2011

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Pseudo.com founder and Web 1.0 wackjob Josh Harris, he of the sadistic yet prophetic “art projects,” is asked to anticipate the future in a really thorough article by Courtney Boyd Myers at The Next Web. An excerpt from his bleak and bold vision:

“What drove Harris crazy when he lived in a Truman Show like reality with his ‘fake girlfriend,’ other than losing his fortune, was when people online, his followers, started to get into his head and he was barely able to make a decision at any moment. Harris says that scenario was like a caveman version of what’s to come. With your day split into microparts, you will suffer from a psychic fracture. The issue won’t be about maintaining privacy. Your privacy will be long gone. The issue will be when your brain overloads, what in computer terms happens when the CPU goes into complete multi-tasking mode. And this is how we will enter the hive, also known  as the Matrix. And that’s Harris’ Singularity. It’s just a matter of time, he says.

‘This is how you have to look at it. I try not to make judgements, it’s just a natural evolutionary process. I don’t know how they knew it but The Mayans were right: 2012 is the end of the world. The world isn’t going to blow up. But 2012 is the year when the Singularity’s effects will start to take place. When our lives become a collection of micro day parts. Unlike Isaac Asimov, who said his biggest regret is that he wouldn’t be alive for The Singularity, we actually are going to be present at the shift. It’ll start next year. It’ll seem like magic, just like television was magic, radio was magic, the telegraph was magic, and maybe even smoke signals were in their day. This is going to be real magic and we’re going to be alive to witness it.'”

Another Josh Harris post:

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Kids discuss LSD use during an experiment.

More People-on-LSD posts:

World War II ended in 1945, but the battle waged on for Jean-Luc Godard, who saw the Allied victory affording America with the opportunity for post-war cultural imperialism. That dynamic courses beneath the surface of Godard’s Contempt, a bitter but ingenious CinemaScope drama that ranks as one of the very best films from Godard’s amazing string of masterpieces during the 1960s.

An adaptation of Ghosts at Noon, Alberto Moravia’s novel of matrimonial discord, Contempt takes place on the set of a tortured film production in Italy. Fritz Lang, playing a version of himself, has been hired to make a big-screen adaptation of the Odyssey by Jeremy Prokosch (Jack Palance), a crass, uncultured vulgarian with a god complex. Disatisfied with the art film that Lang has turned in, Prokosch summons playwright Paul Javal (Michel Piccoli) for rewrites to Cinecittà Studios, the once-vibrant center of Italian cinema that is now little more than a soundstage ghost town. Paul brings with him his gorgeous wife Camille (Brigitte Bardot), and it’s immediately clear that the producer has designs on his new employee’s wife.

Despite Prokosch’s wolfish reputation, Paul leaves his wife alone with his boss for an extended spell. And in that period, the marriage is permanently wounded. It’s never clear what’s happened between the producer and Camille during their time together, but she turns cold to Paul afterwards. When her husband repeats the same irresponsible (opportunistic?) act again, there’s no chance for reconciliation. Not knowing Paul’s intentions or what has actually occurred between Prokosch and Camille turns the film into a painful frustration dream. It does more than hurt–it also haunts.

But no matter how painful the marriage coming undone is, it isn’t the greatest loss to the director. He is more concerned with cultural loss, what he sees as the domination of the world film industry by the U.S., which was mirrored by Godard’s own battles with American producer Joseph Levine, who wanted his director to get Bardot to bare as much of her heavenly body as possible to ensure big box office.

When Prokosch is warned in one scene that it will be difficult to bend Lang’s will to his own, since, after all, the director defied Goebbels in 1943, he spits back: “This isn’t 1943. It’s 1963. And he’ll direct what he’s told.” And instantly one troubled film production is transformed into a metaphor for an international power struggle.•

Recent Film Posts:

 

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Newly minted octogenarian Mikhail Gorbachev holds forth in Spiegel on modern Russia, which looks to his experienced eyes a whole lot like the stubbornly backwards Soviet Union. An excerpt:

SPIEGEL: Let’s jump forward in time to present-day Russia. When Putin came into office in 2000, you supported him. Had you already known him for some time?

