefitsIn GSoC 2014 5500 USD were given to those who successfully completed their project.Learning a lot - Working with large code bases, debugging, optimizing, testing profiling, tuning, fixing bugs, etc. You can learn a lot.Work from Home - No office. No Attendance. No reporting. Work from anywhere, anytime.Even if your proposal is rejected, you can still continue contribute to the repository. You will miss on the money, but it's fine. You will still learn a lot."

STEP 1: You must PRE-REGISTER your child’s profile and pick your child’s open call location in advance.STEP 2: Attend an OPEN CALL with your child (you must pre-register for your child). Please bring the following with you to the open call you choose:1.Your child’s completed application Page on masterchefjuniorcasting.comwhich must be signed by both parents or guardian(s).Page on 2.an Apron of your child’s choiceIMPORTANT NOTE: IF YOU CANNOT MAKE IT TO AN OPEN CALL, PLEASE FOLLOW THE STEPS BELOW TO SEND IN YOUR CHILD’S MATERIALSSTEP 1: Make a VIDEO. Your child only needs to do this if you CANNOT ATTEND AN OPEN CALL.CLICK HERE to view the video submission instructionsSTEP 2: Completely fill out the online application form for your child and upload your child’s picture HERE. Only parents may complete and submit applications and pictures online. All legal guardians must sign the application formSTEP 3: Please mail your child’s application, picture, and video to:MasterChef Junior Season 5 Casting1741 Ivar AvenueLos Angeles, California 90028Please note that videos and materials submitted by mail will not be returned.lastt date for this year audition is 11 dec 2015