2010

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Soda jerk. (Image by Alan Fisher, "World Telegram.")

Rare soda bottle from mid 19th century (Upstate NY)

Rare George Eagle soda bottle, circa 1850s. Bluish-green, blob top, diagonal swirls,”GEo EAGLE” diagonal embossing, pontil scar and residue, clear slopover around mouth; excellent condition. This is one rare bottle and it’s in superb condition. Google “New York City Bottle Legacies” for article with info. Business started in 1845 on Fulton Street in old New York, near where The World Trade Center once stood. Others have fetched handsome sums at auction. Email with serious offers only, please. Thank you.

An early 20th-century schizophrenia patient used a pin or a fingernail to scratch this artwork into a hospital wall.

Schizophrenia has historically been blamed on everything from bad DNA to bad parenting (imagine the unfairness of that for a moment), but some in the scientific community are championing the idea that the illness stems from a virus that we all carry. An excerpt from a Discovery article about this theory:

“Schizophrenia is usually diagnosed between the ages of 15 and 25, but the person who becomes schizophrenic is sometimes recalled to have been different as a child or a toddler—more forgetful or shy or clumsy. Studies of family videos confirm this. Even more puzzling is the so-called birth-month effect: People born in winter or early spring are more likely than others to become schizophrenic later in life. It is a small increase, just 5 to 8 percent, but it is remarkably consistent, showing up in 250 studies. That same pattern is seen in people with bipolar disorder or multiple sclerosis.

‘The birth-month effect is one of the most clearly established facts about schizophrenia,’ says Fuller Torrey, director of the Stanley Medical Research Institute in Chevy Chase, Maryland. ‘It’s difficult to explain by genes, and it’s certainly difficult to explain by bad mothers.’

The facts of schizophrenia are so peculiar, in fact, that they have led Torrey and a growing number of other scientists to abandon the traditional explanations of the disease and embrace a startling alternative. Schizophrenia, they say, does not begin as a psychological disease. Schizophrenia begins with an infection.

The idea has sparked skepticism, but after decades of hunting, Torrey and his colleagues think they have finally found the infectious agent. You might call it an insanity virus. If Torrey is right, the culprit that triggers a lifetime of hallucinations—that tore apart the lives of writer Jack Kerouac, mathematician John Nash, and millions of others—is a virus that all of us carry in our bodies. ‘Some people laugh about the infection hypothesis,’ says Urs Meyer, a neuroimmunologist at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology in Zurich. ‘But the impact that it has on researchers is much, much, much more than it was five years ago. And my prediction would be that it will gain even more impact in the future.'”

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The "Montezuma," an example of a packet ship.

I found an interesting factoid in Edward L. Glaeser’s City Journal article about the role of entrepreneurship in New York City’s past, present and future. It seems that in the 19th-century, cargo ships didn’t set sail on any particular day but only when they had a full hull. That meant cargo could sit in a port for weeks, as the ship waited for more customers. Then someone had the idea that vessels should depart at scheduled times. Seems obvious, but it wasn’t. The person behind this innovation was Jeremiah Thompson, a Quaker businessman and a member of the free-slave group, the New York Manumission Society. An excerpt:

“Entrepreneurs have played a key role in every stage of New York’s development. During the early nineteenth century, when waterways were the lifelines of commerce, New York owed its expanding sea trade partly to natural advantages: a safe, centrally located harbor and a deep river that cut far into the American hinterland. But those advantages became important because of the vision and energy of entrepreneurs like Jeremiah Thompson, the gambling Quaker. Thompson immigrated to New York at 17 to work in the American branch of his family’s wool business. By the 1820s, he had established himself as America’s largest importer of English clothing, its largest exporter of raw cotton, and its third-largest issuer of bills of exchange.

As a global trader, Thompson was acutely aware of the shortcomings of the transatlantic ships of the time, which would stay in port until their hulls were filled with goods. (Imagine showing up at LaGuardia and having to sit around until the airline sold enough tickets to fill the entire flight to Frankfurt.) Thompson saw an opening and created the Black Ball packet line, whose ships set sail on a scheduled day every month, no matter how light their cargoes were. His innovation was a gamble, since sometimes his ships sailed with relatively empty hulls, which meant less income from the merchants who bought the space. But a virtuous circle developed: fixed schedules attracted more cargo, and more cargo made ships sailing on fixed schedules more profitable. Once Thompson was turning a profit, other packet lines, like the Yellow Ball and Swallowtail lines, entered the market. An 1827 letter to the New England Palladium described the significance of Thompson’s invention: ‘I consider Commerce by lines of ships, on fixed days, an invention of the age nearly as important as Steam Navigation and in its results as beneficial to New York, which has chiefly adopted it, as the Grand [Erie] Canal.'”

