The image to the right is this site (clickthrough to watch it bloom!), as visualized as a graph by a guy in Zurich, who's also knocked together a funky mathematically driven art project that really skyrocketed today when Boing Boing got a hold of it.
Go 'head -- plug in your own URL »
Or see more funky lifeforms on Flickr »
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
the 9% solution
If the roads to love are so varied and random, how do we decide on a particular mate? It turns out that the problem of choice under uncertainty can be described and solved mathematically. Evolutionary psychologists Peter Todd at Indiana University and Geoffrey Miller at the University of New Mexico used a computer simulation to determine how a person might best choose from a number of potential partners. They set it up so that the person first assesses a number of the options available to them to decide what is the best they can aspire to in terms of attractiveness. They then go for the next person they come across who meets their aspirations, out of those they haven’t already encountered.From Sexual Attraction: The Magic Formula in the Times of London.
The researchers found that the optimum proportion of possible mates to “examine” before setting your aspirations and making your choice is a mere 9% — so at a party with 100 possible mates, it’s best to study only the first nine you randomly encounter before you choose. Examining fewer means you won’t have enough information to make a good choice, examining more makes it likely you’ll pass the best mate by. No doubt the models underestimate the complexity of real mate choice, but the fundamental insight is clear: don’t search indefinitely before choosing, lest you miss out on all the good mates or run out of time altogether.
Um...how do you know when you’ve got your initial dataset nailed down? Otherwise, how you can be sure that your subset is a true 9%? (It's not that I'm looking; it's just that I’m wondering...)
this morning's zen
I don't have to do anything special. I'm in New York. Look at me, I'm in an elevator and it's in New York. I'm in a taxi, in New York. I'm in a subway and it's in New York.William Hamb, petty officer first class, on his shore leave, as quoted in this morning's New York Times.
Yeah, I get it: It's NEW YORK. But it's also brilliantly Zen.
Monday, May 29, 2006
alan doherty
When I was in Dublin earlier this month I had the opportunity to hear a really astonishing boxwood flute player perform – on, of all things, the Musical Pub Crawl.
The back story went something like this: The pub tour is shared by a handful of local Dublin musicians who rotate the work; on the night we went a fellow named Joe Brennan (also quite good – and a brilliant wit, which made for a fun evening) was leading the tour.
By pure happenstance he bumped into his buddy, Alan O’Doherty, on the street before the gig started. Alan was visiting from Galway, where he had recently moved from Dublin, and where he’s now playing with a group called Gráda. (The name of which proved to be my undoing – but more about that in a bit.) Joe invited him along, and Alan was kind enough to sign on for the night.
What a night. His playing floored me. He gave us a good dose of traditional Celtic fare, but the thing that was most astonishing (and transporting) was the way he mixed up the Irish strains with bluegrass and jazz improvisation. Glorious good stuff. When they finally wrapped up it was far too early for my liking – I wanted to follow him home like a puppy.
We caught a flight home to Chicago the next morning so there wasn’t time to hunt out his CD in the local shops – but I figured I’d have no trouble tracking it down in the States. I was so wrong. My biggest misfire was hearing the name of his group wrong – so once I came up empty handed trying to track down “Alan O’Doherty” I started my fruitless search for a group called “Garda”. No dice.
Until today. In an offhanded conversation thread re a bumper sticker on a VW bus, debaird@flickr steered me toward Road Records in Dublin, and after a few email exchanges they straightened me out. The group’s name is Gráda, and although Road Records is presently out of their discs (but think about buying something else from them ‘cause they’re good folks), you can pick up a disc or three from Gráda’s site, and you can also download The Landing Step from iTunes, where this review will give you a glimmer of what you’re in for:
The back story went something like this: The pub tour is shared by a handful of local Dublin musicians who rotate the work; on the night we went a fellow named Joe Brennan (also quite good – and a brilliant wit, which made for a fun evening) was leading the tour.
By pure happenstance he bumped into his buddy, Alan O’Doherty, on the street before the gig started. Alan was visiting from Galway, where he had recently moved from Dublin, and where he’s now playing with a group called Gráda. (The name of which proved to be my undoing – but more about that in a bit.) Joe invited him along, and Alan was kind enough to sign on for the night.
What a night. His playing floored me. He gave us a good dose of traditional Celtic fare, but the thing that was most astonishing (and transporting) was the way he mixed up the Irish strains with bluegrass and jazz improvisation. Glorious good stuff. When they finally wrapped up it was far too early for my liking – I wanted to follow him home like a puppy.
We caught a flight home to Chicago the next morning so there wasn’t time to hunt out his CD in the local shops – but I figured I’d have no trouble tracking it down in the States. I was so wrong. My biggest misfire was hearing the name of his group wrong – so once I came up empty handed trying to track down “Alan O’Doherty” I started my fruitless search for a group called “Garda”. No dice.
Until today. In an offhanded conversation thread re a bumper sticker on a VW bus, debaird@flickr steered me toward Road Records in Dublin, and after a few email exchanges they straightened me out. The group’s name is Gráda, and although Road Records is presently out of their discs (but think about buying something else from them ‘cause they’re good folks), you can pick up a disc or three from Gráda’s site, and you can also download The Landing Step from iTunes, where this review will give you a glimmer of what you’re in for:
Gráda play with obvious respect for the ancient roots of their music, but also without any apparent fear that they might break it through experimentation. So the first thing you hear on “Tread Softly” is the cello; the melody of the original composition “Inis Dornish” sounds more Eastern European than Irish; the vocal numbers are cover versions of modern songs written by the likes of Emily Saliers and Teddy Thompson (son of Richard).Trust me. This isn’t your daddy’s Celtic music.
In short, this is an album that will be filed in the Celtic section with the trad stuff, even though it spends as much time looking to the future as to the past. Still, there's nothing quirky about the band's sound; singer Anne Marie O'Malley delivers everything with a gentle elegance, and even when the band lapses into jazzy jam band mode it never goes on long before the flute and fiddle are suddenly playing closely arranged harmonies or lilting off into another traditional reel. Most albums of Celtic music yield their charms quickly, but this one grows on you. Highly recommended.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
shakespeare marathon
The trouble with loving something like a play too much is that you’ve (let’s be honest here: I) have decided how the thing should play out. So it is with Henry IV.
Some folks are all over Lear, Hamlet, or those two Italian brats** – I’m just wild about Harry. Especially Part One. And after hearing on the WBEZ morning show, 848, that the conjoined production of Shakespeare’s Henry IV Parts 1 & 2, directed by Barbara Gaines, was playing to happy houses and was on its way to the UK at the invitation of the Royal Shakespeare Company, I figured the six hour investment might pay off. (And it didn’t hurt that my darlin’ companion was game – for a price, of course. But it’s barters like these that keep a marriage interesting.)
The next question that begs to be answered is: did it?
Well. Let’s get this much straight: The playwright certainly knew what he was doing.
There was a bit of a glitch with the production we saw – the regular Falstaff had fallen ill, and the understudy stepped in. It wasn’t clear from Gaines’ introduction whether or not we got the expected understudy or whether one of the other players stepped in to fill out the role. Either way, our Falstaff walked the stage with a script in hand. He was facile enough to pull it off, but it managed to break the fourth wall with repeated brutality. I supposed if it had been printed on something approximating parchment – rather than 8½ x 11 bright white printer paper with yellow highlights – maybe it would have felt more apiece.
But I’m not sure that that was what stood in the way of what, for me, is the most compelling piece of these plays. Hal was played a bit heavy and, I thought, one-dimensionally – as a bit of a dick, actually. (A very pretty dick, but very much a dick.) The piece missing was the filial love that, when played well, extends between the errant Prince and the faulty Falstaff. It’s that affection, and the alliances forged from it, that makes so poignant the gorgeous “base contagious clouds” soliloquy near the beginning of Part I, and so devastating the pentultimate scene in Part II.
None of that happened last night.
But what we lacked for poignancy and devastation, we made up for in the deft skill of a well-played play. The troupe knew what they were doing; dad Harry was brilliant; the throw-away scene in which the Welsh bride sings her goodbyes to her prince -- and is usually little more than a foil for Hotspur to get a little nookie from his sweetie before he heads off to war – had me shaking with sobs.
One last little irritation: due to the spare stage design (intended, I expect, to travel well to the UK), mist is heavily used in this production to create atmosphere and effect. Mist, of course, is wet, and the cumulative effect of sitting in the front row for 5½ hours under continual mist was not unlike encountering the well-known Chicago lake effect that brings the mean temperature down ten degrees within a certain radius of Lake Michigan.
The verdict: If Shakespeare’s language makes you ache, you won’t be disappointed in the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre’s production of Henry IV. Go – but be sure to bundle up.
**Re the Italian brats: I’m going for effect here, of course. I cared enough about Juliet’s suffering when I was in high school that I memorized her death scene for no good reason and replayed it over and over to an audience of one (me) in our unfinished basement. Of course, had I known that the duct work was carrying my death throes into my brothers’ room I might have been more discreet.
Some folks are all over Lear, Hamlet, or those two Italian brats** – I’m just wild about Harry. Especially Part One. And after hearing on the WBEZ morning show, 848, that the conjoined production of Shakespeare’s Henry IV Parts 1 & 2, directed by Barbara Gaines, was playing to happy houses and was on its way to the UK at the invitation of the Royal Shakespeare Company, I figured the six hour investment might pay off. (And it didn’t hurt that my darlin’ companion was game – for a price, of course. But it’s barters like these that keep a marriage interesting.)
The next question that begs to be answered is: did it?
Well. Let’s get this much straight: The playwright certainly knew what he was doing.
There was a bit of a glitch with the production we saw – the regular Falstaff had fallen ill, and the understudy stepped in. It wasn’t clear from Gaines’ introduction whether or not we got the expected understudy or whether one of the other players stepped in to fill out the role. Either way, our Falstaff walked the stage with a script in hand. He was facile enough to pull it off, but it managed to break the fourth wall with repeated brutality. I supposed if it had been printed on something approximating parchment – rather than 8½ x 11 bright white printer paper with yellow highlights – maybe it would have felt more apiece.
