2011

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From “My Dealing, Stealing, Squealing Neighbors,” a recent New York magazine piece by the excellent Luc Sante about his years living in Manhattan tenements:

“The task of holding the house together fell on the super, a man named Zygmunt, whom everyone called George. He lived in the first apartment on the right as you came in, was usually available—except on Sunday mornings, when his hangover took precedence—and was a dab hand with a pipe wrench. He did commendable work under the circumstances, although he never was able to fix the bathtub of Rose and Simon, my neighbors across the hall, with the result that they came over to use mine a few times a week for the entire term of my residence.

By and large, I loved my neighbors, although I worried constantly, owing to the presence of so many loose cannons in a single fragile container. One afternoon I took myself out to the movies. Film Forum was showing the last picture directed by Erich von Stroheim, which he called Walking Down Broadway although it ended up as Hello, Sister! It contained a subplot about a construction worker who, after getting plowed at the saloon across the street from his work site every night, would sneak back in and steal a few sticks of dynamite, which he’d throw under his bed when he got home. In the third act, naturally, nature took its course. I walked home thinking about how such a character would not be out of place in my building. Then when I opened the door I beheld my neighbors, all of them, out in the halls, rushing around with buckets of water. We had very narrowly escaped a conflagration.

It seemed that the art critic on the fourth floor had become immersed in crack to the extent that he had neglected to pay his Con Ed bill. His service cut off, he had been lighting his way with candles, although he was perhaps not as attentive as the situation might warrant. Furthermore, his apartment contained several years’ worth of newspapers, as well as a small fortune in contemporary oil paintings. Nature had taken its course.”

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Luc Sante collects postcards:

More Luc Sante posts:

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Marshall McLuhan, a devout Catholic, on a 1970s religious program.

 

More McLuhan posts:

 

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Two excerpts from Arthur C. Clarke’s 1986 Playboy interview.

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PLAYBOY: You’ve said that the famous opening sequence, in which the bone thrown into the air by the prehistoric man-apes becomes the space vehicle Discovery, came about by accident.

CLARKE: Yes, Stanley and I were trying to figure out that crucial transition. We were walking back to the studio in London and, for some reason, Stanley had a broomstick in his hand. He threw it up into the air, in a playful way, and he kept doing it, and it was at that moment that the idea of making the broomstick into the bone that gets turned into Discovery came about. I was afraid it was going to hit me in the head. [Laughs] So later we filmed it with some sort of bone. That shot was the only one in the movie done on location. It was shot just outside the studio. There was a platform built and, just beneath it, all the London buses were going by.”

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PLAYBOY: In the postscript to your book Ascent to Orbit, you talk about technology quite a bit. You have a lot of technology in your own home—your John Deere computer “Archie,” your satellite dish, your Kaypro-II computer. Yet you write, “This power over time and space still seems a marvel to me, even though I have been preaching its advent for decades. But the next generation will take it completely for granted and wonder how we ever managed to run the world without it … which we never did. May these new tools help them to succeed where we failed so badly.” Do you still think that way?

CLARKE: [Pauses] Absolutely. That’s why I’m so delighted that kids these days are not using their computers strictly to play games but are using them to process information. Knowledge really is power, and computer technology has increased an individual’s potential for power considerably. I still think it’s one’s duty to be optimistic about the possibilities of that power, without being unrealistic. It’s just that if one radiates doom and gloom about the possibilities of technology, one is in danger of creating a self-fulfilling prophecy about self-destruction.”

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Bone becomes spaceship:

More Arthur C. Clarke posts:

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The shit-kicking (and shit-eating!) Divine visited that bombastic chucklehead Tom Snyder in 1979. Also on hand: Warhol superstar Holly Woodlawn.

From Divine’s 1988 obituary in the Times of London: “Divine, the 21-stone drag artist who has died in Los Angeles at the age of 42, won a cult following through his appearances in American underground films.

Once voted ‘the filthiest person alive,’ Divine built his reputation on the ability to shock. But it was, he claimed, part of a calculated assault on what he saw as American materalism and hypocrisy.

He always disliked being labelled a transvestite and insisted that cha-cha heels and thigh-splitting spandex dresses were purely ‘work clothes’ designed to make people laugh.

He was born Harris Glen Milstead and started his career as a hairdresser in Baltimore, Maryland. The film director John Waters, who had been at school with him, devised his professional name.