Gorbachev: He helped me when I ran in the 1996 presidential election.

SPIEGEL: You thought he was clever at the time. Now you say that under his leadership Russia came to resemble an African country, where dictators rule for 20 to 30 years. What do you suddenly find so objectionable about him?

Gorbachev: Careful: It is you that is using the word ‘dictator.’ I supported Putin during his presidency, and I still support him in many ways today.

SPIEGEL: You asked him not to run for president again.

Gorbachev: What troubles me is what the United Russia party, which is led by Putin, and the government are doing. They want to preserve the status quo. There are no steps forward. On the contrary, they are pulling us back into the past, while the country is urgently in need of modernization. Sometimes United Russia reminds me of the old Soviet Communist Party.

SPIEGEL: Putin and President Dmitry Medvedev want to decide between themselves who will be the next president in 2012.

Gorbachev: Putin wants to stay in power, but not so that he can finally solve our most pressing problems: education, health care, poverty. The people are not being asked, and the parties are puppets of the regime. Governors are no longer directly elected. Direct mandates in elections were eliminated. Everything works through party lists now. But new parties are not being allowed, because they get in the way.” (Thanks Longreads.)

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Gorbachev-Reagan Chiclets commercial by Spitting Image puppets, 1987:

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"But she is positive one of them is killed."

In the days before telegraph and Morse code let alone radio, information about events that occurred in Europe wouldn’t reach America for several days. Newspapers in New York came up with a solution–get a jump on the competition by having a clairvoyant tell them what happened. This could have been some sort of joke, but I don’t think so. An excerpt from a story in the April 19, 1860 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“The New York Daily News has been consulting a clairvoyant on the result of  the Prize Fight which all suppose to have been fought by Heenan and Sayers on Monday, and says:

‘A clairvoyant in this city declares that one of the pugilists who yesterday fought for the championship of England has been killed. We have been unable to ascertain which; but the lady inclines to think it is the ‘larger man,’ whether as to the muscle or as to the pugilistic fame we know not. But she is positive one of them is killed. We are, therefore, all the more curious to know the result. It will affect either spiritual seeing or material hitting; which, a few days will tell. The old lady adds that the killed man is not the winner.”

Mike Wallace interviews Bette Davis. Just listen to that irritating old witch. And Davis was no bargain, either.

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Can store clerks kill robbers?

Just wondering with the way laws work, if a clerk can open fire at will.

More about swarm robots, this time microchip-sized crafts designed by engineer Mason Peck at Cornell University, which can be used to inexpensively probe the outer reaches of space.  They’re called Sprites. An excerpt from the Cornell page about them:

“Inspired by the success of the first Sputnik launch in 1957, we focus on a simple, feasible, but genuinely new design. For three weeks, the 23 inch diameter sphere of Sputnik I broadcast its internal temperature and pressure as it orbited and hinted at the potential of artificial satellites. A half century later, we expect to duplicate Sputnik’s achievement using less than one ten-millionth of its mass. Our design packages the traditional spacecraft systems (power, propulsion, communications, etc) onto a single silicon microchip smaller than a dime and unconstrained by onboard fuel.'” (Thanks Singularity Hub.)

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Americans amazed by Sputnik, 1957:

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Kudos to the folks at Open Culture for finding an archived Sports Illustrated article by William Faulkner, who reported on attending his first hockey game in 1955. An excerpt from “An Innocent at Rinkside“:

The vacant ice looked tired, though it shouldn’t have. They told him it had been put down only a few minutes ago following a basketball game, and after the hockey match it would be taken up again to make room for something else. But it looked not expectant but resigned, like the mirror simulating ice in the Christmas store window, not before the miniature fir trees and reindeer and cosy lamplit cottage were arranged upon it, but after they had been dismantled and cleared away.

