2010

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"I am aware the government thinks they could be an invasive species." (Image by J.M.Garg.)

wanted: giant african land snail

I want to buy/adopt a Giant African Land Snail to keep as a pet. Please let me know if you have one or know where I can find a breeder.

I am aware the government thinks they could be an invasive species but they’re idiots and the snails are tropical and would die instantly in this climate during winter. I would never let it go and would rather kill it than set it free, but would never do either.

On back of card: "Fred set his school record for shot put (53 feet six inches)."

I briefly got my hands on a horizontal-shaped 1965 Topps football card of the Oakland Raiders star Fred “the Hammer” Williamson. An outstanding defensive back who played for that AFL franchise when it featured a number of all-time greats, Williamson was known as much for his macho boasting and self-promotion as for his game. He used his brash persona in a post-football acting career, building a long list of TV and film credits, though they weren’t all stellar.

Below is the trailer of the 1974 crime drama, Three Tough Guys, in which Williamson portrays “Brother Snake,” a hitman who faces off against an ass-kicking priest and a former cop. I never imagined it was possible for this many open-hand slaps to be administered in a two-minute period.

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Hairstyle from the '70s.

The Orlando Sentinel has an odd feature about Kaylin Ransom, a 22-year-old woman who is serving a 90-day jail sentence over weekends. Ransom is required to take a booking mugshot each weekend and has used the photos to show off a different glamour pose every time. View her many looks.

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In 1977, Bell Labs produced this commercial to introduce consumers to its new Call Forwarding phone technology. Call Waiting, Speed Calling and Three-Way Calling are mentioned almost as an afterthought by the announcer.

Canada: understandably excited. (Image by Jonathan Pope.)

Apart from ice hockey and encouraging Celine Dion to leave, the thing that cold-as-fuck Canada is best at is sending traffic to Afflictor. After a stunning upset last month by Lithuania, Canada edged out Great Britain during November to wrest back its crown and once again reign supreme as champion of Afflictor Nation. Well played, Canucks, well played!

Top 5 Afflictor Nations During November:

  1. Canada
  2. Great Britain
  3. Netherlands
  4. Spain
  5. Saudi Arabia

Robert Moses plans the Battery Bridge in 1939. (Image by C.M. Stieglitz.)

Robert Moses was never elected, but then kings don’t need to be. Moses was the master builder of New York City who held sway over the creation of bridges, parks, highways, museums and skyscrapers for several decades last century. As head of numerous public authorities (most of which he created), Moses was insulated from public opinion and had the type of control over the city’s fate that no single person will ever have again. Even though he created many new acres of park lands, Moses’ passion for automobiles and towers over public transportation and small neighborhoods eventually made him a reviled figure and Jane Jacobs, his arch-foe, a leading urban theorist.

C.M. Stieglitz’s 1939 World Telegram image of Robert Moses looking down on a scale model of the proposed Battery Bridge as if it were a child’s toy may say as much about Moses as Robert Caro did in his sprawling, devastating 1974 biography, Power Broker. That’s no small praise since Caro’s book may be the single best history about New York City in the 20th century.

From Paul Goldberger’s 1981 New York Times obituary about Moses:

“Robert Moses, who played a larger role in shaping the physical environment of New York State than any other figure in the 20th century, died early yesterday at West Islip, L.I. Mr. Moses, whose long list of public offices only begins to hint at his impact on both the city and state of New York, was 92 years old.

A spokesman for Good Samaritan Hospital said he had been taken there Tuesday afternoon from his summer home in Gilgo Beach. The cause of death was given as heart failure.

‘Those who can, build,’ Mr. Moses once said. ‘Those who can’t, criticize.’ Robert Moses was, in every sense of the word, New York’s master builder. Neither an architect, a planner, a lawyer nor even, in the strictest sense, a politician, he changed the face of the state more than anyone. Before him, there was no Triborough Bridge, Jones Beach State Park, Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, West Side Highway or Long Island parkway system or Niagara and St. Lawrence power projects. He built all of these and more.”

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"I was born into a family of IDIOTS." (Image by RMajouji.)

