Urban Studies

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In 1979, a year after the People’s Temple, the American cult that relocated to Guyana, was torn asunder by homicide and mass suicide, People reexamined the jaw-dropping descent of Rev. Jim Jones, a charismatic, paranoid man who could not hide his haunting eyes behind even the darkest glasses, and his disciples. From “The Legacy of Jonestown,” a passage about a couple who escaped the self-imposed slaughter:

With uncanny timing, Richard Clark launched his long-planned escape from Jonestown on the morning of the massacre. “I can’t say I’m psychic, but I can always feel danger,” says Clark, 43, now a presser for a San Francisco dry cleaner. Quietly he told his companion, Diane Louie, that ‘something definite is going to happen, and I want to be out of here when it does.’ Diane passed the word to seven others. Hacking through the jungle with a machete, the little group—including four children—found the path to the railroad. Then, by foot and train, they made their way to Matthew’s Ridge some 30 miles away. That was where they learned of the tragedy they had so narrowly escaped. 

Before they came to Guyana, Clark and Louie had envisioned Jonestown as a tropical paradise. Their disillusionment began during the 24-hour boat trip from Georgetown to the Peoples Temple community in May 1978. Hot and overcrowded, the fishing boat was crawling with “huge roaches with eyes as big as mine,” Clark remembers. Adds Louie, 26: “It was the first time I had an idea of what a slave ship must have been like.” Both were chilled to hear Jones’ voice greeting them on the loudspeaker when they arrived. “It sounded like Boris Karloff welcoming us to his castle,” Clark recalls. “There was no longer the love.”

Even today Clark, who joined the Temple in San Francisco in 1972 and left his wife at the leader’s order, believes Jones had supernatural healing and mind-reading powers. But the grim reality of Jonestown shook his faith. “You could see people starving, hungry, sick,” he says. “But they couldn’t face the fact that Jones was doing it.” Soon after his arrival, Clark began to plan his departure. To shield himself from Jones’ propaganda, he took a job on the pig farm, out of earshot of the maniacal broadcasts—then volunteered to clear the jungle so he could hunt for escape routes. And he prepared himself mentally. “I began to program myself to hate Jones,’ he says, ‘because this was the only way that you could fight him.”

Still together, Clark and Louie are troubled by memories of lost friends. Clark also grieves for two stepchildren who refused to accompany him and died in Jonestown. Although the couple and other survivors entered group therapy back in the U.S., they soon gave it up. “The tape-recorded sessions reminded me of the Peoples Temple,’ Louie says. ‘I got more help and sympathy talking to my family and friends.” She is once again working as a surgical technician, but failed in an attempt to study nursing. ‘I couldn’t concentrate,” she says. Clark is bothered by high blood pressure and bad dreams. “I feel like I’m getting better,” he says. “But I don’t think anyone who’s been in a concentration camp will ever get over it.”•

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Dental training robot from Japan. I am fairly certain dentists are having sex with these dolls after hours. Thank you, Obamacare.

From the July 11, 1885 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“Morris Harbinger, of Bremen Street and Clove Road, aged 16 years, while in Cypress Hills Cemetery about a week ago, was accidentally struck in the head by a falling tombstone and severely injured. He was taken to St. Mary’s Hospital, where, after much suffering, he died this morning.”

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It’s arrogant for any particular group of humans at any moment to think that they are the beginning, that what came before them was merely prelude. But the same type of hubris may attend the thought that we’ve exhausted all intellectual possibility, that we are at the end. I accept that output and incomes have stagnated in America for most of the last four decades and that transformational technologies are hard to come by, but I don’t think we’ve reached an endgame of ingenuity. From the recent Economist cover story about the seeming diminishing returns of human effort:

“To those fortunate enough to benefit from the best that the world has to offer, the fact that it offers no more can disappoint. As Mr [Peter] Thiel and his colleagues at the Founders Fund, a venture-capital company, put it: ‘We wanted flying cars, instead we got 140 characters.’ A world where all can use Twitter but hardly any can commute by air is less impressive than the futures dreamed of in the past.