Then it was filled with motion, speed. To the innocent, who had never seen it before, it seemed discorded and inconsequent, bizarre and paradoxical like the frantic darting of the weightless bugs which run on the surface of stagnant pools. Then it would break, coalesce through a kind of kaleidoscopic whirl like a child’s toy, into a pattern, a design almost beautiful, as if an inspired choreographer had drilled a willing and patient and hard-working troupe of dancers—a pattern, design which was trying to tell him something, say something to him urgent and important and true in that second before, already bulging with the motion and the speed, it began to disintegrate and dissolve.

Then he learned to find the puck and follow it. Then the individual players would emerge. They would not emerge like the sweating barehanded behemoths from the troglodyte mass of football, but instead as fluid and fast and effortless as rapier thrusts or lightning—Richard with something of the passionate glittering fatal alien quality of snakes, Geoffrion like an agile ruthless precocious boy who maybe couldn’t do anything else but then he didn’t need to; and others—the veteran Laprade, still with the know-how and the grace. But he had time too now, or rather time had him, and what remained was no longer expendable that recklessly, heedlessly, successfully; not enough of it left now to buy fresh passion and fresh triumph with.•

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“Boom Boom” Geoffrion in his prime:

“Boom Boom” selling beer in 1985:

Another William Faulkner post:

 

Another classic Sports Illustrated article:

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The Speedy Weenie machine used Devol’s microwave technology to dispense dogs. This photo was taken in his home.

Robotic arms that can grip and lift have been essential in everything from assembly lines to vending machines. Their creator, George Devol, who patented the invention in 1961 just passed away. An excerpt about the inventor’s beginnings from a New York Times obituary by Jeremy Pearce:

George Charles Devol Jr. was born Feb. 20, 1912, in Louisville, Ky. An experimenter from an early age, he studied mechanics and electronics in high school, but did not attend college. He worked for electronics companies in the 1920s, and in the early 1930s founded a small company, United Cinephone, to develop recording technology for movies.

That initial venture was not fruitful, and Mr. Devol turned his inventor’s hand to making devices that open doors automatically and other devices using machine controls. He also found a way to make laundry presses open or close when a worker approached. In 1939 United Cinephone installed automated photoelectric counters at the New York World’s Fair to count entering customers.

In the 1940s, Mr. Devol helped in an early application of the microwave oven, with the introduction of a machine for cooking and vending hot dogs, known as the “Speedy Weeny.”•

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Devol’s associate, Joseph F. Engelberger, demonstrates the technology for Johnny Carson in 1966, at the 9:09 mark.

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In 1980, David Frost met the Shah of Iran in Panama for the deposed leader’s final interview.

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The opening of “Lithium Dreams,” Lawrence Wright’s excellent 2010 New Yorker article about Bolivia’s chance for economic renaissance during the age of lightweight batteries:

“In southern Bolivia, there is a mountain called Cerro Rico—’the hill of wealth.’ It is a pale, bald rock, crisscrossed with dirt roads that climb the slope like shoelaces. More than four thousand mining tunnels have so thoroughly riddled its interior that the mountain is in danger of collapse. Its base is ringed with slums that spill into the old city of Potosí, a World Heritage site. Evo Morales, the President of Bolivia, recently told me that he and his countrymen see Potosí as ‘a symbol of plunder, of exploitation, of humiliation.’ The city represents a might-have-been Bolivia: a country that had capitalized on its astounding mineral wealth to become a major industrial power. Such a Bolivia could easily have been imagined in 1611, when Potosí was one of the biggest cities in the world, with a hundred and eighty thousand inhabitants—roughly the size of London at the time. Although Potosí began as a mining town, with the saloons and gaming houses that accompany men on the frontier, it soon had magnificent churches and theatres, and more than a dozen dance academies. From the middle of the sixteenth century until the middle of the seventeenth, half the silver produced in the New World came from Cerro Rico. Carlos Mesa, a historian who served as Bolivia’s President from 2003 to 2005, told me, ‘It was said throughout the Spanish empire, ‘This is worth a Potosí,’ when speaking of luck or riches.’ Potosí is now one of the poorest places in what has long been one of the poorest countries in South America.