When it comes to the STOCK MARKET, some can + most can’t (I CAN)

What I am saying with this post is simple MANY MANY PEOPLE CAN’T turn a consistent profit in the market. VERY VERY FEW PEOPLE CAN

The best and truest way (I believe) to figure out who can and who can’tit’s not educational background or financial status. Rather, take a person who claims to be able to trade for profit, give this person a set time frame, monitor his ups and downs, and at the end of the exercise there will be profit or loss. That is the ONLY way to know if one is a good trader.

I AM HERE SAYING I CAN TRADE – I WAS BORN INTO POVERTY MY FAMILY IS FULL OF GREEDY SELFISH PEOPLE WHO REFUSE TO HELP ME PULL MYSELF OUT OF POVERTY + SUGGEST THINGS LIKE LEARN A TRADE !! THEY CONSIDER TRADING GAMBLING !!

For instance – my uncle, my father’s brother, has over $600,000 sitting in bonds RIGHT NOW earning an annual rate of 2.97% !! While here I am, quite possibly one of the futures GREATEST TRADERS (top 1% at least), living rent free in his house (while I “look for work”) and he thinks this is helping me!!!!

I was born into a family of IDIOTS no two ways about it ! I even think there was a mix up at the hospital, for there is no way I can think so differently from thesepeople and have the same blood line.

ANYWAY I AM A GREAT TRADER – I HAVE NEVER HAD THE REAL CHANCE TO PROOVE IT BUT I BELIEVE IN AMERICA AND THE AMERICAN DREAM AND I KNOW SOMEWHERE OUT THERE – SOMEONE IS GOING TO GIVE ME A CHANCE PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU ARE WILLING TO GIVE ME A CHANCE – HONESTLY I DONT WANT YOUR MONEY I WANT MY CHANCE, ALL I NEED + YOU CAN LOOK INTO WHAT I AM SAYING, IS TRADING AUTHORIZATION ON AN ACCOUNT with NO WITHDRAWLING RIGHTS = THEN I CAN SHOW YOU WHAT I CAN DO AND BEGIN THE LIFE I WAS MEANT TO LEAD, AND GET OUT OF THIS HORRIBLE PLACE. THANK YOU

Sacks wrote about face-reognition disorders in the title piece of his 1985 collection, "The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat."

I’ve mentioned before that I have a neurological glitch, called prosopagnosia or face-blindness, which causes me problems with face recognition. I can see faces just fine, but I have trouble identifying them out of context. I’m usually okay with people I see on a regular basis, less so with those I run into infrequently or haven’t seen in a long time. It causes countless misunderstandings.

Thankfully, I don’t have  a very severe level of face-blindness, but Oliver Sacks does. It’s so bad for the doctor that he actually can’t recognize himself in a mirror. The neurologist writes about dealing with the disorder in his latest excellent collection of case studies, The Mind’s Eye. An excerpt from his essay, “Face-Blindness”:

“I just assumed that I was very bad at recognizing faces as my friend Jonathan was very good–that this was just within the limits of normal variation, and that he and I just stood on opposite ends of a spectrum. It was only when I went to Australia to visit my older brother Marcus, whom I had scarcely seen in thirty-five years, and discovered that he, too, had exactly the same difficulties recognizing faces and places that it dawned on me that this was something beyond normal variation, that we both had a specific trait, a so-called prosopagnosia, probably with a distinctive genetic basis.

That there were others like me was brought home in various ways. The meeting of two people with prosopagnosia, in particular, can be very challenging. A few years ago I wrote to one of my colleagues to tell him that I admired his new book. His assistant then phoned Kate to arrange a meeting, and they settled on a weekend dinner at a restaurant in my neighborhood.

‘There may be a problem,’ Kate said. “Dr. Sacks cannot recognize anyone.’

‘It’s the same with Dr. W.,’ his assistant replied.

Somehow we did manage to meet and enjoyed dinner together. But I still have no idea what Dr. W. looks like, and he probably would not recognize me, either.”

