2011

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Writing about The Truman Show reminded me of Rob Walker’s brilliant, frightening 2004 article, The Hidden (in Plant Sight) Persuaders,” in the New York Times Magazine. Penned before social media really took off, the article examines how BzzAgent, a Boston-based marketing firm contracts citizens to engage in surreptitious whisper campaigns to promote products. That person in the mall conspicuously reading a just-published book or loudly mentioning a great new band–they may be BzzAgents. Most amazingly, apart from earning a few small rewards which they often don’t bother to collect, these people are unpaid volunteers just wanting to be a part of a stealth machinery, like airport cultists merely trying to plant the idea in your head that flowers are nice to buy. The article’s opening:

“Over the July 4 weekend last summer, at cookouts up and down the East Coast and into the Midwest, guests arrived with packages of Al Fresco chicken sausage for their hosts to throw on the grill. At a family gathering in Kingsley, Mich. At a small barbecue in Sag Harbor, N.Y. At a 60-guest picnic in Philadelphia.

We know that this happened, and we even know how various party guests reacted to their first exposure to Al Fresco, because the Great Sausage Fanout of 2004 did not happen by chance. The sausage-bearers were not official representatives of Al Fresco, showing up in uniforms to hand out samples. They were invited guests, friends or relatives of whoever organized the get-togethers, but they were also — unknown to most all the other attendees — ‘agents,’ and they filed reports. ‘People could not believe they weren’t pork!’ one agent related. ‘I told everyone that they were low in fat and so much better than pork sausages.’ Another wrote, ‘I handed out discount coupons to several people and made sure they knew which grocery stores carried them.” Another noted that ‘my dad will most likely buy the garlic” flavor, before closing, ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

These reports went back to the company that Al Fresco’s owner, Kayem Foods, had hired to execute a ‘word of mouth’ marketing campaign. And while the Fourth of July weekend was busy, it was only a couple of days in an effort that went on for three months and involved not just a handful of agents but 2,000 of them. The agents were sent coupons for free sausage and a set of instructions for the best ways to talk the stuff up, but they did not confine themselves to those ideas, or to obvious events like barbecues. Consider a few scenes from the life of just one agent, named Gabriella.

At one grocery store, Gabriella asked a manager why there was no Al Fresco sausage available. At a second store, she dropped a card touting the product into the suggestion box. At a third, she talked a stranger into buying a package. She suggested that the organizers of a neighborhood picnic serve Al Fresco. She took some to a friend’s house for dinner and (she reported back) ‘explained to her how the sausage comes in six delicious flavors.’ Talking to another friend whom she had already converted into an Al Fresco customer, she noted that the product is ”not just for barbecues” and would be good at breakfast too. She even wrote to a local priest known for his interest in Italian food, suggesting a recipe for Tuscan white-bean soup that included Al Fresco sausage. The priest wrote back to say he’d give it a try. Gabriella asked me not to use her last name. The Al Fresco campaign is over — having notably boosted sales, by 100 percent in some stores — but she is still spreading word of mouth about a variety of other products, and revealing her identity, she said, would undermine her effectiveness as an agent.

The sausage campaign was organized by a small, three-year-old company in Boston called BzzAgent, but that firm is hardly the only entity to have concluded that the most powerful forum for consumer seduction is not TV ads or billboards but rather the conversations we have in our everyday lives. The thinking is that in a media universe that keeps fracturing into ever-finer segments, consumers are harder and harder to reach; some can use TiVo to block out ads or the TV’s remote control to click away from them, and the rest are simply too saturated with brand messages to absorb another pitch. So corporations frustrated at the apparent limits of ‘traditional’ marketing are increasingly open to word-of-mouth marketing. One result is a growing number of marketers organizing veritable armies of hired ‘trendsetters’ or ‘influencers’ or ‘street teams’ to execute ‘seeding programs,’ ‘viral marketing,’ ‘guerrilla marketing.’ What were once fringe tactics are now increasingly mainstream; there is even a Word of Mouth Marketing Association.”

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BzzAgent, the social media machine:

Another Rob Walker post:

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Not even director Peter Weir and screenwriter Andrew Niccol could have guessed just how prescient their well-calibrated 1996 media satire, The Truman Show, would turn out to be. Just 15 years later who could deny that we live life as a reality show, that we’re all extras and well-placed products are the stars, and that cameras, always more cameras, steadfastly search for something with a semblance of reality? What’s most amusing is that the film’s central point, that we are ignorant to what’s around us rather than complicit, has proven to be almost entirely wrong.