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Front of card: Image of Trinity Church taken from a Moses King travel guide. On reverse: "Trinity Church and skyscrapers at night is a picture which speaks for itself and makes a singular appeal to the human mind."

Dear Cousin,

If the weather is nice will be down Sat. instead of Sun. as Sophie is coming for dinner & you know what that means. Received a card from Bob. He is with hopes all are the same as do we all.

Your cousin

Above the writing: "This Space For Message."

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Before we were wired beyond belief, a few hundred forward-thinking souls in San Francisco in 1981 got a jump on the future and gained access to the Examiner and Chronicle newspapers on their home computers (though it took them over two hours to receive the text of a single edition). As Steve Newman exclaims in this KRON report, “This is only the first step in newspapers by computer.” The tone of the piece suggests that newsprint might someday disappear, but that the actual newspaper companies would be fine. Of course, the rise of the Internet has been the bane of most of them, including the Examiner and Chronicle, which have both struggled while responding to the revolution that began in a small way on their home turf nearly 30 years ago.

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Rhinoplasty performed in Essex, Germany, in 1895. (Image by Klaus D.Peter.)

The still-novel idea of modern cosmetic surgery is enthusiastically broached in this September 24, 1896 article from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, which was a reprinted piece from the London Mail. It’s subtitled, “Wonderful Possibilities Are Now Open to Modern Surgery.” An excerpt:

“The latest developments of modern surgical science are making it evident that good looks are no longer to be confined to those with a heritage to them, but may be purchased on the open market. It will, no doubt, be good news to the unhappy possessor of an uncompromising snub nose to be made acquainted with the fact that, for a fairly respectable sum of money, his nasal appendage can be converted into a thorough going aristocratic Wellington, with no nonsense about it, and the spinster lady, whose proboscis is of the parrot type, and whose matrimonial chances have constantly suffered, will hail with a good deal of satisfaction and possibly renewed hope the statement that a generous fee to the facial surgeon will transform the offending organ into the dearest of little Grecians in the world, while an extra payment will secure for her two or three coquettish dimples on the cheeks and chin.

The science of facial surgery is, of course, not exactly a new one. Experiments without number have been made in the London and continental hospitals for many years past. It is not very long ago that the operation of making a very decently formed nose for a young woman whose face had been mutilated in an accident was successfully performed at the Royal Free Hospital. The breastbone of a blackbird was cleverly inserted into the cartilage of the nose and the skin deftly drawn over it and sewn with such neatness that in a short time the seams made by the surgical needle completely healed.

(Image by André Koehne.)

As might be expected, facial surgery came to us from America. There it is practiced in every large town, while a college for its special study exists near Philadelphia, granting diplomas and degrees for proficiency–genuine ones, too, it should be added.

That the science will make its way in England there is not much room for doubt. Already a private doctor living not a hundred miles from Bond street is making quite a reputation in the direction of facial surgery, and his handsome consulting rooms are thronged each day with crowds of wealthy patients, who are anxious to personally test his powers, and who go away eminently satisfied with themselves and convinced that if ‘beauty is but skin deep,’ it is a possession worth having, and, worth paying for.

So far, only those with the most unlimited purses are able to avail themselves of the doctor’s ability, the operations are of such a delicate nature, and require so much technical knowledge, mechanical skill, self-possession and nerve on the part of the operator, that no patient can grudge a generous fee.

The sensitive man, with a wart on the end of his nose, for instance, goes through life full of trembling self-consciousness. He feels that every glance is directed toward the terrible disfigurement, and he becomes nervously apologetic in his general bearing. Imagine what a heavenly vista of happiness and security must unfold itself to such a man, when under the magical knife, that accursed wart disappears forever, and how his gratitude can but be adequately rendered by a substantial expression of it.