Made during the 1970s, the Waters/Divine films were deliberately raucous, crudely made and sexually explicit but achieved a critical respectability as a searing portrait of a sick society. They included Desperate Living, a tale of rape, murder and cannibalism, and Female Trouble, in which Divine played a delinquent schoolgirl who is violated by a struck driver and ends up in the electric chair.”

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"The features of Chang were partially discolored, those of Eng being quite natural."

The famous 19th-century Siamese twins Chang and Eng, conjoined brothers who were actually born in Siam, passed away in North Carolina at the age of 63 in 1874. The siblings were sideshow and medical curiosities during their lives, so it’s no surprise that they attracted much interest at the time of their death. An article in the February 6, 1874 Brooklyn Daily Eagle reported on the post-mortem. An excerpt:

“On Sunday the Scientific Medical Commission, consisting of Dr. William H. Pancosat, of Jefferson Medical College, Dr. Harrison Allen, of the University of Pennsylvania, and Dr. T.H. Andrews, also of Jefferson Medical College, arrived at the residence of Mrs. Eng, one of the widows of the Siamese twins. A consultation took place between the medical gentlemen and both the widows, the former setting forth the object of their visit and urged the importance to science of an examination of the bodies.

After a brief discussion, during which both the ladies evinced considerable feeling, they consented to the propositions of the commission, on the condition and with the distinct understanding that the bodies should not be injuriously mutilated. This the commission agreed to in a few moments. Afterward they descended to the cellar where the bodies were interred. This was found to be a dark but somewhat spacious apartment, the floor of which was naked earth, the soil of the substrata of rock being of a porous and mouldy nature. Accompanying the commission was a tinner, to open the case in which the bodies had been placed. The scene was now quite a weird and solemn one. The temporary sepulchre was reached by a northwestern door from another basement apartment, and when the commission descended the crowd of neighbors thronged in and stood silently around the improvised tomb of the twins. The darkness being intense, pine wood knots were then lighted in one corner, the flickering glare of which cast ghostly shadows of the spectators athwart the wooden ceiling and along the roughly built granite walls of the room.

The tomb was then opened. There was a cadaveric odor from the coffin. A white gauze muslin covering being drawn off, the faces of the dead twins were exposed. The features of Chang were partially discolored, those of Eng being quite natural.

The members of the commission, assisted by those present, then disrobed the bodies, and a partial examination was made, no operation being performed, and the result of this was followed by a medical consultation. From what could be learned it was found the bodies, though well preserved so far, would in a few days be in a state of decomposition, and that the surgical operation, if performed now, might endanger the ultimate preservation of the now defunct natural curiosity, a consequence which both the commission and the families were anxious to avoid. It was further decided that the facilities for an autopsy were so meagre and insufficient that it would not be wise to attempt it on the present occasion, and that beside the present examination and efforts to obtain good photographic views of the ligament and the bodies, the operations of the commission would be limited to a partial embalmment to insure the preservation of the bodies. A number fo efforts to obtain photographic views were then made, resulting successfully in one instance only. After which the partial embalmment was performed, and the bodies were once more covered in the coffin. The widows then consented to have the bodies removed to the College of Physicians at Philadelphia.

The commission returned to Mount Airy late Sunday evening. On Monday they left for Salem, in Forsyth County, in a carriage, the wagon containing the coffin following, and behind two buggies with the photographers, making for quite a funeral procession, which attracted the attention of the people all along the route. On Tuesday afternoon the cortege reached Salem, where the bodies were shipped to Greensboro, the commission accompanying them. They arrived at that point this morning and left for Philadelphia this afternoon, where they will arrive to-morrow at half past one o’clock.”

 

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Oh, the humanity.


…that this site was hacked last night, so posts from the last six days have been wiped out. I’ll be gradually reposting a few of the best, but if there’s anything you really wanted to read or watch and it’s gone now, send me an email (afflictor1@gmail.com), and I can probably get you a link to where I originally found the material. Thanks, Darren.