Unbeknownst to him, Truman Burbank (Jim Carrey) was adopted at birth by a corporation and raised in a soundstage town watched over by 5,000 hidden cameras and populated by actors. His parents, his wife, his friends, those strangers on the street–all paid actors in on the ruse, which is pretty much just a cruel soap opera in which advertisers can sell their wares to a gawking world that lives vicariously through the unwitting star’s every move. Christof (Ed Harris), the artsy director who films the show, sums up its allure: “No scripts, no cue cards…it isn’t always Shakespeare but it’s geuine–it’s alive.” But how much longer can it go on living? Despite being programmed from the cradle, Truman, now in his 30s, has started piecing it all together.

While much of the satire is spot-on, what the filmmakers didn’t realize is that no one would have to trick us into this vulgar media landscape. We want it and we want it now. The ego-expanding properties of the Internet have made everyone an insta-star and we will gladly hold your products and smile for the cameras. We want to be watched and are accepting of the consequences if it means we can have the attention we feel we deserve. “Was nothing real?” Truman asks when he becomes aware of the large-scale deception. Well, yes, and no. Who cares? Just take those 5,000 cameras and point them at us. We’re ready, we think, for our close-up.•


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I posted something before about Freeman Dyson’s involvement with Project Orion, a 1950s effort by a group of scientists to use A-bomb explosions to propel ships into outer space. The plan was successful though international treaties preempted its use. Here’s rare footage of what it looked like.

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Much to his chagrin, Gay Talese was the subject of a 1973 New York profile by Aaron Latham, who followed the famed New Journalist as he did first-hand research on the sexual revolution, dropping trou and taking notes at massage parlors and the sex club Plato’s Retreat, for a book that would ultimately be titled Thy Neighbor’s Wife. Many years after the infamous article, Talese told the Paris Review that the New York piece had “tainted me, trivialized me…I’m pictured in a massage parlor on West Fifty-seventh Street, frolicking around in the nude. I didn’t have that much dignity after that was published.” An excerpt from the infamous article:

“To research his book on America’s sex change, Gay went to work managing not one but two massage parlors. He served as the day manager at one and as the night manager at the other. Gay defends massage parlors by saying, ‘It is obviously better to be masturbated by massage girls than to masturbate yourself.’

His day would start about noon, when he would walk over to The Middle Earth, at 51st Street and Third Avenue, and open up. The Middle Earth stands around the corner from the Random House building where Nan Talese works as an editor. While Nan sat her desk on the eleventh floor of a glass-and-steel skyscraper, Gay would sit at this desk on the second floor of a brownstone. While up above Nan flipped through the pages of manuscripts, down below Gay would flip through the pages of a photograph album displaying pictures of the girls he had available. When the customer selected a photo he liked, Gay would call the girl’s name and then ask for $18. The girl chosen would appear and lead the customer into a massage room. Half an hour later, she would say goodbye to the customer, stuff the sheet in a garbage can that served a laundry hamper, and go to the bathroom to wash her hands.

At 7 p.m., Gay would leave The Middle Earth and proceed to his second job at The Secret Life, at 26th Street and Lexington Avenue, where he not only took the customers’ money ($15), but frisked them before he let them have a girl. He twice removed guns from men who had come for massages (one was a policeman). Gay held the guns at the desk until the men were finished with the girls. He did not want his book to turn into an In Cold Blood.”

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“At Plato’s Retreat, you can make your dreams come true”:

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Reporter looking to speak with someone who has sent nude photos online (Downtown)

I’m a reporter for a New York newspaper working on a story about adults who have emailed, tweeted or texted nude photos of themselves to a partner. If you fit this description, I would love to speak with you. I, of course, would not have to print your name in the newspaper.

If you are willing, please send along a telephone number to the address above. Thanks very much.

Susan Sontag and Agnès Varda at the Seventh New York Film Festival in 1969. Jack Kroll of Newsweek does the honors. Watch the full 28-minute version here.

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"Charles Emerson, a milk peddler of this city, was shot and killed yesterday afternoon."