Electricity is a useful help to the facial surgeon, and by its aid all kinds of minor blemishes are removed, and tell-tale red noses completely cured.

The only drawback to obtaining a really complete transformation is the possibility of the question of identification arising. One can imagine the unenviable position of the man who, in the absence of his wife and family at the seaside, takes the opportunity of considerably improving his appearance by exchanging a somewhat bulbous nose of a deep shade for one of clear-cut and classical proportions, being confronted with the unfeigned astonishment of the partner of his bosom, and, perhaps. repudiated as ‘not being the man who led her to the altar!’ Such a situation would not be an easy one to solve. The advantages of the science, however, undoubtedly greatly outweigh its disadvantages.”


"One of the more awesome souvenirs of eight years of hell." (Image by Rama.)

Canon Powershot G9 – buy my camera – Fund my divorce – – $275 (Bronx)

12.1 mp with amazing zoom. Uses SD cards. Included is the battery and charger and a case I’ve been using, but you’ll likely want a bigger one. Takes amazing photo’s, you can zoom in and an ordinary digital camera would take a horrid grainy mess… this one makes it look like a magnifying glass. While it is one of the more awesome souvenirs of eight years of hell… I need to be able to make the bills until I can get situated and regain my footing in life. As I am listing things he keeps coming into my room and harassing me, accusing me of selling that which is not up for sale. Three weeks and he moves into his own apartment… three weeks and I am on my own and am absolutely unprepared… but those three weeks will still be far too long because I already can’t stand to be around him for more than a few minutes… seriously… I am listing a lot of cool and useful things… I’m not rich, by far, nor am I hiring a lawyer to clean him out… I’m doing it myself… and beyond court fees I am hoping to accumulate enough to make the bills for a month or two. Long enough to figure out what comes next.

While I would love to keep this camera, it is one of three and I’ve elected to keep the one I am not listing… another canon, but a dslr rebel… but I’d prefer freedom to a glittering cage… the glitter is a mirage… sand in the desert… I just want to build a well and fetch my own damn water again… without anyone to deliberately sabotage my efforts. Craigslist can help me take out the trash that has been lingering… let the spoils of my hell warm you this winter as the relinquishing of such possessions enables me to exterminate the cause of my bitterness.

"Dyson and his colleagues did not want to delegate; they intended to go bombing into space themselves." (Image by Lumidek.)

Kenneth Brower has an article in The Atlantic in which he tries to get to the bottom of Freeman Dyson’s troubling views about climate change and environmental responsibility, terrain previously covered by the Times Magazine. The piece has some great info about how Dyson and a group of fellow scientists hoped five decades ago to blast themselves to Mars and Saturn with a nuclear-powered rocket, a plan that had to be scrapped after the signing of the Limited Test Ban Treaty in 1963. An excerpt:

“The period of his career that Dyson remembers most happily, the endeavor during which he believes he learned the most, began the year after Sputnik. In 1958, he took a leave of absence from the Institute for Advanced Study and moved to La Jolla, California, where he joined Project Orion, a group of 40 scientists and engineers working to build a spacecraft powered by nuclear bombs. The Orion men believed that rocketry was hopeless as a means of settling the universe. Only nuclear power had sufficient bang to propel the requisite payloads into space. The team called the concept ‘nuclear-pulse propulsion.’ From a hole at the center of a massive ‘pusher plate’ at the bottom of the craft, atom bombs would be dropped at intervals and detonated. The shock wave and debris from each blast would strike the pusher plate, driving the ship heavenward on a succession of blinding fireballs. Shock absorbers the size of grain silos would cushion the cabin and crew, smoothing out the cataclysmic bumpiness of the ride.

To the layperson, this seems exactly the sort of contraption that Wile E. Coyote, in his efforts to overtake Road Runner, habitually straps on before self-immolation. But the layperson is wrong, apparently. Specialists in the effects of nuclear explosions saw no reason Orion would not work. The Advanced Research Projects Agency, the precursor to NASA, underwrote the project, then NASA took it on, and nuclear-pulse propulsion briefly held its own against the chemical rockets of Wernher von Braun. Dyson and his colleagues did not want to delegate; they intended to go bombing into space themselves. Their schedule had them landing on Mars by 1965 and Saturn by 1970.”