Single-file lines that snake around–like at airports or banks–haven’t always been the way people queued up. According to “Mr. Next,” Ian Parker’s fun 2003 “Talk” piece in the New Yorker, the practice only began in America in the 1980s. It seems so simple and obvious, but someone had to come up with it. An except:

“The history of American queuing has a simple outline. First there were hordes with sticks, then there were lines, and then, in the early nineteen-eighties, thanks in part to visionary thinking at the Columbus, Ohio, headquarters of Wendy’s (and initiatives at American Airlines and Chemical Bank, among others), customers began to be asked to form lines that the trade usually describes as ‘serpentine’: they snaked back on themselves, and the person at the head of the snake stepped up to the next available cashier or teller. This system was plainly fairer: no one who arrived after you would be served before you. It removed most fear and doubt from the queue calculus, leaving only impatience and anger; and in almost every place where it could be adopted it was.”

Another Ian Parker post:

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Entertaining putz Tom Snyder hectors Ayn Rand in 1979.

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"I'm willing to do PayPal." (Image by Kommissar.)

Toenail Collection – for sale – $9 (Newark)

This is a very rare in-valuable item. I mean, how do I know how to price this, what it’s worth? You won’t find somethin’ like this on e-bay, bet your ass! I’ve decided to sell my entire toenail collection that I have been collecting for many many years now. I was going to put this ad under the Antiques category, but I threw a few new ones in there a few days ago. Been keeping ’em since I was about 6, I’m 81 now. I’m willing to do PayPal and mail this out to you. Or, we can meet in Newark somewhere. Not near the airport….wouldn’t want a big wind from a plane to come by just as I’m opening the jar.

The jar is included, with the screw-on top….if I’m gonna mail this out to you, you wouldn’t want these to get loose and all mixed around in the mail, so I’ll keep ’em in the jar. Might be worse than Anthrax! But, better yet, if we meet in person, I can update the jar with my latest nails. Bring scissors. And exact change.

Thirsty pipes.

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I was noodling around on Reddit when I found this odd series of 1910 drawings which tried to predict what life would be like in 2000. Apparently, firefighters and boats would be able to fly, roller skates would be electric, books would be fed directly to the brain and washing machines would be awesome. Fun stuff.

In 1977, Hunter S. Thompson thought President Carter was a badass. That persona was subsumed in scenes of blindfolded American hostages being paraded around in Iran, a national embarrassment which played out nightly, endlessly on flickering screens.

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British comedian Russell Brand: Maybe Japan has a point. (Image by Brian Solis.)

Britain, the former superpower with nothing better to do, once again was the champion of Afflictor Nation, sending more unique visitors to this site than any other foreign country last month.

TOP FIVE:

  1. Great Britain
  2. Canada
  3. Germany
  4. Australia
  5. Spain

Betty Friedan in 1964.

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"He is now confined to his home under medical treatment."

We’re plenty dumb right now, but people in the nineteenth century were even dumber, as the following story from the October 17, 1890 Brooklyn Daily Eagle about a boy with a wooden hoop and a neighbor with a bad temper proves. An excerpt:

“Justice Goetting this morning held Stephen Rose, of 76 Roebling Street, on $1,000 bail to answer on Thursday the charge of striking 13 year old John Murray, of 230 North Eighth Street on the head with a brick, and injuring him so badly that he is now confined to his home under medical treatment. His physician, Dr. A.A. Weber, is doubtful of his recovery. The complaint is brought by Miss Mary Murray, the boy’s sister. The defendant is about 61 years old. The residences of the two parties, it appears, adjoin, and it is alleged that Rose, annoyed by the boy breaking up a wooden hoop against the wooden fence of the yard, climbed on a ladder and dropped a brick on his head.”

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He meows for us all. (Thanks Reddit.)

Some people can sense earlier than others that something is being done incorrectly, that methods are amiss, that the whole thing is a sham. Brooklyn baseball fan Walter Lappe was just such a person. I knew about Bill James and Eric Walker and the Moneyball era of advanced baseball statistics that their number-crunching ushered in, but I had never heard of Lappe, who was on the same path years earlier, trying to instill science and objective reasoning into baseball. He teamed with renegade ex-pitcher Jim Bouton to publish something called The Baseball Brain, which was the first attempt by “barbarians” to crash the gate. Lappe and his stats don’t seem to have arrived at a lot of correct answers, but he was asking the right questions before others were. An excerpt from a July 1, 1974 New York magazine article that Bouton penned about their attempt to reinvent baseball:

“If I told you that some nutty baseball fan from Brooklyn held the secret for getting the Mets and Yankees into the World Series, you wouldn’t believe me. It sounds like something from Damn Yankees or like that old movie It Happens Every Spring, where Fred MacMurray or Ray Milland or somebody invents a magic substance which repels wood and when you rub it on baseballs they become unhittable. Our fan from Brooklyn doesn’t have anything that sneaky, but what he does  have could be just as revolutionary. I’ve seen his stuff, and I believe. Now, if only Yogi Berra and Bill Virdon (Mets and Yankees managers as of this writing) will read this, we’ll all be rolling in champagne and ticker tape this fall.

