2013

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As I’ve mentioned numerous times, including yesterday, drones will get increasingly smaller à la microchips, until the information-gatherers, much like the information, can fit on the head of a pinThe opening of John W. Whitehead’s Rutherford Institute essay, “Roaches, Mosquitoes, and Birds: The Coming Micro-Drone Revolution“:

“America will never be a ‘no drone zone.’

That must be acknowledged from the outset. There is too much money to be made on drones, for one, and too many special interest groups—from the defense sector to law enforcement to the so-called ‘research’ groups that are in it for purely ‘academic’ reasons—who have a vested interest in ensuring that drones are here to stay.

At one time, there was a small glimmer of hope that these aerial threats to privacy would not come home to roost, but that all ended when Barack Obama took office and made drones the cornerstone of his war efforts. By the time President Obama signed the FAA Reauthorization Act into law in 2012, there was no turning back. The FAA opened the door for drones, once confined to the battlefields over Iraq and Afghanistan, to be used domestically for a wide range of functions, both public and private, governmental and corporate. It is expected that at least 30,000 drones will occupy U.S. airspace by 2020, ushering in a $30 billion per year industry.

Those looking to the skies in search of Predator drones will be in for a surprise, however, because when the drones finally descend en masse on America, they will not be the massive aerial assault vehicles favored by the Obama administration in their overseas war efforts. Rather, the drones coming to a neighborhood near you will be small, some nano in size, capable of flying through city streets and buildings almost undetected, while hovering over cityscapes and public events for long periods of time, providing a means of 24/7 surveillance.”

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Speaking of wealthy eccentrics, the Messy Ness Chic blog has a story about the former home of the late Girard B. Henderson, a longtime Avon bigwig who in 1978 built a 16,000-square-foot abode 25 feet below ground in Las Vegas. Like a lot of folks in the Cold War days, Henderson feared his family would disappear into a mushroom cloud–but no mere fallout shelter would do for them. He created a bunkered McMansion, replete with soundstage scenery, a swimming pool and putting green. (It’s currently on the market.)

Henderson had experience in subterranean endeavors having sponsored in 1964 the Underground Living exhibit at New York World’s Fair. He also in 1950 founded one of America’s first cable TV companies (which brought the service, of course, underground). Unsurprisingly, he kept details about his private life buried. The opening of a paywalled 1966 Time article about him and a video about the house follow.

Girard Brown Henderson, a director of Avon Products, Inc., owes his wealth to the cosmetics firm’s cheery, door-to-door sales technique, but he is not the kind of fellow that a stranger comes calling on. A 5-ft. 6-in., onetime barnstorming pilot, Henderson at 61 is one of the richest men in the U.S., and one of the most secretive. Though he has interests in half a dozen businesses ranging from investment companies to a community antenna television outfit in California and is a member of the New York Stock Exchange, he is rarely seen at his Wall Street office.•

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“All these trees are faux trees obviously”:

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Apart from money, J. Paul Getty wasn’t a very rich man. A billionaire in a time when such things were unheard of, Getty was a strange and miserly sort with five marriages and a procession of troubled heirs. In this 1970s commercial, the industrialist spoke on behalf of E.F. Hutton, the brokerage firm that was swallowed in a series of mergers beginning in the 1980s.

The jaw-dropping tale of the 1973 kidnapping of Getty’s grandson, from the heir’s 2011 New York Times obituary:

“J. Paul Getty III, who was a grandson of the oil baron once believed to be the richest man in the world and who achieved tragic notoriety in 1973 when he was kidnapped by Italian gangsters, died Saturday at his home near London. He was 54.

His son, the actor Balthazar Getty, confirmed the death in a statement relayed in an e-mail from Laura Hozempa, one of his agents. Mr. Getty had been wheelchair-bound since 1981, when a drug overdose caused him to have a stroke that left him severely paralyzed, unable to speak and partly blind.

At the time of his abduction, Mr. Getty was just 16 and living on his own in Rome, where his father, J. Paul Getty II, had, for a time, helped oversee the family’s Italian business interests.

