I desperately want to read the article under this title. What wondrous insight could vegetarians have had into this dirty little ailment?
The eighties would have looked quite different if the Vegalution hadn't been stopped in its tracks by the Vegalutionaries' inability to settle on a name they all liked.
"Here's a Powerpoint presentation. I'll throw in some clipart... and now it's shit."
They say this cat Gawd is a bad mother.
Shut yo mouth!
Hey, I'm talkin' 'bout Gawd!
I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, and after I heard this story I did consider whether my impulse to mock it was in bad taste. I'm sorry to report my Evil Wicked Side won out.<!--more-->
In English dialects, a stupid face is a gurn and gurning is the practice of making said faces. There are contests devoted to this Satanic malformation of the countenance.
Peter Jackman, pictured here, was a four-time champion gurner from Cumbria who apparently had his teeth removed in 2000 so he could look even crazier, and who was most notable for an innovative stupidface called the Bela Lugosi.
I totally did try to find a photo of him performing it, but the first page of my Google Images search turned my stomach and I couldn't bring myself to continue the search. Bad Alex. Bad blogger.
The crux of the story is that Mr Jackman was killed in a tragic accident in Spain. This honestly isn't anything to giggle about as I'm sure he was a nice chap -- but for the fact that he died when a fucking cliff face collapsed under him.
I don't know about you, but I think know an act of God when I see one. And to be fair, how would you feel? If you'd spent twenty billion years nurturing a universe in which a carbohydrate-rich planet could emerge and support the evolution of an ingenious and ambitious species with (generally) handsome features -- and then to see those bastards take pains to mangle their mugs as ridiculously as possible?
Me? I'd be ouraged, and my wrath would be swift.
MySpace users, take note. You may think that those photographs you take hide your fat jowls and make you look desirable, but really, you're just painting a big bullseye on your ass and daring the Almight to end you.
You've been warned.
MOMA NY asked Michael to record the construction of their new building. Above is the result of an almost 3-year exposure, presumably on a single plate. Note how ghostly the newer construction is, and how rock-solid the older buildings are. The streaks in the sky are the sun passing overhead, at different positions in different seasons.
What mesmerizes me most about this is the speckling in the center of the image. The spots look vaguely octagonal, so one would expect this to be lens flares. But according to the article this was recorded with pinhole camera, and more importantly, if the sun is in fluid motion, wouldn't the flare follow suit?
Anyone know what it might be?
Every single one of these rocks on so many levels.
Full gallery here: http://omgposters.com/2010/07/31/olly-moss-2010-rolling-roadshow-poster-series/
Oh my.
Um.
Well.
There was clearly a lot more going on in the '50s than boring old McCarthyism and the Red Scare.
John Nack's blog at Adobe.com often features these magnificent things. Where does he find them? One wonders.
As per his advice, do check out the 3:45 mark at least. Exquisite!
Charming story, this. A reminder of the value books, as physical objects, will hopefully always continue to have, no matter how much of their function is co-opted by Ebook devices!
For those of you who think the chilluns are deteriorating due to PlayBox and WiiSP 360, learn this lesson. Seeing a kid's brain underutilized due to sit-down-and-stare videogames is still better than seeing it turn into a radioactive sponge!
About a year ago I was going nuts over the announcement of Mac OS X 10.6, aka Snow Leopard, for all the wrong reasons: the advertising.
Only Apple Inc. could hang a huge promotional banner declaring 0 New Features to thunderous, and legitimate, applause. Snow Leopard was about tightening all the bolts, spending a year's engineering resources on tuning and improving the invisible core of the operating system. Normally, this kind of effort is secondary to creating new user-focused features one can advertise.
Bold, Steve.
But there was one piece ofp romo work that threw me into paroxysms of ecstasy, featured here:
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The term quantum leap has been used plenty often in ad copy throughout the decades, always evoking a sense of advancement, of scientific innovation with lasers and clean rooms and, oh yes, crystals.
http://www.youtube.com/v/cf3bRXGmkJE&hl=en&fs=1
Also a pretty cool TV show starring Count Bakula of Star Trek Enterprise fame. But they were all terribly, terribly wrong.
Erwin Schrödinger teaches us (well, not him per se, but considering I just pimped his work in the Schrödinger's Litterbox piece I thought I'd call him back) that quantum jumps are electrons transitioning from one quantum state to another within an atom thruogh a brief period of superposition.
In other words, it's an infinitessimally small change, one that can't be directly observed by mere mortals.
Like a desktop operating system which offers almost no new user-facing features.
Bingo.
Having known of the musical sensation Wing since before her fated South Park parody, I've always been at once smugly dismissive of her watery voice, poor pronunciation and frequent inability to keep time -- and deeply appreciative of her positivity and unbridled chutzpah.
Here she is in top form. Looking like she's been freshly beaten by her husband, still shaking, but nonetheless resplendent in her lovely dress, badass gloves and SHE-MULLET. She warbles on and off rhythm at whim!
You can't stop her! You don't have the SPINE.