The fan from Brooklyn who could cause baseball’s first intra-stadium World Series is Walter Lappe (pronounced ‘Lap’), who believes that big-league managers rarely use the best strategy and players don’t seem to know what they’re doing out there. For the last 20 of his 49 years, Walter as a hobby, has been keeping his own statistics on the New York ball teams. He listens to games on the radio and writes down where each batter hits the ball, who’s pitching, balls and strikes, runners on base, weather conditions, phases of the moon, etc. Now that’s pretty nutty, but so is flying a kite in a rainstorm.

I don’t know if Benjamin Franklin has a brother, but Walter has one named Henry who is always saying, ‘Walter, why don’t you stop wasting your time listening to baseball games and go get a job, Walter?’ But how can someone get a job when you’re unlocking the secrets of the universe?”

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A 1970s ESPN Sportscenter report on Bouton’s controversial book, Ball Four. What mutton chops, what suits!

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Carl Van Vechten took this classic 1936 photograph of Argentine surrealist painter Leonor Fini, she of the experimental hats and ever-present cats.
From Fini’s 1996 obituary in the Independent: “In the 17th century Leonor Fini would have been burnt as a witch. Surrounded by cats, and with feline eyes herself, she exuded what her one-time lover Max Ernst described as ‘Italian fury, scandalous elegance, caprice and passion.’ In photographs you would take her for beautiful in the manner of Bianca Jagger but, according to the American art dealer Julian Levy, she was not a beauty as such, in that ‘Her parts did not fit well together: head of a lioness, mind of a man, bust of a woman, torso of a child, grace of an angel, discourse of the Devil . . .’

Levy confirms my belief that if she had been born in the age of the extra teat and the familiar, this lady was for burning. “Her allure,” he says, “was an ability to dominate her misfitted parts so that they merged into whatever shape her fantasy wished to present from one moment to the next.” You can almost hear the faggots crackle.

Leonor Fini was of mixed Spanish, Italian, Argentinian, and Slavic blood, a formidable genetic cocktail. She was born in Buenos Aires in 1908 but grew up in Trieste. Her formal education was, as might be imagined given her independent and imperious temperament, fragmentary, but she had the run of her uncle’s large library in Milan and also travelled widely in Italy and Europe visiting all the museums and taking in such then unfashionable painters as the Mannerists, a school later reflected in her own work. In reproduction she was to add Beardsley, the German Romantics and the British Pre-Raphaelites – all evidence of a Surrealist eye.

Her facility was precocious. By the time she was 17 she was already painting commissioned portraits. It was however in 1936 when she moved to Paris and became friendly with Ernst, the Eluards, Brauner and others, that she began to paint Surrealist images and to draw close to the movement. Close but not of. Like her greater contemporary Frida Kahlo, Fini refused to bend her knee before Andre Breton, and declined to accept the iconic role of child-woman or to accept his belief in l’amour fou, the monogamist obsession with one person as opposed to bisexual narcissism. She did however exhibit with the group as a kind of fellow traveller.”

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Ray Bradbury in the late ’60s discussing his cultural role during the adaptation of his short-story collection, The Illustrated Man, which rested (uneasily) at the nexus of technology and psychology.

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Like reverse product placement, a “shoppable video” is an online video in which models engage in banal activity, a movie of sorts, while showing off products. Susannah Edelbaum of the High Low has an interesting post about a Korean clothing retailer Oki-Ni, which has created an interactive video called “The Game.” Ridley Scott’s production company turned out this very mild “action film” which has dudes playing table tennis in a sprawling and spartan home. Everything they’re wearing can be purchased with a couple of clicks.

It’s strange to see the full extrapolation of product placement, where the clothes are essentially wearing the people, but it’s only a more extreme version of almost every film and TV program we watch. The catalog has come to life, or some denatured semblance of life. And it will likely only grow slicker and more elaborate as time goes by. Because of the interactive element of the video, it can’t be embedded, but watch it here.

