Peggy Noonan, an astrologer of politics, is always reading the tea leaves or some such bullshit. Luckily for her, she’s employed in an industry that doesn’t penalize for a lack of accuracy or modest writing talents.

You see, Noonan, that armchair generalizer, thinks that President Obama is divisive. It’s not that the recent vintage of her party disqualifies as all-but-traitorous anyone who deigns to lead the opposition party (Bill Clinton, John Kerry, etc.) or that a large wing of the GOP is extremist and/or racist. The Republicans are desperate to be led by our first African-American President, to come up with sensible bargains and compromises. The current Congress is made up of just such moderates. But that bad Obama guy refuses their largesse and chooses instead to outwit them and create drama.

From a recent Wall Street Journal column in which Noonan interrupts her love of pronouns for, oh fuck, some fantasy-land conjecture:

“After the past week it seems clear Mr. Obama doesn’t really want to work well with the other side. He doesn’t want big bipartisan victories that let everyone crow a little and move forward and make progress. He wants his opponents in disarray, fighting without and within. He wants them incapable. He wants them confused.

I worried the other day that amid all the rancor the president would poison his future relations with Congress, which in turn would poison the chances of progress in, say, immigration reform. But I doubt now he has any intention of working with them on big reforms, of battling out a compromise at a conference table, of having long walks and long talks and making offers that are serious, that won’t be changed overnight to something else. The president intends to consistently beat his opponents and leave them looking bad, or, failing that, to lose to them sometimes and then make them look bad. That’s how he does politics.

Why? Here’s my conjecture: In part it’s because he seems to like the tension. He likes cliffs, which is why it’s always a cliff with him and never a deal. He likes the high-stakes, tottering air of crisis. Maybe it makes him feel his mastery and reminds him how cool he is, unrattled while he rattles others. He can take it. Can they?

He is a uniquely polarizing figure. A moderate U.S. senator said the other day: ‘One thing not said enough is he is the most divisive president in modern history. He doesn’t just divide the Congress, he divides the country.'”

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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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The very first of Michael Caine’s 18,000,000 appearances on American talk shows, with Merv Griffin in 1965.

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The Three Christs of Ypsilanti. Easily. Psychiatrist Milton Rokeach’s 1964 account of his group treatment of three delusional men who believed they were God doesn’t only have great insights into human nature, how we protect and harm ourselves at once, but it’s also one of the richest pieces of literature I’ve ever encountered. And that includes every piece of fiction. If you haven’t read it and decide to go for it, get the New York Review of Books edition with an introduction by Rick Moody. He sets it up nicely. Anything you read directly after this book will seem pale, no matter how good it is.

Best re-reading: If the Sun Dies, Oriana Fallaci’s 1966 exploration of NASA and the men who lived our wildest dreams in the stratosphere. I rarely read anything twice, but this book was worth it. Lyrical and great reportage.

What I read while the blog was on hiatus:

The Mind of a Mnemonist, A.J. Luria’s case study about a Russian man with a remarkably elastic memory. Glad I read it, though kind of disappointed overall, the way I am sometimes with long-deferred readings. Luria researched this case for decades beginning in the 1920s and pretty much birthed the modern medical oddity genre later developed by Oliver Sacks and others. I guess I was hoping the narrative would be as good as the research.

The Best Short Stories of J.G. Ballard. I’m not much for sci-fi, but Ballard is obviously several grades above the average. My favorite story of this 1979 collection is “Thirteen for Centaurus,” which is ostensibly about a far-flung journey but is really a meditation on how we go along with value systems we don’t actually believe in.

The Loser, the short novel by Joseph Bernhard about two of Glenn Gould’s less-talented classmates. Well-written and all, but 160 pages about suicidal narcissism was all I could handle. Still want to read some of Bernhard’s stage satires.

Obedience to Authority, Stanley Milgram’s 1974 book about his controversial experiments in which he asked average citizens to administer electrical shocks to other human beings in the “name of science.” I’m still not wholly convinced about the banality of evil, but Milgram makes quite a compelling case. A discomfiting and worthwhile read.

You know, if I didn’t spend every waking hour mocking Donald Trump, I could read LOTS more books. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

Back

I’m back. Everyone’s gone, right? Oh, fudge.

Well, anyhow, I’m going to return to posting cartoonishly filthy humor, harsh judgments of others and amusing but pointless pieces of history.

Hope you’re all well.

–Darren

Just as we reach the end of the year, my laptop has conked out. That gives me a good excuse to take a week or so off, something I haven’t done once since I started this blog more than three years ago. So I will see you good folks on the other side of 2013. Have a safe and happy holiday.

Until then, Trump.

Donald Trump: Hypocrisy is a sham.

