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In 1965, Braniff Airlines unveiled Emilio Pucci-designed NASA-ish unis for flight attendants.

An excerpt from Pucci’s 1992 New York Times obituary: “Mr. Pucci, who was the Marchese di Barsento, was born in Naples, into an aristocratic Italian family. He lived and worked in the Pucci Palace in Florence.

An enthusiastic sportsman who was on the Italian Olympic ski team in 1932, he also raced cars and excelled in swimming, tennis and fencing. His emergence as a fashion designer happened somewhat accidentally.

He was an Italian bomber pilot in World War II and he continued in the air force after the war, holding the rank of captain. On leave in Switzerland in 1947, he was spotted on the ski slopes by Toni Frissel, a photographer, who was impressed by the snugness of his ski garb, which was custom made of stretch fabrics.

When photographs of Mr. Pucci in his skisuit appeared in Harper’s Bazaar, he was besieged by American manufacturers who wanted to produce it. He decided instead to market the ski clothes himself. They were among the first styles made of stretch fabrics, and Lord & Taylor was among the first to promote them.

By 1950, Mr. Pucci was at the forefront of the fledgling Italian fashion industry. His forte in the beginning was sports clothes, but he soon moved into other fashions, including brilliantly patterned silk scarves. Encouraged by Stanley Marcus, one of the owners of Neiman-Marcus, he began making blouses and then dresses of the patterned material.”

Audio from two old-school UCLA talks by comedians.

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On February 8, 1966, just six months before his fatal overdose, Lenny Bruce gave a rambling talk on campus, hitting on all the large topics he loved: law, church, state and free speech. He got off to a slow start, distracted as he was at the time with his own ongoing legal issues, but before finishing he’d argued with biting wit that churches were like fast-food franchises, science and technology polluted the justice system, Catholic rituals protected child molesters and “a country can only be strong by knowing about the bad things.”

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Long before she was a self-centered Republican lady worried about buying and selling as much crap as possible, Joan Rivers was a great stand-up. (And despite any personal unpleasantness and crassness, she still is.) On November 15, 1972, Rivers did a Q&A with the students, being brazenly honest on varied topics (feminism, Bill Cosby, talk shows, etc. ) and asking rhetorically, “If I was normal, would I be doing comedy?” Very funny stuff.

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A 1983 California ad offering DeLoreans at the closeout price of $18,895.

American neocons were fixing to invade Iraq for a long spell, and Saddam Hussein often made things easy on them. In the dozen years after this 1991 To Tell the Truth episode, which featured electronics executive Jerry Kowalski, who is said to have foiled a Hussein plot to achieve atomic-weapon capacity, we went to war with the country twice, the second one waged under false pretenses which cost so many lives, a trillion dollars and our country’s reputation. In the lead up to Dubya’s folly, the right’s saber-rattling was enabled by Washington Democrats and poor reportage by largely liberal publications like the New York Times and the New Yorker. It was a widespread and profound failure of government, media, and of course, the rest of us.

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Before we lay to rest (perhaps) the Great American Novel–as unwieldy and confounding and beautiful as the land it came from–let us recall a time when such a book could capture the zeitgeist, wrestle it to the ground and influence even those who hadn’t read it. Joseph Heller was the author of such a novel in 1961 (Catch–22, of course), and even though I’m partial to Something Happened, I recognize how Yossarian and company crashed the culture. Stuff like this cut through the bullshit of war’s anonymity and reminded that it was a personal affront:

“They’re trying to kill me,” Yossarian told him calmly.
“No one’s trying to kill you,” Clevinger cried.
“Then why are they shooting at me?” Yossarian asked.
“They’re shooting at everyone,” Clevinger answered. “They’re trying to kill everyone.”
“And what difference does that make?”

On April 8, 1970, Heller, middle-aged hero to the young, lectured on the UCLA campus. He talked poorly of Governor Ronald Reagan and highly of King Lear. He also read 22′s Snowden death scene. Audio only embedded below.