Across the divide of the industrial revolution, there is another city whose promise of greatness now lies in ruins: Detroit. Even before the Curved Dash Oldsmobile rolled off the assembly line, in 1901, becoming the first mass-produced American car, Detroit was a showplace of labor, its huge factories producing iron, copper, freight cars, ships, pharmaceuticals, and beer. Following Oldsmobile’s lead, carmakers such as Ford, Packard, and Cadillac transformed the American economy. But Detroit’s triumph was remarkably short-lived. The city is half the size it was fifty years ago. Two of the Big Three carmakers, General Motors and Chrysler, went bankrupt in 2009, and all of them have cut their workforces drastically. Unemployment in Detroit is at fifteen per cent; the murder rate is the fourth highest in the country; and about a third of its citizens live in poverty. An estimated seventy thousand structures—houses, churches, factories, even skyscrapers—stand empty, many of them vandalized or burned. Parts of town are being farmed. Like Bolivia, Detroit is hoping for a second chance. And both of them are looking to a treasure that could revive their fortunes, and, incidentally, lead the world to a cleaner environment. That treasure is lithium.” (Thanks TETW.)

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Bolivian President Evo Morales on the Daily Show in 2007:

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Fog Machine – $25 (Midtown West)

Fog machine for sale. Works well. Pick up in Midtown office building. I’ve stopped doing weird performance shit and have given up.

From the 1960s.

More Joe Pyne posts:

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Small robots are much cheaper to build than large ones, so getting wee ones to communicate with one another and do a task makes sense.

I had a phone conversation a few years back with the film critic Neal Gabler. I can’t remember what it was about, but I thought he was a really bright and nice guy. I disagree with a lot of “The Elusive Big Idea,’‘ his op-ed piece in yeaterday’s Sunday Times, but I think it’s a must read. The thing is, I agree with his basic premise that much of American culture is mired in rigid orthodoxy and regressing, but I don’t necessarily believe that there’s a paucity of big ideas or that the Internet is damaging our ability to hatch them.

It’s true that it doesn’t make any sense that we seem to be getting smarter and dumber all at once, given the free flow of information available to us all thanks to the Internet. I understand that the disparity between haves and have-nots in regards to financial wealth; that has to do with an alliance of monied interests and venal politicians. But there’s no excuse for such a divide in terms of ideas and imagination, even though there does seem to be one. That said, I don’t think the fault lies in technology like Gabler does, but in ourselves. The Internet may have exacerbated cultural amnesia and exploded egos, but it’s also leveled the playing field like nothing else since the printing press and been a huge gain for knowledge-sharing. There has probably never been a time in our history with more ideas circulating, and I think the troubling incivility and close-mindedness we see may be a reaction to that by people threatened by too many ideas, not too few. An excerpt from his essay:

“It is no secret, especially here in America, that we live in a post-Enlightenment age in which rationality, science, evidence, logical argument and debate have lost the battle in many sectors, and perhaps even in society generally, to superstition, faith, opinion and orthodoxy. While we continue to make giant technological advances, we may be the first generation to have turned back the epochal clock — to have gone backward intellectually from advanced modes of thinking into old modes of belief. But post-Enlightenment and post-idea, while related, are not exactly the same.

Post-Enlightenment refers to a style of thinking that no longer deploys the techniques of rational thought. Post-idea refers to thinking that is no longer done, regardless of the style.

The post-idea world has been a long time coming, and many factors have contributed to it. There is the retreat in universities from the real world, and an encouragement of and reward for the narrowest specialization rather than for daring — for tending potted plants rather than planting forests.

