NBA 2K15: Face scan an early issue with US release of basketball…



NBA 2K15: Face scan an early issue with US release of basketball game - Gaming - Gadgets and Tech - The Independent

NBA 2K15 was released stateside today and the wildly popular basketball series already has fans in a spin. Reviews have been massively positive so far but gamers have been experiencing a bit of an issue with one feature in particular: the face scan. Like never before, the game is promising to put you in the thick of the action, with the next-gen technology promising to lift your face into the ever-popular MyCareer mode for an even more realistic experience. But early results have been… mixed.
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Paschal Beverly Randolph

randolphOA “tawny student of Esoterics.”
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Spellbound

klarion thumbAnnie Nocenti's new DC comic, KLARION
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October 7, 2014



October 7, 2014

I’m nervous.  I have read that the 2014 Nobel Prize in Literature will be announced on Thursday October 9 at 1PM (CET).  I feel my whole life has reached this point, and either I win the prize or I don’t. “If I die, I die.” The moment is almost here, and I have so many thoughts in my head.  For one, some writers just write for themselves.  Others, if they’re lucky get paid for the words that appear on a page, but for me, the only reason I do write is the thought of getting the Nobel Prize.

My entire life has been one type of failure after another. It’s too sad to list them all here, but I feel that the world doesn’t give a damn about me.  I noticed my friends on Facebook have been dwelling in lower numbers, like they’re tired of me.  Also my blog has been getting less attention as well. It is a slow death of sorts, where even when I’m in exile in Tokyo, I find myself only looking at my reflection in numerous store windows.  I tend to have my meals in fast food restaurants near train stations - for instance I’m quite fond of eating places around Meguro Station.  My lack of Japanese is perfectly suitable that I can just point in the menu and nod my head. Restaurants that have fully illustrated menus tend to be a tad cheaper than the ones who don’t have pictures on their menus.  So being idiotic and kind of stupid regarding my lack of language skills is actually financially helpful here.  Nevertheless I spent a great deal of time reading about the gossip and rumors that are surrounding this year’s Nobel Prize for literature.

Haruki Murakami has been pointed out again and again that he is likely to be the winner this year.  If this happens, I don’t know what I will do.  It is like I spent my entire life, 60 years, working towards a goal, and then having that snatched away by a second-rate writer… well, it’s unthinkable.

Some years ago, when I was in my room working on my life-long memoir “My Struggle” (which title has been stolen by a Norwegian writer Karl Ove Knausgård, and is now an international bestseller) I had nothing but dreams of excepting the Nobel. In fact, every year for the past 35 years, I have written an acceptance speech.  I have fifteen notebooks, all written by hand, the acceptance speech that may not actually happen.  I was just so depressed during this time, that I actually suffered from nervous disorders of all sorts. The worst thing that happened to me was that I went to a showing of “Taxi Driver” and refused to leave the theater till they show it again.  That day I sat through four showings.  Finally the police came and they physically removed me from the theater.  It was at that time, I realized that I needed some professional help.



Through connections within my family, I imagined to have a meeting with the famous psychiatrist R. D. Laing.   He examined me throughly and asked numerous questions.  He made a peculiar statement to me: “Life is a sexually transmitted disease and the mortality rate is one hundred percent.” I didn’t know how to respond to that comment, so I told him what was illing me.  I told him that I write, and I only write, so I can win the Nobel Prize.  Without that prize, I’m nothing.  A waste of space in an overcrowded world.  But, and it’s a big BUT - if I can somehow win this prize, then my life will have meaning - not only to me, but to others who know my name.   As I talked, he wrote in a notebook.   After I finished my rant, he got up from his chair, to look out the window.  He then picked up his telephone and asked if I was hungry, I said no.  He then asked whether it was OK for him to order some food.  I said “sure.” I overheard him ordering a Scotch pie, which is usually a small double-crust meat pie filled with minced meat.   It seems as though you can hold the pie with your hands while eating and therefore popular with people who work behind a desk.