(also, I'm cooking chicken tonight, don't judge me)
By the middle of the song the kid is having SO much fun. And holy hell he's good. Look at him go! :)
Yowza, the time does fly! About a year ago I wrote a series of posts on the topic of the Not Writer which was quite well-received, and since I'd just bought a decent condenser microphone on a super cool hinge arm over my desk I immediately set about recording that seven-part series, edited it together... and, well, kind of forgot about it after that.
For your enjoyment, here's the full 30-minute reading of The Not Writer!
Sex and violence, like romance and suspense, are just ingredients. Not every meal requires every ingredient you enjoy, and some are actually damaged quite severely by the introduction of ingredients that have no place there. Mrs. Cropley's famous peanut butter & anchovis sandwiches are an example. On the other hand, sometimes strange combinations work amazingly well -- the first time I encountered mustard ice cream I just had to have a second helping.
With Heathen City #2 I wanted to deliver an extremely rich and diverse narrative and opened up many cans of wiggly, creepy little plot-worms. Exposing some of Malloy's activities prior to Owen's arrival. Showing the very beginning of Tony Caulfield's character, and his mother's, and then reveling in those carefree days when The Boys had the whole world at their feet -- and the introduction of Tiber Ferrum, swathed in mystery. I strove to weave a colorful tapestries with tons of blank spaces in it, spanning large expanses of time and intimating deep enigmas, speaking of bloodlines and creating patterns of behavior that indicated, through their contrast, the unexplored presence of substantial events between them.
However, this introduced a crucial flaw: distraction.<!--more-->
While I'm very satisfied with each story and tremendously proud of each arc's final form, especially the enormous creative influence and expression of the awesome artists who brought them to life, and while I feel that the structure of the arcs combined creates a framework wherein the stories that explicitly aren't told are almost as interesting as those that are, there was just too much going on for the reader to bond with the second book as much as they had with the first.
The through-line of the book was implied rather than expressed, and while I do love to make my readers work to figure out what they're looking at, the book as a whole didn't make it clear what the reader should care about and what they should take away at the end. Every story an sich was tight and had a clear arc, and they were thematically, emotionally and causally connected, but it needed just a bit more continuity for the reader to connect more fully with the characters.
I love the modular structure of the second book. It has obvious benefits for production, since illustrating a full comic is a taxing job for any artist, let alone when they have day jobs and studies and a way-too-dense script from a persnickety and overambitious writer. That Ayato was able to do it for the first book still astonishes me.
Writing shorter, denser scripts with a strong arc presents its own challenges and forces me to be economical, constantly compressing the plot, excising that which doesn't contribute enough, no matter how cool it might be on its own. Every beat, every gag is examined over and over to ensure it serves a functional purpose: establish peril, heighten suspense, misdirect attention, relieve tension -- and the stories are stronger for it.
I'm certain it's possible to combine the advantages of each approach, and I'm confident Heathen City Vol. 3 will demonstrate that. Modular stories by different artists for intense, highly-polished storylines with a mouthwatering variety of styles -- but still bound by continuity, tightly related, to preserve the reader's investment as they weave through the plotlines. Where HC2 might be discribed as an anthology, HC3 is an ensemble piece.
So this time around I even more closely evaluated the merit of each plot element, each scene and each character to strike a balance between the thrill of discovering new or previously-hinted-at aspects of this universe, and making sure the reader at all times knows what to care about, and carry that investment through to the end of the book.
And that means there wasn't a place for nice, juicy, indulgent sex scenes like those in the first two books except for just one, to establish a new character in the context of this morally ambiguous and hedonistic world. At the same time, the sex itself, the exchange of bodily fluids and the nature of procreation suggest a particularly maudlin preoccupation of this character that's only very gently hinted at.
There were two -- maybe three, at a stretch -- beats where I could have slipped a sexy interlude, and perhaps a year ago I might have done so simply because they would have been delectable scenes, but my assessment this time around was that their presence wouldn't benefit the story as much as their absence. They'd break the urgency and suspense, they'd trivialize the danger and emotional challenges the characters are facing.
Now, you know me. I think sex is just super and I love having it, and thinking about it, and seeing it and writing it, so this certainly doesn't mean I'm turning into a moral snob overnight. Heathen City is for me as much as it is for my audience and if I'm going to invest years of my life and thousands of my hard-earned Euros I'm going to make damn sure the result is a story that I want to read more than anything else I could pick up at a con!
And I'm going to make sure, with every chance I get, to make my audience feel the same way.
There is beauty in this world, old and new, and while it may be argued that nature's paintbrush is more graceful than Man's chisel, I have a love for Things People Made.
In this post I'd like to talk about the appreciation of objects in their utility and elegance, the sensations they inspire and the impact they have on our lives. Materialistic? Certainly, but we're a tool-using species and a fascination with objects is what elevated us from the mud.
Tools, buildings, ornaments, furniture, clothing. These are the vestibules of humanity, artifacts through which anthropologists can glimpse the spirit of bygone civilizations, and by which we can judge the nature of modern-day cultures as well.