The first thing to point out about this appeal to experience and expectation is that the science fiction of the mid-20th century, important as it may have been to people who became entrepreneurs or economists with a taste for the big picture, constituted neither serious technological forecasting nor a binding commitment. It was a celebration through extrapolation of then current progress in speed, power and distance. For cars read flying cars; for battlecruisers read space cruisers.

Technological progress does not require all technologies to move forward in lock step, merely that some important technologies are always moving forward. Passenger aeroplanes have not improved much over the past 40 years in terms of their speed. Computers have sped up immeasurably. Unless you can show that planes matter more, to stress the stasis over the progress is simply a matter of taste.”

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“I know he used my hat to jerk off into and returned it to me.”

Male advice?

Hi there,Hoping to get a guy’s perspective on this, as I have definitely never been in this situation. First off, maybe I should mention that I am very sexually liberal and not easily offended. If you are, I probably am not actually seeking your specific advice, thanks.I go regularly out of my way to a specific bar to hear awesome music. They have an amazing residency every Friday and I never miss that. I’ve been going for years. They also occasionally have music during the week and I’ll catch a show here and there. It’s not the only place I go; I try and see live music a few times a week.Anyway one night I went in with a friend on a random night when there was no music. The bar was pretty deserted and we ended up having a really fun time, mainly just us and the hot bartender. I knew him by sight, as I’d been going there regularly even before he started working there a few years ago, but never really talked to him. He was actually really hot and cold with me – sometimes super friendly, others seemed to not acknowledge me. I didn’t really care. We had a blast that night, though, the three of us and I fell for him a little bit. That Friday, he was at the show even though he wasn’t working, and stood thisclose all night, hugging me, asking if I had had a good time the other night, etc. After that whenever I’d see him, we’d joke and give each other shit in a good-natured, flirty way. He’s definitely never ignored me again. One night a few weeks later, in a crowd of people, he asked me if I was into bondage, leaving little question as to who would be the one tied up (I took the fifth). Okay, and since then, I’ve just been smitten. Now it’s been a few months though and nothing much has really happened. He’s working when I see him and I’m pretty shy and get sort of tongue-tied around him, so I don’t think I’m going to be the one to move things forward. Besides, I’m supposed to be the submissive one! And while he says sexual things to me a lot, he never makes a move, asks for my number etc. (I friended him on Facebook a few weeks after that first time I went in as he says “on a nonmusic night”).

Anyway, I stopped in the other night, after getting out of work later than I usually do. I had expected there to be music, and it was the first thing I asked him when he came over, which I think annoyed him. I ended up staying because I had been worked til 10pm without eating so I decided to get food and then just ended up there til 2. I left my hat there that night. The next day, I get a fb message from him saying he had found it and would hold onto it for me until I was in again, and signed it love always. Went in this past Friday, and he gets it for me right away. I take it, and thank him and he asks – what were you afraid of, that I’d jerk off and use your hat as a cum rag? I looked at him, with my mouth hanging open and finally managed to reply, you probably did. To which he said, yeah, I probably did, and walked away. Before I leave, he tells me that there’s music again tomorrow night (this past Saturday) – that he knows I don’t like to come in when there’s no music, but that there’s music tomorrow. So I went in the next night, met a few friends, and hung out til 2. He made a point of mentioning having used my hat as a cum rag again, this time, referring to it as “I told you I (did so)” – which for me nullifies the joke possibility and now I know he used my hat to jerk off into and returned it to me. Now, the thing is, is that I think it’s really really hot. I slept that night with my hat over my face. I’m so turned on by him in general this is near paralyzingly for me. I sent him a 3am message saying I hoped he was kidding – but just because I felt impelled to mention it in some way. Now, I don’t know what to do. While I do find it hot, I still don’t know why he would do that – is he definitely into me? Or he trying to freak me out? Is this just something guys do? I know my reaction of finding it sexy probably isn’t the normal woman’s reaction, so does he want me to instead be turned off? Should I let him know I found it sexy, or play it coy? Should I tell him I was wearing the hat to diddle myself long before he ever got his hands on it? Any advice as to what I should say or do next? I am so out of my element – all I want to have to do is find a magic sexy quote to put up as my status on fb that will make him finally ask me out haha. Obviously that’s passive and silly. I do know that I don’t want to feel like the aggressor though, just going into his work all the time. Or at least anymore than I have been. What else can I do? I’m moving to this neighborhood in March and am worried if I handle this wrong, it will end up ruining my favorite place to see music. And just because his way of flirting is so rooted in sex, does that mean he’s only interested in sex? Or was this his way of marking me so to speak? I don’t ever really see him flirting with other women outside of the friendliness you have to have as a bartender, and the way he looks at me makes me feel like the only woman in the room, sighhhhhhhh. I could see myself having freaky sex with him until we are old and gray.