There is the eclipse of the public intellectual in the general media by the pundit who substitutes outrageousness for thoughtfulness, and the concomitant decline of the essay in general-interest magazines. And there is the rise of an increasingly visual culture, especially among the young — a form in which ideas are more difficult to express.

But these factors, which began decades ago, were more likely harbingers of an approaching post-idea world than the chief causes of it. The real cause may be information itself. It may seem counterintuitive that at a time when we know more than we have ever known, we think about it less.

We live in the much vaunted Age of Information. Courtesy of the Internet, we seem to have immediate access to anything that anyone could ever want to know. We are certainly the most informed generation in history, at least quantitatively. There are trillions upon trillions of bytes out there in the ether — so much to gather and to think about.”

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Doomsday-ish 1988 TV news report about a computer virus.

Walter Kirn went a little hyperbolic in his 2007 Atlantic essay about the high cost of multitasking in the Information Age, but it’s still a provocative piece. An excerpt;

“It isn’t working, it never has worked, and though we’re still pushing and driving to make it work and puzzled as to why we haven’t stopped yet, which makes us think we may go on forever, the stoppage or slowdown is coming nonetheless, and when it does, we’ll be startled for a moment, and then we’ll acknowledge that, way down deep inside ourselves (a place that we almost forgot even existed), we always knew it couldn’t work.

The scientists know this too, and they think they know why. Through a variety of experiments, many using functional magnetic resonance imaging to measure brain activity, they’ve torn the mask off multitasking and revealed its true face, which is blank and pale and drawn.

Multitasking messes with the brain in several ways. At the most basic level, the mental balancing acts that it requires—the constant switching and pivoting—energize regions of the brain that specialize in visual processing and physical coordination and simultaneously appear to shortchange some of the higher areas related to memory and learning. We concentrate on the act of concentration at the expense of whatever it is that we’re supposed to be concentrating on.

What does this mean in practice? Consider a recent experiment at UCLA, where researchers asked a group of 20-somethings to sort index cards in two trials, once in silence and once while simultaneously listening for specific tones in a series of randomly presented sounds. The subjects’ brains coped with the additional task by shifting responsibility from the hippocampus—which stores and recalls information—to the striatum, which takes care of rote, repetitive activities. Thanks to this switch, the subjects managed to sort the cards just as well with the musical distraction—but they had a much harder time remembering what, exactly, they’d been sorting once the experiment was over.

Even worse, certain studies find that multitasking boosts the level of stress-related hormones such as cortisol and adrenaline and wears down our systems through biochemical friction, prematurely aging us. In the short term, the confusion, fatigue, and chaos merely hamper our ability to focus and analyze, but in the long term, they may cause it to atrophy.”

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HAS ANYONE HAD GYPSYS KNOCK ON THIER DOOR 2 BUY JUNK CARS?

HAS ANYONE HAD GYPSYS KNOCK ON THIER DOOR 2 BUY JUNK CARS?

About the Carter-Ford Presidential debate, in 1976.

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"He made the statement that he was 'the first born,' and that all who wished to be saved must gain salvation through him."

In 19th-century America, street preachers were often attended by riots and fisticuffs, as the following stories published in in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle clearly demonstrate.

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“Conviction of a Street Preacher” (November 26, 1855): “Hugh Kirkland, a notorious foul-mouthed street preacher was fine $10 in Cincinnati recently for using ‘bawdy, lewd and filthy language,’ there being a statute against such indecency in force in that city. About a dozen witnesses were examined for the State, who testified that he made use of language during his discourse the most foul and libidinous in its character, and which would be entirely too obscene for publication. He defended his own case and declared himself a victim of the Democratic Party.”