Expelled from a private school, the young Mr. Getty was living a bohemian life, frequenting nightclubs, taking part in left-wing demonstrations and reportedly earning a living making jewelry, selling paintings and acting as an extra in movies. He disappeared on July 10, 1973, and two days later his mother, Gail Harris, received a ransom request. No longer married, she said she had little money.

‘Get it from London,’ she was reportedly told over the phone, a reference either to her former father-in-law, J. Paul Getty, the billionaire founder of the Getty Oil Company, or her former husband, who lived in England.

The amount demanded was about $17 million, but the police were initially skeptical of the kidnapping claim, even after Ms. Harris received a plaintive letter from her son, and a phone call in which a man saying he was a kidnapper offered to send her a severed finger as proof he was still alive. Investigators suspected a possible hoax or an attempt by the young Mr. Getty to squeeze some money from his notoriously penurious relatives.

‘Dear Mummy,’ his note began, ‘Since Monday I have fallen into the hands of kidnappers. Don’t let me be killed.’

The eldest Mr. Getty refused to pay the kidnappers anything, declaring that he had 14 grandchildren and ‘If I pay one penny now, I’ll have 14 kidnapped grandchildren.’ His son said he could not afford to pay.

Three months after the abduction, the kidnappers, who turned out to be Calabrian bandits with a possible connection to organized crime, cut off Mr. Getty’s ear and mailed it, along with a lock of his hair, to a Roman newspaper. Photographs of the maimed Mr. Getty, along with a letter in which he pleaded with his family to pay his captors, subsequently appeared in another newspaper. Eventually the kidnappers reduced their demands to around $3 million. According to the 1995 book Painfully Rich: The Outrageous Fortune and Misfortunes of the Heirs of J. Paul Getty, by John Pearson, the eldest Mr. Getty paid $2.2 million, the maximum that his accountants said would be tax-deductible. The boy’s father paid the rest, though he had borrow it from his father — at 4 percent interest.

The teenager, malnourished, bruised and missing an ear, was released on Dec. 15; he was found at an abandoned service station, shivering in a driving rainstorm.”

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“Puppy mill, kitty mill, here kitty kitty.”

“Puppy mill, kitty mill, here kitty kitty.”

Nasty crazy lady (NY & MASS)

I just got a new phone line in my house. I am getting phone calls from a woman who calls me obscene names, threatens to come beat my family up, sings and yells puppy mill, kitty mill, here kitty kitty. I have an elderly Mom and when the phone rings at 1:10 am, 2:15. am 4:55 am and all throughout the day I panic. No one has my new number yet. She calls from 8 different phone numbers in NJ, NY and Mass. Has anyone had this problem with this insane woman calling at all times of the day and night and does anyone know who she is? 

In this strange time, everyone is spying on everyone and privacy as we knew it is not returning. Yet people believe–or pretend to believe–that something can be done about it. While many think legislation is the answer, some in Colorado have a different idea: license citizens who wish to shoot down government drones. (Those involved haven’t yet said what they will do when drones shrink from the size of planes to that of fleas.) From Jason Bittel at Slate:

“Is it just me, or are things really coming off the rails in Colorado? Earlier this summer, a handful of northern counties got all hyped up on freedom juice and started talking about secession. (The rural counties were reportedly upset over ‘restrictive gun laws and clean energy mandates.’) Now, a town to the south has been inundated with requests for drone-hunting licenses—and we’re not talking about using flying robots to shoot deer on the ground. Naturally, it doesn’t matter that there’s no such thing as a drone-hunting license.

Here’s how the whole brouhaha began. In June, some dude in Deer Trail, Co., proposed that there should be a town-wide ordinance to shoot down government drones, complete with a $100 bounty should one successfully ground one. (FYI: You’d have to provide a piece of the drone to prove your ‘kill.’) Despite the fact that the town won’t even vote on the ordinance until October, the story snagged national media attention, which in turn spurred red-blooded Americans everywhere to send Deer Trail a check for $25 (the proposed cost of the license that doesn’t exist). When the town clerk stopped counting, they’d received $19,006.”