Thanks for reading this long, convoluted, possibly boring tale. Please help me spice it up. Any advice is greatly appreciated!!

A Moebius strip of a home is to be wholly created by a 3D printer in 2014. From Techcrunch:

“A Dutch architect is interested in 3D printing a home, with the hopes that it’ll be ready by 2014.

The architect’s name is Janjaap Ruijssenaars of Universe Architecture, and his project is a part of the Europan competition, which lets architects in over 15 different countries build projects over the course of two years.

Ruijssenaars will work with Italian inventor Enrico Dini, founder of the D-Shape 3D printer. The plan is to print out 6×9 chunks of frame, comprised of sand and inorganic binder. From there, they’ll fill the frame with fiber-reinforced concrete.

The final product will be a single flowing design, a two-story building.”

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Janjaap Ruijssenaars also designed the Floating Bed:

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The end of the world is a giant pain in the ass, especially when it doesn’t arrive as promised. A Mississippi man, who prepared in earnest for the Mayan apocalypse he was sure would occur, just took to Reddit for an Ask Me Anything about his not-so-near-death experience. A few exchanges follow.

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Question:

What’s your IQ? 

Answer:

Not sure, but I am a pretty intelligent person, I maintained a 4.0 GPA throughout high school. Like I said, it was mainly just something to do, in fact I’m gonna keep preparing in case something ever happens.

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Question:

WHY?????????

Answer:

Well for a couple of reasons really, with the main one being it was just something to do, I am a redneck, ‘Murica, and the way things were going, it just seemed like it would happen.

Question:

The way things were going??? What state do you live in??

Answer:

Mississippi, and what I mean by that is, the global political situation, the tension in the Middle East, and our economy.

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Question:

What preparations did you make? Also, how did you expect it to end?

Answer:

Well lets see here, a few years ago I built a bunker on my property, for said reason, and it has actually proved to be extremely useful, my family and I use it as a storm shelter. I also bought tons of bottled water, weapons, ammunition, reinforced my house, bought lots of camping and general survival supplies.How I expected it to end? I honestly wasn’t sure, I just made a general survival plan that could apply to a huge variety of situations.

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Question:

Did you prep for zombies?

Answer:

My plan would apply to zombies, yes.

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Question:

Were you disappointed that nothing happened? 

Answer:

I was kind of disappointed, but not too much.

When he was creating the online salon Edge, John Brockman wanted collect the greatest minds in the world. One of the people he chose was David Brooks. Go figure.

Still, there’s a lot of amazing stuff on the site (including one of my favorite essays from 2012), and no exception is the new feature, What *Should* We Be Worried About?” It poses that question to a slew of thinkers. Here’s the opening of scientist Martin Rees’ answer:

“Those of us fortunate enough to live in the developed world fret too much about minor hazards of everyday life: improbable air crashes, carcinogens in food, and so forth. But we are less secure than we think. We should worry far more about scenarios that have thankfully not yet happened—but which, if they occurred, could cause such world-wide devastation that even once would be too often.