But I’m not sure that that was what stood in the way of what, for me, is the most compelling piece of these plays. Hal was played a bit heavy and, I thought, one-dimensionally – as a bit of a dick, actually. (A very pretty dick, but very much a dick.) The piece missing was the filial love that, when played well, extends between the errant Prince and the faulty Falstaff. It’s that affection, and the alliances forged from it, that makes so poignant the gorgeous “base contagious clouds” soliloquy near the beginning of Part I, and so devastating the pentultimate scene in Part II.
None of that happened last night.
But what we lacked for poignancy and devastation, we made up for in the deft skill of a well-played play. The troupe knew what they were doing; dad Harry was brilliant; the throw-away scene in which the Welsh bride sings her goodbyes to her prince -- and is usually little more than a foil for Hotspur to get a little nookie from his sweetie before he heads off to war – had me shaking with sobs.
One last little irritation: due to the spare stage design (intended, I expect, to travel well to the UK), mist is heavily used in this production to create atmosphere and effect. Mist, of course, is wet, and the cumulative effect of sitting in the front row for 5½ hours under continual mist was not unlike encountering the well-known Chicago lake effect that brings the mean temperature down ten degrees within a certain radius of Lake Michigan.
The verdict: If Shakespeare’s language makes you ache, you won’t be disappointed in the Chicago Shakespeare Theatre’s production of Henry IV. Go – but be sure to bundle up.
**Re the Italian brats: I’m going for effect here, of course. I cared enough about Juliet’s suffering when I was in high school that I memorized her death scene for no good reason and replayed it over and over to an audience of one (me) in our unfinished basement. Of course, had I known that the duct work was carrying my death throes into my brothers’ room I might have been more discreet.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
flickr images of indonesian quake
Flickrite twaooe has posted several images from this morning's earthquake in Indonesia. No notes have been included with the images, but the context is unmistakable.
Here's a link »
Here's where you can give:
Doctors without Borders (MSF) Save the Children
Here's a link »
Here's where you can give:
shake it up
I once met a seismologist who had never experienced an earthquake. He was in his mid-50s at the time.
We were at a dinner party, and this bit of information came up in the stream of conversation. As I pressed him for more information -- thinking it wonderfully ironic, and expecting he'd see some humor in it too -- he confessed that he had actually been in several small earthquakes, but had failed to feel them.
And he didn't see anything funny about it.
Cluing into his discomfort I let up on the questioning and we moved on to the next topic, but I think of this fellow periodically.
There's something mournful about his condition: A facet of his life's work is completely outside of his experience, and he can do very little to acquire that experience. You can certainly travel to earthquake prone areas -- he lived in one actually, the dinner party was in Seattle, and although that area isn't hit with the same frequency as the SF Bay Area, it's not uncommon for small tremblers to roll through on occasion -- but you can't schedule a meeting with an earthquake, or take a course. It's going to happen with or without you, and it won't be issuing invitations before the event.
But that's not so much what happened here. He was there; the earth shook; he didn't feel it.
A little like stepping out in the middle of the movie to use the restroom, and missing the one subtle scene that binds the whole film together.
[update] ah crap. about an hour after I posted this I got word of the earthquake in Central Java. at this writing the Guardian is putting the death toll at over 2,900. not the kind of synchronicity I'm keen on.
when the earth moves, she moves.
Save the Children is taking donations to help out -- I'm sure there are others as well.
We were at a dinner party, and this bit of information came up in the stream of conversation. As I pressed him for more information -- thinking it wonderfully ironic, and expecting he'd see some humor in it too -- he confessed that he had actually been in several small earthquakes, but had failed to feel them.
And he didn't see anything funny about it.
Cluing into his discomfort I let up on the questioning and we moved on to the next topic, but I think of this fellow periodically.
There's something mournful about his condition: A facet of his life's work is completely outside of his experience, and he can do very little to acquire that experience. You can certainly travel to earthquake prone areas -- he lived in one actually, the dinner party was in Seattle, and although that area isn't hit with the same frequency as the SF Bay Area, it's not uncommon for small tremblers to roll through on occasion -- but you can't schedule a meeting with an earthquake, or take a course. It's going to happen with or without you, and it won't be issuing invitations before the event.
But that's not so much what happened here. He was there; the earth shook; he didn't feel it.
A little like stepping out in the middle of the movie to use the restroom, and missing the one subtle scene that binds the whole film together.
[update] ah crap. about an hour after I posted this I got word of the earthquake in Central Java. at this writing the Guardian is putting the death toll at over 2,900. not the kind of synchronicity I'm keen on.
when the earth moves, she moves.
Save the Children is taking donations to help out -- I'm sure there are others as well.
Friday, May 26, 2006
rearview
Seems I've burned through my 15 minutes of fame this week -- first there was the mention in the trades, then Gaper's Block, a local news and event blog in Chicago, posted one of my city pics as Tuesday's Rearview pick. Now THAT I can get excited about.
Here's the link »
Here's the link »
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
givin' it up for the guthrie
Docomomo sent an email petition around this afternoon to save the Guthrie Theatre in Minneapolis. The theatre company has moved out, and the new owner plans to tear down the Ralph Rapson structure this summer.If you have an interest in these things you may want to take a minute to add your name to the SAVE THE GUTHRIE petition (I’m #884), and while you’re visiting savetheguthrie.org you might want to give a read to the history of how the Guthrie came to be. It’s full of gems like these:
And if reading up on our man Guthrie makes you want to run right out and pick up a copy of his Life in the Theatre don’t bother with Amazon – it’s out of print. But Abebooks’ll do ya just fine – you might even be able to find a gently used first edition, like I did, for under $10. (And that includes shipping.) »
There was a strong sentiment among the design committee members for having Rapson plan a flexible theater that could accommodate both the classical types of production Guthrie championed and the more profitable Broadway productions that local booking agencies wished to attract.
The very idea of a house that was equipped to handle both types of productions infuriated Guthrie. He had eschewed New York in favor of Minneapolis in order to get away from the large Broadway production mentality. "He didn't want a house designed to accommodate Bob Hope's touring show. He thought an all-purpose theater was a no-purpose theater."
Guthrie argued that many of the plays he intended to mount -- ones written before the mid-seventeenth century -- had been written for the open stage. This suggested that the theater could be "considerably more flexible than might appear to the lay mind." Further, he contended, "more people can be got into the same amount of cubic space if they are seated around an open stage, rather than facing a proscenium." But this did not mean he wanted a theater-in-the-round, preferring instead to give his actors one wall against which to play.
Most important to Guthrie was the option of seating as many people as close to the action as possible, creating an intimacy that would help audiences "participate" in the production. Comfort was of secondary value. He even suggested that Rapson design the seats to tilt forward so that people would be on edge, alert. At another point, for the same reason, he proposed that the seats be little more than wooden benches.
Rapson was able to jettison both the tilted-seat and wooden-bench ideas, but he struggled more seriously with Guthrie about the spacing of rows. Rapson proposed that the distance between the seat-back in front of a viewer and that viewer's own seat-back be thirty-four inches, the prevailing standard. Guthrie balked: "How about thirty? People need to be packed together, just uncomfortable enough to pay attention." Rapson rejoined that when he and Guthrie attended performances together something Guthrie had suggested as a way of exposing the architect to different types of productions Guthrie always positioned himself on the aisle so he could stretch his legs. Guthrie grumbled but eventually agreed to thirty-two inches.
bookends
In what rates as one of the more surreal moments of my life a trade publication has taken an interest in my recent job change – enough of an interest to post the news to their home page for 24 hours, and send it out as part of a blast email campaign.
I suspect this is one of those purely speculative pieces. My former employer is a well established, privately-held cataloger and any news from an organization that doesn’t talk is, well, news – especially when it makes folks wonder WTF is going on at the company.
Had Internet Retailer called me for comment I could have given them the skinny. Matter of fact, here's my rewrite:
I suspect this is one of those purely speculative pieces. My former employer is a well established, privately-held cataloger and any news from an organization that doesn’t talk is, well, news – especially when it makes folks wonder WTF is going on at the company.
Had Internet Retailer called me for comment I could have given them the skinny. Matter of fact, here's my rewrite:
In a bid to lose the extra pounds she’s packed on since her employer relocated their offices from Chicago’s River North neighborhood to the far Northern suburb of Niles, suttonhoo (not her real name) has opted to trade in her 4 hour daily commute for a pleasant 40 minute round trip commuting to an Internet consultancy in Chicago’s Southwest suburbs.I changed jobs to tend to the bookends: To bolster those morning and evening spaces with second cups of coffee; thoughts about nothing in particular and everything at all; shared conversations and kisses -- all the little things that are required to make those bookends stand firm so that the passages they support aren't in danger of sliding off the shelf.
In the 3+ hours that she expects to gain each day she’s resolved to shoot more photos, write more stuff, and build a site or two for friends, as well as spend more time with her darlin’ companion, who was the reason she moved to the impossibly flat Chicagoland in the first place.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
flores man
A few months back I sat in on a lecture by Provost Bob Martin of the Field Museum, re the Flores Man controversy. He and his colleagues were of the opinion that the Flores Man was not a new species as some have theorized, but a human who suffered from microcephaly. He made a compelling case, and was supported by an anthropologist, also in attendance, who specialized in the tools of early man.
I found the presentation compelling, but didn't blog on it because of a subsequent conversation with a friend of mine who held the opposite opinion entirely -- and passionately -- and really knew his stuff.
I still don't feel equipped to put an opinion out there, but Martin's piece was sufficiently difficult to find online so I thought I would at least perform the public service of publishing a link to the technical comments, published this last Friday in Science »
And here's a link to a summary piece that's a little bit more accessible »
I found the presentation compelling, but didn't blog on it because of a subsequent conversation with a friend of mine who held the opposite opinion entirely -- and passionately -- and really knew his stuff.
I still don't feel equipped to put an opinion out there, but Martin's piece was sufficiently difficult to find online so I thought I would at least perform the public service of publishing a link to the technical comments, published this last Friday in Science »
And here's a link to a summary piece that's a little bit more accessible »
kamin on trump
I think it's better than anybody expected of Trump, but I don't know if that's going to be good enough.Blair Kamin, Architecture Critic for the Chicago Tribune, paraphrased in passing yesterday, when asked what he thought about the gi-normous Trump Tower under construction on the former site of the Chicago Sun Times on a prime spot alongside the Chicago River.