Posting the audio of Timothy Leary’s UCLA talk reminded me of D.A. Pennebaker’s 1964 short doc about the guru’s wedding to fashion model Nena von Schlebrügge at the Hitchcock House, which was attended by Diane Arbus, Charles Mingus, Monti Rock III and other luminaries. The marriage lasted slightly longer than the 12-minute film. The bride is a fascinating person in her own right, although she’s probably best known today as Uma Thurman’s mom.

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Audio only of Timothy Leary giving his “Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out” speech and doing a Q&A at UCLA on January 18, 1967. Addressed, among other subjects, by the guru and future software mogul: William James’ nitrous oxide parties at Harvard, DNA code and the importance of bare feet.

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It’s difficult to fathom that relatively recently, the spellcheck function wasn’t ubiquitous–intrusive, even–and there was actually a market for a product like this one in 1989.

Sad to hear the passing of Al Feldstein, who edited Mad magazine for William M. Gaines during its glory years. He launched a million gags at parents, teachers, advertisers, politicians, capitalists and militarists. Below is a 1974 unaired pilot of a Mad TV spin-off that was deemed too crude to broadcast though it was far from vulgar.

Shows you how groundbreaking SNL was the following year. No more suggesting irreverence on TV. Nor more winking or nodding like Laugh-In. No more innuendos or “betting your sweet bippy.” The real deal in your living room at last.

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How much did Orson Welles need a paycheck in 1979? Very much, apparently. That’s when he provided on-screen narration for the film version of evangelist Hal Lindsey’s cockamamie bestseller, The Late, Great Planet Earth, which prophesied the genius director’s continued ability to afford cognac, cigars and costly tickets to bullfights. Fucking unionized matadors! Well, it’s still fun in its own hokey way.

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Rudolph Valentino wooed the world without a word. A gigantic star of the Silent Age–a pagan god, almost, especially to the ladies–Valentino’s early death at 31 led to one of the more raucous scenes imaginable at the public viewing in NYC of his body, a real day of the locusts that stretched into the night. The madness was captured in an article in the August 26, 1926 Brooklyn Daily Eagle.

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“Impressive scenes of funeral of famous film star”:

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Merv Griffin and Tallulah Bankhead interviewing Willie Mays in 1966. These three were inseparable.

Mays is for me the greatest baseball player ever, even better than Barry Bonds. When Joe DiMaggio was alive, he would always be announced at the Yankee Stadium Old Timers’ Day as the “greatest living player.” Must have been a little maddening for Mays.

An excerpt from Richard C. Lewontin’s just-published New York of Review of Books piece “The New Synthetic Biology: Who Gains?” which looks at recent writing on the field, which will not ultimately be contained by regulation and will be messy:

“In modern times Craig Venter, the head of the J. Craig Venter Institute, announced the creation of a living, functioning, self-reproducing artificial bacterial cell containing a laboratory-produced DNA sequence that, according to Laurie Garrett’s Foreign Affairs essayBiology’s Brave New World, ‘moved, ate, breathed, and replicated itself.’

An element that was not yet present in the early-nineteenth-century interest in the artificial creation of life was the possibility of great financial profit. Biotechnology was still a century and a half in the future. Garrett characterizes Venter not only as the most powerful man in biotechnology but as the richest. The J. Craig Venter Institute has already worked with fuel companies and the pharmaceutical industry to create microorganisms that could produce new fuels and vaccines.

What did concern those in the nineteenth century who imagined the possibility of the artificial creation of life, a concern that is at the core of Shelley’s Frankenstein, is the nemesis that is the inevitable consequence of the creators’ hubris. We now face the same problem on a huge scale. In an interview in 2009, quoted by Garrett, Venter declared, ‘There’s not a single aspect of human life that doesn’t have the potential to be totally transformed by these technologies in the future.’ Not a single aspect! Does that mean he is promising me that I might literally live forever?

Nothing in history suggests that those who control and profit from material production can really be depended upon to devote the needed foresight, creativity, and energy to protect us from the possible negative effects of synthetic biology. In cases where there is a conflict between the immediate and the long-range consequences or between public and private good, how can that conflict be resolved? Can the state be counted on to intervene when a private motivation conflicts with public benefit, and who will intervene when the state itself threatens the safety and general welfare of its citizens? Garrett provides a frightening real-life example.