Perhaps no figure in nineteenth-century New York was quite so feared as the milkman, an agent of death and destruction who delivered calamity along with his white gold, as the following articles from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle demonstrate.

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“A Milkman Shot By a Farmer” (September 29, 1893): “Buffalo, New York–Charles Emerson, a milk peddler of this city, was shot and killed yesterday afternoon midway between here and Tonawanda by William H. Griffith, a farmer. Griffith had sold Emerson some hay and the latter was hauling it away without paying for it as agreed upon. Yesterday while Griffith was absent Emerson attempted to take away another load. Griffith returned before the wagon was loaded and a quarrel ensued during which Griffith got his gun and shot Emerson in the thigh, making an ugly wound from which he had bled to death. Griffith was arrested. He claims that Emerson was advancing on him with a pitchfork when he fired in self defense.”

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“Found Dead in His Cell” (September 2, 1896): “Jamaica, Long Island–Patrick Quinn, a milkman of Madison Street, this village, 26 years of age, who was arrested at 6 o’clock last evening and confined in the lock up at the town hall on a charge of breaking in the windows of the house in which he lived, belonging to Annie Olrogge, was found dead in his cell this morning by Keeper Hogan. Coroner S.H. Nutt viewed the remains and will hold an inquest Friday at 7:30 P.M. Quinn had been drinking heavily of late and it is supposed that his death resulted from alcoholism.”

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"John Diedesch, a milkman, on Saturday night called upon a customer named Augusta Buckel to collect a bill due for lacteal served during the week."

“A Demonstrative Milkman” (February 25, 1878): “John Diedesch, a milkman, on Saturday night called upon a customer named Augusta Buckel, at her residence, No. 59 Hoyt Street, to collect a bill due for lacteal served during the week. Mrs. Buckel was not prepared to liquidate the account, as her husband had not returned home, nor was Diedesch in a humor to accept any such excuse as that offered. Accordingly he gave the woman to understand that he believed she intended to cheat him, and in return Mrs. Buckel had something to say which did not tickle the milkman’s fancy. The result was that Diedesch became exceedingly angry, and in this mood struck and kicked Mrs. Buckel to that extent that she may suffer permanently from the injuries inflicted.”

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“Drunk Carbolic Acid” (April 8, 1895): “Henry A. Nichol, a milkman, who lived at 1,155 Broadway, was found dead yesterday afternoon in a coach in the rear of the livery stable of Walter R. Thomas, at 661 Lexington Avenue, where he stabled his horse and wagon. Two vials half filled with carbolic acid and a small glass which lay beside the dead man indicated that he had committed suicide. Nichols, who was 29 years old and unmarried, had been drinking heavily for three or four weeks past, and because of his dissipated habits had lost much of his trade. His friends say he had threatened to take his life.”

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“The Deadly Broken Wire” (December 27, 1891): “Orange, New York–Frank E. Williams, a milkman was killed by an electric shock on High Street at 3:30 o’clock this morning. An old unused wire of the District messenger service broke during the night and fell across the wires of the city lighting system, which carry a current of 2,000 volts. The weather this morning was very foggy. While Williams was delivering milk the horse went ahead, and, coming in contact with the old wire, was knocked down. Williams went to his assistance and was struck in the face by the wire, which he grasped with both hands and held on to. No person witnessed the actual occurrence. Williams was taken to the residence of J.N. Robins and Dr. Bradshaw was called in. He came too late, however, for Williams was beyond human aid. His body was taken to the morgue.

Williams was 27 years of age, and was an estimable man. He was married three months ago to Miss Moger of Roseland, where he lived. When the news of his death was broken to his young wife she was greatly overcome.”

 

Jesus. H. Christ. Don’t forget Tony Junod’s excellent Esquire article about ants.

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Sad news about Clarence Clemons passing away at age 69, one week after suffering a severe stroke. Bruce Springsteen’s E Street myth-building wouldn’t have worked nearly as well without his sideman’s accompaniment on sax, a rueful and romantic spin on King Curtis.

Whenever someone dies, I always prefer to look at film and photos of them that are grainy, dark and damaged. I’m alarmed by the HD, 3-D age we live in, the need to pretend that we’re seeing everything clearer, as if our world, our minds, are objective. It’s all a lie. I think the lo-fi aesthetic is more honest. It has gaps and imperfections and we have to fill them in and correct them, using our memories and dreams. Being handed some sort of phony, flawless truth is meaningless; it’s assimilating inchoate information that makes us human.