80,000 roses
On the 5th of May 80,000 roses were distributed by school children around Austria to commemorate the loss of 80,000 Austrian lives to Nazi genocide. Where an address was known, a rose was placed outside the door with a note.
The German-language website, A Letter to the Stars, is here »
I learned of the initiative on Flickr, where Dan65 and his wife received a rose in honor of Rosa Figdor. Her story is here »
The German-language website, A Letter to the Stars, is here »
I learned of the initiative on Flickr, where Dan65 and his wife received a rose in honor of Rosa Figdor. Her story is here »
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
warrior crafter
This is for two of my favorite crafty girls, opiliones and enyasi, from today's New York Times story about a Peruvian mummy -- a woman, a warrior, and a crafter -- dating back to 450 BCE:
A Peruvian Woman of A.D. 450 Seems to Have Had Two Careers in today's New York Times.
The most striking aspect of the discovery, archaeologists said yesterday, is not the offerings of gold and semiprecious stones, or the elaborate wrapping of her body in fine textiles, but the other grave goods.
She was surrounded by weaving materials and needles, befitting a woman, and 2 ceremonial war clubs and 28 spear throwers -- sticks that propel spears with far greater force -- items never found before in the burial of a woman of the Moche.
A Peruvian Woman of A.D. 450 Seems to Have Had Two Careers in today's New York Times.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
feelin’ liminal
“The liminal state is characterized by ambiguity, openness, and indeterminacy. One’s sense of identity dissolves to some extent, bringing about disorientation. Liminality is a period of transition, during which your normal limits to thought, self-understanding, and behavior are relaxed, opening the way to something new.”
Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia
Last day at my old job today. Start a new gig tomorrow.
Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia
Last day at my old job today. Start a new gig tomorrow.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
saint kevin's glendalough
Tower at Glendalough, a ruined monastery south of Dublin that is the former domain of Saint Kevin -- which is a saint's name that, I'm embarrassed to admit, makes me giggle a little. I'm not sure why.
(I mean Francis or Patrick or Claire -- sure, those make sense. But Kevin? Kevin's the jock sprawled over the keg.)
Apparently he was a stubborn guy: According to the Patron Saints Index while praying during Lent with his hands outstretched a blackbird laid an egg in his palm. He kept his hand right where it was until the egg hatched.
(I mean Francis or Patrick or Claire -- sure, those make sense. But Kevin? Kevin's the jock sprawled over the keg.)
Apparently he was a stubborn guy: According to the Patron Saints Index while praying during Lent with his hands outstretched a blackbird laid an egg in his palm. He kept his hand right where it was until the egg hatched.
house
Because the writing reminds me of West Wing when Sorkin was still around, and the main guy (Hugh Laurie) plays an insufferable crank (I have a thing for curmudgeons) who, yeah, has baby blues that you could swim for days in, and the diagnostic puzzles that bind up every episode are just so much fun -- that's why I'm loving this new show House.Gratefully, it managed to pick up a Peabody a little while back which helps (somewhat) mitigate that crush-striken teen feeling that's just downright embarrassing.
Friday, May 12, 2006
here lieth
Here lieth the Body of Francis Kehoe Dep. July 28th 1786 Aged 102 yr. Lord have mercy on his Soul
Amen
Grave marker at the ruined monastery of Glendalough, Ireland.
Amen
Grave marker at the ruined monastery of Glendalough, Ireland.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
hat trick
This is (only one reason) why I need my brothers -- to teach me things that I would otherwise have absolutely no clue about. Recent email thread with one of my brothers re my niece, his daughter:
bro: ...She scored a hat trick 2 weekends ago in her soccer game. They changed their names from the Pink Ponies to the Tigers this year...
me: cool beans. what's a hat trick?
bro: Three goals in one game. The other team scored four so she was a little miffed no one was helping her score goals. I pulled up Wikipedia for the origin if you're interested.
No word on whether sweet Megan got to take the ball home.
bro: ...She scored a hat trick 2 weekends ago in her soccer game. They changed their names from the Pink Ponies to the Tigers this year...
me: cool beans. what's a hat trick?
bro: Three goals in one game. The other team scored four so she was a little miffed no one was helping her score goals. I pulled up Wikipedia for the origin if you're interested.
Football (soccer)
A hat-trick occurs in football when a player scores three goals in a single game.
In most professional games the scorer of the hat-trick is allowed to return home with the match ball as a souvenir.
Some regard a "true", or "perfect" hat-trick as one where the player scores with both feet and their head in the same match (or less commonly by a header, leg shot, and penalty or free kick), though this is obviously very rare. The most common definition of a "true" hat-trick is where a player scores three goals in the same half of the match. Yet another definition, known in Germany, Belgium and Norway, is that the player scores three goals in the same net without anyone else scoring between the player's first and third goal, a "flawless" hat-trick.
Scoring two goals in the same match is also commonly known as a "brace".
No word on whether sweet Megan got to take the ball home.
the importance of place
Q. What do you value in the world above all else?
A. I value friends, family, and place.
Irish photographer Christy McNamara in the Aer Lingus inflight magazine
A. I value friends, family, and place.
Irish photographer Christy McNamara in the Aer Lingus inflight magazine
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
copyedit
From an obituary in this morning's NY Times re the French anthropologist Jacqueline Roumeguere, who married a Masai warrior:
At the time of her death, Ms. Roumeguerr-Eberhardt had just finished translating another memoir into English. Originally titled "The Six Wives of My Husband", it was amended to "The Nine Wives of My Husband" when he married three more women.
san francisco real estate, 1944
In May of 1944, just after she'd had her first child (my mother) and while her husband was at sea with the Merchant Marines, my grandmother was evicted from the apartment she was renting in San Franciso because the landlady didn't like kids. She was sharing the apartment with her girlfriend Chic, who had also just had a child, and whose husband, a recent Stanford grad, was off at basic training. They were unable to find another rental: "We got the same response every place we went. 'No children regardless of age'."
So they pooled together a $250 down payment and bought a house at 2837 Ortega Street, near 36th Avenue. According to Zillow, that house is still standing. Built in 1943, my grandmother tells me that the two-bedroom single bath at that time went for $5,250, with monthly payments of $37.02. Today Zillow values that house at $692K -- a bargain on a block of million-dollar+ homes. (And, if you're wondering: Yep. My grandparents bought out Chic's share, and then sold the house a few years later to buy their business in Mill Valley.)
Here's the Zillow link for the curious »
I pulled these details from a book that my grandmother has written for her children and grandchildren that will soon be self-published.
So they pooled together a $250 down payment and bought a house at 2837 Ortega Street, near 36th Avenue. According to Zillow, that house is still standing. Built in 1943, my grandmother tells me that the two-bedroom single bath at that time went for $5,250, with monthly payments of $37.02. Today Zillow values that house at $692K -- a bargain on a block of million-dollar+ homes. (And, if you're wondering: Yep. My grandparents bought out Chic's share, and then sold the house a few years later to buy their business in Mill Valley.)
Here's the Zillow link for the curious »
I pulled these details from a book that my grandmother has written for her children and grandchildren that will soon be self-published.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
guinness good for you
One of the original ads for Guinness Stout reads:
Advertising, Baby. Branding pure and simple. And I paid for the privilege.
We were on the tourist circuit in Dublin, and visited every museum known to man. No where else did we queue for 20 minutes. No where else did we push through crowds like we did at the Storehouse. No where else did we lay down €28 for the privilege. No where else did we see so many smiling faces.
Did I mention the library where you could read up or listen to audio lectures on how to avoid a hangover or why beer is good for your health? It was packed.
I spend a lot of time (probably too much time -- fortunately, much of it is compensated) thinking about branding and merchandising, so the part of me that wasn't baffled tried to parse the stories, displays and exhibits to better understand why people connected so deeply and affectionately to this product.
Turns out all I really needed to do to understand it better was spend a little time in a pub with a pint of my own, good music playing, and my darlin' companion close by.
By the time I hit the bottom of that first pint it had become perfectly clear.
ITS NOURISHING PROPERTIESWe queued 20 minutes and paid €14 (per head) to visit the Guinness Storehouse – pardon me – the GUINNESS Storehouse – in Dublin where we spiraled up five stories in a slow crawl along with the rest of humanity to learn all about the manufacture, marketing and distribution of Ireland’s most famous stout – with time to spare on the tail end to grab a “free” pint and take a spin through the gift shop.
Guinness is one of the most nourishing beverages, richer in carbo-hydrates than a glass of milk. That is one reason why it is so good when people are tired or exhausted.
Advertising, Baby. Branding pure and simple. And I paid for the privilege.
We were on the tourist circuit in Dublin, and visited every museum known to man. No where else did we queue for 20 minutes. No where else did we push through crowds like we did at the Storehouse. No where else did we lay down €28 for the privilege. No where else did we see so many smiling faces.
Did I mention the library where you could read up or listen to audio lectures on how to avoid a hangover or why beer is good for your health? It was packed.
I spend a lot of time (probably too much time -- fortunately, much of it is compensated) thinking about branding and merchandising, so the part of me that wasn't baffled tried to parse the stories, displays and exhibits to better understand why people connected so deeply and affectionately to this product.
Turns out all I really needed to do to understand it better was spend a little time in a pub with a pint of my own, good music playing, and my darlin' companion close by.
By the time I hit the bottom of that first pint it had become perfectly clear.
finn's hotel
I shot this right near the spot where Nora Barnacle was walking when she was approached by James Joyce on June 10, 1904.
She had just gotten off work at Finn's Hotel, where she was employed as a chambermaid. Six days later they would meet again (and snog some), and the fateful date for Ulysses (and Bloomsday) was set: June 16th.
It should be noted that Joyce was a bit indiscriminate in his attentions: He tried the same brazen approach the following day with another young woman -- but this other gal was accompanied by a male companion who beat the tar out of Joyce. The stranger, a fellow Dubliner who happened to be a Jew, helped Joyce clean up afterwards; he would become the model for Leopold Bloom.
She had just gotten off work at Finn's Hotel, where she was employed as a chambermaid. Six days later they would meet again (and snog some), and the fateful date for Ulysses (and Bloomsday) was set: June 16th.