He approached me and sat right on the left side of me.  He spoke very quietly and told me that “insanity - a perfectly rational adjustment to an insane world.” Which of course means to me the chance that I won’t get the award.  “There is a great deal of pain in life and perhaps the only pain that can be avoided is the pain that comes from trying to avoid pain.” All of a sudden there was a knock on the door, and it was one of his assistants, who delivered the Scotch pie.  He thanks the assistant and came back and told me, while munching on his pie that “in a world full of danger, to be potentially seeable object is to be consistently exposed to danger.  Self-consciousness, then, may be the applehensive awareness of oneself as potentially exposed to danger by the simple fact of being visible to others.” He took another bite and then went on.  “The obvious defense against such a danger is to make oneself invisible in one way or another.” We both sat in silence and the only noise in the room was him eating the pie.



“You see Tosh, we are effectively destroying ourselves by violence masquerading as love.” Again, more silence, and then I asked him: “What do you think are the odds in me getting the Nobel Prize?” He then put his hand on my shoulder, and gently shook his head. “Time will tell Tosh.” I left his office with the feeling of depression as a winter coat over my shoulder.  We all now wait for the conclusion that will be my sad, yet pathetic life.
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jamsradio: Thanks, Betavisions! http://betavisions.tumblr.com/



jamsradio:

Thanks, Betavisions! http://betavisions.tumblr.com/

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Jam yesterday

From William Sherman, "Dirty Books? Attitudes Toward Readers' Marks":
According to his former lodger, the translator and playwright John Henry Jones, Empson was once forced to buy the London Library a new copy of Marlowe's Doctor Faustus: when he returned it they found it covered not only with his marginal notes but with the jam from his morning toast. When I cited this anecdote in a Times Literary Supplement review, Jones himself wrote in to elaborate on the nature of Empson's marginalia: "The work in question was W. W. Greg's parallel-text edition of Marlowe's Doctor Faustus, and the librarian . . . was hardly straining at a gnat in demanding a fresh copy--the book was virtually done to death in Empson's zeal to demolish Greg's argument in favour of the B-text, a process which . . . was maintained throughout all quotidian activities."
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Love & Rockets #33 (August 1990)

theblackestofsuns:

                  image

Those were the days.

Auto-reblog for “strong candidate for my favorite single issue of a comic book ever.”

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Closing tabs

A weird crystal.

The notorious difficulty of breeding hyenas.

The Sasquatch of Minecraft.

An interview with James Ellroy.

Glitch!

Impending closure of one of my very favorite New York restaurants, La Lunchonette.

Bad electronic health record software and the handling of the Dallas Ebola patient.

Stephen Fry on the battle for gay rights in Estonia. (Courtesy of Tarvo.)

Finally, something amazing: most epic bike ride ever? I would NEVER do this, but it is lovely to watch....
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eugenialoli: “Is it a Holographic or a Virtual Reality Universe…



eugenialoli:

Is it a Holographic or a Virtual Reality Universe After All?" by Eugenia Loli.

Portfolio | Store | Tumblr | Flickr | Facebook

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vaultstuff: World’s Most Expensive GIF(by Michael Green)



vaultstuff:

World’s Most Expensive GIF
(by Michael Green)

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Book Traces!

I'm really excited about this event! Here is librarian Karla Nielsen's description of why this library-marginalia crowdsourcing project really matters:
Andrew Stauffer describes the importance of the project very eloquently on the Book Traces website but I want to underscore his description of these books as constituting a massive, distributed archive of the history of reading, hidden in plain sight in the circulating collection. Viewed that way, they are a treasure. Historians of reading constantly face an evidence problem because it is difficult to find or follow past readers’ traces. However, not all post-industrial nineteenth century books look like treasure from the outside. They can be crumbly and fragile, riddled with what librarians call inherent vice. Faced with these volumes, some readers, and some library circulation managers, are happy for a rationale that justifies moving them offsite or online. There are many discoveries to made if you think to look, but we need to start looking before the evidence is moved out of sight or obliterated.
More information on the project here (and the lovely Tumblr showcase. Andy will come to class this evening to explain and inspire: I like the show-and-tell aspect to this whole thing!