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In 1978 in Passaic, Clemons delivers one of the most famous sax solos in rock, two-and-a-half minutes of power, beginning at the four-minute mark:

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Some search-engine keyphrases bringing traffic to Afflictor this week:

 

Afflictor: Making women in burqas smile wide since 2009. (Image by Rama.)

  • Terry Southern passes time at Larry Flynt’s insane California estate in 1983.
  • In 1993, James Gleick accurately predicted the efficacy of cell phones.

"Unbelievable."

Two free tickest to see the Monkees – $1 (Upper East Side)

In exchange for an hour of unbelievable sex at your place from 5:00-6:00
Yu must be an attractive female with a great body

What was termed New Journalism reached critical mass in the 1960s, though Joseph Mitchell and A.J. Liebling and others had been doing it for decades. The colorful writing appeared prominently in the New York Herald Tribune, New York (which was born of the Trib), Esquire and numerous other periodicals. The style varied, but, oh, there was style. The Birth of ‘The New Journalism’: Eyewitness Report By Tom Wolfe,” was the New York article, published in its February 14, 1972 issue, that defined the liberation of ink-stained wretches after it had overthrown the accepted order. An excerpt in which Wolfe recalls the furious work ethic behind the birth of the new:

“The Herald Tribune assigned me split duties, like a utility infielder’s. Two days a week I was supposed to work for the city desk as a general assignment reporter, as usual. The other three days I was supposed to turn out a weekly piece of about 1,500 words for the Herald Tribune’s new Sunday supplement, which was called New York. At the same time, following the success of ‘There Goes (Varoom! Varoom!) That Kandy-Kolored (Thphhhhhh!) Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby (Rahghhh!) Around the Bend (Brummmmmmmmmmmmmm) . . . . .’—I was also cranking out stories for Esquire. This setup was crazy enough to begin with. I can remember flying to Las Vegas on my two regular days off from the Herald Tribune to do a story for Esquire—’Las Vegas!!!!’—and winding up sitting on the edge of a white satin bed in a Hog-Stomping Baroque suite in a hotel on the Strip—in the décor known as Hog-Stomping Baroque there are 400-pound cut-glass chandeliers in the bathrooms—and picking up the phone and dictating to the stenographic battery of the Trib city desk the last third of a story on demolition derbies in Long Island for New York—’Clean Fun at Riverhead’—hoping to finish in time to meet a psychiatrist in a black silk mohair suit with brass buttons and a shawl collar, no lapels, one of the only two psychiatrists in Las Vegas County at that time, to take me to see the casualties of the Strip in the state mental ward out Charleston Boulevard. What made it crazier was that the piece about the demolition derbies was the last one I wrote that came anywhere close to being 1,500 words. After that they started climbing to 3,000, 4,000, 5,000, 6,000 words. Like Pascal, I was sorry, but I didn’t have time to write short ones. In nine months in the latter part of 1963 and first half of 1964 I wrote three more long pieces for Esquire and twenty for New York. All of this was in addition to what I was writing as a reporter for the Herald Tribune city desk two days a week. The idea of a day off lost all meaning. I can remember being furious on Monday, November 25, 1963, because there were people I desperately needed to talk to, for some story or other, and I couldn’t reach them because all the offices in New York seemed to be closed, every one. It was the day of President Kennedy’s funeral. I remember staring at the television set . . . morosely, but for all the wrong reasons.”

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The New York Herald Tribune for sale in Paris:

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In the ’60s and ’70s, before people were connected virtually, excuses were found for homemakers to come together in groups. These gatherings sometimes formed around Tupperware–non-biodegradable plastic food containers. This 1961 commercial depicts a Tupperware home party.

In a 1969 ad placed in Field & Stream, Tupperware tried to create a secondary male market for their goods: “Harry, what on earth are you doing with my Tupperware? What all smart sportsmen are doing. Using Tupperware, their wives’ favorite food containers, for their favorite hunting and fishing gear. Giving it the protection it deserves. And gets only in Tupperware. Tupperware is airtight. Waterproof. Moisture-proof. Dustproof. Rustproof. And that’s proof enough. Besides, Tupperware won’t rattle, dent or break. Tupperware has containers you can use for everything from scopes to spinners. From flies to film. From pliers to pipe tobacco. Best of all, you don’t need a license to buy Tupperware. And there’s no limit either.”