It should be noted that Joyce was a bit indiscriminate in his attentions: He tried the same brazen approach the following day with another young woman -- but this other gal was accompanied by a male companion who beat the tar out of Joyce. The stranger, a fellow Dubliner who happened to be a Jew, helped Joyce clean up afterwards; he would become the model for Leopold Bloom.
Monday, May 08, 2006
may day
The monument to Altgeld at Chicago's Graceland Cemetery is inscribed with statements and speeches that he made during his lifetime. Altgeld was the Governor of Illinois who pardoned the folks (those who weren't hanged) who were convicted following the Haymarket Tragedy -- as Prof. William Adelman called it in a lecture that I caught this last Sunday.
The folks who were there at the Haymarket were advocating for the eight hour day or, more concisely: "Eight hours for work; eight hours for sleep; and eight hours for what we will."
One of the individuals pardoned many years later by Altgeld had been convicted to 15 years of hard labor in Joliet for donating $2 toward the purchase of the printing press that was used to print the flyers advertising the event. He was not present at the Haymarket that night. The fellow who actually printed the flyers was hanged. He wasn't there either.
This side of Altgeld's monument reads:
Around here we don't talk about it much at all.
The folks who were there at the Haymarket were advocating for the eight hour day or, more concisely: "Eight hours for work; eight hours for sleep; and eight hours for what we will."
One of the individuals pardoned many years later by Altgeld had been convicted to 15 years of hard labor in Joliet for donating $2 toward the purchase of the printing press that was used to print the flyers advertising the event. He was not present at the Haymarket that night. The fellow who actually printed the flyers was hanged. He wasn't there either.
This side of Altgeld's monument reads:
The doctrine that 'might makes right' has covered the earth with misery. While it crushes the weak, it also destroys the strong. Every deception, every cruelty, everyEvery industrialized nation in the world, with the exception of the US and Canada, celebrate May 1st as Labor Day. In Mexico they call it the Day of the Chicago Martyrs.
wrong, reaches back sooner or later and crushes its author. Justice is moral health, bringing happiness; wrong is moral disease bringing moral death.
Around here we don't talk about it much at all.
Saturday, May 06, 2006
architecture in the city
Kicked off a four-week course this morning with Blair Kamin, the architecture critic for the Chicago Tribune. First stop: Millennium Park (is it possible to get tired of that big, beautiful Bean?), followed by the Glessner House at 1800 Prairie Ave South.
Seeing the Glessner was interesting in the wake of the Ireland trip. Designed by Henry Hobson Richardson between 1885 and 1887 for the Scottsman Glessner, it’s a lovely merger of Scotts practicality and the Arts & Crafts movement, both inside and out (a couple of rooms are festooned in Morris-patterned wallpaper -- an unexpected treat). There's also a sweet hint of neo-celtic motifs bubbling through -- the house is a contemporary with W.B. Yeats after all, and with the Irish nationalism that was finding its voice around that time. (Ask me if I would even have noticed that if I hadn't just returned from Dublin.) One obvious example: A Celtic Tree of Life symbol decorates the archway over the front door.
The structure itself is particularly cool because it’s clearly granddaddy to so many of the great ideas that Sullivan and Wright will soon express in their architecture. I’d call the arch over the front door Sullivanesque if it didn’t pre-date Louis – maybe it’s more accurate to say that Sullivan’s arches are Richardson-esque. And he also played a little trick with the street – bricking it off to buffer the family from the mess and the noise – something FLW will be all about once he gets rolling in his work.
Another piece of random trivia that made me happy: Richardson was good buddies with Frederick Law Olmsted, the designer of Central Park in NYC and the UC at Berkeley campus. (I'm a big fan.)
Of course, next Saturday, if the sun is shining like it was today, I’ll be certain to bring the sunscreen and turn periodically like a steak on the grill so I don’t come away with only one half of my face sunburned, like I did today. (Yeah, if you're wondering, I do look like an idiot.)
Seeing the Glessner was interesting in the wake of the Ireland trip. Designed by Henry Hobson Richardson between 1885 and 1887 for the Scottsman Glessner, it’s a lovely merger of Scotts practicality and the Arts & Crafts movement, both inside and out (a couple of rooms are festooned in Morris-patterned wallpaper -- an unexpected treat). There's also a sweet hint of neo-celtic motifs bubbling through -- the house is a contemporary with W.B. Yeats after all, and with the Irish nationalism that was finding its voice around that time. (Ask me if I would even have noticed that if I hadn't just returned from Dublin.) One obvious example: A Celtic Tree of Life symbol decorates the archway over the front door.
The structure itself is particularly cool because it’s clearly granddaddy to so many of the great ideas that Sullivan and Wright will soon express in their architecture. I’d call the arch over the front door Sullivanesque if it didn’t pre-date Louis – maybe it’s more accurate to say that Sullivan’s arches are Richardson-esque. And he also played a little trick with the street – bricking it off to buffer the family from the mess and the noise – something FLW will be all about once he gets rolling in his work.
Another piece of random trivia that made me happy: Richardson was good buddies with Frederick Law Olmsted, the designer of Central Park in NYC and the UC at Berkeley campus. (I'm a big fan.)
Of course, next Saturday, if the sun is shining like it was today, I’ll be certain to bring the sunscreen and turn periodically like a steak on the grill so I don’t come away with only one half of my face sunburned, like I did today. (Yeah, if you're wondering, I do look like an idiot.)
John J. Glessner House
1800 S. Prairie Ave
Chicago, IL
1885-1887, Henry Hobson Richardson
stardust memories
The Stardust in Las Vegas, which opened in 1958, is scheduled for demolition next Spring. The Desert Inn, a veteran from 1950 on the Vegas strip, came down in 2001. The Boardwalk (1964) will be dust and rubble tomorrow.
So it sounds like Vegas is going the way of the cheap ballgame -- another pastime that, at $50+ a seat, is no longer within reach of folks like my Grandpa Schufman who attended the Yankees/Dodgers World Series with religious fervor (when the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn) and logged every hit, ball, strike and foul. (You'll have to ask my brother which series -- and whether it was in the 40s or the 50s -- he's the one with the scorecard and ticket stubs framed behind glass hanging over his desk.)
Are we really so swank as a general population that we can afford nothing but posh when it's time to blow off a little steam?
Las Vegas "was known as the capital of cheap rooms and cheap food," said Alan Feldman, a spokesman for MGM Mirage, the giant hotel and casino company developing the Boardwalk site. "It was known as the capital of the cheap vacation -- and you got what you paid for. We used to give coupons books for free drinks and two-for-one buffet. Now we have 300-thread-count sheets and turn-down service."Vegas isn't my playground -- I play my poker at home with folks I know because the tell is all and I'm lame at figuring out strangers -- but cheap vacations for Middle America matter to me. My grandparents were married in Reno, on a day-trip out of San Francisco, where they returned after an afternoon at the slots to conceive my mother, and then six more kids over time. And Reno was the place they returned, when they had a minute between raising their brood in Sonoma and running their business out of Mill Valley -- all geographies that are far out of reach of folks with moderate incomes anymore.
From No More Cheap Shrimp Cocktail in this morning's New York Times
So it sounds like Vegas is going the way of the cheap ballgame -- another pastime that, at $50+ a seat, is no longer within reach of folks like my Grandpa Schufman who attended the Yankees/Dodgers World Series with religious fervor (when the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn) and logged every hit, ball, strike and foul. (You'll have to ask my brother which series -- and whether it was in the 40s or the 50s -- he's the one with the scorecard and ticket stubs framed behind glass hanging over his desk.)
Are we really so swank as a general population that we can afford nothing but posh when it's time to blow off a little steam?
"They're pushing out the more moderate-income person," Mrs. Aynseworth, [a retiree from Torrance, Calif],
said. "Aren't they the people who helped build Las Vegas?"
NYT
Friday, May 05, 2006
like currents through my head
I haven’t traveled to Italy, but I’m told by friends who have that they love the wide open passionate love of life expressed by the Italians they’ve met and observed on their travels. The being unafraid to say it out loud -- and loudly -– to care and ache and weep and love.
Having just returned from Dublin I feel an appreciation a little bit like that for the bald love that I saw there for language and music and melody. As an American I love these things in secret; I finger them in private; I share my love with a few friends and when we’re together our conversation shifts in pitch like initiates sharing a secret handshake. In America to be too fond of words is to be a little too precious, a little effete -- and we’re nothing if NOT that here in America, goddammit.
So here’s a treasure, from the poetry of Brendan Kennelly, found this last week while traveling in the lovely Éire. Here is what I’m fingering now in the quiet of my room at night.
Having just returned from Dublin I feel an appreciation a little bit like that for the bald love that I saw there for language and music and melody. As an American I love these things in secret; I finger them in private; I share my love with a few friends and when we’re together our conversation shifts in pitch like initiates sharing a secret handshake. In America to be too fond of words is to be a little too precious, a little effete -- and we’re nothing if NOT that here in America, goddammit.
So here’s a treasure, from the poetry of Brendan Kennelly, found this last week while traveling in the lovely Éire. Here is what I’m fingering now in the quiet of my room at night.
bridge
and in the dark to lean across
like a bridge over a river on whose bed
stones are untroubled by what passes
overhead
and kiss the sleep in your body
with I love you I love you
like currents through my head
that is closer to deep water now
than at any time of the day
Brendan Kennelly
A Time for Voices: Selected Poems 1960-1990
Thursday, May 04, 2006
in the company of roomkeepers
The lettering on this building, just outside the gates to Dublin Castle, reads "Sick & Indigent Roomkeepers Society. Founded A.D. 1790"
As to what kind of society sick and indigent roomkeepers kept, your guess is as good as mine.
(Although I suspect it was folks like these who were responsible for the sick and indigent part »)
As to what kind of society sick and indigent roomkeepers kept, your guess is as good as mine.
(Although I suspect it was folks like these who were responsible for the sick and indigent part »)
the still point of detachment
Flying home to Chicago out of Dublin yesterday, I finally sat down with the book I meant to read before the trip -- How the Irish Saved Western Civilization -- and hit on this passage, a reference to the Celts and the color of their world prior to St. Patrick’s reshaping of it. It captures beautifully that sense of something lost –- the faint memory that hangs around Irish literature and history and music (or seems to, to an outsider like me) –- like that feeling you get when you’re napping in the soft breeze of an open window and your friend’s voice calls to you from the street below; but before you can shake off the sleep and respond, he’s gone.