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“All the stern giving up of beer and potatoes…”

Obesity was apparently hilarious in the 1870s. No one was wringing their meaty hands over having a huge ass–they celebrated their rolls of flesh. Hence, the existence of clubs specifically for the big-boned. In the August 30, 1872 Brooklyn Daily Eagle, there was vital coverage of a Connecticut clam bake held by one such club. (The Times also filed a report.) An excerpt:

“The formation of the celebrated Fat Men’s Club was in accordance with a well received rule in the economy of fat men’s lives. There is a time in the affairs of fat men, or rather of men who are growing fat, when they view the approach of the fleshly enemy with undisguised dread. Tell Jones at thirty-two that he is getting fat and he says, ‘ah, why bless my soul!’ and views his own proportions with comic alarm; tell him so at forty, and it will be found that he has long since ceased to worry about it; tell him so at forty-five, and lo! it is more than probable that he has begun to pride himself on his bulk.

What can’t be cured must be endured. All the stern giving up of beer and potatoes, all the perspiring exercise in the world, is of no weight against the steady advance–and we say it with all due respect–of one’s own ‘corporation.’ And so, as fat men are pretty generally, philosophers, it occurred to them that it might be a good idea to make a virtue of necessity, and club their fat together for convivial purposes.

“There be none so humorous as your fellows of paunch.”

Thus the fat men’s club. And certainly if there be one thing more than another, in this sad world, likely to provoke the twinkle of the eye and the smile of satisfaction, it is the contemplation of the jolly fat man. There be none so humorous as your fellows of paunch. But what a pity it is that Falstaff knew nothing of clam bakes! How royally he might have presided yesterday at South Norwalk, Conn., where the annual feast of the neighboring Brobdignagi on the succulent bivalves of the Sound took place! It is true that there were some ostentatious light weights present, who apparently were anxious for the reputation of fat men with barely good pretences, while against one snip of a fellow we see recorded only 199 pounds. How on earth he ever got into such a society we are at a loss to imagine, and if he doesn’t speedily make up the other pound (for 200 pounds, as we are advised, is the minimum weight upon which one may legitimately arrogate to himself the proud title of fat man), we shall feel bound to agitate his exclusion from this weighty society.

Politically, as becomes such philosophers as fat men are, the South Norwalk great ones are ‘sound.’ Nineteen of them only go for Grant, while 73 of them pant sympathetically for Greeley, (who, himself, is by no means a slim person, or a lean.)  Thus, mark the concomitants of a reasonable bulk: Good nature, jovial clambakes, their names in the paper (and their weight), and sound political principles. Who wouldn’t be a fat man?”

Found Footage Festival serves up this 1988 TV spot for Isaac Asimov’s Robots VCR Mystery Game. According to Board Game Geek, the action was set in the 23rd century, as a detective attempted to solve the first murder in 100 years.

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Herbert Hoover: Would it kill you to call?

This fun excerpt from Ammon Shea’s The Phone Book: The Curious History of the Book That Everyone Uses But No One Reads, comes courtesy of the great Marginal Revolution:

“The first American president to have a telephone on his desk was Herbert Hoover, who had one installed in 1929. The White House did have a telephone well before most of the country, as Rutherford B. Hayes had had one installed in the telegraph room of the executive mansion in 1878. It received little use at first, since so few other people had telephones at that time. The very first telephone book for the city of Washington, D.C. lists this presidential telephone simply as ‘No.1.'”

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Watching, always watching. (Image by noodlesnacks.com.)

In the future, we will be killed in new and interesting ways. Currently in development are weapons that are as fascinating as they are frightening. Business Insider has a rundown of ten such science fiction-ish weapons systems. One that’s being worked on right now that doesn’t commit murder–not yet, anyhow– is HI-MEMS, equal parts bug and bot, which is intended as a pesky reconnaissance agent. (Thanks Newmark’s Door.) An excerpt:

“The HI-MEMS is part insect, part machine. First, a micro-mechanical system is placed inside the insect during early stages of metamorphosis. The bugs operate similarly to a remote control car — the goal is to be able to control the bugs movement and location through the implanted microsystem. HI-MEMS will be used for gathering information using its sensors, such as a microphone or a gas detector.”

"My poor turtle and fish and shrimp are in a salad bowl right now." (Image by Mary Hollinger.)

broke my turtle/fish tank. anyone can drop one off for a price? – $30 (soho/i know this is a weird request)

My poor turtle and fish and shrimp are in a salad bowl right now, because I was cleaning their habitat, scrubbed to hard and cracked the glass. Look at this handsome little dude, he needs a new casa. A 10 or 12 gallon LONG tank would be perfect, but any comfy home besides the glass bowl will be better. It would be a miracle if someone could help me out tonight. I will pay you of course.