This classic photograph depicts Mongolian giant Öndör Gongor, who lived approximately from 1880 to 1925, though not too much is certain about his life. For instance, he either worked as an accountant, an elephant keeper, a bodyguard or a wrestler. The sketchy biographical details are collected at The Tallest Man website. An excerpt:

“According to an interview with his daughter G. Budkhand, published in 1997, Ondor Gongor was the third child of a herder named Pürev, who lived in the Dalai Choinkhor wangiin khoshuu, or what is today Jargalant sum of Khövsgöl aimag. He was not particularly big as child, only had long fingers. Because of him always eating a lot, he became a bit unpopular with his parents, and eventually was sent to Ikh Khüree. One day, he was summoned to the Bogd Khan, given fresh clothes, and after a while he was even made to marry a woman who worked as one of the Bogd Khan’s seamstresses, on the grounds that according to a horoscope by the Bogd Khan, their fates were connected.

The accounts are a bit at odds about what Gongor’s occupation at the Bogd Khan’s court was: accountant and keeper of the Bogd Khan’s elephant, the Bogd Khan’s bodyguard, or wrestler. In 1913, he travelled to Russia with a delegation headed by Sain Noyon Khan Namnansüren. Later, he is said to have worked at the toll office.

Ondor Gongor had four children. He died in his home area in the late 1920s, before reaching the age of 50. His corpse is said to have been stolen during the funeral – at that time, the deceased were laid out in the steppe to be devoured by birds and other animals – and now on display in a US museum.”

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The size of a quarter and able to communicate with one another, Kilobots cost $14 each and display collective behavior. (Thanks IEEE Spectrum.)

Sally Ride became the first American female to travel into space in 1983, and those enlightened designers at Mattel’s Barbie division were ready to pay tribute to the progress of women–well, to a point. Astronaut Barbie was a trailblazer in outer space, but she also enjoyed dancing in high heels under a disco ball. Seemingly intended for young girls with serious cocaine problems.

"He ran into an ice wagon, was thrown from his wheel under the hind wheel and his ribs crushed in."

In the days before refrigeration, let alone air conditioning, New Yorkers depended on ice wagons to deliver to them freezing blocks of comfort and survival. In Brooklyn alone in the 1880s, residents required 50,000 tons of ice each summer. That meant a lot of ice wagons on the streets and plenty of mishaps resulting from them, as the following stories from the Brooklyn Daily Eagle demonstrate.

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“Undertaker Kane Was Thrown From His Wagon” (May 26, 1885): “Benjamin Kane, an undertaker doing business on Sixth Street, near North Fifth, was thrown from his wagon on North Second Street, after colliding with an ice wagon last Wednesday, and sustained injuries from which he has since died.

Mr. Kane, who was a young man and not long ago married was well known to the Fourteenth Ward. The young wife was so stricken with grief at the demise of her husband that her life hung in the balance for twelve hours. She is now considered out of danger.”

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“Hurt By a Cake of Ice” (August 12, 1895): “John Hilken, 26 years old, at 427 Marcy Avenue, was loading his ice wagon at the foot of Hewes Street this morning, when he was accidentally cut over the eye with an ice pick. George Wood, another ice man of 60 Sumpter Street, fainted at the sight of blood and when an ambulance surgeon arrived to treat Hilken, he found that Wood was more in need of attention. Hilken’s wound was sewed up and Wood was restored to consciousness to be laughed at by fellow ice men.”

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"The body of a man almost 50 years old, who was known as 'Pegleg Jimmy,' was found this morning in an ice wagon"

“Found Dead in an Ice Wagon” (November 24, 1902): “The body of a man almost 50 years old, who was known in the neighborhood of Montgomery and South Streets, Manhattan, as ‘Pegleg Jimmy,’ was found this morning in an ice wagon that had been left over night on Pier 49, East River. He was a cripple and walked with crutches, which were found lying beside his body. The police of the Madison Street station, to whom the find was reported, and who took charge of the case are of the opinion that the man died of exposure, as he was insufficiently clothed for the chilliness of last night.”