Fixity escaped these people, as in the end it escapes us all. They understood, as few have understood before or since, how fleeting life is and how pointless to try to hold on to things or people.
They pursued the wondrous deed, the heroic gesture: fighting, fucking, drinking, art –- poetry for intense emotion, the music that accompanied the heroic drinking with which each day ended, bewitching ornament for one’s person and possessions.
All these are worth pursuit, and the first, especially, will bring the honor great souls seek. But in the midst of this furious swirl of energy lies a still point of detachment. When in the heat of battle, the bloodied messenger informs Medb timidly that Chuchulainn has beheaded her son, she responds, “This isn’t like catching birds,” as we might say, “you didn’t think this would be a picnic, did you?”
The face of the Dying Gaul speaks for them all: each one of us will die, naked and alone, on some battlefield not of our own choosing. My promise of undying faithfulness to you and yours to me, though made with all solemnity, is unlikely to survive the tricks that fate has in store – all the hidden land mines that beset human life. What we can rely on are the comeliness and iron virtue of the short-lived hero: his loyalty to cause and comrades, his bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, the gargantuan generosity with which he scatters his possessions and his person and with which he spills his blood.
After the assassination of John F. Kennedy, Daniel Patrick Moynihan was heard to say that to be Irish is to know that in the end the world will break your heart.
Thomas Cahill in How the Irish Saved Western Civilization: The Untold Story of Ireland's Heroic Role from the Fall of Rome to the Rise of Medieval Europe
dinner in dublin
On the cab ride into Dublin I asked the driver if he could recommend any good places to eat, and he suggested that we check out any one of many Chinese restaurants to have recently sprouted up around town.
Not what I expected to hear, driving into Dublin for the first time ever.
Turns out the rate of immigration from China to Ireland in the last three or four years has been sizeable.
Having spent plenty of time devouring asian cuisine I should have known better than to order the steamed seabass in a ginger and blackbean sauce. Of course the bass would come fully intact. But of course, once I got past my aversion to seeing my dinner staring up at me, it would be delicious.
Not what I expected to hear, driving into Dublin for the first time ever.
Turns out the rate of immigration from China to Ireland in the last three or four years has been sizeable.
Having spent plenty of time devouring asian cuisine I should have known better than to order the steamed seabass in a ginger and blackbean sauce. Of course the bass would come fully intact. But of course, once I got past my aversion to seeing my dinner staring up at me, it would be delicious.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
beckett at the gate
"The greatest weapon the English ever gave the Irish was their own language."
Placard at the Writer's Museum in Dublin
Beckett Festival on in Dublin to celebrate the 100th anniversary of his birth. Caught a great showing of Play and Catastrophe this evening -- also the last night of the Festival. More on that later. Earlier today read up on Beckett in the Writer's Museum and learned that, having emigrated to Paris, he had difficulty returning home to Dublin -- to the point of experiencing physical pain and sickness.
Placard at the Writer's Museum in Dublin
Beckett Festival on in Dublin to celebrate the 100th anniversary of his birth. Caught a great showing of Play and Catastrophe this evening -- also the last night of the Festival. More on that later. Earlier today read up on Beckett in the Writer's Museum and learned that, having emigrated to Paris, he had difficulty returning home to Dublin -- to the point of experiencing physical pain and sickness.
don't go looking
"Don't go looking for anything; let it find you. The people are the music."
The gentleman from Wicklow as we boarded our Aer Lingus flight bound for Dublin when I asked him, mid-way into our chat, where I would find the music in Ireland.
The gentleman from Wicklow as we boarded our Aer Lingus flight bound for Dublin when I asked him, mid-way into our chat, where I would find the music in Ireland.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
random irish trivia
In Ireland, artists and musicians are excused from paying taxes. Or so a Welshman told me. (He was a musician, and a bit envious.)
Sunday, April 23, 2006
easily amazed by alphabets
Speaking of puppies: My earliest memory of being amazed was when I was 5 years old, and my mom had just finished reading the Pokey Little Puppy to me in the front room of our little house on East Spain Street in Sonoma, just off the Plaza. This was in the early 70s when rents were still cheap in Sonoma -- even just off the Plaza. (Today that little house is a chichi boutique that caters to wine country tourists -- back then there were some serious hippy happenings going on.)
I probably don’t have to tell you that The Pokey Little Puppy is a Little Golden Book. This edition had an illustration on the back with all of the characters from all of the Little Golden Books doing all kinds of clever things as they more or less danced their way through the letters of the alphabet, which bordered the back cover. For all I know they’re still printing them this way.
I asked her what the letters were, and from there a conversation unfolded that made my five-year old mind explode.
I learned that they were the letters of the alphabet, and that there were 26 of them. (This was a number I could understand: I had counted to 50 for the first time not long before that.) I learned that they were not only THE letters of the alphabet; they were ALL the letters of the alphabet. And I learned that every single word inside the book we had just read had been made up of different combinations of these very same letters.
I didn’t believe her: No way could all those different words be made up of only these few letters. So I took the book outside (we were hippies: this was allowed) and started to hunt through it – trying to find a new letter; one that didn't make it to the back of the book.
Never found it.
So knowing now that I’m easily amazed, as well as a little bit of a hippy-naturalist-type, maybe you’ll forgive me for thinking this next piece is one of the most interesting things I’ve read in a while. A group of folks at the California Institute of Technology think they've figured out what all of the world's alphabets share in common -- and it's topographical:
If you didn't catch all that (and I'm not sure I have, yet), you can read the whole write up online at The Telegraph, or you can wait until the CalTech team publishes their paper next month in the American Naturalist.
I probably don’t have to tell you that The Pokey Little Puppy is a Little Golden Book. This edition had an illustration on the back with all of the characters from all of the Little Golden Books doing all kinds of clever things as they more or less danced their way through the letters of the alphabet, which bordered the back cover. For all I know they’re still printing them this way.
I asked her what the letters were, and from there a conversation unfolded that made my five-year old mind explode.
I learned that they were the letters of the alphabet, and that there were 26 of them. (This was a number I could understand: I had counted to 50 for the first time not long before that.) I learned that they were not only THE letters of the alphabet; they were ALL the letters of the alphabet. And I learned that every single word inside the book we had just read had been made up of different combinations of these very same letters.
I didn’t believe her: No way could all those different words be made up of only these few letters. So I took the book outside (we were hippies: this was allowed) and started to hunt through it – trying to find a new letter; one that didn't make it to the back of the book.
Never found it.
So knowing now that I’m easily amazed, as well as a little bit of a hippy-naturalist-type, maybe you’ll forgive me for thinking this next piece is one of the most interesting things I’ve read in a while. A group of folks at the California Institute of Technology think they've figured out what all of the world's alphabets share in common -- and it's topographical:
The team set out to explore the idea that the visual signs we use [including alphabetic forms] have been selected, whatever the culture, to reflect common contours, landscapes and shapes in natural scenes that human brains have evolved to be good at seeing.*** Across 115 writing systems to emerge over human history, varying in number of characters from about 10 to 200, the average number of strokes per character is approximately three and does not appear to vary as a function of writing system size. Sticking to letters that can be drawn with three strokes or fewer, the team found that about 36 distinct characters is the universe of letters in a theoretical alphabet.
Remarkably, the study revealed regularities in the distribution of (topological) shapes across approximately 100 phonemic (non-logographic) writing systems, where characters stand for sounds, and across symbols. "Whether you use Chinese or physics symbols, the shapes that are common in one are common in the others," said Dr Changizi.*** They analysed the frequency of the shapes in 27 photographs of savannas and tribal life, 40 miscellaneous photographs of rural and small-town life and 40 computer-generated images of buildings. Much to their surprise, whether analysing the shapes in an urban landscape, or those in a leafy wilderness, they had very similar distributions of configurations and shapes.
Most striking of all, the team found a high correlation between the most common contour combinations found in nature and the most common contours found in letters and symbols across cultures. For example, contours resembling an "L" or "X" are more common in both human visual signs and natural scenes than anything resembling an asterisk (*).
When the popularity of each shape was plotted, a wiggly curve emerged that closely matched that of the popularity of the forms and architectures found in nature: the most common letter shapes mirrored common real-world shapes.
If you didn't catch all that (and I'm not sure I have, yet), you can read the whole write up online at The Telegraph, or you can wait until the CalTech team publishes their paper next month in the American Naturalist.
puppies sell product
I worked for a VP of Marketing once upon a time who would punctuate every third conversation with his firm belief that: “puppies sell product”.
I found it curious at the time, because we didn’t use (or have a good reason to use) puppies in our advertising. But today I’m reading Rob Walker’s column Consumed in the NYT Magazine, and it appears that my old boss would have been very successful selling wine:
For the critter-curious, here's a link to Walker’s column »
I found it curious at the time, because we didn’t use (or have a good reason to use) puppies in our advertising. But today I’m reading Rob Walker’s column Consumed in the NYT Magazine, and it appears that my old boss would have been very successful selling wine:
According to ACNielsen, the market-research company, 438 viable table-wine brands have been introduced in the past three years, and 18 percent — nearly one in five — feature an animal on the label. ‘Combined with existing critter labels,’ the firm said in summation of its research on this matter, ‘sales of critter-branded wine have reached more than $600 million.’I supposed they haven’t discovered anything that the folks over at Cute Overload didn’t already know. (Thanks, and eternal damnation, to litwit for turning me on to the C.O.)
For the critter-curious, here's a link to Walker’s column »
Saturday, April 22, 2006
happy earth day
Friday, April 21, 2006
checkmate
It's been my experience that each one of us is guaranteed a visit from humiliation in our proper turn. It often arrives without warning and is usually demeaning (which is why it's called humiliating).
So knowing that each one of us will get our fair share in the end, I'm baffled as to why anyone would elect to buy into it.
But there's no accounting for taste or tendencies: if you like the rough stuff, you can pay at auction for an opportunity to play chess with Garry Kasparov.