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This Wednesday, January 27th, saw the announcement of the iPad. As a media and print enthusiast, small-press publisher, typography and New Media nut (not to mention Machead) I was understandably excited and followed my usual tradition for such Apple events.
The keynote speech by Steve Jobs would start at 7PM my time so, coming home from work, I immediately sequestered myself in my home office (my boyfriend is the understanding sort), popped up four browser windows side-by-side and launched a different live blog feed in each of them, after which I spent the next two hours reading the reporters' quick posts typed into their laptops and squinting at blurry photos they took on their phones during the event. I twittered furiously, and although I understand the lunacy about live-tweeting about an event I was 'witnessing' only second-hand, at least 'twittering' in this case isn't a metaphor for self-abuse.
As a media and print enthusiast [etc] I have many opinions about iPad. Many expectations were dashed, some surprises blew me away and it's a good thing the device won't be sold for another two months, because I'd like to be able to form a coherent opinion on it before I inevitably break down and buy one. Until then, however, my mind is on Things. And here, now, is a List Of My Favorite Things.
My iPhone 3G, purchased on the day it launched in my country during a midnight sale in Rotterdam where I was accompanied by two good friends and my younger brother + entourage -- and which, I might add, turned into quite the rocking late-night street-party -- is a Thing which I enjoy immensely. Other than Jimminy Willikins, no object spends as much time in my hand as my iPhone. I enjoy the physicality of its interface, the depth to which the interactivity model has been thought through. The sophisticated simplicity of the design, seamless, and its weight. It stands proudly in its cradle on my work desk.
On my desk right now is also a Moleskine notebook. I've never written in it, though I have ones at home that are worn and filled and bulging with stuff stuck into them. My penmanship has always been rather poor and my mother never prepared me better for my adult life than when she sent me to typing classes at age ten, but nevertheless I've always enjoyed the linearity of writing by hand and the way that process guides the mind.
So even though I'm nearly fully digital, I still love the Moleskine for its functional design. Small-signature binding so it lies flat when opened, rounded corners to prevent fox-ears, off-white paper and faint lines, a harmonica fold to stick loose items into, a bookmark ribbon and an elastic to keep it closed. Useful, portable writing perfection, justly legendary, so when I found an old blank one at home I brought it to work and just left it on my desk as an ornament. I like it, why shouldn't I keep it around?
It's not all about looks, though. The very best pen I ever used wasn't a thing of beauty per se. It was a cheap translucent plastic home brand rollerball with blue-black ink that cost a euro and a half when it was still manufactured. Tastes vary of course, but for me, for my chickenscratch handwriting, it was perfection. The rollerball nib glided smoothly over the page with just enough friction to keep my letters succinct and in control. The ink spread richly, dried quickly and struck a gorgeous contrast against the cream paper, sustaining its beauty even years later.
My very favorite book, growing up, was my favorite not so much because of its subject (though it was a fascinating read), but rather because of its substance. The book in question was Hyperspace by Michio Kaku, and purported to continue where Stephen Hawking's book A Brief History of Time left off. Through historical accounts and anecdotes Kaku illustrated the lives of some of the greatest thinkers in the history of science and guided the reader through the complex and abstract curiosities of theoretical physics. The sophisticated science was accessible because Kaku explored the life and mind of the thinker to illustrate the nature of the thought.
It was the book itself, the material object, that kept me going back to the library to fetch it. A library hardcover, converted through lamination from a softcover, it had a very satisfying thump to it when knocked or set down. Apparently this copy suffered some form of damage, and that's what gave it such allure. The pages were off-white, a soft ocher-cream, discolored at the edges with a more cinnamon tint. The lettering was well-balanced and crisp, and printed with an overabundance of magenta so that the print, while ostensibly black, always seemed a gorgeous and regal red out of the corner of my eye.
Best of all was the smell. I've never experienced its like. Whatever happened to this book suffused it with just the faintest scent of sulfur, like a freshly-struck match. Undetectable for the first few minutes of reading, I didn't even notice it until the second or third time I read the book, but once I realized I understood what it was that intoxicated me so. Even years later, the pages retained the scent.
The Mac computers I've owned, culminating in the current 24-inch iMac on my desk, were a heady blend of industrial grace and software sophistication. Glossy white or matte black plastic composites, black glass, brushed aluminum all carved into shapes that spoke of thought and insight and the thorough understanding of an under-appreciated and oft-mocked facet of the human psyche: emotional connections with things that aren't alive.
I'm not talking about such curiosities as moe, but rather the way that every experience and observation interacts with our state of mind, to the point where we endow the inanimate with emotion and value just as surely as we do people. A workman comes to value some tools highly as they serve their function well, a soldier appreciates his weapon and his uniform. There's no one source for this attachment, though the context of the object's relationship with its owner is certainly a large part of it. A wedding ring is a prime example; the thing is meant to be beautiful but the (hopefully) happy association makes it all the more spectacular.
We can complain about the materialism of modern society, the excess and the idolatry, but we mustn't forget how innate these qualities are. We value things as ugly or beautiful, clever or ridiculous, and we bond with some of them in silly or heartwarming ways. This is who we are, and I, for one, am not embarrassed.