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From the November 1, 1883 New York Times:

“Charles M. Sams, assistant purser of the steam ship Nacoochee, of the Savannah Line, was shot in the head early yesterday morning by Jennie Mitchell, of No. 106 West Thirty-first Street, in T.H. Moffat’s shooting gallery, No. 484 Sixth Avenue, and he died in New York Hospital at 9 o’clock A.M. The homicide, it is believed, was an accident due to Sams disconcerting the aim of the woman while she was about to shoot at a clay pipe. Sams and a friend named Harris had been on a frolic with Jennie Mitchell and Alice Sinclair since 10:30 o’clock on Tuesday night. After eating and drinking at a restaurant they went into the shooting gallery to have some fun. Sams picked up a Ballard rifle of 22 calibre and broke a pipe at the targets. The woman Mitchell then wanted to shoot, and, although the men laughed at her, she had the rifle reloaded and attempted in an awkward way to take aim. Sam stood a little in advance of her at her right, and as she was sighting the gun he playfully tickled her under the arm. The girl swung around suddenly and the rifle went off just as Sam’s head was in front of the muzzle.”

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Alan Whicker interviews Lula Parker Betenson, the 94-year-old sister of Western outlaw Butch Cassidy, in 1978, two years before her death. This line about Cassidy’s devout Mormon ancestors stays with me: “Drawn towards the mecca of their religion, they sailed from Liverpool in 1856 and walked the 1300 miles from Iowa to Salt Lake City.”

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

  1. contempt jean-luc godard 1963
  2. do they still make the baby-laugh-a-lot doll?
  3. marilyn chambers interview 1979
  4. can you sweat blood?
  5. did pan am offer flights to the moon?
  6. clifford irving discusing indian chief red fox’s hoax
  7. will rogers comedian
  8. stanley milgram’s experiments about human aggression
  9. paul schrader discussing bret easton ellis
  10. this has to be the most historic phone call ever made
Afflictor: Thinking Rush Limbaugh's children's book is already having an impact.

Afflictor: Thinking Rush Limbaugh’s children’s book is already having an impact.

I hate welfare moms.

I hate welfare moms.

But, son, we're on welfare.

But we’re on welfare, son.

  • Tech items that were available 30 years ago in the Sears catalog.

 

 

A SpaceX video modestly called “The Future of Design,” in which Elon Musk, sans stylus and mouse, relies on Tony Stark-style gestures.

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From “Zapped,” Mary HK Choi’s Aeon article about her experimentation with Transcranial Direct-Current Stimulation, which may be a performance enhancer:

“The godfathers of modern TDCS are Dr Michael A Nitsche and Dr Walter Paulus from the department of clinical neurophysiology at the University of Göttingen in Germany. In the year 2000, Nitsche and Paulus published an article in The Journal of Physiology, which described how TDCS alters excitability in different regions of the brain by up to 40 per cent. In the brain, excitability affects synaptic plasticity, which means that the neural pathways that determine the capacity for memory and learning are changing substantially, depending on where you’re zapping. There are various electrode montages, each correlating to what we understand about regions in the brain. If you want to stimulate the language centre, you place your anode and cathode on different parts of your head than if you’re interested in reducing epileptic seizures. It seems straightforward but it’s actually mysterious. For example, stimulating the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex influences memory but also helps you quit smoking.

Most of the recent internet write-ups on TDCS have been about the ‘foc.us,’ a TDCS headset that claims to ‘overclock’ your brain and make you better at video games. Priced at $249, the unit comes in two colours (red and black) with a fancy zippered carrying case like the kind that overhyped headphones made by ex-rappers are packaged in. They’re beleaguered with shipping issues and have fallen a couple of weeks behind in fulfilling orders (mine has not arrived yet) but their customer service is highly communicative. The website is a riot. In the ‘press’ section, there’s a handful of high-resolution images with attractive models wearing the headset with Blue Steel expressions, very low-cut jeans, and ‘come hither’ eyes. It’s clear this stuff is marketed to gamer bros, but from what little I know, I’m not convinced of the effectiveness based on the foc.us contact points. The sponges are too small and flat and the headset looks hard, like a girl’s plastic headband. I can’t imagine the electrodes are placed snugly enough on the skin to guarantee an effective circuit.