Perhaps it won’t end for Donald Trump the way it did for Gaddafi. Time will tell. Trump, who receives a lot of fan mail, feels that he can insult whomever he wants and never has to apologize for his boorish behavior. But others who say mean things about him need to beg his forgiveness. 

____________________________

Donald J. Trump ‏@realDonaldTrump

If Sheena Monnin apologized for her mistake, as she should have, I would have treated her very nicely.

____________________________

Sheena Monin was a contestant in the Miss USA pageant who claimed that the contest was rigged. She was sued for defamation and lost her case. In all fairness, not even someone as dumb as Donald Trump would fix a contest like that. He knows that kind of behavior could get him into a lot of trouble. Of course, Donald Trump recently called a slightly more important competition–the U.S. Presidential election–a “sham” and a “disgusting injustice” when his candidate was defeated fair and square. He has never said he is sorry for defaming that contest.

But Donald Trump was right about the pageant: Sheena Monin should have apologized. In fact, a lot of people should tell Donald Trump they’re sorry.

Thinks Don Ho was a Hawaiian gangster.

Sal, Barber: My apologies for making you look like a turd blossom, Mr. Trump. I do it because I hate you.

Dottie, Retired Schoolteacher: I’m sorry I gave you passing grades, you toolbox, but I just couldn’t bear to look anymore at that cunt you call a face.

Dave, Animal Wrangler: I'm sorry I lined my bird's cage with a photo of you. I had plenty of old newspapers.

Dave, Animal Wrangler: I’m sorry I lined my bird’s cage with  your photo, but I didn’t want to get ostrich diarrhea on old newspapers.

Don, Exterminator: I deeply regret using your men's cologne to kill roaches.

Vincent, Exterminator: I deeply regret using your men’s cologne to kill roaches. My bad.

Tina, Biologist: I'm sorry I learned how to read, which has allowed me to realize that your TV show,  casinos and beauty pageants are incredibly fucking stupid.

Tina, Biologist: I’m sorry I learned how to read, which has made me realize that your TV show, casinos and beauty pageants are all incredibly fucking stupid.

Dr. Henry Benson, Obstetrician: I'm sorry you were ever born. I should have left you in your mother's crack.

Dr. Benson, Obstetrician: I’m sorry you were ever born. I should have left you in your mother’s crack.

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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!

Merv Griffin leaves the studio to interview Richard Burton in 1974. I was frightened of Burton when I was a child. He just seemed so out of control. But the one that really terrified me was George C. Scott. Oh my god, that man! All that rage.

From Burton’s scary personal diary, which cataloged his demons and destruction, a passage from right around the time of the Merv interview:

“Tuesday 21st: Drank enormously and cheated when E wasn’t looking. Don’t remember much except falling a lot and suggesting divorce. Can’t control my hands, so cannot write any more. Very silly. Booze!

Wednesday 22nd: Having been so drunk yesterday, felt terrible in morning and was desperately ill. Went quietly at 9.30 to find a double brandy. Bar closed until 10. Asked for Fritz (manager). Reluctantly, he opened bar for me and suggested vodka as it wouldn’t be so smelly when E had morning kiss.

Drank it with very shaking hands. Have become a ‘falling-down’ [drunk]. My hand-writing indicative of the shakes. Painful knee, bottom, right elbow, back of head, right ear.

E an angel, and looked like one. How does she do it? Look so well, I mean, for she had a lot to drink, too.

Thursday 23rd: Two weeks married. Still faintly dizzy if I make any sudden movement. Had to have helping hand to walk first few steps in any direction. Very disappointed in myself, but periodically, no doubt, will fall into the trap.

Friday 24th: Made superb love to E in the afternoon. Gets better all the time, if that’s possible. Thought about death too much.

Monday 27th: Drank a lot. Don’t remember anything, if at all.

Tuesday 28th: Drank some more.

Wednesday 29th: Ditto. Must stop!”

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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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Michael Kranish of the Boston Globe exhaustively analyzes why President Obama beat Mitt Romney, giving credit, yes, to a more information-rich campaign, but also stressing the importance of marrying big data to retail politics. An excerpt:

“Tagg Romney could not figure it out. Why had Obama spent so heavily during the primaries when he had no primary opponent? Only later did Tagg realize this was a key to Obama’s victory.

‘We were looking at all the money they were spending in the primary and we were thinking ‘what are they spending all their money on? They’re wasting a lot of money.’ They weren’t. They were paying staffers in Florida’ and elsewhere.

If Romney’s Manhattan Project had been debate preparation, then Obama’s was the ground game.