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"Don't follow leaders/Watch your parkin' meters." (Image by Quadell.)

In an article on Slate about the obsolescence of traditional parking meters, Tom Vanderbilt, author of Traffic, reveals where, when and why the device originated. An excerpt:

“Seventy-five years ago, the world’s first parking meter cast its thin, ominous shadow on the streets of Oklahoma City. The meter was the brainchild of Carlton C. Magee, a local publisher and Chamber of Commerce Traffic Committee chief, and he hoped it would solve the city’s chronic parking problems. In the pre-meter days, police would drive around with stopwatches and chalk, enforcing the city’s parking time limits by marking the tires of cars seen squatting for too long, but the system was ill-equipped to handle the ‘endemic overparking’ problem. Even worse, a survey found that at any given time, 80 percent of the city’s spots were occupied by employees of downtown businesses—the very same businesses complaining that lack of parking was driving away shoppers. Calling for an ‘efficient, impartial, and thoroughly practical aid to parking regulation,’ Magee held a student-design contest and launched his instrument.”

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Head is burning. (Image by Ferdinand Reus.)

The Telegraph has an article listing the ten weirdest scientific facts. (Thanks Newmark’s Door.) An excerpt:

“If the Sun were made of bananas, it would be just as hot.

The Sun is hot, as the more astute of you will have noticed. It is hot because its enormous weight – about a billion billion billion tons – creates vast gravity, putting its core under colossal pressure. Just as a bicycle pump gets warm when you pump it, the pressure increases the temperature. Enormous pressure leads to enormous temperature.

If, instead of hydrogen, you got a billion billion billion tons of bananas and hung it in space, it would create just as much pressure, and therefore just as high a temperature. So it would make very little difference to the heat whether you made the Sun out of hydrogen, or bananas, or patio furniture.”

Mr. Rogers up in that piece, being all ghetto and shit. (Thanks Reddit.)

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I dreamt that I was riding a very, very pretty pony. (Image by Steve Jurvetson.)

Politico transcribed some tidbits from Ryan Secrest’s interview with President Obama. It was like Frost-Nixon if Frost was a complete douchebag, which he sort of was. Obama revealed his morning wake-up routine. An excerpt:

“[President Obama] confessed he hasn’t been getting much sleep lately and added that he doesn’t have an alarm clock — a White House operator calls to wake him up, ‘and if I don’t wake up the first time, they just keep on calling.'”

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"Trooper is the kind of dog who didn't have other dogs to relate to. He lived with adult human beings."

Errol Morris’ first great character study was his very first feature, the seriously peculiar and penetrating 1978 documentary, Gates of Heaven. The movie examines a California pet cemetery with 450 deceased residents and the many off-center human characters who have buried their beloved there.

Floyd McClure is the proprietor of the Foothill Memorial Gardens pet cemetery in San Francisco. He loved his late collie and hated the local rendering plant, so he followed his heart and built a final reward for dogs, cats, horses, hamsters, frogs, etc. While McClure has a great affection for animals, he hasn’t a great mind for numbers and is forced to sell his business to the Lamberts family, who transfer the deceased to a property in Napa. The movie is at its best once the Lamberts take over, as the father and two sons aren’t driven by love but by ambition, lessons learned from motivational speakers and familial rivalry. Interestingly, they do just as good a job for their clients as McClure did.

Against the backdrop of this transition, Morris interviews the eccentrics who have buried their loved ones with the honor that most people reserve for parents, siblings and spouses. At first these folks may seem nutty, but you gradually come to realize the important role the pets played for them, how they often filled a void that human love failed to occupy. The whole enterprise could have been a set-up to gawk and laugh at crazies and there are funny moments, but Morris ultimately has as much respect for his two-legged subjects as they have for their late, four-legged friends. (Currently on sale for $3.98 on Amazon and available for rent at Netflix and other outlets.)

More Film Posts:

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Booked in San Francisco for obscenity. Lenny Bruce was born Leonard Schneider in 1925 on Long Island.