If you are even considering this, I thank you gracefully…

I’ve attached some pics from happier days (when they weren’t living in a saladbowl)

Evel Knievel aboard a less lethal cycle. (Image courtesy of Bill Wolf.)

I’ve long admired “He’s Not a Bird, He’s Not a Plane,” a fun profile of the late, great motorcycle daredevil Evel Knievel from the February 5, 1968 issue of Sports Illustrated. The piece was penned by Gilbert Rogin, a novelist who was also SI‘s managing editor.

The article relays what a sensation Knievel was in the ’60s and ’70s. He dressed like Elvis and escaped death like Houdini, although the dark side of his appeal was the sick fascination of watching what would happen if he couldn’t avert disaster, as he jumped his motorcycle over rows of cars, hotel fountains and actual rivers.

Knievel had none of the sociopolitical significance of Muhammad Ali, but he shared the boxer’s keen understanding of Hollywood, hoopla and the hard sell. He went through a lot of money, broken bones, personal problems, a rock opera and a late-life religious conversion before his death in 2007. In Rogin’s piece, Knievel touted his desire to jump across the Grand Canyon (which never happened). An excerpt about his not-so-successful jump over the fountains at Caesar’s Palace on the last day of 1967:

“On New Year’s Eve, Knievel jumped the ornamental fountains in front of Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, which are billed as the World’s Largest Privately Owned Fountains. Several weeks earlier he had said, ‘I know I can jump these babies, but what I don’t know is whether I can hold on to the motorcycle when it lands. Oh, boy, I hope I don’t fall off.’

Knievel’s fears were justified. Shortly after the motorcycle hit the landing ramp, he fell and rolled 165 feet across an asphalt parking lot. Knievel is now in Southern Nevada Memorial Hospital, recovering from compound fractures of the hip and pelvis. ‘Everything seemed to come apart,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t hang on to the motorcycle. I kept smashing over and over and over and over and over, and I kept saying to myself, ‘Stay conscious, stay conscious.’ But, hey, I made the fountains!'”

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Knievel “jumps” the Snake River Canyon, 1974:

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Boing Boing editors David Pescovitz, Xeni Jardin, Cory Doctorow and Mark Frauenfelder. (Image by Dave Bullock.)

Boing Boing, the king of personal blogs that aspire to any level of cerebralness, is sort of an accidental giant. It started as a tiny print zine during the ’80s and became the least likely giant-traffic blog on the web. In an article for Fast Company, Rob Walker profiles the four principals behind the site. An excerpt:

“‘Boing Boing is a holdover from a time when the best blogs were written by smart people who posted whatever was interesting to them,’ observes Jonah Peretti, founder of BuzzFeed. Sure, there are still many such blogs around, but the blogosphere overall has changed radically, with the dominant players falling into recognizable categories — tech (Gizmodo, Engadget), gossip (TMZ, Gawker), politics (the Huffington Post, Politico) — and generally created by teams of professionals looking for growth and profits. ‘The new generation of postpersonal blogs,’ Peretti adds, ‘are much bigger.’

Yet boingboing.net remains among the most popular 10 or 20 blogs around. According to Quantcast data, it gets about 2.5 million unique visitors a month, racking up 9.8 million page views, a traffic increase of around 20% over 2009. It attracts blue-chip advertisers such as American Express and Verizon. It makes a nice living for its founders and a handful of contract employees.

And what really makes it interesting is that it does this with a mix of material that remains as eclectic, strange, and sometimes nonsensical as the obscure personal blog it started out as. Sure, the site offers its take on big, hot-button topics like WikiLeaks or the latest Apple gadgetry. But just as prominent are headlines such as ‘And now, an important message regarding elves,’ or ‘Heavily stapled phone-pole,’ or, to cite a recent favorite of mine, ‘Monkey rides a goat’ (an animated GIF of exactly that).

How can this mishmash command an audience of millions? Particularly now, when the ‘postpersonal’ blogosphere offers slick, focused, comprehensive takes on any subject you can imagine? Maybe the founders’ insistence on keeping the site weird, loose, personal, and fundamentally unprofessional is exactly what keeps the crowd coming back. Boing Boing’s longevity hasn’t happened despite its refusal to get serious, but because of it.”