Much has been written about possible ecological shocks triggered by the collective impact of a growing and more demanding world population on the biosphere, and about the social and political tensions stemming from scarcity of resources or climate change. But even more worrying are the downsides of powerful new technologies: cyber-, bio-, and nano-. We’re entering an era when a few individuals could, via error or terror, trigger a societal breakdown with such extreme suddenness that palliative government actions would be overwhelmed.

Some would dismiss these concerns as an exaggerated Jeremiad: after all, human societies have survived for millennia, despite storms, earthquakes and pestilence. But these human-induced threats are different: they are newly emergent, so we have a limited timebase for exposure to them and can’t be so sanguine that we would survive them for long – nor about the ability of governments to cope if disaster strikes. And of course we have zero grounds for confidence that we can survive the worst that even more powerful future technologies could do.”

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WANTED: live animal broker to bring in animals from africa (jfk)

I need a licensed broker that can help me bring in live reptiles into jfk from africa.

One of the worst things about contemporary talk shows is that every host interviews the same guests who are pushing the same products in the same way. In his new time slot, Jimmy Kimmel recently broke that mold by speaking to advertising and Esquire legend George Lois. I hope he continues to be open-minded with his open couch space.

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The opening of Jonathan Margolis’ new Finanical Times profile of nonagenarian Sidney Rittenberg, who has done a whole lot more during his insane career than just carrying pictures of Chairman Mao:

“There is a not inconsiderable history among the children of successful, prominent Jewish families of getting involved in leftwing politics. From the Marxes to the Milibands, it’s a well-trodden path. Few have taken this tradition quite as far, however, as Sidney Rittenberg, scion of a prominent Jewish family in Charleston, South Carolina.

It was in the 1930s that Rittenberg rejected a career as a lawyer and became a trade union and civil rights activist. He then went a little further. He became a communist, learnt Chinese, went to China, joined Mao Zedong’s guerrillas fighting Chiang Kai-shek’s nationalists, emerged after the communist victory as a senior party member close to Mao, ran Radio Peking, translated Mao’s thoughts into English, became a leading rabble rouser in the Cultural Revolution – and, by the by, was imprisoned for 16 years in solitary confinement, accused of being a US spy. Then he came back to the US and made a fortune advising American companies on how to get into China.

I first heard of this historical revolutionary figure in China, where he is known as Li Dunbai (it sounds a little like Rittenberg to Chinese ears). To this day, he is taught about in schools as a righteous American who helped build Chinese communism.

Now 91, Rittenberg is not only alive, but living in Arizona – quite unusual for one honoured by Mao as an international communist fighter – and still running his company and teaching at a university. He is also on Facebook. The answer to an interview request came in five minutes. From his iPad. “You’re welcome,” he said.

 

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Tom Standage, the Digital Editor at the Economist just did an Ask Me Anything on Reddit about that singular publication. A few exchanges about the company culture and hiring practices.

_____________________________

Question:

Who are your articles geared towards with regard to audience – professionals or academics?

Answer:

They are geared towards a curious alien who has just landed and speaks English. This is why we say things like “Ford, a carmaker.”

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Question:

I was the Richard Casement intern at the Economist last year. I saw that journalists at the paper worked normal hours (9 to 6ish). But there was no one keeping time. People came in and left whenever they wanted. The office was open 24 hours.

I know many who worked from home many times. My boss (science & tech editor) works from home 2 days every week (not counting the weekend of course).

Answer:

Thanks, Akshat! Yes, there isn’t really a culture of presenteeism here. Nobody really minds where you are, as long as you do your job.

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Question:

I’ve always found that The Economist has a clear, effective, straight-to-the-point writing style, which is very enjoyable (to me at least).

I was wondering: is that something that’s explicitly asked of staff writers? If so, how do you (or someone else) help your colleagues achieve that? 

Answer:

When we hire people, we basically ignore the CVs and just look at the sample articles they send in. (We ask people to submit “an article they think would be suitable for publication”, or somesuch.) If the article contains a brilliant idea, or is written perfectly to our style, or ideally both, then that person goes on the shortlist. The great thing about our style, from the perspective of being a writer, is that it’s pretty clear what the target is that you’re supposed to hit. If you can hit it, then your copy will hardly be edited at all as it goes up the editorial chain. If you can’t, then it will be edited ruthlessly, which encourages you to try harder next time. This seems to work.