The readings I've given my students to complement and contextualize the project (must now write lecture!):

#William Sherman, “Dirty Books? Attitudes Toward Readers’ Marks,” from Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 153-178
#H. J. Jackson, “‘Marginal Frivolities’: readers’ notes as evidence for the history of reading,” in Owners, Annotators and the Signs of Reading, ed. Robin Myers, Michael Harris and Giles Mandelbrote (New Castle, DE and London: Oak Knoll Press and the British Library, 2005), 137-151
#Andrew Stauffer, “Hemans by the Book,” European Romantic Review 22:3 (2001): 373-380
#Nicholson Baker, “Discards,” The New Yorker (April 4, 1994): 64-86
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installator: Unloading a Duane Hanson Sotheby’s



installator:

Unloading a Duane Hanson Sotheby’s

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King Goshawk (41)

cuchulain thumbHow Cuanduine settled the Wolfo-Lambian Dispute
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R.D. Laing

laingHe diagnosed "problems in living" — not mental illness.
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ageofdestruction: when: Atmosphere over the Americas,…





ageofdestruction:

when: Atmosphere over the Americas, photographed by GOES-13, 29th-30th September 2014.

8 images, 1 every 3 hours from 0545 UTC on the 29th to 0245 on the 30th. Imaged in 6.5 µm mid-wavelength infrared light, showing mid-level water vapor”. 2nd gif shows the same images with coastline overlay. 

Image credit: NOAA/NASA. Image credit: AgeOfDestruction.

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theparisreview: “I came away feeling faintly starry-eyed: how could such a beautiful machine do…

theparisreview:

“I came away feeling faintly starry-eyed: how could such a beautiful machine do such violence to the landscape, et cetera, et cetera, the beauty of polluted sunsets, et cetera, are we all doomed, and so on.”

Dan Piepenbring on Nir Hod’s Once Everything Was Much Better Even The Future.

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October 6, 2014



October 6, 2014

“To create architecture is to put in order. Put what in order? Function and objects.” In the end of the day, right before I close my eyes to go to another part of my world, I think of my objects. Right now in Tokyo, due to space and expenses I have pretty much nothing. “The home should be the treasure chest of living.” A passport, my laptop and that’s it.  I’m interested in staying in my room which is tatami mat with one large window looking outside, and a smaller window looking out at displayed plants.  What more do I need in life?




Weather here changes in such a rapid pace, that I don’t know if it will rain or turn into a fierce bitter sunlight.   Once I leave the doorstep, I usually choose to go back in.  I can’t deal with change in such a rapid manner.  Also I love the design of my room.  It is just big enough for two futons, and that leaves five inches for storage or things.  Or as Le Corbusier says “objects.” Being here I feel like I’m stripping away my life, not to renew my existence, but to finally destroy it.  At the moment, I have only images of the artist Méret Oppenheim, because I find her erotic.  If there is a chance that I can build up myself again, I want to do so by meditating on her sexuality.



Man Ray took these incredible images of her naked among a large printing press.  Machinery is often sexual, but with the addition of her body, it becomes almost explosively fantastic.  But as they say in various songs, it is not her body, but her eyes that expresses an adventure of a sensual kind.  I imagine her in my room here in Tokyo. More as an object than anything else.  Owing to the fact that I really have nothing else, but me and my shadow.



The zen like intensity of a thousand electric guitars playing at once is swelling in my head, and I think I see something spiritual in front of me, and it is the image of Méret, but one has to go beyond that, and think of what love is, which obviously, isn’t the case here.  To be confined to one’s thoughts and just reflecting on the space in the room, and her place in that room, is really silly.  It is best that I go out and tackle the music of the traffic and go window shopping.  Draw up a list of things that I want, and then be satisfied that I can come back to these windows, the eyes, which are the windows to my soul.