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“Boy Bicyclist Killed” (August 13, 1897): “William McKenna, 16 years old, of 511 East Thirteenth Street, New York, met a horrible death this morning while riding a bicycle on Twenty-first Street, just west of Gramercy Park. He ran into an ice wagon, was thrown from his wheel under the hind wheel and his ribs crushed in. One of the ribs pierced his heart, causing instant death.”

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“Train Smashes Ice Wagon” (August 14, 1897): “At 8 o’clock this morning a train on the Norton’s Point division of the Long Island Railroad crashed into an ice wagon owned by Peter Kappelman of West Second Street, Coney Island, at the corner of Railroad Avenue and West Twenty-first Street. The wagon was completely wrecked and James McCutcheon, 42 years old, of West Fifth Street and Sheepshead Bay Road, the driver, was thrown out on his head. He was not badly hurt.”

 

A brief feature about Germany’s electronic music pioneers on the Brit techie show, Tomorrow’s World, in the 1980s.

From “Ticket to the Fair,” David Foster Wallace’s great 1994 Harper’s piece about the mixed pleasures of the Illinois State Fair, which seems to have been his entrée into magazine journalism:

“Sitting on the bench, I watch the carnies way below. They mix with no one, never seem to leave Happy Hollow. Late tonight, I’ll watch them drop flaps to turn their booths into tents. They’ll smoke cheap dope and drink peppermint schnapps and pee out onto the midway’s dirt. I guess they’re the gypsies of the rural United States–itinerant, insular, swarthy, unclean, not to be trusted. You are in no way drawn to them. They all have the same blank hard eyes as people in the bathrooms of East Coast bus terminals. They want your money and maybe to look up your skirt; beyond that you’re just blocking the view. Next week they’ll dismantle and pack and haul up to the Wisconsin State Fair, where they’ll never set foot off the midway they pee on. While I’m watching from the bench, an old withered man in an lllinois Poultry Association cap careers past on one of those weird three-wheeled carts, like a turbocharged wheelchair, and runs nearly over my sneaker. This ends up being my one unassisted interview of the day, and it’s brief. The man keeps revving his cart’s engine like a biker. ‘Traish,‘ he calls the carnies. ‘Lowlifes.’ He gestures down at the twirling rides. ‘Wouldn’t let my own kids go off down there on a goddamn bet.’ He raising pullets down near Olney. He has something in his cheek. ‘Steal you blind. Drug-addicted and such. Swindle you nekked them games. Traish. Me, I ever year we drive up, I carry my wallet like this here.’ He points to his hip. His wallet’s on a big steel clip attached to a wire on his belt; the whole thing looks vaguely electrified. Q: ‘But do they want to? Your kids? Hit the Hollow?’ He spits brownly. ‘Hail no. We all come for the shows.’ He means the livestock competitions. ‘See some folks, talk stock. Drink a beer. Work all year round raising ’em for show birds. It’s for pride. And to see folks. Shows’re over Tuesday, why, we go on home.’ He looks like a bird himself. His face is mostly nose, his skin loose and pebbly like poultry’s. His eyes are the color of denim. ‘Rest of this here’s for city people.’ Spits. He means Springfield, Decatur, Normal. ‘Walk around, stand in line, eat junk, buy soovneers. Give their wallet to the traish. Don’t even know there’s folks come here to work up here.’ He gestures up at the barns, then spits again, leaning way out over the cart to do it. ‘We come up to work, see some folks. Drink a beer. Bring our own goddamn food. Mother packs a hamper. Hail, what we’d want to go on down there for! No folks we know down there.’ He laughs. Asks my name. ‘It is good to see folks,’ he says before leaving me and peeling out in his chair, heading for the chicken din. ‘We all stayin’ up to the motel. Watch your wallet, boy.'”

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Calling hogs at the 2010 Illinois State Fair:

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Nikola Tesla, background, with Mark Twain, who desperately needed to use the can.