In 2011 two scientists, one from Erasmus Medical Center in Rotterdam and one from the University of Wisconsin, independently reported that they had turned a bird flu virus, H5N1, which could very occasionally be transmitted from birds to humans, causing their death in about 60 percent of cases, into a strain that could be directly passed easily between laboratory mammals. Were this virus then capable of infecting humans, a catastrophe would occur, judging from the infamous flu epidemic of 1918, which killed more than 50 million people, about 2.5 percent of the world’s population.”

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Frost-Venter, 2012:

 

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How many bowls of cocaine were inhaled during the 1970s pitch meeting for this Evel Knievel crime drama pilot? The template for the A-Team, minus Dirk Benedict’s considerable gravitas.

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British Pathé has just dropped a huge trove of classic newsreels onto Youtube. One video is of American military veteran and Bronx native Christine Jorgensen (née George Jorgensen), who became, in 1952, world famous for having changed genders with the use of hormone-replacement therapy. Thankfully, she was a quick-witted, confident person who could survive the attention. The Pathé video and a couple others from later in her “second” life.

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1966:

1980s:

While I have plenty of concerns about technology, I don’t understand those who equate it with evil and biology with good. I’m not sure that biology doesn’t have a programmed endgame in mind for us that technology might, perhaps, counter. From E.O. Wilson’s 2005 Cosmos article, Is Humanity Suicidal?“:

“Unlike any creature that lived before, humans have become a geophysical force, swiftly changing the atmosphere and climate as well as the composition of the world’s fauna and flora.

Now in the midst of a population explosion, this species has doubled in number to more than 6 billion during the past 50 years. It is scheduled to double again in the next 50 years. No other single species in evolutionary history has even remotely approached the sheer mass in protoplasm generated by humanity.

Darwin’s dice have rolled badly for Earth. It was a misfortune for the living world in particular, many of our scientists believe, that a carnivorous primate and not some more benign form of animal made the breakthrough.

Our species retains hereditary traits that add greatly to our destructive impact. We are tribal and aggressively territorial, intent on private space beyond minimal requirements and oriented by selfish sexual and reproductive drives. Cooperation beyond the family and tribal levels comes hard. Worse, our liking for meat causes us to use the Sun’s energy at low efficiency.” 

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“It’s doomsday”:

Evel Knievel was introduced to America in 1967, and six years later he was schmoozing with Johnny Carson as one of the most famous athletes in the world, provided you liberally define “athlete.” The ultimate alchemist, he turned trash into gold. Like a latter-day Houdini–but with nothing up his sleeve–the motorcycle jumper sold the masses on the possibility of death, just as many reality stars and celebrities do today with dysfunction and drugs.

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Stunt cyclist Evel Knievel, destined for amazing fame but just an opening act at this point, makes his debut on Wide World of Sports in 1967.

He’s Not a Bird, He’s Not a Plane” is a fun profile of the late, great motorcycle daredevil from the February 5, 1968 issue of Sports Illustrated. The piece was penned by Gilbert Rogin, a novelist who was also SI‘s managing editor.

The article relays what a sensation Knievel was in the ’60s and ’70s. He dressed like Elvis and escaped death like Houdini, although the dark side of his appeal was the sick fascination of watching what would happen if he couldn’t avert disaster, as he jumped his motorcycle over rows of cars, hotel fountains and actual rivers.

Knievel had none of the sociopolitical significance of Muhammad Ali, but he shared the boxer’s keen understanding of Hollywood, hoopla and the hard sell. He went through a lot of money, broken bones, personal problems, a rock opera and a late-life religious conversion before his death in 2007. In Rogin’s piece, Knievel touted his desire to jump across the Grand Canyon (which never happened). A brief excerpt about his not-so-successful jump over the fountains at Caesar’s Palace on the last day of 1967:

“On New Year’s Eve, Knievel jumped the ornamental fountains in front of Caesars Palace in Las Vegas, which are billed as the World’s Largest Privately Owned Fountains. Several weeks earlier he had said, ‘I know I can jump these babies, but what I don’t know is whether I can hold on to the motorcycle when it lands. Oh, boy, I hope I don’t fall off.’