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TamTam Books Title List on D.A.P. and Throughout the World


Lun*na Menoh: A Ring Around The Collar

Published by TamTam Books
Introduction by Leslie Dick.

For 14 years, Los Angeles–based artist, fashion designer and musician Lun*na Menoh has been exploring the many unexpected possibilities of the dirty shirt collar, producing paintings, sculptures, music, DVDs, performance art and fashion shows inspired by this lowly, ubiquitous aspect of clothing. The collar is a fashion boundary--the dividing line between what is hidden by clothing and the body that emerges from the cloth--and the stains commonly found there often confound sartorial panache, a fact which Menoh takes as the mischievous starting point for her work. Lun*na Menoh: A Ring Around the Collardocuments the paintings included in this series, as well as Menoh’s performance art and fashion shows. Included with this book is a flexi-disc with two songs by the artist’s band, Les Sewing Sisters, and an introduction by acclaimed author Leslie Dick.



The Death Instinct

Published by TamTam Books
By Jacques Mesrine. Introduction by Robert Greene. Translation by Robert Greene, Catherine Texier.

France's Public Enemy Number One from the late 1960s to the end of the 1970s--when he was killed by police in a sensational traffic shootout--Jacques Mesrine (1936–1979) is the best-known criminal in French history. Mesrine was notorious both for his violent exploits and for the media attention he attracted, and he remains very much a public media figure in France and Europe. In 2008 there were two feature-length films based on his life, one of them starring Vincent Cassel in the lead role. Mesrine wrote The Death Instinctwhile serving time in the high-security prison La Santé; the manuscript was smuggled out of the prison and was later published by Guy Debord's publisher Gérard Lebovici (who briefly adopted Mesrine's daughter, Sabrina, before being assassinated, a few years after Mesrine). The Death Instinct deals with the early years of Mesrine's criminal life, including a horrifically graphic description of a murder he committed early on in his career and a highly detailed account of the workings of the French criminal underworld--making this book perhaps one of the most intriguing and detailed anthropological studies of a criminal culture ever written.



Red Grass

Published by TamTam Books
By Boris Vian. Introduction by Marc Lapprand. Translation by Paul Knobloch.

Boris Vian (1920–1959) was a magnificent jack-of-all-trades--actor, jazz critic, engineer, musician, playwright, songwriter, translator--not to mention the leading social light of the Saint-Germain-des-Prés scene. His third major novel, Red Grass is a provocative narrative about an engineer, Wolf, who invents a bizarre machine that allows him to revisit his past and erase inhibiting memories. A frothing admixture of Breton, Freud, Carroll, Hammett, Kafka and Wells, Red Grass is one of Vian’s finest and most enduring works, a satire on psychoanalysis--which Vian wholly and vigorously disapproved of--that inflects science fiction with dark absurdity and the author’s great wit. Much in the novel can be regarded as autobiography, as our hero attempts to liberate himself from past traumatic events in the arenas of religion, social life and--of course--sex. Red Grass is translated by Vian scholar Paul Knobloch.



In The Words of Sparks...Selected Lyrics

Published by TamTam Books
Edited by Ron Mael, Russell Mael. Introduction by Morrissey.

Sparks--the long-running duo of Ron and Russell Mael--are among the most respected songwriters of their generation, their songs ranking alongside those of Ray Davies (The Kinks having been a formative influence), George Gershwin, Cole Porter and Stephen Sondheim. Formed in Los Angeles in 1971, Sparks have issued over 20 albums and scored chart hits with songs such as “This Town Ain’t Big Enough for Both of Us,” “Cool Places” and “Never Turn Your Back on Mother Earth.” While their musical style has changed dramatically over the course of 40 years--embracing the British Invasion sound of the 60s, glam rock, disco (they teamed up with Giorgio Moroder for 1979’s “No. 1 in Heaven”) and even techno--their work has consistently stretched the boundaries of pop music and the song form. Sparks continue to break new ground: they are currently working on a project with filmmaker Guy Maddin and are soon to embark on a world tour. Now, for the first time, the Mael brothers have chosen their favorite Sparks lyrics (to some 75 songs), editing and correcting them for presentation in In the Words of Sparks. As James Greer--novelist and former member of Guided by Voices--comments, “Sparks-level wordplay is a gift, and more than that, an inspiration.” This book also includes a substantial introduction by fellow Los Angeles resident and longtime fan, Morrissey.