I watched the first episode of Hugh Hefner’s swinging variety show Playboy After Dark from 1959 not too long ago, and it featured a great appearance by Lenny Bruce. Most of the scant film footage of the disgracefully honest comedian doesn’t do him justice, showing him when he was a shell of himself, as heroin and legal troubles took their toll. It’s amazing how much other comics took from Bruce: everything from George Carlin’s obsession with the hypocrisy of words to Richard Lewis’s finger snapping as he delivers his punchlines. At one point, Bruce tells Hefner that “tragedy plus time equals comedy,” a line that is often attributed to either Woody Allen or Carol Burnett. My guess is it’s not Bruce’s line, either, but I bet he’s the one who introduced it to other comedians.

A few years back, I gleaned a copy of The Essential Lenny Bruce, a 1987 paperback compilation of his greatest bits and other fun stuff for Bruceophiles. Some of the material is very dated, but a lot of it reminds why a nightclub comedian was able to scare the hell out of authority figures in the ’50s and ’60s. One brief chapter, entitled “Chronicle,” provides an outline of the final seven turbulent years of Lenny’s life. An excerpt:

May, 1959, The New York Times:

“The newest and in some ways the most scarifyingly funny proponent of significance…to be found in a nightclub these days is Lenny Bruce, a sort of abstract-expressionist stand-up comedian paid $1750 a week to vent his outrage on the clientele.”

June 1960, The Reporter:

“The question is how far Bruce will go in further exposing his most enthusiastic audiences…to themselves. He has only begun to operate.”

September 29, 1961:

Busted for possession of narcotics, Philadelphia.

October 4, 1961:

Busted for obscenity, Jazz Workshop, San Francisco.

September, 1962:

Banned in Australia.

October 6, 1962:

Busted for possession of narcotics, Los Angeles.

October 24, 1962:

Busted for obscenity, Troubadour Theatre, Hollywood.

December, 1962:

Busted for obscenity, Gate of Horn, Chicago.

January, 1963:

Busted for possession of narcotics, Los Angeles.

April, 1963:

Barred from entering London, England.

March, 1964, The New York Post:

“Bruce stands up against all limitations of the flesh and spirit, and someday they are going to crush him for it.”

April, 1964:

Busted for obscenity, Cafe Au Go-Go, New York City.

October, 1965:

Declared a legally bankrupt pauper, San Francisco.

November 1965, Esquire:

“I saw his act…in Chicago…He looked nervous and shaky…wretched and broken…You thought of Dorothy Parker, who, when she saw Scott Fitzgerald’s sudden and too-youthful corpse, murmured, ‘The poor son of a bitch.'”

August 3, 1966:

Dead, Los Angeles.

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New York City Barge Office, where Sanna Impola was taken.

In the October 15, 1900 edition of the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, a homeless U.S. military veteran, down on his luck thanks to a mugging on the Bowery, meets a lost Russian maidservant in Harlem in the dead of the night and tries to help her. How their stories ended is not known. An excerpt:

“Charles Le Grand, who was recently discharged from the United States artillery service in San Francisco and was relieved of all his belongings, including his clothing, on the Bowery, Manhattan, some time ago, this morning found Sanna Impola, a Russian girl, who recently came to this country, wandering around the streets of Harlem. The girl made Le Grand understand she was lost and he led her to the Barge Office, where she was turned over to the authorities,

The girl came to this country three months ago and through friends secured a position as servant with a Harlem family. Yesterday she went to visit a countrywoman named Ida Halkela, living at Third avenue and Thirty-fifth street, Manhattan. She left there about 10 o’clock last night to go home and becoming confused lost her bearing and became lost. All night she wandered about and at about 3 o’clock was found near Third avenue and One Hundred and Twenty-seventh street by Le Grand, who was also spending the night walking the streets, because he had no money to pay for a bed. He took her to the Barge Office. An effort will be made by the authorities there to find her employers, and failing in this and the non-appearance of her friends she will be sent back to Russia.

Le Grand, who says he served in Battery G of the Second Artillery, and shows papers of honorable discharge, appeared at the Barge Office wearing the hat of a United States marine, the coat of an artilleryman and the trousers of a cavalryman. He said he came to New York recently and was robbed on the Bowery of $139 in cash, his watch and a ring. Even his clothing was stolen, he declares, and says that the combination suit he wore to-day was given him by different soldier friends he had met on the Bowery and who had taken pity on his plight.”