Building on its 2008 field organ­ization, Obama’s campaign had far more people on the ground, for longer periods, and backed by better data. In Florida, for example, the ­Romney campaign said it had fewer than 200 staff members on the ground, a huge commitment of its total of 500 nationwide. But the Obama campaign had 770 staff in Florida out of 3,000 or so nationwide.

‘They had more staff in Florida than we had in the country, and for longer,’ said Romney adviser Ron Kaufman.

Indeed, in swing state after swing state, the Obama field team was much bigger than the Romney troops. Obama had 123 offices in Ohio, compared with Romney’s 40. Obama had 59 offices in Colorado, compared with Romney’s 15, accord­ing to statistics compiled by the Obama campaign.

Stevens said he expressed alarm about the Democrat’s early advantage in money and staff. He said Obama’s decision to reject public financing for the fall campaign (a move Romney followed) worked to Obama’s advantage ­because Obama used primary funds to prepare for the general election, and it meant there was no ceiling on how much could be spent.

‘It is like sitting in the ­Alamo,’ Stevens said in the postelection interview, comparing the siege by Mexican troops in 1836 to competing against the superior forces of the Obama campaign. ‘Yes, it is alarming. There are a lot of Santa Anna’s soldiers out there.'” (Thanks Browser.)

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Precision has always been the goal of the cartographer, but does the increasing exactness of computer-generated navigation (Apple Maps aside) reduce the quest in some essential way? I vote “no” but Simon Garfield makes intelligent points on the subject in “The End of the Map” in the Wall Street Journal. An excerpt:

“As some may recall, it was not so long ago that we got around by using maps that folded. Occasionally, if we wanted a truly global picture of our place in the world, we would pull shoulder-dislocating atlases from shelves. The world was bigger back then. Experience and cheaper travel have rendered it small, but nothing has shrunk the world more than digital mapping.

There is something valuable about getting lost occasionally, even in our pixilated, endlessly interconnected world.

In medieval Christian Europe, Jerusalem was the center of the world, the ultimate end of a religious pilgrimage. If we lived in China, that focal point was Youzhou. Later, in the days of European empire, it might be Britain or France. Today, by contrast, each of us now stands as an individual at the center of our own map worlds. On our computers and phones, we plot a route not from A to B but from ourselves (‘Allow current location’) to anywhere of our choosing. Technology has enabled us to forget all about way-finding and geography. This is some change, and some loss.

Maps have always related and realigned our history; increasingly, we’re ceding control of that history to the cold precision of the computer. With this comes great responsibility. Leading mapmakers used to be scattered around the world, all lending their distinctive talents and interpretations. These days by far the most influential are concentrated in one place—Mountain View, Calif., home of the Googleplex.

There is something disappointing about the austere potential perfection of the new maps. The satellites above us have seen all there is to see of the world; technically, they have mapped it all. But satellites know nothing of the beauty of hand-drawn maps, with their Spanish galleons and sea monsters, and they cannot comprehend wanderlust and the desire for discovery. Today we can locate the smallest hamlet in sub-Saharan Africa or the Yukon, but can we claim that we know them any better? Do the irregular and unpredictable fancies of the older maps more accurately reflect the strangeness of the world?”

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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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Billy Crystal recently joined Jimmy Fallon, Jerry Seinfeld, Steve Higgins and that other guy in a fun sequel to the classic Abbott & Costello routine, “Who’s on First?” But it’s still not as great as the perfect mid-’80s SNL short that Crystal and Christopher Guest did about the Negro Leagues. It beautifully captures the tall-tale culture that grows around those not deemed important enough to be given consideration by mainstream historians of their era. 

 

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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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I would trust a pilotless aircraft just as much as a piloted one–perhaps more. Maybe at least one of the people on the ground controlling the plane isn’t falling-down drunk? Your average aviator ain’t exactly Sully Sullenberger. And you know how Jet Blue pilots tend to joke that they were just testing the plane’s new tires after they do a crappy job landing and bounce down the runway? You know how everyone laughs because they’re happy they’re not dead? I really don’t think it’s funny. From the Economist, an excerpt from an article about unmanned flight:

“It is potentially a huge new market. America’s aviation regulators have been asked by Congress to integrate unmanned aircraft into the air-traffic control system as early as 2015. Some small drones are already used in commercial applications, such as aerial photography, but in most countries they are confined to flying within sight of their ground pilot, much like radio-controlled model aircraft. Bigger aircraft would be capable of flying farther and doing a lot more things.

Pilotless aircraft could carry out many jobs at a lower cost than manned aircraft and helicopters—tasks such as traffic monitoring, border patrols, police surveillance and checking power lines. They could also operate in conditions that are dangerous for pilots, including monitoring forest fires or nuclear-power accidents. And they could fly extended missions for search and rescue, environmental monitoring or even provide temporary airborne Wi-Fi and mobile-phone services. Some analysts think the global civilian market for unmanned aircraft and services could be worth more than $50 billion by 2020.