Despite my scepticism, and the fact that I don’t even know what it means to ‘overclock’ the brain, I’m intrigued. After all, the desire to make yourself smarter is universal, and in my experience, if you’re smart in the first place, you’re even greedier for cognitive boosts. When I get writer’s block, I’ll do almost anything to get over it. Sometimes, I even give a guy money to let me lie in the dark in his saline-filled tank. The only thing I won’t do is noortropics. Smart drugs scare me. Especially ProVigil (Modafinil), the pill that’s referred to as the ‘Limitless’ drug since it behaves like NZT-48, the brain-boosting stuff that takes a doltish Bradley Cooper and makes him superhuman-smart. Certain overachieving Silicon Valley types are candid about taking it regularly, like Dave Asprey, aka The Bulletproof Executive, who also cops to augmenting his chemically heightened brain function and alertness with TDCS. He’s had a kit for over a decade, and he throws it on like a light cardigan whenever he feels like it. He claims it allows him to efficiently reach ‘gamma states,’ a transcendental level that takes the Dalai Lama four hours of meditation to achieve. I know this because he talked about it on Joe Rogan.”

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Jack Benny is one of my favorite comedians, and I think his odd, long-running radio and TV sitcom, with its scheming cast of characters, was the template in some ways for Seinfeld. Sadly the episode tapes of the TV version are in poor condition so the program never became a rerun staple on cable. In this 1964 clip from near the end of the show’s run, the host is joined by Walt Disney, empire builder, urban planner, technologist, Wernher von Braun collaborator and mouse enthusiast.

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“Is Mars sending us signals?”

Marconi on Mars would be a great title for a Philip Glass composition, but it’s also an apt description of a bizarre chapter in the career of inventor Guglielmo Marconi, who appears to have suspected roughly 90 years ago that Martians were sending Morse code messages to Earth. His beliefs were the basis for reportage in the January 29, 1920 New York Times. The story:

London–William Marconi informs The Daily Mail that investigations are in progress regarding the origin of mysterious signals which he recently described as being received on his wireless instruments. He hopes to make a statement on the subject at an early date. 

Marconi insists that ‘nobody can yet say definitely whether they originate on the earth or in other worlds.’

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Paris–French savants are inclined to attribute to earthly causes the unexplained wireless impulses which Mr. Marconi says may come from sources outside of this planet and its atmosphere. Most of the French press treat the whole matter as a joke, under such headings as ‘Hello, Central, give me the moon,’ but some of the more serious journals devote studied attention to the question raised by Marconi.

M. Branly, a leading wireless authority, thinks that the fact that signals come in letters of Morse code tends to discredit the theory that they are of other than earthly origin. He says:

‘If we attribute these phenomena to solar eruptions, how can we explain that they come in Morse? If we attribute them to interplanetary sources (admitting that planets are inhabited) we must then admit that their people have reached a degree of development comparable to ours and that their science has led them to construct instruments similar to ours. This would be a succession of coincidences that I would call improbable.

‘It might be that solar eruptions were the cause of wireless phenomena, since light has certain effects on electromagnetic currents. It might be possible that these disturbances caused raps in our receiving instruments, but not letters of the Morse code.’ M. Branly recalled that there existed a prize of 100,000 francs for communication and answer between the earth and any planet.

M. Baillaud, Director of the Paris Observatory, said:

‘Frankly, I am in ignorance of this supernatural correspondence. It would seem that if New York and London received these messages, we should have received them at the Eiffel Tower.’

General Ferrie, head of the military wireless, said:

‘We have heard nothing abnormal recently at the Eiffel Tower. We have disturbances which bother our communication, but they are continual. We attribute them to atmospheric variations and sometimes to the magnetic influence of the sun. Wireless men do not know much about these currents. They are more frequent in the Summer than in Winter. They are sometimes so intense that we can receive no messages. We call them parasites of radio but we do not think that they are supernatural.’

M. Bigourdian, chief of the Observatory Service, advances the theory that the planets and sun do have something to do with the wireless phenomena.

