Frank Olson had joined the Special Operations Division of the Army's Biological Laboratory at Fort Detrick at its inception in 1950. He was issued a Q clearance, the civilian equivalent of the military's top secret clearance, and worked with the CIA on MK-ULTRA. As part of that work, he traveled in 1953 to Britain, France and West Germany. At the secret British military research center at Porton Down, the sons say, Olson witnessed "extreme interrogations" in which "the CIA committed murder" using biological agents Olson had developed. They say a psychiatrist there, William Sargent, grew concerned that Olson "had serious misgivings related to those murders and might therefore pose a security risk, " and so recommended to his superiors that Olson no longer be granted access to classified research facilities in Britain. source: Six decades later, sons seek answers on death of Detrick scientist The Baltimore Sun, 8 December 2012
Matthew Hay Brown
Please remember: If you're not being treated with love & respect, check your price tag. Perhaps you have marked yourself down. It's YOU who tells people what you're worth by what you accept. Get off the clearance rack & get behind the glass where they keep the valuables! LEARN to value yourself more! If you don't, no one else will!
For most of us, the classic test of willpower is resisting temptation, whether the temptress is a doughnut, a cigarette, a clearance sale, or a one-night stand. When people say, "I have no willpower," what they usually mean is, "I have trouble saying no when my mouth, stomach, heart, or (fill in your anatomical part) wants to say yes.
No deliberation made by a single person will be successful; the nature of the work which a sovereign has to do is to be inferred from the consideration of both the visible and invisible causes. The clearance of doubts as to whatever is susceptible of two opinions, and the inference of the whole when only a part is seen is possible of decision only by ministers. Hence the king shall sit at deliberation with persons of wide intellect.
The world is not kind to whistleblowers - a term of art with particular resonance in football, the most hierarchical and repressive of organized sports, a world of 'systems' and 'programs' and scripted plays, where reading a medical report requires a security clearance, and practice fields are patrolled like Guantanamo Bay.
The intelligence community is so vast that more people have top secret clearance than live in Washington. The U.S. will spend more on the war in Afghanistan this year, adjusting for inflation, than we spent on the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Mexican-American War, the Civil War and the Spanish-American War combined.
Nicholas D. Kristof
Unless you've also had some experience dragging around a boat trailer, [topping off the gas tank] may not sound important. But trailer driver's know: a gas stop can be a traumatic experience. You need enough clearance on every possible side. You can't cut the turn too sharp or you'll clip the gas pump. Getting back on the freeway can be as challenging as sending a man to the moon.
Brad Alan Lewis
I have entered the sports equipment business with 'Bhajji Sports.' I am applying for ICC clearance so that cricket bats with 'Bhajji Sports' logos could be used for international matches. In domestic circuit, the Punjab team is already wearing Bhajji Sports dresses for the Ranji Trophy matches.
I am worried about this word, this notion - security. I see this word, hear this word, feel this word everywhere. Security check. Security watch. Security clearance. Why has all this focus on security made me feel so much more insecure? ... Why are we suddenly a nation and a people who strive for security above all else?
UN peacekeeping operations are now increasingly complex and multi-dimensional, going beyond monitoring a ceasefire to actually bringing failed States back to life, often after decades of conflict. The blue helmets and their civilian colleagues work together to organize elections, enact police and judicial reform, promote and protect human rights, conduct mine-clearance, advance gender equality, achieve the voluntary disarmament of former combatants, and support the return of refugees and displaced people to their homes.
I saw you the second I walked into the bar that night. I saw you and felt you were different.' His lips had moved so close to hers that if she edged forward a bit, his mouth would be on hers. 'I'm actually not different, ' she said, hating that her voice sounded all breathy and nervous. 'I'm similar to lots of people. I can even list off a bunch of people who look like me. And these boots aren't really kick-ass boots. I bought them because they were on the clearance rack.' A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before his lips touched hers, and all her carefully constructed reasons as to why she'd never get involved with a man like Matt burned to ashes.
It [the free market] is an organizational way of doing things, featuring openness, which enables millions of people to cooperate and compete without demanding a preliminary clearance of pedigree, nationality, color, race, religion, or wealth. It demands only that each person abide by voluntary principles, that is, by fair play. The free market means willing exchange; it is impersonal justice in the economic sphere and excludes coercion, plunder, theft, protectionism, and other anti-free market ways by which goods and services change hands.
Music is crucial. Beyond no way can I overstress this fact. Let's say you're southbound on the interstate, cruising alone in the middle lane, listening to AM radio. Up alongside comes a tractor trailer of logs or concrete pipe, a tie-down strap breaks, and the load dumps on top of your little sheetmetal ride. Crushed under a world of concrete, you're sandwiched like so much meat salad between layers of steel and glass. In that last, fast flutter of your eyelids, you looking down that long tunnel toward the bright God Light and your dead grandma walking up to hug you-do you want to be hearing another radio commercial for a mega, clearance, closeout, blow-out liquidation car-stereo sale?