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  • Round One: Spaghetti and meatballs
  • Round Two: Roast beef
  • Round Three: Carrots
  • Round Four: Sour Patch Kids
  • Round Five: Wet dog food

(Thanks Reddit.)

“High Class Motion Pictures & Illustrated Songs.”

I’m not quite sure which Comet Theatre location in New York City is pictured above. Because of the sensation that Hailey’s Comet caused in 1910 when it was visible from Earth, many businesses used the “Comet” name in the subsequent decade, theaters especially. The featured movie playing on this particular day was a 10-minute short calledFor Honor’s Sake.” There was also a film of the racially charged 1910 boxing match between Jack Johnson and Jim Jeffries, which was known as The Fight of the Century.” (Jeffries received a vicious ass-whooping.) If you look closely at the signage, the Comet promised to provide “Iced Air,” which, in the pre-air-conditioning age, meant blocks of ice sitting in front of a fan.

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Yet to lose a patient.

Charlie Sheen held a press conference this weekend not to announce that he’s entering rehab but to reveal that he’s been attending a Los Angeles medical school, hoping to become one of America’s foremost pussy doctors.

“I’m not entirely abandoning show business,” announced an earnest, pantless and clearly inebriated Charlie Sheen, “but I can’t stress how important it is to me that I dedicate most of my time to treating pussy and pussy-related illnesses.”

When a member of the press pointed out to Charlie Sheen that the term for a doctor who treats women’s reproductive organs is actually “gynecologist,” the actor stared blankly for a moment and then returned to discussing pussy.

Most people are shocked that Charlie Sheen is still alive let alone attending medical school, but he’s clearly impressed his fellow students. He’s an unorthodox rebel who rails against the rigid, uncaring traditions of the medical establishment and has set up a free clinic for unwed mothers in a Malibu condo. He’s pretty much become the Patch Adams of pussy.

Armed with only a speculum, a video camera and a bowl of cocaine, Sheen treats women as they gyrate around the stripper pole he’s installed in his examining room. He even throws in a free breast exam, though he hasn’t yet formally studied tit medicine.

Charlie Sheen’s rebellious streak isn’t only directed at the powers that be in the medical world but also at the gender politics that oppress women. He decries the inequality that females face in society.

“Because of the sick, misogynistic world we live in,” Charlie Sheen said, “all women are forced to become either porn stars or prostitutes. And those professions can be particularly tough on the pussy.”

When a member of the press pointed out to Charlie Sheen that all women are not in fact either porn stars or prostitutes, the actor stared blankly for a moment and then returned to discussing pussy.

More Fake Entertainment News:

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Image of the "U.S.S. Salt Lake City." Card is from Donald E. Nafis at the U.S. Naval Training Center, Great Lakes, Illinois.

Howdy,

This is the place I finally ended up at after a long trip from New York. It’s not so far from Ed but I don’t have any leave as yet and I’m not allowed visitors during my training period.

Best regards,

Don

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Ize tired of Googlez. (Image by Remedios44.)

Some sublime and silly search keyphrases bringing traffic to Afflictor this week.

Afflictor: Getting a reaction from the people since 2009.

Two of the most successful songwriters of their generation take the stage together in Los Angeles. Art Garfunkel drops by to encourage a horrendous fashion trend, and Andy Williams jokes about his recent divorce from singer Claudine Longet, who would have much bigger problems a couple years later. Grainy as hell, but well worth it.

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Margaret Knight's paper bag innovations made her (likely) the first woman granted a U.S. patent.

Research at MoMA’s Counter Space blog has uncovered the 19th-century inventors who created various aspects of the brown paper bag, which we take for granted when we’re at the supermarket. If you think about it, the design, elegant and sturdy, is just about perfect. (Thanks Kottke.) An excerpt from the blog post:

Francis Wolle, active in the early 1850s, is considered the first inventor of the modern paper bag. Based in Pennsylvania, he cofounded the Union Paper Bag Machine Company in 1869, as well as becoming ordained as a deacon and following passions in entomology and botany. Union was supported financially by wealthy manufacturers, who thereby secured rights to patents secured by the company and divvied up the country into market segments to avoid direct competition. One of these characters was industrialist George West of Saratoga County, New York, also known as the ‘Paper Bag King.’ Originally from England, he established himself in Ballston Spa, owned ten paper mills, and became a member of the New York State Assembly and the House of Representatives.