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“Arrested for Blasphemy” (May 15, 1895): “In Kansas City, Kan., last night, John Gabriel, in white trousers and white jacket, aroused a crowd of spectators almost to the lynching point by declaring himself to be a second Jesus Christ. He commenced to preach in the court house square. He made the statement that he was ‘the first born,’ and that all who wished to be saved must gain salvation through him. Cries of ‘Lynch him,’ ‘String up the blasphemer,’ and other like exclamations were heard on all sides, while the crowd moved in upon him, Gabriel was unmoved and calmly surveying the crowd continued to speak. At this juncture three policemen appeared and quickly started Gabriel toward the station house. The crowd soon recovered from its spell and pressed closely after the quartet. For a long time it seemed doubtful which would be victorious but the officers by hard work and considerable threatening finally landed Gabriel in the station house. Gabriel is 35 years old and claims to come from Cedar County, Ia. He says he will continue his assertions made to-night. If he does serious trouble is feared.”

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"Some of those arrested were Wide Awakes, who had been guilty of overt acts."

“Street Preaching–Riots and Assaults” (September 4, 1854): “Yesterday afternoon, as usual, several street preachers held forth on the Battery and from the steps of City Hall, N.Y.; and about 5 o’clock, a large party of Wide Awakes, who had been listening to a preacher on the Battery started in procession of the Park, attended by some policemen, but as they were emerging from one of the gates of the Battery a party of Irish rushed upon them with knives, pistols, etc., and in a moment James Wood, a peacable citizen was dangerously stabbed in the left shoulder and side. About a dozen pistol shots were fired by either party, but fortunately, but one man was injured. His name could not be ascertained as his friends bore him quickly away. The police and Wide Awakes finally succeeded in scattering the Irish and then marched up to the Park, but the Irish had again formed, and on reaching the Park commenced a series of assaults and running fights.

The police soon succeeded in clearing the steps of the City Hall of the thousands on and about them, and the preacher, with a part of the crowd, proceeded up Broadway, he preaching as they walked. Another party started up Chatham Street, and still another down Centre Street, in all of which there was more or less fighting. As the day closed, the parties finally dispersed, the police having arrested seven persons, all of whom were locked up by Justice Osborne for examination. Some of those arrested were Wide Awakes, who had been guilty of overt acts. Mr. Wood, the person who was stabbed, was conveyed to his residence, No. 304 Eighth Avenue.”

Um, she certainly wasn’t boring.

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Sometimes I find myself thinking about the remembrance of Wendy Wasserstein, the playwright who sadly died way too soon, that Frank Rich wrote for the New York Times Magazine in 2006. She was apparently inscrutable to even her close friends, even more than the rest of us are to ours. An excerpt:

The Wendy Wasserstein who was always there for everybody (including me) at every crisis and celebration, the Wendy with that uproarious (yet musical) laugh and funny (yet never bitchy) dialogue for every fraught situation, the Wendy the whole world knew and adored was also an intensely private person who left many mysteries behind. Though she had countless circles of friends, the circles didn’t always overlap: her life was more compartmentalized than she let on. Though she had written a memorable memoir for The New Yorker about her personal and physiological journey to childbirth, the subject of her child’s paternity was strictly off-limits. Though it was apparent that she was ill for several years before her death, she hid the specifics and terminal gravity of her illness (lymphoma) until the endgame gave her away. By then she was out of reach of intimates who might have wanted to have a cognizant goodbye.

After her death, her closest friends were left to compare notes and clues about what had gone unsaid. But we had no answers. Roy Harris, the devoted stage manager for many of Wendy’s plays, including her last, Third, spoke for many of us when he published a tender reminiscence that also acknowledged his anger “that she hadn’t allowed any of her friends to be a part of her final months.”

As Roy wrote, dying was entirely Wendy’s “own business.” She was entitled to her decisions and her secrets. But the fact that she so successfully took so many of those secrets to the grave was a major revelation in itself. How could the most public artist in New York keep so much locked up? I don’t think I was the only friend who felt I had somehow failed to see Wendy whole. And who wondered if I had let her down in some profound way. I grieve as much for the Wendy I didn’t know as the Wendy I did.•

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Afflictor: Considering changing dentists, since 2009. (Image by Honustart.)

 

  • Your skin can be transformed into computer interface device.

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