Knievel’s fears were justified. Shortly after the motorcycle hit the landing ramp, he fell and rolled 165 feet across an asphalt parking lot. Knievel is now in Southern Nevada Memorial Hospital, recovering from compound fractures of the hip and pelvis. ‘Everything seemed to come apart,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t hang on to the motorcycle. I kept smashing over and over and over and over and over, and I kept saying to myself, ‘Stay conscious, stay conscious.’ But, hey, I made the fountains!’”

As President Nixon was drowning in the cesspool of Watergate, Professor Irwin Corey accepted the National Book Award in 1973 at Carnegie Hall on behalf of reclusive Gravity’s Rainbow author Thomas Pynchon.

The opening of Gravity’s Rainbow rivals that of A Tale of Two Cities and Anna Karenina:

“A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.

It is too late. The Evacuation still proceeds, but it’s all theatre. There are no lights inside the cars. No lights anywhere. Above him lift girders old as an iron queen, and glass somewhere far above that would let the light of day through. But it’s night. He’s afraid of the way the glass will fall–soon–it will be a spectacle: the fall of a crystal palace. But coming down in total blackout, without one glint of light only great invisible crashing.”

Freeman Dyson and his fellow scientists behind the 1950s Project Orion space-exploration plans had an ambitious timeline for their atomic rockets: Mars by 1965 and Saturn by 1970. But their dreams were dashed, collateral damage of non-proliferation Limited Test Ban Treaty of 1963. But is it merely a dream deferred? The opening of Richard Hollingham’s new BBC article on the topic:

“Project Orion has to be the most audacious, dangerous and downright absurd space programme ever funded by the US taxpayer. This 1950s design involved exploding nuclear bombs behind a spacecraft the size of the Empire State Building to propel it through space. The Orion’s engine would generate enormous amounts of energy – and with it lethal doses of radiation.

Plans suggested the spacecraft could take off from Earth and travel to Mars and back in just three months. The quickest flight using conventional rockets and the right planetary alignment is 18 months.

There were obvious challenges – from irradiating the crew and the launch site, to the disruption caused by the electromagnetic pulse, plus the dangers of a catastrophic nuclear accident taking out a sizable portion of the US. But the plan was, nevertheless, given serious consideration. Project Orion was conceived when atmospheric nuclear tests were commonplace and the power of the atom promised us all a bright new tomorrow. Or oblivion. Life was simpler then.

In the early 1960s, common sense prevailed and the project was abandoned, but the idea of nuclear-powered spaceships has never gone away. In fact there are several in the cold depths of space right now.”

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“First time we tried it, the thing took off like a bat out of hell”:

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Priggish Canadian interviewer Barbara Frum and pills-and-vulvae novelist Jacqueline Susann insult and irritate each other during the mid-1960s.

From Tim Moynihan at Wired, a description of the third iteration of Honda’s Asimo robot:

“ASIMO has sensors everywhere: Force sensors in its fingers to make sure it’s not crushing things, sensors in its waist that help it climb up and down stairs, image sensors in its eyeballs help it gauge its environment and make decisions. It takes a lot of battery power to drive this complex humanoid: A 13-pound lithium-ion cell that takes three hours to charge.

That battery is stashed in ASIMO’s ‘backpack,’ and it can power about 40 minutes of continuous walking, according to Shigemi. When ASIMO senses it’s running low, it automatically seeks out its charging station and plugs itself in.

But even when ASIMO is still and silent, its ‘muscles’ are constantly working.”

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Marshall McLuhan and artist and ace typographer Harley Parker enjoyed a bull session in 1967′s “Picnic in Space,” a 28-minute experiment informed by Warhol, Lichtenstein and Godard.