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Question:

I know that the editorial staff at the Economist hates Silvio Berlusconi, so I have to ask…

Would you rather fight one horse sized Silvio Berlusconi or 100 duck sized Silvio Berlusconis?

Answer:

I’ve always seen this question from the perspective of a gamer. Do I prefer fighting lots of small enemies while crawling a dungeon, or fighting the boss at the end? I generally find boss fights quite tedious, because they either involve exploiting the boss’s unusual vulnerability, usually heavily signposted, using a recently acquired item (I’m looking at you, Zelda games), or it’s simply a matter of grinding the enemy down (as with a dragon in Skyrim). We could speculate about what the amusing weak spot of a horze-sized Berlusconi might be, but I think I’d prefer to pick off the 100 duck-sized ones.

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In the future, small caravans of cars could wirelessly become insta-social networks on the highway, sharing information, preventing crashes. From ArsTechnica:

“But what if getting on the highway also meant joining a wireless mesh network consisting of all the cars around you? Cars could become a self-organizing entity, avoiding collisions and minimizing traffic congestion. The cars themselves would be smart enough to cooperate with each other.

‘You can imagine in the future, you could enter the highway, mesh with five or six other vehicles around you and you caravan together,’ said Dan Rabinovitsj, senior VP of chipmaker Qualcomm Atheros’s networking business unit. ‘You’re essentially making sure you’re not just keeping proper distance from the front and back, which a number of vehicles do today, but literally in 360 degrees. And of course passing along messages: there’s a policeman up ahead, there’s an accident up ahead, or there’s a stoplight. All of these things are starting to intersect.'”

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IHOP night-shift waitress does an Ask Me Anything at Reddit and discussion of sex, drunkenness and gluttony ensues. A few exchanges follow.

_______________________________

Question:

Why is my steak purple? Also, can I get a refill?

Answer:

Because I said so, and no.

_______________________________

Question:

Do any of your coworkers have one leg?

Answer:

Hahaha……..No.

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Question:

The most pancakes you’ve ever seen consumed?

Answer:

Someone once ate 26 pancakes from our All You Can Eat Pancakes.

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Question:

How obvious is it when we’re drunk?

Answer:

Extremely.

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Question:

Do you think it would be better for drunks to puke in an inconspicuous spot outside (where it won’t be seen) or in a more visible location where it can be cleaned up before it rots and attracts animals?

Answer:

As long as we don’t have to clean it up, I don’t care.

_______________________________

Question:

Have you ever slept with a customer?

Answer:

No.

mmmm

Psychiatric services for Massage

I am a psychiatrist, and would like to barter psychiatric services for massage. I don’t want any sex/kinky stuff, just good massages, but from a female only. If you’re interested contact me and we can talk further. Thanks!

From the September 1, 1891 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

“W.H. DeForest, who is said to have lost his mind through worry and overwork, called at the Hotel St. George the other night and, after asking Clerk Dunn for the keys of the rooms he had engaged, ordered a case of champagne and a box of cigars for himself and a friend. He then incidentally remarked that he would like to buy the hotel outright and offered Mr. Dunn a million dollars cash for it. The clerk referred to him to Captain Tumbridge, the proprietor. DeForest then made extraordinary and most generous offers to Mr. Dunn and then left. He called again yesterday and was followed by two men who took him to an asylum in Poughkeepsie.”

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From the July 18, 1890 Brooklyn Daily Eagle:

Jackson, Mo.–Ralph Abernatty, a well to do farmer residing near town, has been terrorizing the community for the last three days. Monday, at the instigation of his wife, he was examined as to his sanity by the courts here and discharged by the jury. Immediately after leaving the court room he had his head shaved and the scalp and his hands painted red. Arming himself with a double barreled shotgun, a revolver and a couple of knives, he proceeded to inaugurate a reign of terror. Yesterday a posse of fifty men was organized for Abernatty’s arrest. He was found in an open field and finally captured, but not without a desperate struggle.”