‘The explanation,’ said he, ‘is that when certain planets attain a position with regard to the sun such that the summits of their mountains are lighted and the bases are dark, the summits appear as points, distinct from the body of the planet, and these points of light may have an influence. But I know nothing about their talking in Morse.’

The Petit Journal says that French experts will do well to improve the communication service in France before they go about communicating with Mars. The Matin advances the theory that Hertzian waves from the sun are responsible for it. It says:

‘Here is a possible explanation: The cosmic Hertzian waves noted by Marconi come from clouds giving forth electrical discharges which occur in the solar atmosphere and which should engender Hertzian waves, analogous to those earthly clouds, but infinitely more powerful.

‘Nineteen years ago a French scientist demonstrated that the sun sent us Hertzian waves, and on the summit of Mont Blanc he made experiments to study these waves. These experiments did not give good results, but today, with receiving instruments more sensitive, it is possible that the phenomena noted by Marconi are the same as those the French savant announced.’

Camille Flammarian, the astronomer, holds that all the world are inhabited. As to the Marconi ‘revelations,’ he says:

‘I think with Marconi that the interruptions in the wireless messages may have their cause in a magnetic storm on the sun. The sun and earth are joined, in spite of their immense distance apart, by invisible ties of attraction. It is not poetic fiction to compare them to two hearts which beat in unison. This globe, which appears to many of us stable, possesses a great amount of mobility. It is the plaything of fourteen different movements.

Is Mars sending us signals? That is the question for which a long time has interested us, since the publication of the Martian geographical charts, on which were observed singular features, the origin of which did not appear to be due merely to chance. We should be glad to take a step further toward our neighbors of the skies, who, perhaps for centuries have addressed to us signals to which we have never known how to reply, terrestrial humanity being still absorbed with the grosser demands of material affairs.

‘Astronomers who have known how to withdraw themselves somewhat from these material affairs hope to have soon an opportunity of following out to a triumphal end of the investigations already commenced.'”

 

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"The night I nearly banged my cousin."

“The night I nearly banged my cousin.”

Controversial Epic Failures Book – $2 (Midtown)

The Chris Wheeler Stories. Its a compilation of all my funny stories that happened in my life, it is not for the faint of heart as it is very graphic and hilarious. Trust me when I say you will laugh your ass off. Its available on Ebook for $1.99, you will like it I’m sure if you give it a chance. Here’s the chapter list:

1. A cock blocking lesbian potentially saved my life.

2. I busted a nut in mid air.

3. My cage fight.

4. Truth or dare.

5. The night I nearly banged my cousin.

6. The day I almost died.

7. Her husband watched me bang her.

8. Why not to overdose on benadryll.

9. My first dance with mary.

10. I always remember to floss.

11. The ever so addicting webcam.

12. Strip clubs suck.

13. The wannabe gangsters.

14. Club descretions.

15. …And then her mom walked in.

16. My virginity gets taken, amongst other things.

17. My self evaluation.

18. Sex with a 40 year old.

19. The popular girl with immunity.

20. My great depression.

21. Facts of me.

22. I got robbed, yo!

"…And then her mom walked in."

“…And then her mom walked in.”

Spring break at Trump University.

 

Everyone whose check clears gets an A+.

Everyone whose check clears gets an A+.

I'm deeply in debt and have to unwind.

Tuition has left me deeply in debt. Maybe I’ll rob a liquor store and steal a car to fund my Spring Break trip.

CanI help you?

Can I help you?

Empty the register.

Empty the register.

Panama City, here I come!

I didn’t mean to murder the clerk. Oh, well. Next stop: Panama City.

Show me your tits.

Show me your tits.

What have I done? God will never forgive me.

What have I done? I’ll never be forgiven.

Put your hands up.

Put your hands up.

You'll never take me alive!

You’ll never take me alive!

I found religion on the inside, and now I mentor others.

I escaped lethal injection and found religion on the inside. Now I mentor other prisoners.

Aren't these supposed to be funny?

Aren’t these supposed to be funny?