Mark Twain’s interest in science unsurprisingly brought him into contact with the greatest of all electricians, Nikola Tesla, and the two became friends. During one meeting, a Tesla invention had an unusual affect on the writer. An excerpt from a Katherine Krumme article:

“Yet another excitement awaited Tesla’s visitors at the laboratory. Tesla had been perfecting a mechanical oscillator, a sort of engine that would produce alternating current of a high frequency. The inventor had noticed an interesting effect of the machine: it produced significant vibrations. Tesla wondered if these vibrations might have therapeutic or health benefits, and one day when Mark Twain was at his lab the author asked if he might experience these vibrations himself.

As the story goes, Mr. Twain stood on a platform of the machine while Tesla set the oscillator into operation. Twain was enjoying himself greatly and exclaimed: ‘This gives you vigour and vitality.’ After some time Tesla warned the writer that he should come down, but Twain was having fun and he refused. Tesla again insisted, but Twain stayed on the machine for several minutes more until, suddenly, he exclaimed: ‘Quick, Tesla. Where is it?’ Tesla directed his friend to the restroom. Twain had experienced first hand what had been known to the laboratory workers for some time: the laxative effect of the machine’s vibrations.” (Thanks Marginal Revolution.)

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Jack and Meg with a Tesla Coil in Coffee and Cigarettes:

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The opening of “The Fifth Beatle,” Tom Wolfe’s 1965 kandy-kolored profile of New York disc jockey Murray the K, who horned in on Beatlemania and made himself a pop icon of sorts for a while:

“John, Paul, George, Ringo and–Murray the K!–the fifth Beatle! Does anybody out there really understand what it means that Murray the K is the Fifth Beatle? Does anybody comprehend what something like that took? Does anybody comprehend what a victory it was to become George the Beatle’s roommate in the hotel in Miami and do things like tape record conversations with George during those magic bloomings of the soul just before a man goes to sleep and bring back to the kids the sound of a pure universe with nothing but George, Murray the K and Fedders Miami air-conditioning in it? No; practically nobody out there comprehends. Not even Murray the K’s fellow disc jockey William B. Williams, of WNEW, who likes singers like Frank Sinatra, all that corny nostalgia of the New Jersey roadhouses, and says, ‘I like Murray, but if that’s what he has to do to make a buck, he can have it.’

You can imagine how Murray the K feels! He not only makes a buck, he makes about $150,000 a year, he is the king of the Hysterical Disc Jockeys, and people still look at him and think he is some kind of amok gnome. Do they know what’s happening? Here in the studio, close up, inside the glass panels, amid the microphone grilles, cue sheets and commercials in capital letters, Murray the K sits on the edge of his seat, a solidly built man, thirty-eight years old, with the normal adult worried look on his face, looking through the glass at an engineer in a sport shirt. Granted, there are Murray the K’s clothes. He has on a stingy brim straw hat, a shirt with wide lavender stripes on it, a pair of black pants so tight that have to have three-inch Chinese slits on the sides at the bottom so they will fit over the gussets of his boots. Murray the K has 62 outfits like this, elf boots, Russian hats, flipnik jerseys, but isn’t that all part of it?”

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In 1974, Murray the K, still a name but no longer a star, promotes sock hop concerts on a morning TV show in NYC:

More Tom Wolfe posts:

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They lost.

The bold new face of America.

The Maniac Will Be Televised,” Walter Kirn’s contribution the Atlantic‘s new feature, “The 14 Biggest Ideas of the Year,” is a meditation on how Trump and Sheen and the Tea Party brought the lunatic fringe to the mainstream, realizing that truth was negligible during a suspicious era, outscreaming the white noise of the Digital Age. Joaquin Phoenix’s 2009 attempt to become our ubiquitous madman seemed a failure at the time, but it was really just prelude. An excerpt:

“Sheen was the spilled beaker in the laboratory who proved that in an age of racing connectivity, a cokehead can be a calming presence. His branching, dopamine-flooded neural pathways mirrored those of the Internet itself, and his lips moved at the speed of a Cisco router, creating a perfect merger of form and function. Trump, though his affect is slower and less sloppy, also showed mastery of the Networked Now by speaking chiefly in paranoid innuendo. The Web, after all, is not a web of truths; its very infrastructure is gossip-shaped. The genius of Sheen and Trump and other mediapaths (Michele Bachmann belongs on this list too) is that they seem to understand, intuitively, that the electronic brain of the new media has an affinity for suspicious minds.”

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A pre-Nixon, pre-knighthood David Frost welcomes John and Yoko in 1969.

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