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From “Housework in Utopia,” a post about domestic drudgery by economist John Quiggin, a passage about how we struggle to keep up appearances that were established under a long-abandoned societal model:

“The household appliances that first came into widespread use in the 1950s  (washing machines, vacuum cleaners, dishwashers and so on), eliminated a huge amount of drudgery, but technological progress for the next forty years or so was pretty limited. The only truly significant innovation I can date to this period is the microwave oven.

At the same time, the great decline in inequality freed lots of working class women from doing the chores of others, as well as maintaining their own homes. Those same tasks, eased by technology but still burdensome, were shifted onto middle-class women who would previously have employed servants.

How likely is it that new appliances will resolve the remaining problems of household labor? We just acquired a vacuum cleaning robot which is a real boon, and there are versions that are supposed to clean tiled floors as well.

In other cases, there are less direct solutions. Technological progress in the clothing industry means that it no longer makes economic sense to sew your own clothes, or even to mend them. So, these are now jobs that fit into category (2) – to the extent that we do them it’s because we enjoy them. Similarly, while the bugs still need to be ironed out of online shopping, particularly for groceries, it won’t be long before no one needs to visit a physical shop unless they enjoy the experience (once every three months is about optimal for me!).

That still leaves a number of inescapably physical and essentially crappy jobs, for which technology has yet to offer a solution. The obvious examples for me are cleaning (surfaces, baths, toilets etc) and ironing (not such a problem if, unlike me, you can do it while watching a video/TV). Something these tasks share, and which is true of a lot of crappy jobs, is that we do a lot more than is actually necessary.  Social standards inherited from the days of cheap servant labour dictate much more cleanliness than is required for hygiene, and practices like ironing for which there is no need at all.

So, a final part of my idea of utopia would be the institution of social norms that frown on unnecessary crap-work. In my utopia, a freshly ironed shirt would attract the same kind of response that is now elicited by a fur coat or an ivory brooch – a mixture of anachronistic admiration with disapproval of the process by which it was produced, with the latter element predominating over time.

I haven’t done the numbers yet, but it seems to me that with a bit of technological progress and a sensible attitude, we could get the requirement for household crapwork below an hour a day, which even utopians should be willing to live with.”

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Are you looking to start over? (everywhere)

Is your life not going in the direction you wish, to the point that at times you just wish you were someone else and elsewhere? We’ve all been there, so just drop a line and I will listen and help if I can. Talk to you soon!

Brad Plumer at the Washington Post reports on a question I’ve wondered about: In the future, what are we going to smuggle? He collects info from Wikistrat’s crowdsourcing project to predict what will be desired contraband in 2050. I don’t agree with most of the list, but it is fun. Two entries:

– Experimental health enhancers. The future could bring a whole host of new technologies, from ‘software to create pleasurable sensory overloads’ to ‘biotechnology allowing the creation of (truly) perfect babies,’ says Wikistrat. Many of those technologies may end up restricted. For instance, schools and communities may decide to bar cognition-enhancing drugs because they give certain students unfair advantages. In that case, they may thrive on the black market, much as steroids do.

– Rare species. Scientists are already warning that millions of species could become extinct by 2050 because of human activity and climate change. Some useful species that are already dying out — those mysteriously vanishing honeybees, perhaps? — could be a hot black market commodity by mid-century.”

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"She was generally after the boys with a broom when they disturbed her."

“She was generally after the boys with a broom when they disturbed her.”