Whatever happens, pilots will still have a role in aviation, although not necessarily in the cockpit. ‘As far as the eye can see there will always be a pilot in command of an aircraft,’ says Lambert Dopping-Hepenstal, the director of ASTRAEA. But that pilot may be on the ground and he may be looking after more than one unmanned aircraft at the same time.

Commercial flights carrying freight and express parcels might one day also lose their on-board pilots. But would even the most penny-pinching cut-price airline be able to sell tickets to passengers on flights that have an empty cockpit? More realistically, those flights might have just one pilot in the future. Technology has already relieved the flight deck of a number of jobs. Many early large aircraft had a crew of five: two pilots, a flight engineer, a navigator and a radio operator. First the radio operator went, then the navigator, and by the time the jet era was well under way in the 1970s flight engineers began to disappear too. Next it could be the co-pilot, replaced by the autonomous flight systems now being developed.”

PIGMAN’S FINGERS E-book for Kindle – $2

“The sex with mom was good, and for once, I was in the mood for it…”

So begins the nightmarish tale of a young boy in a post-apocalyptic America. A haunting Gothic story in the tradition of Lord of the Flies and Riddley Walker.

Previously published by The Utopian literary magazine. *Adults only*

When people are turned down for a jobs at Arby’s they become movie-theater employees. One such worker just did an Ask Me Anything on Reddit. A few exchanges follow.

____________________________

Question:

What’s the weirdest thing [you’ve seen]?

Answer:

I’ll give you my top three weirdest moments

  1. A larger lady had a heart attack at the Twilight: Breaking Dawn part 1 premiere. She ran out into the middle of the lobby, started hysterically screaming, then just collapsed, i was on crowd control that night, so i had to run out to the middle of the lobby and make sure she was okay, i coudln’t tell if she was just messing around and was crazy (like every Twilight fan) or if she was really in trouble, ten minutes later an ambulance showed up and took her away…not sure what happened from then on.
  2. At the midnight premier of Magic Mike, (the Channing Tatum stripper movie) I had a large lady grab me and start pulling of my shirt yelling “strip for me, strip for me.” Was terrifying.
  3. any occasion with drunk people in the theaters.

Question:

That’s sexual assault. That is not okay. Unless you enjoyed it. Did you enjoy it?


Answer:

A little….

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Question:

What is your job in movie theater? Do you sell tickets? Do you sell foods? Are you ticket collector? And tell me the funniest thing you saw in there.

Answer:

99% of the time i sell movie tickets, the rest of the time i just kinda roam around, funniest thing i have seen recently, was a lady, after thoroughly looking around, ripped off the head of an Edward Cullen Standee and subtlely walked out the door with it. I was too busy laughing to go stop her.

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Question:

Would you rather watch a movie about 100 duck-sized horses or a movie about one horse-sized duck?

Answer:

[No response.]

Why do I have to wait to see Andrew Bujalski’s film Computer Chess when I want to see it right now? From Indiewire:

“Set around 1980, Computer Chess is the fictional account of the computer programmers and chess players that tested artificial intelligence through computer-human chess tournaments. These were the days of Bobby Fischer and Garry Kasparov, slightly before the IBM computer Deep Blue took reign.

But Bujalski’s film is not about these real-life people; it’s an exploration of the environment he imagines for these programmers. Speaking with indieWIRE, Bujalski says, ‘We’ve certainly done research, and a few people in that community have talked to us and helped us out. We’re not setting up to do a documentary or a slavish interpretation of the truth. I certainly have tremendous respect for those guys and for what they accomplished. I hope some of that will come through whether or not we get it right for them.’

Though Bujalski says he was never a computer nerd, he admits this film is a way of him exploring the geek that never was. ‘Perhaps deep down it’s my attempt to vicariously peek into the fantasy braniac life I ought to have pursued as a kid.’

Speaking with Indiewire, he elaborated on arriving to the story: ‘I was only a little kid at this time. I saw the same headlines as everyone else did about Deep Blue. I was never terribly invested in the topic in those days. The idea for the film really came when I was at the New England Mobile Book Fair — Newton Highlands, MA. They have this great remainders section. I’ve been going to that bookstore since I was a kid. There are books waiting for someone to love them, and many of them have been there for 25-30 years, if not longer. I found a book on chess trivia — it was $1 or $2. I’m not nearly enough of a chess enthusiast to buy it at full price. The book was from 1986 or so and there was a section on computer chess trivia. It started to plant images in my head, of these guys and what they were up to.'”

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