It was slightly later that a woman named Margaret Knight, working for another company, the Columbia Paper Bag Company of Springfield, MA, designed a machine that could produce flat/square-bottomed paper bags, a great improvement on the earlier, structurally weaker envelope-style bag design. As a result, it is Knight who is more widely recognized as the inventor of the paper bag in the general form of the one shown in Counter Space. She’s also believed to be the first woman to achieve a U.S. patent.

However, our paper bag also reflects the design developments of the following years (starting around 1883) made by Charles Stilwell of Massachusetts/Pennsylvania (originally Fremont, Ohio), who improved on Knight’s machine to produce flat-bottomed paper bags—now with pleated sides for easier folding and stacking (satchel-style)—more quickly and cost-effectively. This type was given the nickname ‘S.O.S.’ (self-opening-sack), and really provided the model for the mass-produced paper bags we know today.”

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"Allot of my clients like ancient UFO art."

Artist Needed for Reproduction Paintings (Chelsea)

I collect and sell rare and strange reproduction oil paintings. I am starting a website where I am going to be selling these paintings and need a few painters for hire. You must submit work you have done and be able to paint people and objects NOT JUST LAND SCAPES. Allot of my clients like ancient UFO art like the piece by Aert De Gelder entitled “The baptism of Jesus.” It depicts a classic, hovering, silvery, saucer shaped UFO shining beams of light down on John the Baptist and Jesus and was painted in the 1700’s. It hangs in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, England. Another popular selling item is Nazi art like the picture of Hitler I put below dressed up as a knight. So don’t bitch about paintings Nazi’s. We also paint things like the lockness monster and bigfoot. Right now I am willing to pay $80.00 a painting until I get my site going then I will pay $120.00 a painting ,and if things take off I will pay more especially if you are good ! I am not greedy.

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I briefly got my hands on a hardback copy of Allen C. Thomas’ 1900 primary-school book, An Elementary History of the United States, which covers the years from pre-Columbus times to the eve of the 20th-century. Thomas was a history professor at Haverford College. This book was owned in 1919 by a child named Bruce Alexander, who drew a red mustache on the illustration of George Washington.

One of the later chapters, entitled “Inventions,” recalls how Samuel Morse helped create the telegraph during the 1830s and 1840s. An excerpt:

“Morse at once saw that messages could be sent at great distances if wires were properly arranged. His invention was very simple, and there was very little about it that was original. After it was described, it seemed strange that scientific men had not thought of his method before.

"Samuel F.B. Morse, an American artist, became much interested in electricity and magnetism."

Morse, like almost all inventors, had much to contend with. He was poor, and had it not been for a young man named Alfred Vail, who persuaded his father to lend Morse some money, it is quite possible that there would have been failure after all.

Vail was an excellent mechanic, and helped very much in the construction of the instruments. He also secured for Morse a patent for the invention.

In order to bring his invention before the public, Morse asked Congress, at Washington, to give thirty thousand dollars, to be used in constructing a telegraph line between Baltimore and Washington, a distance of forty miles. Some members of Congress made all manner of sport of Morse’s project. One member proposed that the money should be spent in making a railroad to the moon.

There seemed little prospect that the bill granting the money would be passed. The story is told that Morse, weary and heart-sick, sat hour after hour in the gallery of the Senate Chamber, waiting for the bill to come up before Congress adjourned. When evening came and there seemed no chance for its passage, he went to his hotel utterly discouraged, and prepared to leave for New York early the next day, as his money was exhausted.

Written on inside cover: "I have this day sold this book to my daddy dated Feb. 8th 1919. Bruce Alexander."

The next morning, while he was at breakfast, a young lady came in and said, ‘I congratulate you.’  ‘Upon what?’ said Morse, who was feeling rather blue. ‘On the passage of your bill.’ ‘Impossible.’ ‘No,’ she said, ‘It was passed five minutes before the adjournment.’ ‘Well,’ said Morse, ‘you shall send the first message over the lines.’

The line was constructed with the money thus secured. When all was ready Morse kept his promise, and Miss Annie G. Ellsworth sent, at the suggestion of her mother, the words, ‘What hath God wrought!’ That was on May 25, 1844. It was not many years before there were telegraphs over all civilized lands.”


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