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“It weighs about 50 pounds…you can plug it anywhere,” says the announcer for this 1977 commercial for the IBM 5100, which had an incredibly tiny display. You notice that none of the real people in this ad vouching for the “portable” 5100 are actually carrying it. That probably had to do with the 50 pounds part.

Not an image from the "Mother Jones" story but a fine representation of a broken face. (Image by Manuel Anastácio.)

Mac McClelland of Mother Jones has penned a disturbing article about vigilante justice in Oklahoma’s Indian Nations. A high crime rate and a lack of competent policing has led victims to pay good money for rough justice. (Thanks Arts & Letters Daily.) An excerpt:

“It takes a while to notice Ruben’s scars. Though they’re hardly subtle, they don’t catch your eye as readily as his strong, smooth features or the big-ass smile that’s totally disarming despite his size: six foot three, 225 pounds. Neck like a waist. Friendly as you please. When I pointed to each of the healed-up gashes on his fists and asked what they were from, he replied, ‘Teeth. Teeth. These are all from teeth.’ He charges $1,000 for every one that he knocks out of a person’s head. It’s the same price for each bone he breaks in a face, a practice that’s cost him a couple of knuckles.

The first people who hired Ruben, five years ago, were a regular, law-abiding couple from the Cherokee Nation who had been robbed, their savings snatched from under the mattress. The couple knew who’d stolen from them, but they couldn’t prove it, and they didn’t have any faith that the cops would take action. Ruben was a young Pawnee who had always gotten in a lot of fights and always seemed to win. He didn’t have anything against the guy; it was just a job, like his other odd jobs, roofing or tiling or cement work. He waited for the guy to walk out of a bar one night and started hitting him. Two facial fractures: eye socket and cheekbone. Two thousand dollars. Ruben—who’s asked me to use that name to protect his identity—says he can’t count how many times he’s played vigilante since then in the Indian nations of northeastern Oklahoma.”

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Ruined antique stock footage of a boxer in training.

Bill Morrison’s brilliant 2002 experimental film, Decasia: The State of Decay, uses ruined antique film stock and a brilliant score by Michael Gordon to meditate on aging, imperfection and loss–and the surprising solace these things can bring.

The director presents a seemingly unrelated stream of silent images that has been degraded by exposure and poor maintenance: a man in a fez does a whirling dance, butterflies flit about, firefighters make a rescue, a baby is born, a camel walks across the desert, a boxer hits a punching bag, an artist paints a portrait, workers run looms and machinery, nuns watch over children, etc. The scenes represent all the important aspects of life–birth, nature, play, labor, culture and love–but the images are often partially or wholly distorted and obscured by damage to the film, alternately creating effects akin to a house of mirrors, sunspots, sand storms and eclipses. Gordon’s furious score is the perfect counterbalance to the unimposing scenes, sounding at different times like an ambulance siren, a war march and a rocket hurtling toward Earth.

What makes Decasia so profoundly moving is its verisimilitude to life itself, as all of us age from the moment we’re born, collecting imperfections from the start. But Morrison shows that there’s beauty in the wear, treasure in the detritus, gold in the rust. What a beautiful consolation. (Available from Netflix and other venues.)

More Film Posts:

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"Open to anything as long as its legal and legitimate."

I need to make $20k quickly, Any Ideas, Suggestions, Contacts etc.? (Queens)

I desperately need to make approximately $20k in a short period of time before the end of this year,.Open to anything as long as its legal and legitimate and most importantly it works in real life and has a proven track record of working and nor just some theory,..Please email me with any of your ideas, suggestions, business offers, opportunities, contacts, etc.. on how this could be obtained and if you benefit in the process that is fine with me as long as it works and we both get to our goals,.

I promise i will take a very close look at everything and anything and get back to you immediately.

An 1878 map of Manhattan Beach Railway, which was built by tycoon Austin Corbin.