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“They on the other side are ever anxious to communicate with us here.”

We tell ourselves stories in order to live, Joan Didion wrote.

Like a lot of people searching for answers after the unexpected jolt of tragedy, Jean Elizabeth Leckie developed some odd beliefs that helped her get through it all. The second wife of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, she, just like her spouse, was an ardent spiritualist. She came to believe after the heartbreaking death of her brother, a soldier killed in combat during WWI, someone she desperately needed to be waiting for her “on the other side.” In the April 29, 1923 Brooklyn Daily Eagle, an article delved into her personal relationship with the dead. An excerpt:

“I will say that from my analysis of her personality and her character and the super-evident vigor and keenness of her intellectuality, she is far from being one whose credulity can be readily imposed upon–that she is far from being one whose one self-willed thought can be swayed from its original course without the strongest proofs–material, moral and spiritual.

‘My husband has been a Spiritualist for thirty-six years,’ said she. ‘During long years I was in doubt. I have been a Spiritualist since the Battle of the Marne. My brother was killed there.

We became very frank in our talk after that. She told me she had nothing to conceal; that she hoped that Spiritualism might be spread throughout the world–that it meant the spread of the true religion. When she believed in the life hereafter life in this world took on such a different aspect that it was the duty of all who had investigated the other life to endeavor to link the two lives together.

‘We can help one another in this sphere and the higher sphere,’ she said. ‘They on the other side are ever anxious to communicate with us here. But we should aid them in that communication. From the earthly viewpoint, let me illustrate. There may be some one on your telephone wire who is anxious to talk to you, but if you have your receiver down you cannot hear from him. That is what we are apparently constantly doing in this world–and on the other side they are trying, trying, ever trying to reach us.

‘Oh, if we all only knew–if we all could only realize how like the world here is the world there–waiting to prepare the way for us–waiting to make a home for us. And if we are fond of certain things in this earth; if we like our home and the furniture and the pictures and the books in it; if we like our garden–all those will be there for us–duplicated–on the other side.’

‘But with a higher appeal?’ I queried.

‘Yes, with a higher appeal,’ she said. ‘All the material things that we like here may be duplicated there, but on the other side there is ever an advance. There are higher spheres than the sphere just beyond here. One goes to a sphere higher than the first sphere beyond this world as one becomes more fitted for the higher life. One who has gone to that higher sphere can come back to the first sphere to help relatives or friends who have just passed from the earth. But one cannot pass from the first sphere on the other side to higher spheres until one is advanced spiritually. For example: If a child dies its grandmother who had advanced to a higher sphere than the first, may come back to the first sphere to help the child.’

‘In regard to childhood and old age,’ I said, ‘Sir Arthur told me that while there was no such thing as time, as we understood it, the apparent average age of the other side was about 35 years, that youth and old age adapted themselves to this apparent age.’

‘Yes,’ said she.

‘We often read,’ I said, ‘of a child or an old man appearing to persons sitting in a spiritualistic seance. How would you reconcile that with the 35-year age average?’

‘The spirits appear to their friends and relatives at the period of their lives when they passed away, so that they will be recognized,’ said she. …

Having been told by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle that Lady Doyle was an automatic writer, receiving messages from the Spirit World. I asked her as to her method.

‘I do not enter a trance,’ she said. ‘Two or three of us sit at a table. I have paper before me and a pencil in my hand. At the top of the paper I make the mark of the cross. Sir Arthur makes a sharp prayer–and he offers a very beautiful prayer–and then we wait. Generally I soon feel the desire to write. I am unconscious of what I am writing, but I know it is a direct communication from the other side. I know that.'”

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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle discusses Sherlock Holmes and psychic experiences:

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In 1973, Russell Harty spent a weekend at Salvador Dali’s Catalonian home to create an appropriately insane portrait of the 69-year-old artist and his “cybernetic mind.” On display: Al Capone’s Cadillac, General Franco’s granddaughter and an “instantaneous plastic web.” Dali reveals that his two favorite animals are the rhinoceros and a filet of sole. Amazing stuff.

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