AFTER HOURS OF IL MULINO OR SOTTO SOTTO, JUST TALKING WOMEN AND VINO THE CONTRACT LIKE '91 DAN MARINO I SWEAR THIS GOT MICHAEL RAPINOS BOOSTING MY EGO OVERLY FOCUSED, IT'S FAR FROM THE TIME TO REST NOW DEBATES GROWING 'BOUT WHO THEY THINK IS THE BEST NOW? TOOK A WHILE, GOT THE JOKERS OUT OF THE DECK NOW I'M HOLDING ALL THE CARDS AND NIGGAS WANNA PLAY CHESS NOW I HEAR YOU TALKING, SAY IT TWICE SO I KNOW YOU MEANT IT FUCK IT, I DON'T EVEN TINT IT, THEY SHOULD KNOW WHO'S IN IT I'M AUTHENTIC, REAL NAME, NO GIMMICKS NO GAME, NO SCRIMMAGE, I AIN'T PLAYING WITH YOU NIGGAS AT ALL MY CLASSMATES, THEY WENT ON TO BE CHARTERED ACCOUNTANTS OR WORK WITH THEIR PARENTS, BUT THINKING BACK ON HOW THEY TREATED ME MY HIGH SCHOOL REUNION MIGHT BE WORTH AN APPEARANCE MAKE EVERYBODY HAVE TO GO THROUGH SECURITY CLEARANCE TABLES TURN, BRIDGES BURN, YOU LIVE AND LEARN WITH THE INK I COULD MURDER, WORD TO MY NIGGA IRV YEAH, I SWEAR SHIT JUST STARTED CLICKING DOG YOU KNOW IT'S REAL WHEN YOU ARE WHO YOU THINK YOU ARE
He couldn't have known it, but among the original run of The History of Love, at least one copy was destined to change a life. This particular book was one of the last of the two thousand to be printed, and sat for longer than the rest in a warehouse in the outskirts of Santiago, absorbing the humidity. From there it was finally sent to a bookstore in Buenos Aires. The careless owner hardly noticed it, and for some years it languished on the shelves, acquiring a pattern of mildew across the cover. It was a slim volume, and its position on the shelf wasn't exactly prime: crowded on the left by an overweight biography of a minor actress, and on the right by the once-bestselling novel of an author that everyone had since forgotten, it hardly left its spine visible to even the most rigorous browser. When the store changed owners it fell victim to a massive clearance, and was trucked off to another warehouse, foul, dingy, crawling with daddy longlegs, where it remained in the dark and damp before finally being sent to a small secondhand bookstore not far from the home of the writer Jorge Luis Borges. The owner took her time unpacking the books she'd bought cheaply and in bulk from the warehouse. One morning, going through the boxes, she discovered the mildewed copy of The History of Love. She'd never heard of it, but the title caught her eye. She put it aside, and during a slow hour in the shop she read the opening chapter, called 'The Age of Silence.' The owner of the secondhand bookstore lowered the volume of the radio. She flipped to the back flap of the book to find out more about the author, but all it said was that Zvi Litvinoff had been born in Poland and moved to Chile in 1941, where he still lived today. There was no photograph. That day, in between helping customers, she finished the book. Before locking up the shop that evening, she placed it in the window, a little wistful about having to part with it. The next morning, the first rays of the rising sun fell across the cover of The History of Love. The first of many flies alighted on its jacket. Its mildewed pages began to dry out in the heat as the blue-gray Persian cat who lorded over the shop brushed past it to lay claim to a pool of sunlight. A few hours later, the first of many passersby gave it a cursory glance as they went by the window. The shop owner did not try to push the book on any of her customers. She knew that in the wrong hands such a book could easily be dismissed or, worse, go unread. Instead she let it sit where it was in the hope that the right reader might discover it. And that's what happened. One afternoon a tall young man saw the book in the window. He came into the shop, picked it up, read a few pages, and brought it to the register. When he spoke to the owner, she couldn't place his accent. She asked where he was from, curious about the person who was taking the book away. Israel, he told her, explaining that he'd recently finished his time in the army and was traveling around South America for a few months. The owner was about to put the book in a bag, but the young man said he didn't need one, and slipped it into his backpack. The door chimes were still tinkling as she watched him disappear, his sandals slapping against the hot, bright street. That night, shirtless in his rented room, under a fan lazily pushing around the hot air, the young man opened the book and, in a flourish he had been fine-tuning for years, signed his name: David Singer. Filled with restlessness and longing, he began to read.