In this 1965 TV meeting with female members of the press, Muhammad Ali discusses Malcolm X’s estrangement from Elijah Muhammad’s brand of Islam. That means it had to have been recorded somewhere from January 1 to February 20 because the minister and activist was murdered on February 21 of that year.

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All the Lawrence Weschler books I’ve readVermeer in Bosnia, Mr. Wilson’s Cabinet of Wonder, Seeing Is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees and A Wanderer in the Perfect Cityare wonderful, difficult, surprising and unique. The same can be said of his new Smithsonian article about artist David Hockney’s relationship with technology and optical techniques. An excerpt:

“As I say, despite his critique of the optical look created by early technologies, a striking openness to new technologies has long been a feature of Hockney’s career. There was a time when the people at Canon photocopiers used to ply him with experimental cartridges, long before they went to market, just to see what he’d come up with. (He came up with a suite of ‘handmade prints.’) Likewise fax machines in the time of their impending ubiquity, and the long-distance, widely broadcast collages he managed to wrest out of those. For that matter, he was one of the first people I knew who had tape and then CD players installed in his cars—the better to choreograph elaborately pre-scored drives through the Santa Monica and San Gabriel mountains, soaring and swooping hours-long affairs, alternating between composers, that almost invariably culminated as one came hurtling over the last pass heading back toward the coast, Wagner at full throttle, with a transcendent vantage of the setting sun just as it went slipping into the sea.

Now it was the turn of the iPhone, whose dazzling potential as a color drawing device, by way of its Brushes application, Hockney was one of the first artists fully to exploit. He’d spend hours noodling around on its touchscreen, and further hours away from the phone itself, just thinking about how he might achieve certain effects: the effect of white porcelain, for example, or cut glass or polished brass; the effect of cut flowers or bonsai or cacti; the effect of the morning sun rising slowly over the sea. This last challenge proved especially engrossing for Hockney. An inveterate chronicler of California sunsets, he’d long wanted to introduce sunrises into his repertory, but had never been able to do so, since it was always too dark to make out the paints and colored pencils, and when he turned on an indoor light to see them, he’d drown out the dawn. But since with the iPhone light itself was the very medium, this was no longer a problem; he could chronicle the most subtle transitions starting out from the pitchest dark. Suddenly his friends all around the world began receiving two, three, or four such drawings a day on their iPhones—each of the incoming dispatches, incidentally, “originals,” since there were no other versions that were digitally more complete. ‘People from the village,’ he told me one day, ‘come up and tease me, ‘We hear you’ve started drawing on your telephone.’ And I tell them, ‘Well, no, actually, it’s just that occasionally I speak on my sketch pad.’ And indeed, the iPhone was proving a much more compact and convenient version of the sorts of sketchbooks he always used to carry around in his jacket pockets, and a less messy one at that (notwithstanding which, each time he slid the phone back into his pocket, he’d rub his thumb and forefinger up against his trousers, by force of habit, wiping off all that digital smudge).

From the iPhone he graduated to the iPad; and from interiors of cut-flower bouquets or the morning view out his window over the dawn-spreading sea, he moved on to more elaborate plein-air studies of the Bridlington environs of the kind he’d already been painting on canvas. In particular, there was an extended suite, comprising 51 separate digital drawings titled The Arrival of Spring in Woldgate, East Yorkshire in 2011 (twenty eleven). Later that fall, back in California for a visit, he launched a perhaps even more evocative iPad investigation of Yosemite Valley—wider vistas in a narrower frame.

At the same time he and his team began exploring the limits of technological capability when it came to transferring digital drawings onto paper—the crisper the image and greater the surface, the better. The resulting wall-size prints held up exceptionally well and soon became an integral feature of the exhibitions surveying this Yorkshire period of Hockney’s lifework.”

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The opening of a 1968 Life magazine portrait of David Frost at 28, an enfant terrible and empire builder:

“There is more for England to fret about than the pound, the loss of empire and the damnable decision of her fashion arbiters to lengthen skirts almost to the ankle. There  is also the young man sunk in the ultramodern chair on the preceding page, surrounded by barbed quotes from his new book, The English (Stein and Day), which he wrote with Antony Jay.