The Mael brothers (Ron and Russell) select their favorite Sparks lyrics from 75 songs.



I Spit On Your Graves

Published by TamTam Books
By Boris Vian.

Written under Vian’s famous “Vernon Sullivan” pseudonym, I Spit on Your Gravestells the story of a “white negro” who avenges his murdered brother with a series of killings in a small town in the deep south. A bestseller in France, the book was notoriously used as a model for a copycat killing.

"Nobody knew me at Buckton. That's why Clem picked the place; besides, even if I hadn't had a flat, I didn't have enough gas to go any farther north. Just about a gallon. I had a dollar, and Clem's letter, and that's all. There wasn't a thing worth a damn in my valise, so let's not mention it. Hold on: I did have in the bag the kid's little revolver, a miserable, cheap little .22 caliber pea-shooter. It was still in his pocket when the sheriff came to tell us to take the body away to bury it. I've got to say that I counted on Clem's letter more than on everything else. It ought to work, it just had to work. I looked at my hands on the steering wheel, at my fingers, my nails. Nobody would find anything wrong there. No risk on that score. Maybe I'd get away with it."
—Excerpted from I Spit On Your Graves.



Evguenie Sokolov

Published by TamTam Books
By Serge Gainsbourg. Translated by John Weightman, Doreen Weightman.

Serge Gainsbourg's sole foray into fiction, Evguenie Sokolov describes an artist who uses his intestinal gases as the medium for his scandalous artwork. What once was a smelly and noisy problem in his social and sex life becomes a recipe for success in the early 1980s art world.

"So, as I said to myself during the dark hours of the night while trying in vain to get to sleep, the pestilential exhalations prophetic of my corporeal death were to serve the purpose of channeling and transcending that which was more pure, most enduring and most despairingly ironical in the inner depths of my creative mind, and after all the years devoted to the technique of painting and all the day spent releasing my gases in front of museum walls radiant with the genius of the great masters, these jagged, fragile and torturous lines had now rid me forever of my inhibitions."
Excerpted from Evguenie Sokolov.



Foam of the Daze

L'ecume des jours

Published by TamTam Books
By Boris Vian. Translated by Brian Harper.

Raymond Queneau called it the “most poignant love story of our time,” and Julio Cortázar said of its author: “I can’t think of another writer who can move me as surreptitiously as Vian does.” Boris Vian (1920–1959) was a songwriter, trumpet-player, poet, playwright and pataphysician, but is best remembered for his 1947 novel, Foam of the Daze, a jazz-fueled science-fiction romance that mingles bittersweet and surrealist absurdity with a melancholic meditation on the frailty of life. It tells the tale of Colin, a wealthy young dandy, and Chloe, his newly wedded wife who develops a terrible illness: a water lily in her lung. The supporting cast includes Chick, an obsessive collector of Jean-Sol Partre memorabilia; Colin’s libertine manservant Nicolas, a Jeeves for the jazz-age; the philosopher Jean-Sol Partre himself, Vian’s rib-poking tribute to his friend Jean-Paul Sartre and the pianocktail: a cocktail-mixing piano whose individual notes are tuned to liqueurs that mix incredible cocktails. Michel Gondry’s film adaptation of the novel, to star Audrey Tautou, will begin production in 2012.