They're kicking off the bidding at $2K.
(photo credit: hyfen)
So knowing that each one of us will get our fair share in the end, I'm baffled as to why anyone would elect to buy into it.
But there's no accounting for taste or tendencies: if you like the rough stuff, you can pay at auction for an opportunity to play chess with Garry Kasparov.
They're kicking off the bidding at $2K.
(photo credit: hyfen)
the bed wars
If you're a business traveler you've probably encountered Westin's Heavenly Bed. It's pretty comfy. I was recently holed up at a conference in Palm Desert with a lousy bug, and the heavenly bed was the best part about it.
It's done very well for Westin's business -- they sell the amenities on the side and they've earned acclaims for improving the customer experience -- I was at a GEL dinner event last year at the Rainbow Room in NY where they picked up one of the first Copernican Awards for doing right by the customer.
But it seems that all that goodness comes at a cost.
The Heavenly Bed was introduced in 1999, "touching off the bed wars. Marriott, Crown Plaza and Hilton joined in, spending hundreds of millions on mattresses, feather-filled duvets, goose-down pillows and softer sheets." (NYT, 21 April 06) Alongside this heavenliness, additional ammenities have been introduced: fluffier bathrobes, a coffeepot in every room.
And it turns out there's a lot more to schlep, from the housekeeping side -- but Management forgot to do the numbers.
When did we lose sight of the space and time required to accomplish physical tasks? Has the reorientation of our working lives to the computer desktop -- where the physical clues of time and space are diminished -- wrecked our ability to intuit some simple, basic truths about the time it takes to get these things done?
But maybe this has nothing to do with that reorientation -- maybe it's just the same old story of the Man milking the little guy dry.
p.s. Full disclosure: I'm in Management.
It's done very well for Westin's business -- they sell the amenities on the side and they've earned acclaims for improving the customer experience -- I was at a GEL dinner event last year at the Rainbow Room in NY where they picked up one of the first Copernican Awards for doing right by the customer.
But it seems that all that goodness comes at a cost.
The Heavenly Bed was introduced in 1999, "touching off the bed wars. Marriott, Crown Plaza and Hilton joined in, spending hundreds of millions on mattresses, feather-filled duvets, goose-down pillows and softer sheets." (NYT, 21 April 06) Alongside this heavenliness, additional ammenities have been introduced: fluffier bathrobes, a coffeepot in every room.
And it turns out there's a lot more to schlep, from the housekeeping side -- but Management forgot to do the numbers.
The problem, housekeepers say, is not just a heavier mattress, but having to rush because they are assigned the same number of rooms as before while being required to deal with far more per room.Now, I love me a heavenly bed, but this makes me angry. Luxury hotels have done a good thing and created a great experience for their customers. Profits are up as a result. And yet they failed to figure out the simple mechanics: bigger bed, more sheets, feather beds, heavier comforters -- geez. Maybe, just maybe, it's gonna take some doing to turn these things around for the next visitor. Maybe, just maybe, we should calculate the human cost here and give our housekeepers a little more time to get the work done. After all: profits are up. We can cover the cost.*** Indeed, a union study based on statistics provided by the hotels has found that since 2002, when the amenities race began in earnest, the injury rate for housekeepers has climbed to 71 percent more than for all hotel workers, compared with 47 percent more beforehand.
NYT, 21 April 06
When did we lose sight of the space and time required to accomplish physical tasks? Has the reorientation of our working lives to the computer desktop -- where the physical clues of time and space are diminished -- wrecked our ability to intuit some simple, basic truths about the time it takes to get these things done?
But maybe this has nothing to do with that reorientation -- maybe it's just the same old story of the Man milking the little guy dry.
p.s. Full disclosure: I'm in Management.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
bill pulls a beasley
Maybe it’s unfair to draw the comparison -- I’m sure I’ll get used to Gates’ new frames before too long (they’re actually quite nice) -- but tonight when I caught a glimpse of him on the Daily Show, hanging out with Hu, I couldn’t shake the “separated at birth” moment: Bill Gates and Mrs. Beasley.
the ground under our feet
"Nothing is built on stone; all is built on sand, but we must build as if the sand were stone."
Jorge Luis Borges
Jorge Luis Borges
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
a river runs through it
Graphic Designer Richard Eckersley is dead at 65. In 1989 Mr. Eckersley made a radical departure from his signature restraint, shaking up the field with his design for Avital Ronell's ‘Telephone Book: Technology, Schizophrenia, Electric Speech,’ an unorthodox study of Jacques Derrida, Martin Heidegger and the philosophy of deconstruction. This was the first book Mr. Eckersley designed on the computer, using new page-making software programs to interpret the author's complex postmodern ideas typographically.Eleven examples of Mr. Eckersley’s book design are in the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum in New York. He won the Carl Herzog Prize for book design in 1994.
Although the stark black-and-white cover of this long vertical book was rather quiet, he radically dislodged the interior text from conventional settings, and the book’s layout sometimes upstages the text by deliberately impeding the act of reading, which is just what Ms. Ronell wanted. Throughout the book there are unexplained gaps and dislocations between sentences and paragraphs, forcing the reader to work at reading. On one page is a mirror image of the page that faces it. On another, snakelike trails of space that come from careless word spacing (called rivers) are intentionally employed. Some words are blurred to the point of being indecipherable; one line runs into another because of the exaggerated use of negative line-spacing.
Though some adventurous graphic designers were experimenting at the time with idiosyncratic computer type design, this was first attempt to apply a ‘deconstructivist style’ to a serious book.
If you love books, you might appreciate his obituary (from which the above is cited), published in today’s New York Times »
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
curse of the mummy
Mummy’s are back: King Tut’s coming to the Field Museum this Summer, and the Met in NY is putting on a show about Hatshepsut, the Queenly Pharaoh who met with such unkindness after her death.
Attended a lecture recently about the original dig that unearthed Tut, and mention was made of the fondness of the modern imagination for Mummy’s curses – which reminded me of one of the most entertaining footnotes I’ve ever come across:
Attended a lecture recently about the original dig that unearthed Tut, and mention was made of the fondness of the modern imagination for Mummy’s curses – which reminded me of one of the most entertaining footnotes I’ve ever come across:
In 1910, the British Egyptologist Douglass Murray is said to have been among the next to feel the curse [of Queen Hatshepsut]. An American treasure hunter approached him in Cairo, offering for sale one of several portions of Hatshepsut's multilayered mummy case. The American died before he could cash Murray's check. Three days later, Murray's gun exploded, blowing off most of his right hand. What remained turned gangrenous, requiring amputation of the entire arm at the elbow.Published in Charles Pellegrino’s Unearthing Atlantis in 1991, there’s not one good reason to believe that any of this is true. But doesn’t it make for a fun read?
En route to England with the sarcophagus, he received word via wireless telegraph that two of his closest friends and two of his servants had died suddenly. Upon arrival in England, he began to feel superstitious, and left Hatshepsut's case in the house of a girlfriend who had taken a fancy to it. The girlfriend soon came down with a mysterious wasting disease. Then her mother died suddenly. Her lawyer delivered the sarcophagus back to Murray, who promptly unloaded it on the British Museum.
The British Museum already had more sarcophagi than it needed. Not so, the American Museum of Natural History in New York; so a trade was arranged for Montana dinosaur bones. Before the deal was complete, the British Museum's director of Egyptology and his photographer were dead. Queen Hatshepsut was beginning to lose her charm.
The curators loaded the sarcophagus into a crate and saw it lowered into the hold of a ship. And on April 10, 1912, the ship sailed -- Southampton to New York. Hatshepsut departed for America on the Titanic.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Gentleman, 55.
Coming from one of the world's largest coal-producing regions, you'd expect me to litter this ad with clever references to coal and the decline of the coal industry and possibly some nostalgia about my father working in a coal mine and a few anecdotes about accidents and heroism and camaraderie and everyone supporting each other in times of coal-related hardship and crisis. Instead, I'd like to talk about my cats. Gentleman, 55. Likes cats. Box no. 06/07.
Personal Ad, London Review of Books, 6 April 2006
All box number replies should be sent to Box no. 06/07, London Review of Books, 28 Little Russell Street, London WC1A 2HN.
The folks at the London Review give away a bottle of Taittinger to the best ad of the week; box 07/04 won this last week with a reference to a mix up with industrial cleaners. Frankly, I thought this one was better.
Personal Ad, London Review of Books, 6 April 2006
All box number replies should be sent to Box no. 06/07, London Review of Books, 28 Little Russell Street, London WC1A 2HN.
The folks at the London Review give away a bottle of Taittinger to the best ad of the week; box 07/04 won this last week with a reference to a mix up with industrial cleaners. Frankly, I thought this one was better.
patriarch's passage
the cherry trees (the ones you loved)
bloomed early that year
the day before you left us
and then dropped their petals
to bid you goodbye
bloomed early that year
the day before you left us
and then dropped their petals
to bid you goodbye
Saturday, April 15, 2006
pesach & tenebrae
For the last few years I’ve celebrated Passover with a small group of Unitarians who grew up with some kind of Jewish heritage in their lives, or married into it. Most of the folks are humanists, in keeping with an old Unitarian tradition, and the Haggadah that’s used for the meal (changes a little every year) has a strong humanist bent.
This year the Telling focused on slavery and freedom – launching from the captivity of the Israelites in Egypt into ruminations about contemporary slavery, which is alive to this day: Figures from 2004 indicate that 27 million people are enslaved against their will. Most slaves are women and children.
Sobering.
The following night, Good Friday, we attended a Tenebrae service – another descent into the shadows. As a congregation we read together the invocation:
I don’t like it when people I love die. I don’t like when I’m leveled by a virus that weakens my body and taxes my brain. I don't like it when world news seems to be increasingly entropic. My impulse has been to look forward – up and out – moving through – an impulse to ignore the untidiness around me. But the last few days have given me an opportunity to reflect, frankly, on everything that sucks.
Not to wallow, but to reflect, here, in the dark and the gloom.
If you've ever sketched in charcoal you know what I mean: when shaping a form it's impossible to directly draw the surfaces where the light shines and reflects the brightest. The only way to show these things is to shade in the dark side of the form; it's then that the lit surfaces come into view. It's only by looking directly into the shadows that we can see things in their full dimensions.