 

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"Won't last long."

free monkey (manhattan)

Hello, I have a monkey that I am giving to a nice home, wont last long.

Jack Nicholson was part of a group of ’70s California investors trying to market clean, cheap hydrogen fuel that was created by solar. “There are a lot of good things that can come from using the power of the sun,” Nicholson said. Never panned out, obviously.

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From “New York Is Killing Me,” Alec Wilkinson’s smart and sad 2010 New Yorker profile of Gil Scott-Heron:

“Sometimes when I spoke to people who used to know Scott-Heron, they told me that they preferred to remember him as he had been. They meant before he had begun avidly smoking crack, which is a withering drug. As a young man, he had a long, narrow, slightly curved face, which seemed framed by hair that bloomed above his forehead like a hedge. The expression in his eyes was baleful, aloof, and slightly suspicious. He was thin then, but now he seems strung together from wires and sinews—he looks like bones wearing clothes. He is bald on top, and his hair, which is like cotton candy, sticks out in several directions. His cheeks are sunken and deeply lined. Dismayed by his appearance, he doesn’t like to look in mirrors. He likes to sit on the floor, with his legs crossed and his propane torch within reach, his cigarettes and something to drink or eat beside him. Nearly his entire diet consists of fruit and juice. Crack makes a user anxious and uncomfortable and, trying to relieve the tension, Scott-Heron would sometimes lean to one side or reach one hand across himself to grab his opposite ankle, then perhaps lean an elbow on one knee, then maybe press the soles of his feet together, so that he looked like a swami.” (Thanks Longform.)

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“Should’ve been asleep when I turned the stack of records over and over / So I wouldn’t be up by myself  / Where did the night go? / Should go to sleep now.”

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Legendary Sony founder Akio Morita was reputedly the tech titan that Steve Jobs studied most closely. In the 1950s, Morita opened a start-up in the basement of a bombed-out department store and created the world’s first transistor radio. He was more responsible than anyone for Japan emerging as a world leader in consumer electronics. In 1980, he visited Tom Snyder to unveil a line of new products.

From “Akio Morita: Guru of Gadgets,” Kenichi Ohmae’s 1998 Time article about the late-life Morita: “Almost exactly five years ago, Akio Morita–Mr. Sony–fell to the ground during a game of tennis. The co-founder and chairman of the board had suffered a stroke. He has since been in a wheelchair. This is particularly sad, as Morita had never been able to sit still and relax. At 72, he was playing tennis at 7 a.m. each Tuesday. I know this well because I would practice on the court next to him. My tennis, however, was very different from his. I played with an instructor, and if I was tired, I would just take a break. Not him. He challenged everybody, including young athletes.

This was in keeping with a man who created one of the first global corporations. He saw long before his contemporaries that a shrinking world could present enormous opportunities for a company that could think beyond its own borders, both physically and psychologically. And he pursued that strategy with his relentless brand of energy in every market, particularly the U.S. It is notable that this year, according to a Harris survey, Sony is rated the No. 1 brand name by American consumers, ahead of Coca-Cola and General Electric.”

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First published in 1975, the book now stretches past 1,000 pages.

FromHollywood: A Love Story,” an excellent article in the Atlantic by astute cultural critic Clive James about David Thomson, that woolly film maven best known for his indispensible and idiosyncratic reference book:

“After five editions in 35 years, Thomson’s famous compendium of biographical sketches about the movie people—hey, it’s read by the movie people, the movie people are fighting to get into it, male stars measure their manhood by the length of their entry—is still a shantytown with the ambitions of a capital city. It gets bigger all the time without ever becoming more coherent. But with more than a thousand pages of print to wander in, only the most churlish visitor would complain about lack of cogency. Better to rejoice at the number of opportunities to scream in protest at what the author has left out, put in, skimmed over, or gone on about with untoward zeal. As a book meant to be argued with, it’s a triumph.

Also, there is the frustrating consideration that Thomson is often right. Most people of his generation who have spent their lives seeing every properly released movie even if it stars Steven Seagal are incapable of judging them. The reason is simple: those people are monomaniacs. Thompson has found time to do other things: read books, breathe clean air, cook and eat real food.”

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David Thomson in 2010 at Google Talks:

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