An eccentric old woman and some ill-behaved boys were the players in a spooky scenario from the April 30, 1898 Brooklyn Daily Eagle. An excerpt:

“Miss Ella D. Eames, a recluse whose home was at 165 Adams Street, was found dead in her room last night. The deceased was about 81 years old and had lived in the house, which she owned, for over forty years. She was eccentric and her peculiarities appealed to the mischievous sentiments of the boys in the neighborhood, who teased her for the sole purpose of getting her excited. The building is an old fashioned, weather beaten, two story, attic and basement frame house, sadly out of repair and badly needing paint. Miss Eames frequently appealed to the police to drive the boys away from her house, for they not only played in the basement areaway, but threw stones at the windows and frequently broke them. The old woman was known among the boys in the vicinity as the ‘Witch of Adams Street.’

Late yesterday afternoon N.T. Spicer, who lives at 87 Concord Street, passed the house and saw a number of urchins playing noisily in the areaway. Miss Eames was nowhere in sight, a singular circumstance, for she was generally after the boys with a broom when they disturbed her. Mr. Spicer could notice no signs of life on the inside of the recluse’s house and he questioned the people in the neighborhood, who all remembered that they had not seen Miss Eames since Monday. After a brief consultation it was decided to notify the police of the Fulton Street Station and Officer Daniel F. McLaughlin was sent out to make an investigation. He knocked at the front door, but there was no response. Then he forced his way into the house and then to the woman’s room on the second floor. The apartment was stuffy and dusty. When the windows were opened to admit air and a lamp was lit the alien visitors discovered that the apartment was filled with costly property, dresses, pictures and, oddly enough, dolls and toys. The old woman had paid the debt of nature. She was found dead beside her bed and it was evident that she had been preparing to retire when death overtook her.

There was evidence she had not been properly nourished, and it is believed that, although she had plenty of money, she had practically starved herself to death, for there was very little food in the house. The body was taken to an undertaker’s shop on Third Avenue and police took possession of the premises. This morning the police took to the Coroner’s office a number of the effects that were found in Miss Eames’ house. There was $208.12 in cash in the house an bank book from the Dime Savings Institution, which showed a balance to her credit of $2,888.47.

Miss Eames was the last survivor of three sisters who lived in the house. They were all eccentric and were very particular not to allow visits from the neighbors. When Miss Ella was left alone by the death of her sisters her eccentricity seemed to increase. As stated she was very much annoyed by the boys in the neighborhood. She one day caught one of her small tormentors and locked him up in one of the upper rooms of her place. The parents of the imprisoned boy appealed to the police, but when the authorities intervened she refused to allow the policeman to enter the place until they threatened to break into the house. The child was finally released, badly frightened, but wholly unharmed.

Coroner Berger will hold an inquest after Dr. Hawxhurst, the post mortem examiner, has made an autopsy. The indications are that the death was due to starvation. “

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Before Bernie Madoff, there was Ivan Boesky, the stock trader who used insider information to amass more money than he could never hope to spend but still enjoyed counting. In May of 1986, Boesky gave a speech in which he said, “I think greed is healthy,” and perhaps Oliver Stone should have given him a screenwriting credit for Wall Street. Only months after that address, Boesky was ruined, the cover boy of outraged articles about Wall Street’s brazen malfeasance. If there was a lesson learned, it was soon forgotten. From People in 1986:

“The unmasking of Ivan Boesky—a man who has come to symbolize unbounded avarice—has unsettled the financial community because no one knows who else may be under investigation. It has also led to some belated soul-searching about the ethics of Wall Street. In a commencement speech last year at the School of Business Administration at Berkeley, this is what Boesky had to say about greed: ‘I think greed is healthy. You can be greedy and still feel good about yourself.’ 

Even at the end, when the Securities and Exchange Commission scuttled Boesky’s operation, he still managed to cut himself a deal. It is widely believed that he agreed to record his phone conversations and thus implicate an unknown number of unscrupulous traders. He was allowed to unload an estimated $1.6 billion worth of stocks before the announcement of the government’s charges against him could drive prices down. 

Until November, Ivan F. Boesky was a glittering success. He had an ideal family—a handsome wife and four children—and lived in a $3.3 million mansion in New York’s affluent Westchester County. He gave lavishly to charity; he supported both the Republican and Democratic establishments—in short, he appeared the perfect gentleman from sole to crown. 