There’s a beautiful Arabic proverb: “All sunshine makes a desert”. These dark times are the rains that, when they pass, will make the earth bloom.
This year the Telling focused on slavery and freedom – launching from the captivity of the Israelites in Egypt into ruminations about contemporary slavery, which is alive to this day: Figures from 2004 indicate that 27 million people are enslaved against their will. Most slaves are women and children.
Sobering.
The following night, Good Friday, we attended a Tenebrae service – another descent into the shadows. As a congregation we read together the invocation:
Fear, impatience, anger,I’ve always enjoyed this time of year, the hope and optimism of Easter Sunday, the flowering of Spring. But this year, given recent events, I appreciate this darkness that comes before the sunrise even more than I have in the past. The shadows have been shouting for my attention for the last few months – and in truth I’ve tried not too look.
Resentment, doubt, greed,
You are welcome here.
We will hold you until you soften.
We will love you until you begin to melt.
We will sing to you until you remember peace.
Darkness and sadness,
Loneliness and sorrow, Come.
We know you well.
You are welcome here.
I don’t like it when people I love die. I don’t like when I’m leveled by a virus that weakens my body and taxes my brain. I don't like it when world news seems to be increasingly entropic. My impulse has been to look forward – up and out – moving through – an impulse to ignore the untidiness around me. But the last few days have given me an opportunity to reflect, frankly, on everything that sucks.
Not to wallow, but to reflect, here, in the dark and the gloom.
If you've ever sketched in charcoal you know what I mean: when shaping a form it's impossible to directly draw the surfaces where the light shines and reflects the brightest. The only way to show these things is to shade in the dark side of the form; it's then that the lit surfaces come into view. It's only by looking directly into the shadows that we can see things in their full dimensions.
There’s a beautiful Arabic proverb: “All sunshine makes a desert”. These dark times are the rains that, when they pass, will make the earth bloom.
the god box
I suspect Mies had nothing to do with this detail, but it did seem that this little decal (on the window panes that skirt the front of the building) had been around as long as his minimalist chapel, known to the students on the IIT campus as "The God Box". Light was terribly low inside so, given my aversion to using a flash, I came away with only one other usable shot.
Carr Chapel, aka "The God Box"
Mies van der Rohe at IIT
Chicago, IL
Carr Chapel, aka "The God Box"
Mies van der Rohe at IIT
Chicago, IL
Thursday, April 13, 2006
modern living
“‘Modernism is above all a search for Utopia,’ says Christopher Wilk of the Victoria & Albert Museum, the curator of a new traveling show of designs for kitchens and cars, houses and health spas that were all part of the movement to rebuild a war-ravaged world.
***
“The most surprising and resonant part of this exhibition shows how healthy living became a key tenet of Modernism. Designers looked afresh at the human body and sought to turn it into a healthy machine. Architects believed that sunlight, fresh air and uncluttered living spaces would banish the contagions of tuberculosis and flu. This led to new designs for housing, clinics and sanatoria, all featuring flat roofs, balconies and industrially produced plates of clear glass to let in the light.”
From a write up in this week’s Economist re the exhibit: Modernism: Designing a New World, 1914-1939. Travels to the Germany’s MARTA next, and the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington DC after that.
“The most surprising and resonant part of this exhibition shows how healthy living became a key tenet of Modernism. Designers looked afresh at the human body and sought to turn it into a healthy machine. Architects believed that sunlight, fresh air and uncluttered living spaces would banish the contagions of tuberculosis and flu. This led to new designs for housing, clinics and sanatoria, all featuring flat roofs, balconies and industrially produced plates of clear glass to let in the light.”
From a write up in this week’s Economist re the exhibit: Modernism: Designing a New World, 1914-1939. Travels to the Germany’s MARTA next, and the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington DC after that.
saying it
So every once in a while I take a shot that I just LOVE and, being the addicted flickrite that I am, I expect that my pals on Flickr are going to be all over it once I post it.
This was one of those shots that, when I shot it, something inside me said YES -- but it met with absolutely no response when I posted it online.
Insert sad sound of deflating disappointment.
But then last night a fellow came along and got it; faved it; commented on it with a simple "wow".
Very satisfying. And it reminded me just how far a well-placed -- even off-handed -- word of praise will go. Currency that costs us very little to give -- other than to notice and to say it out loud -- that deeply enriches the folks who receive it.
This was one of those shots that, when I shot it, something inside me said YES -- but it met with absolutely no response when I posted it online.
Insert sad sound of deflating disappointment.
But then last night a fellow came along and got it; faved it; commented on it with a simple "wow".
Very satisfying. And it reminded me just how far a well-placed -- even off-handed -- word of praise will go. Currency that costs us very little to give -- other than to notice and to say it out loud -- that deeply enriches the folks who receive it.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
E.R.
Unexpected trip to the Emergency Room this morning. Conversation that put me there went something like this:It all ended just fine: All the swelling and throat closing that you see with folks who react violently to peanuts and bee stings moved in super slow motion, so I was never in any real danger. And after my two hour wait in the ER the good doc told me what I could have told that nurse on the tollway: that I needed a dose of Benedryl and I would be just fine. (And while I waited for the Benedryl to kick in I had a pair of plump and luscious bee-stung lips that the glam gals would kill for.)ME TO NURSE WHILE STUCK ON THE ILLINOIS TOLLWAY
Uh, yes, hi: I’m on the last day of a course of antibiotics to treat pneumonia and this morning, well, I developed a slight rash and I’m finding it difficult to swallow – I just want to confirm with you that I should probably skip this last dose – I think this might be an allergic reaction…
NURSE
You need to get to the ER right now.
ME
Oh. Okay. How bad could this get?
NURSE
There’s no way to know. You need to get to the ER right now. And don’t take your last dose.
ME
Okay. Thank You. (click)
CUT TO:
Me stuck in traffic on the Illinois toll way.
Going no where fast.
Oh right: And there’s that little problem where I can no longer take two entire classes of antibiotics because the next time the reaction will be compounded. So I need to avoid getting sick ever again. No worries. (Let’s just hope this pneumonia’s gone for good, or I’m hosed.)
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
sitting pretty
If there's one feature in the American landscape that (in my estimation) takes the prize for the meaningless expenditure of time and money, it's the lawn.I hate 'em. I won't go into it here. But I really. Don't. Like. Lawns.
But I DO really like this kind of lawn feature. Constructed from a cardboard form that's overlaid with soil and grass seed, it sprouts into a grass-covered armchair that becomes One with your yard. Kind of like a chia pet with a purpose.
Get all the details (at a peek at the cardboard form) at Treehugger »
the smell of fear
"Women can unconsciously detect the smell of fear, new research suggests, and the smell improves their performance on mental tasks."
The details of how this was determined are a bit untoward, and involve gauze and sweaty armpits. For the brave, here's the link to the New York Times article »
The details of how this was determined are a bit untoward, and involve gauze and sweaty armpits. For the brave, here's the link to the New York Times article »
kool-aid acid dreams
Was just approached by a publisher about using one of my Quirigua images for a book on the Global History of Architecture -- made my day.
I suspect it's not that easy to find images of the Quirigua site in Guatemala (mine are certainly not my best), possibly because of the difficulty of shooting these buggers -- the stone stelaes were so roughly textured that the imagery appears highly pixelated even though it's not. And did I mention the glare? If I remember right, it was around 102° the day we visited. Whole lotta heat and light.
Here's a shot from that trip last year around this time, with my original notes:
I suspect it's not that easy to find images of the Quirigua site in Guatemala (mine are certainly not my best), possibly because of the difficulty of shooting these buggers -- the stone stelaes were so roughly textured that the imagery appears highly pixelated even though it's not. And did I mention the glare? If I remember right, it was around 102° the day we visited. Whole lotta heat and light.
Here's a shot from that trip last year around this time, with my original notes:
Full-figure Mayan glyph. If Copan is the Mayan Paris then Quirigua is its Haight-Ashbury, circa Summer of Love -- a kaleidoscope of kool-aid acid dreams etched in stone. Outrageous artistry.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
crafty girls
I love crafty girls. I’m not one, but I bask in the goodness of those who knit and perl and stitch things from yarns and felts and stray buttons.
I’ve had a rough year – lost a friend, a pet, a wallet, had a bad round with a respiratory infection that just won’t die. Poured too much of my soul into a soulless job. My crafty girlfriends witnessed all of this, and knew just what was needed.
Two sent scarves. Entirely unique, utterly exquisite, wholly huggable, crafted by their own brilliant hands. Absolutely gorgeous. Another sent a felted stuffed virtual “’twas brillig” to warm the spot of the sweet grey cat that I lost. Cozy, comforting, lovely.
Not a whole lot of crying into our coffee here. Not a lick of pity. Just a notice and a nod and a heartfelt gift of goodness. A “this too will pass; and while we wait, we will craft.”
God bless the crafty girls.
I’ve had a rough year – lost a friend, a pet, a wallet, had a bad round with a respiratory infection that just won’t die. Poured too much of my soul into a soulless job. My crafty girlfriends witnessed all of this, and knew just what was needed.
Two sent scarves. Entirely unique, utterly exquisite, wholly huggable, crafted by their own brilliant hands. Absolutely gorgeous. Another sent a felted stuffed virtual “’twas brillig” to warm the spot of the sweet grey cat that I lost. Cozy, comforting, lovely.
Not a whole lot of crying into our coffee here. Not a lick of pity. Just a notice and a nod and a heartfelt gift of goodness. A “this too will pass; and while we wait, we will craft.”
God bless the crafty girls.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
sound opinions
Are they broadcasting this show outside Chicago? The rock critics from the Sun Times and Trib -- Jim DeRogatis and Greg Kot (and no, I don't know which belongs to which) -- get together every Saturday night on WBEZ to shoot the sh*t about music on a show called Sound Opinions. They often have musicians in the studio who shoot some more and then play some. Nice way to hear about new music.Tonight Jenny Lewis & the Watson Twins' played from their new Rabbit Fur Coat. I'm buying.
It's not clear to me what their reach is at this point -- the show only aired this last December. There's a Podcast if you're curious »
piping hot
Discovered I had boiled the kettle dry -- and fused the lid shut -- in one of those "do you smell something burning?" moments.