Back in the day robber barons did as they pleased and let you know that they held all the cards. Case in point: financier Austin Corbin, who was the money behind the building of Coney Island and consolidating the Long Island Railroad. He stole land from Native Americans and barred Jewish people from his hotels, but he didn’t lose any sleep over it. Corbin, who resided in Babylon, Long Island, also annoyed the nine-to-fivers by having his own private train car attached each day to the head of the commuter train, so that he didn’t have to ride with the hoi polloi. Sometimes this caused delays to occur and tempers to flare. The Brooklyn Daily Eagle had a story about such an occurrence in its June 8, 1891 issue. The coda below that story is from the June 5, 1896 New York Times, an article about a day Corbin didn’t–but should have–traveled by train.

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Austin Corbin: rich bigot.

“Grumbling at Austin Corbin” (Brooklyn Daily Eagle, 1891): “There was an array of ‘kickers’ on the Patchogue express train for New York this morning. The ‘kickers’ were business men, mechanics, brokers, lawyers and others. ‘Is this railroad run for the personal convenience of Austin Corbin or the public who support it?’ was the question that ran through the parlor cars and coaches before and after the train had left Babylon. The reason for the feeling of complaint was that the train was eight minutes late. The time had been lost at Babylon in coupling on the private car of Mr. Austin Corbin. Mr. Corbin always has his private car, which is the handsomest one on wheels to-day, run at the head of the train so as to avoid taking the dust that would make riding unpleasant were the car hitched to the rear of the train. The eight minutes’ loss of headway was a serious matter in the minds of the business men who were passengers, as those of them who were heading for New York feared that it would lose them a boat, and the loss of a James slip boat means the loss of a half hour, and the loss of a Thirty-fourth street boat entails a loss of ten minutes. Beside, the passengers for Brooklyn were delayed, and on the Atlantic division there is no chance to make up time, for the management of the rapid transit trains puts them directly in front of a belated through train and not much time is lost. The protestants against the loss of time were very much placated upon reaching Hunter’s Point when they found that the train had made up four minutes of time and that the ferryboats had been held back for the train.”

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Austin Corbin Dead: Thrown Out of His Carriage at Newport, New Hampshire, Suffers Severely a Portion of the Time from His Injuries, Leg Broken and Head Badly Cut, His Scalp Laid Bare with Two Great Gashes and His Lips and Chin Frightfully Lacerated” (New York Times, 1896): “Austin Corbin died here this evening at 9:42 o’clock of injuries received by being thrown from a carriage. John Stokes, the coachman, also received fatal injuries and died at 6 o’clock.

Corbin Edgell, nephew of Mr. Corbin, and Dr. Paul Kunzler, the other occupants of the carriage, were injured severely. Mr. Edgell’s right leg is broken in two places between the knee and ankle. Dr. Kunzler has a broken arm and sprained ankle.

 

That odious anti-semite Austin Corbin stated in a 1879 interview, “Personally, I am opposed to the Jews.” He banned all Jewish people from his hotel, including the Manhattan Beach Hotel (pictured).

The accident took place at 3 o’clock this afternoon, when the party started from Mr. Corbin’s country house on a fishing trip. They rode in an open carriage drawn by a pair of horses which the coachman, Stokes, was driving. Just as they were moving out of the yard, the horses, which were being driven without blinders for the first time, shied, and all the occupants were thrown down an embankment against a stone wall.

Mr. Corbin’s injuries seemed to be very severe. It is supposed that the injuries that caused Mr. Corbin’s death were those of which the outward marks were two great cuts in the forehead. On the front of his head there was a cut fully four inches long, which laid bare his scalp; on the right side of the head was another cut three inches long. Mr. Corbin’s face was also cut and torn, particularly his chin and lips.

He was conscious when taken from the ground, and retained consciousness for a long time. Everything possible was done to alleviate his suffering, but his injuries were of such a nature that necessarily he experienced a great deal of pain.”


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Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz... (Image by Frank Wouters.)

I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the search machine known as “True Knowledge,” but it has apparently been fed reams of data and picked April 11, 1954 as the most boring day of the twentieth century. The Times of India reports about this yawn-inducing day. (Thanks Marginal Revolution.) An excerpt:

“Developed by Cambridge University technologist William Tunstall-Pedoe, the Internet search engine reached its lofty decision after analysing some 300 million facts about ‘people, places, business and events’ that made the news.

Using complex algorithms, such as how much one piece of information was linked to others, True Knowledge determined that particular Sunday of 1954 to be outstanding in its obscurity.