If there was an unresolved mystery about him, it was the quirky drive of someone who had wealth like water, yet who still lived as though he worked in a sweatshop. He slept a mere two hours a night. ‘The machine doesn’t like to stop,’ he explained to an interviewer two years ago. 

The son of a Russian immigrant delicatessen owner in Detroit, Boesky had a restless, floundering youth, dropping in and out of college, unable to land a satisfying job even after he graduated from the Detroit College of Law at 27. But he married well. Seema Silberstein was the daughter of real estate tycoon Ben Silberstein. Muriel Slatkin, Seema’s sister, has said her father had a low opinion of Boesky, who he said had ‘the hide of a rhinoceros and the nerve of a burglar.'”

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Before world culture was saturated with American comic books via film, it was a niche market and considered by most to be shameful and lowbrow. By the late 1970s, when Marlon Brando was getting millions for doing a few minutes of screen time as Superman’s dad, people thought that the form had reached its zenith. But we hadn’t seen nothing yet. As Hollywood special effects prowess grew and a post-Cold War age opened global markets yearning for entertainments not bogged down by a specific language, comics became king.

I miss how movies used to be vehicles of adult expression and would rather rewatch The Passenger any day than see the latest superhero vehicle, though I acknowledge the greatness of this art form in panels even if it’s not my particular thing. In 1977, Mike Douglas, co-host Jamie Farr and, um, a flamboyant panel, welcomed members of the pre-Comic-Con culture. Collector Phil Seuling shows off an original Superman, which was then valued at $1,500. The audience gasped at the price, but today a pristine copy goes for more than $2 million. That’s as good an indicator as any of the value of this source material in our age.

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Predictions for the next century from the Ladies Home Journal in 1900, some spot-on and ridiculous, courtesy of Buzzfeed and Reddit. (Click on image a couple of times to read large-scale version.)

 

I’ve never used illegal drugs, but my experience with people who have is that, members of the Grateful Dead excepted, heavy LSD users are the biggest assholes, even worse than cokeheads. Maybe because they’ve briefly glimpsed the world through cleansed doors of perception and are disappointed by the reality they face when they come down? But most likely it’s just because they’re assholes. From Jon Wiener’s  Los Angeles Review of Books interview with neurologist Oliver Sacks, who’s neither an asshole nor a heavy user of drugs, a conversation about the doctor’s long-ago experimentation with acid:

Jon Weiner:

When and how did you first come to take LSD?

Oliver Sacks:

I think it was a few months after I smoked that joint. There was a lot of LSD around. In one of the early experiences I had with LSD, recklessly, I had mixed it with some other drugs and topped it off with some cannabis. I’d been reading about the color indigo, and was puzzled by the fact that no two people seemed to agree on what indigo was. Newton added indigo to the spectrum because he thought the spectrum ought to have seven colors, as the musical scale has seven notes.

Anyhow I got stoned on acid. And when I was really high, I said, ‘I want to see indigo, now!’ And, as if thrown by a paintbrush, a huge, trembling, pear-shaped drop of purest indigo appeared on the wall in front of me. It seemed wonderfully luminous, and sort of numinous at the same time. So much so that I thought, ‘This is the color of heaven. This must be the color which Giotto tried to get into his paintings but could never get. And maybe he couldn’t get it because it doesn’t exist.’

I lent toward this in a sort of rapture, and it suddenly disappeared, leaving me with an immense sense of loss. I had had a sense of bliss or rapture, almost orgasm, seeing the indigo.

For months after, I kept looking for indigo. I went to a mineralogical museum and looked at azurite, which is often described as indigo. But it was nothing like what I had seen when stoned.

I did see indigo again, curiously. I was at a concert, listening to some Monteverdi. And I was enraptured by the music, thrown into a sort of ecstasy. The concert was in the Egyptology gallery of a museum in New York, and in the interval I went out and saw some of the lapis lazuli things. And they were indigo. And I thought, ‘It really exists.’ But then, after the concert, I went again, and it wasn’t indigo. I’ve never seen it since.'”

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