There are many influential Britons who feel that the most charitable solution to the question What to Do about David Frost? would be simply the stuff him and put him on display at Madame Tussaud’s where all the other really famous people are. As Britain’s most obtrusive TV personality. David would not mind being there, actually, but not quite yet.

London newspaper columnists these days are demanding his scalp with headlines like THE PERIL DAVID FROST REPRESENTS and stories underneath that say, ‘Is he conducting an entertainment or a public pillory?’ The London Evening News said, ‘Mr. Frost seems to have taken upon himself the role of public inquisitor, and his program reminds one of the Court of the Star Chamber.’ Still another paper complained that the Frost show was becoming a supplementary house of Parliament. 

In seven short years since he left Cambridge, David Frost has become the sometime conscience of his country, a provocateur extraordinaire, a cunning and ferociously ambitious preacher’s boy who at 28 has built out of discomfort a show-business empire that has taken over Great Britain and is reaching across the Atlantic to the U.S.”

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From the December 18, 1911 New York Times:

Paris–Roast camel will be the culinary novelty to be served on Christmas Eve in fashionable restaurants here. Parisians in search of the traditional eccentric delicacy for their annual festival found the bear cotoiets, which were served last year, rather tame, and missed the elephant’s foot, which had figured prominently on the menus of 1909.

The opportunity for presenting the revelers with real camel this year was afforded by a well-known Hamburg animal trainer, who informed prominent Paris butchers that he had three camels for sale. The reason he offered them was that he had bought them in Algeria some months ago with a view of training them for circus work, but he had been disappointed with their artistic capacity. The three animals, which cost $220 each, were killed to-day at the Villette slaughter house, and their quarters, which were prominently displayed in the shops of certain butchers, attracted the attention of great crowds all the afternoon.

A competition has been started  among the chefs of several restaurants as to the best manner of cooking the rather tough meat of the desert runners.”

Via Matt Cantor at Newswer, a few quotes from Jeff Bezos during his visit to the Washington Post offices:

  • “If it’s hopeless, I would feel sorry for you guys, but I wouldn’t want to join you,” he said, per journalist Cara Ann Kelly.
  • Still, “What’s been happening over the last several years can’t continue to happen.”
  • “It should be as easy to get a subscription to the Post as it is to buy diapers on Amazon.”
  • “People will buy a package,” but “they will not pay for (an individual) story.”
  • “All businesses need to be forever young … If your customer base ages with you as a company, you’re Woolworth’s.”
  • As to content: “Don’t be boring.”

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On his new ESPN show, Keith Olbermann just interviewed author David Epstein, whose book, The Sports Gene, I blogged about earlier in the week. In this segment, he explains the two-fold reason why Jamaica turns out the world’s greatest sprinters.

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Perhaps no act in modern life speaks more aptly to these very democratic, decentralized and dumb times like the taking of the selfie, that narcissistic attempt to pretend that the minutiae of our lives is important. It’s the new religion. But not everyone agrees it’s a bad thing. Sarah Hepola defends the digital obsession in the Morning News. An excerpt:

“These days, the sight of someone pulling over to the side of the road—or standing at a bar, or flashing a peace sign in front of a building, or waiting at the drive-thru in the front seat of the car—and taking a picture of themselves is not bizarre at all. We live in the endlessly documented moment, and the arm outstretched with that small, omnipotent rectangle held aloft is one of the defining postures of our time. We’ve had selfie scandals, from Weiner’s weiner to Amanda Bynes’ meltdown. We’ve had a million billion cautionary tales about sending erotic selfies, though it doesn’t seem to stop anyone. Criminals take selfies and so do cops. The presidential selfie surely could not be far behind. (On this, Hillary was first.) 

But people are also worried about the selfie. Well, worried and irritated. Several trend stories have pondered the psychological damage on a generation that would rather take a picture of their life than actually live it. A recent studyfound that posting too many selfies annoys people (for this, they needed science?). Last month, the word made its way into the Oxford Dictionaries Online, but it has also become something of a smear, another tacky emblem of a culture that has directed all possible spotlights toward its own sucked-in cheeks. ‘Are you going to take a selfie?’ a friend asked with mock derision when I pulled out my phone at dinner to check the time. And it was clearly a joke, but I wasn’t sure if he was making fun of people who do such things, or the fact that I was one of them.