‘Nobody significant died that day, no major events apparently occurred and, although a typical day in the 20th century has many notable people being born, for some reason that day had only one who might make that claim – Abdullah Atalar, a Turkish academic,’ Tunstall-Pedoe was quoted as saying by the Telegraph.

He said: ‘The irony is, though, that having done the calculation the day is interesting for being exceptionally boring. Unless, that is, you are Abdullah Atalar.'”

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Photographer Marjory Collins may have been the only woman in the room.

It’s the New York Times in 1942: white guys, typewriters, old timey telephones. Shockingly, no one in this fun photo is smoking. The casual-looking reporters are killing time until they’re sent out on an assignment. The rewrite man in the back is getting info over the phone so he can file a report.

The photographer with the great eye responsible for this picture is Marjory Collins (1912-1985), a pioneering female photojournalist who took many other great pictures. The Library of Congress has a biographical sketch of Collins. An excerpt:

“Marjory Collins described herself as a ‘rebel looking for a cause.’ She began her photojournalism career in New York City in the 1930s by working for such magazines as PM and U.S. Camera. At a time when relatively few women were full-time magazine photographers, such major photo agencies as Black Star, Associated Press, PIX, and Time, Inc., all represented her work.

In 1941, Collins joined Roy Stryker‘s team of photographers at the U.S. Office of War Information to document home front activities during World War II. She created remarkable visual stories of small town life, ethnic communities, and women war workers. The more than 3,000 images she took in 1942-43 are preserved in the Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Collection at the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division.

After World War II, Collins combined three careers–photographer, editor, and writer. She traveled internationally as a freelance photographer for both the U.S. government and the commercial press. She also participated in social and political causes and was an active feminist who founded the journal Prime Time (1971-76) ‘for and by older women.'”

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To me, Lou Reed always seems like such a mean jackass. I wouldn't think Salman Rushdie is any dreamboat, either. (Image by David Shankbone.)

The Wall Street Journal conducted a Q&A with Salman Rushdie, in which the writer discusses his adopted city of New York. An excerpt:

“My first night here in 1973, I was invited to Windows on the World which had just opened. I was 26, had long hair and had to put on a suit to get in. I wrote about that New York—the underground of the CBGBs—in The Ground Beneath Her Feet. I bought a house here 12 years ago. Fury, my New York novel, was published on 9/11/01! I feel more allied to cities than countries. I’m a Bombay—not Mumbai!—boy more than an Indian. I’ve spent most of my life in London and feel at home there. Now I belong here. I first stayed with a friend in a St. Mark’s Place brownstone, I’ve lived on the Upper West Side, I’ve lived downtown. I remember Times Square before it became Disneyland. The informality about downtown Manhattan was very attractive. I fell in love with it when I was young and wanted to live here. Now? I’m friendly with so many people here–to have Lou Reed’s phone number is like having God’s email address.”

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Isabella Rossellini: underwear historian.

Isabella Rossellini was 19, a model, a student designer and new to NYC when Life published this blurb about her (scroll down a bit) in April 1972. An excerpt:

“Two years ago Isabella, fed up with Italy’s classical schooling, won her parents’ permission to switch to a fashion academy in Rome. An accomplished student designer now, she has worked as an assistant wardrobe mistress on one of her father’s films. Last month she came to New York to study English and to be near her mother, who is starring on Broadway. While here, she will also sneak off to the Brooklyn Museum to study the collection of ancient corsetry, the foundation of her fashion academy thesis, ‘The History of Underwear.'”

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John Lennon offers his take on American football to Howard Cosell during halftime of the December 9, 1974 Monday Night Football game, as the Washington Redskins were on their way to defeating the Los Angeles Rams. If I recall the story correctly, California Governor Ronald Reagan, who was also at the game, tried to explain NFL rules to the baffled former Beatle.

Six years later, Cosell would report Lennon’s murder live on another Monday Night Football telecast: “Remember this is just a football game, no matter who wins or loses. An unspeakable tragedy, confirmed to us by ABC News in New York City–John Lennon outside of his apartment building on the West Side of New York City, the most famous, perhaps, of all of the Beatles, shot twice in the back, rushed to Roosevelt Hospital, dead on arrival. Hard to go back to the game after that news flash.”

A little more than a year later, Ronald Regan would, of course, survive an assassination attempt.

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