Yes: Plastic.
Yes: Plastic.
everyone an oakie
What hadn’t blown away with the dust, my grandmother and her family packed into their family car and moved from Hoisington, Kansas to McCloud, California (in Northern California, near Mt. Shasta) at the tail-end of October in 1935.
My grandmother, who would grow up to become an exacting business person and a successful online trader, kept a journal of their trip. This is one spread from that journal: Day Two, on which travel expenses, including gas, meals and lodging, came to $11.42. Click here to view large »
This entry is of particular interest to me because I did a lot of my growing up in the Denver area and I can readily see the terrain that she maps out in her careful chronology: Aurora, Denver, Broomfield, Eldorado. Dinner in Lafayette. It makes it easier to see it through my grandmother's eyes, leaving everything she'd known for something entirely new, and insisting, as she did, that she wear her entirely impractical new school shoes for the journey.
I'm helping her typeset her memoirs. They should be ready for self-publication within the next month or so.
My grandmother, who would grow up to become an exacting business person and a successful online trader, kept a journal of their trip. This is one spread from that journal: Day Two, on which travel expenses, including gas, meals and lodging, came to $11.42. Click here to view large »
This entry is of particular interest to me because I did a lot of my growing up in the Denver area and I can readily see the terrain that she maps out in her careful chronology: Aurora, Denver, Broomfield, Eldorado. Dinner in Lafayette. It makes it easier to see it through my grandmother's eyes, leaving everything she'd known for something entirely new, and insisting, as she did, that she wear her entirely impractical new school shoes for the journey.
I'm helping her typeset her memoirs. They should be ready for self-publication within the next month or so.
Friday, April 07, 2006
the gang
One of the reasons I absolutely love Flickr: 1) this photo 2) the attached photo notes, and 3) the comment thread that unfolded as a result.
You gotta clickthrough to feel the love »
My apologies and deepest regards to MER.
You gotta clickthrough to feel the love »
My apologies and deepest regards to MER.
view from the throne
Tip for ya if you’re in Chicago anytime soon and you start to flag on the Magnificent Mile: One of the best public washrooms downtown (just outside the Loop) can be found on the second floor of the Bloomingdale’s Home Shop, in the renovated Medinah Temple, tucked away behind a partition on the Eastern wall.
The farthest stall, generously equipped to accommodate wheelchairs, also contains four glorious stained glass windows. And on a fine day, when the light hits just right, a routine pit stop can become transcendent.
Can't speak for the men's room.
The farthest stall, generously equipped to accommodate wheelchairs, also contains four glorious stained glass windows. And on a fine day, when the light hits just right, a routine pit stop can become transcendent.
Can't speak for the men's room.
Bloomingdale’s Home Shop
600 N Wabash Ave Chicago, IL 60610
a busy week doing nothing
This week I learned from the people I love that in their lives:
a baby was born
a middle aged man died
a woman who deserved the job of her dreams, got it
a couple separated
a malignancy was found
a trust was betrayed
three tired travelers were jetlagged
a future was somewhat uncertain
and one pink slip was received.
And this morning, instead of boarding a flight to Philly as originally planned for U Penn's Maya Weekend, I'll stay home and nurse the last bitter goo of pneumonia in my lungs.
Ironically, the papers presented at the conference will focus on Maya Shamans and Spirit Healers. I could use me some of that. (And, yes, I'm trying not to pout.)
a baby was born
a middle aged man died
a woman who deserved the job of her dreams, got it
a couple separated
a malignancy was found
a trust was betrayed
three tired travelers were jetlagged
a future was somewhat uncertain
and one pink slip was received.
And this morning, instead of boarding a flight to Philly as originally planned for U Penn's Maya Weekend, I'll stay home and nurse the last bitter goo of pneumonia in my lungs.
Ironically, the papers presented at the conference will focus on Maya Shamans and Spirit Healers. I could use me some of that. (And, yes, I'm trying not to pout.)
Thursday, April 06, 2006
unhappy events
Sometimes fossils look tortured and twisted if the rock they were in shifted at variable rates over time. Sue, the T Rex at the Field, is a good example -- her skull is a bit of a mess because it was either crushed on deposit or dragged a bit.
But most times the fish fossils look serene, because when doesn’t a fish look serene? Well, when it's this fish.
Clickthrough to see this little guy large. He looks absolutely furious to be caught in whatever catastrophic onslaught just made him fodder for fossilization.
But most times the fish fossils look serene, because when doesn’t a fish look serene? Well, when it's this fish.
Clickthrough to see this little guy large. He looks absolutely furious to be caught in whatever catastrophic onslaught just made him fodder for fossilization.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
écrit sans fin
Was relatively well behaved at this weekend’s annual poster show at the Chicago Cultural Center, backing away from the gi-normous $2,400 Hervé Morvan that I wanted to take home and opting for a much more demure, much more affordable litho by Raymond Savignac for an old Reynolds pen ad. The tagline reads: “Écrit sans fin” Write without end. I can live with that.
The woman who sold it to me was a treasure. Her shop’s in Paris, but I could swear she sounded just like a Brooklyn girl, so I asked her if she was an ex-pat. She said “I suppose so, but I was born an American, and I’ll die an American.” Turns out she and her husband moved to France 40 years ago because they were both in the theatre and “the discrimination here was just so bad – but in Paris, they loved us.” As soon as she said that I realized she was African-American; before that moment I thought vaguely that she reminded of my grandmother, who has always reminded me of Lena Horne (it's that silver screen diva thing) and so maybe somewhere I registered her heritage – as a small tile within a much larger mosaic of this remarkable woman who was unfolding before me.
And it struck me that something that mattered so little to the encounter we were having just then, mattered enough 40 years ago that it drove her out of the country.
Racism is another one of those things that as a white girl in a white world I can never quite get my arms around; it leaves me angry and frustrated to try. It grieved me to meet someone who loves America and couldn’t live here because America didn’t love her. I want to think that it’s different today – but is it? There’s too much bad news that would seem to indicate otherwise. And I’m too far removed, by accident of my own skin tone, to ever really know what other people go through.
Regrettably that's one more big problem that I can’t solve in a hurry -- but I *can* recommend a great poster shop in Paris. I've never been there, but I’m a big fan of the proprietress. No web site, no email, this girl’s old school – you’ll just have to stop by:
The woman who sold it to me was a treasure. Her shop’s in Paris, but I could swear she sounded just like a Brooklyn girl, so I asked her if she was an ex-pat. She said “I suppose so, but I was born an American, and I’ll die an American.” Turns out she and her husband moved to France 40 years ago because they were both in the theatre and “the discrimination here was just so bad – but in Paris, they loved us.” As soon as she said that I realized she was African-American; before that moment I thought vaguely that she reminded of my grandmother, who has always reminded me of Lena Horne (it's that silver screen diva thing) and so maybe somewhere I registered her heritage – as a small tile within a much larger mosaic of this remarkable woman who was unfolding before me.
And it struck me that something that mattered so little to the encounter we were having just then, mattered enough 40 years ago that it drove her out of the country.
Racism is another one of those things that as a white girl in a white world I can never quite get my arms around; it leaves me angry and frustrated to try. It grieved me to meet someone who loves America and couldn’t live here because America didn’t love her. I want to think that it’s different today – but is it? There’s too much bad news that would seem to indicate otherwise. And I’m too far removed, by accident of my own skin tone, to ever really know what other people go through.
Regrettably that's one more big problem that I can’t solve in a hurry -- but I *can* recommend a great poster shop in Paris. I've never been there, but I’m a big fan of the proprietress. No web site, no email, this girl’s old school – you’ll just have to stop by:
Maria Carmen Salis
The Tree of Art
68, rue Georges Lardennois
75019 Paris
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
fever break
fire heals with reproach
in the woods after the blaze
seedlings hesitate
been nursing a fever for six days. finally, finally, it broke.
in the woods after the blaze
seedlings hesitate
been nursing a fever for six days. finally, finally, it broke.
Monday, April 03, 2006
disembarkation
It took me awhile to recover after seeing this image. A detail from The Auschwitz Album: The Story of a Transport, now on display at the Field Museum in Chicago, it was taken by an SS Officer on the day these individuals disembarked at Auschwitz.It was taken before they’ve been selected for the “showers” or as laborers; before they’ve been shaved, stripped of their clothing, depersonalized. They look concerned and wholly human. It appears that the gentleman first in line may be trying to reason with the German officer who roughly handles him by the lapel, or at least lighten the moment with a comment or two.
We know, as spectators to their misfortune, that if they are selected as laborers they may hope to live another three months, in the worst possible conditions. And we know, with the luxury of history, that this is just a brief glimpse into a much larger horror that will continue to unfold for some time yet to come.
And it's likely that they know none of the things that we know about this moment in their lives. The whole exhibit is like this: shots horrifying in their mundanity.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
letter from liam
Member's Night at the Field Museum in Chicago reminds me of Parent's Night when I was in Elementary School. Not only is the whole museum open after hours with special activities, but they open the top floor where the departmental offices are, and it has that cool "we'd be in trouble if we were here any other time" feeling. This letter was posted outside one of the anthropology offices. It reads:
Dear Matt,
Thank you for showing us the paleo-indian artifacts! I hope I can see you again sometime. You'r also my favorite archeologyst in the world! Your lucky you get to work in the Feild Museum. I went to a contest in the feild museum called "dino bee". I was one of the top four winners!
Sincerely,
Liam P. Edward
Saturday, April 01, 2006
management perks
Only chiefs owned fans and fly whisks
Throughout Polynesia, fans and fly whisks belonged to none other than chiefs, and came to symbolize that lofty position. In Samoa, only chiefs of a certain rank -- "talking" chiefs -- owned fly whisks. Known for skill in oratory, a talking chief drove home key points with a flick of a fly whisk.
Display placard in the Chicago Field Museum
Throughout Polynesia, fans and fly whisks belonged to none other than chiefs, and came to symbolize that lofty position. In Samoa, only chiefs of a certain rank -- "talking" chiefs -- owned fly whisks. Known for skill in oratory, a talking chief drove home key points with a flick of a fly whisk.
Display placard in the Chicago Field Museum
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