I have many friends who would never take a selfie. Never, ever. The practice is too conceited and unserious, and it would hurt them in their perfectionist bones in the way that 10 mariachis showing up at the dinner table and singing ‘Happy Birthday’ would hurt them. Sometimes life can be too embarrassing.

But I am a selfie enthusiast—I’m not yet ready to say ‘selfie addict’—who has to constantly monitor my own usage.”

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That moment when a parent gives up hope for her child.

 

But you don't smoke, Dad.

Did I get green magic marker on my face, Mom?.

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A 1975 60 Minutes portrait by Mike Wallace of the late Hollywood agent Sue Mengers, which is likewise a portrait of that brief, fascinating era in between the Studio System’s collapse and the rise of the blockbuster. There’s an extended sequence with Robert Evans.

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“The instant the heart ceased to beat there was the sudden and almost uncanny diminishment in weight.”

Good science wasn’t at the heart of an experiment aimed at weighing “souls,” as recorded in an article in the March 11, 1907 New York Times:

Boston–That the human soul has a definite weight, which can be determined when it passes from the body, is the belief of Dr. Duncan Macdougall, a reputable physician of Haverhill. He is at the head of a Research Society which for six years has been experimenting in this field. With him, he says, have been associated four other physicians.

Dr. Macdougall’s object was to learn if the departure of the soul from the body was attended by any manifestation that could be recorded by any physical means. The chief means to which resort was made was the determination of the weight of a body before and after death.

The method followed was to place a dying patient in bed upon one of the platforms of a pair of scales made expressly for the experiments, and then to balance this weight by placing an equal weight in the opposite platform. These scales were constructed delicately enough to be sensitive to a weight of less than one-tenth of an ounce. In every case after death the platform opposite the one in which lay the subject to the test fell suddenly, Dr. Macdougall says. The figures on the dial index indicated the diminishment in weight. 

Dr. Macdougall told of the results of his experiments as follows:

‘Four other physicians under my direction made the first test upon a patient dying of tuberculosis. This man was one of the ordinary type of the usual American temperament, neither particularly high strung nor of marked phlegmatic disposition. We placed him, a few hours preceding death, upon a scale platform, which I had constructed and which was accurately balanced. Four hours later with five doctors in attendance he died.

‘The instant life ceased the opposite pan fell with a suddenness that was astonishing–as if something had suddenly been lifted from the body. Immediately all the usual deductions were made for physical loss of weight, and it was discovered that there was still a full ounce of weight unaccounted for.

‘I submitted another subject afflicted with the same disease and nearing death to the same experiment. He was a man of much the same temperament as the preceding patient and of about the same physical type. The same result happened at the passing of his life. The instant the heart ceased to beat there was the sudden and almost uncanny diminishment in weight.

‘As experimenters, each physician in attendance made figures of his own concerning this loss, and, at a consultation, these figures were compared. The unaccountable loss continued to be shown.

"The subject was that of a man with a larger physical build, with a pronounced sluggish temperament."

“The subject was that of a man with a larger physical build, with a pronounced sluggish temperament.”

‘But this was less remarkable than what took place in the third case. The subject was that of a man with a larger physical build, with a pronounced sluggish temperament. When life ceased, as the body lay in bed upon the scales, for a full minute there appeared to be no change in weight. The physicians waiting in the room looked into each other’s faces silently, shaking their heads to the conviction that our test had failed.

‘Then suddenly the same thing happened that had occurred in the other cases. There was a sudden diminution in weight, which was soon found to be the same as that of the preceding experiments.

‘I believe that this in this case, that of a phlegmatic man slow of thought and action, that the soul remained suspended in the body after death, during the minute that elapsed before it came to the consciousness of its freedom. There is no other way of accounting for it, and it is what might be expected to happen in a man of the subject’s temperament.

‘Three other cases were tried, including that of a woman, and in each it was established that a weight of from one-half to a full ounce departed from the body at the moment of expiration.”

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