Colin finished dressing. Getting out of his bath, he had wrapped himself in an ample towel of fine fabric from which only his legs and torso were exposed. He took the vaporizer from the glass shelf and sprayed the perfumed liquid oil in his light-colored hair. His amber comb divided the silky mass into long orange strands identical to the furrows that a happy laborer traces with a fork in apricot jam. Colin put down his comb and, arming himself with a nail clipper, beveled the corners of his shaded eyelids to give mystery to his gaze. He had to repeat this often because they grew back quickly. He turned on the little light of the magnifying mirror and approached it to verify the state of his epidermis. Several blackheads were sticking out around the sides of his nose. Seeing themselves so ugly in the magnifying mirror, they quickly went back under the skin and, satisfied, Colin turned off the lamp. He took off the towel that girded his loins and passed one of the corners between his toes to absorb the last traces of moisture."
Excerpted from Foam of the Daze.



Autumn in Peking

Published by TamTam Books
By Boris Vian. Introduction by Marc Lapprand. Translated Paul Knobloch.

Autumn in Peking takes place in an imaginary desert called Exopotamie, where a train station and a railway line are under construction. Homes are destroyed to lay the lines, which turn out to lead nowhere. In part a satire on the reconstruction of postwar Paris, Vian’s novel also conjures a darker version of Alice in Wonderland.

"As he swept the remains into a sewage ditch, the city sanitation worker noticed the peculiar green color of the lungs of the little dog that had been crushed by Agathe Marion who, as usual, was driving recklessly. Soon after, the sewer began vomiting things up and traffic had to be rerouted for several days."
—Excerpted from Autumn in Peking



The Dead All Have The Same Skin

Published by TamTam Books
By Boris Vian. Introduction by Marc Lapprand. Translated by Paul Knobloch.

Vian’s second noir novel under the Vernon Sullivan pseudonym is a brutal tale of racism in postwar New York City, as protagonist Daniel Parker is blackmailed by a long lost brother. Also included is the short story “Dogs, Desire and Death,” and Vian’s account of the controversies surrounding his previous novel I Spit on your Graves.

"We didn't have many customers this evening, and the band was playing a bit sluggishly, as is always the case eon nights like these. It was all the same to me. The fewer people the better. Having to toss out half a dozen guys a night, in a more or less orderly fashion to boot, well, in the long run it can end up being a real drag. In the beginning I liked it."
—Excerpted from The Dead All Have The Same Skin.


To Hell with the Ugly

Et on Tuera Tous Les Affreux

Published by TamTam Books
By Boris Vian. Translated and Introduction by Paul Knobloch. Drawings by Jessica Minckley.

First published in French in 1948, To Hell with the Ugly saw Boris Vian's noir-novelist pseudonym Vernon Sullivan take on Vian's own burlesque pop sensibilities. An erotic crime novel with science fiction tendencies, Sullivan's third outing is described by its translator as "a pornographic Hardy Boys novel set on the Island of Dr. Moreau to a be-bop soundtrack." To Hell with the Uglyrecounts the tale of Rock Bailey, a dashing 19-year-old lad determined to hold onto his virginity amidst the postwar jazz-club nightlife of Los Angeles-a resolution challenged by the machinations of the demented Doctor Markus Schutz, who has decided to breed beautiful human beings and found a colony in which ugliness is a genetic crime. Vian's brutal depictions of American race relations in his previous Sullivan novels here give way to a frenetic fantasy of eugenics and uniformity-a parodic anticipation of the cosmetic surgery that was to rule Hollywood over the coming decades, as well as a comic-book reflection on Nazi Germany's visions of a master race. With the novel's breathless domino tumble of fist fights, car chases, kidnappings, and murders, Vian here set out to out-Hollywood Hollywood, serving up a narrative cocktail of Raymond Chandler, H.G.Wells, Brave New World and Barbarella.

"Taking a smack on the head is nothing. Even being drugged twice during the course of the same evening is something a guy can live with. But stepping outside for a bit of fresh air and then all of a sudden coming to in your birthday suit in a room with a naked woman, well I'd say that's when things started to get weird. As for what happened next…"
—Excerpted from To Hell with the Ugly.


Gainsbourg: The Biography

Published by TamTam Books
By Gilles Verlant. Translated by Paul Knobloch.

When Serge Gainsbourg died in 1991, France went into mourning: François Mitterand himself proclaimed him “our Baudelaire, our Apollinaire.” Gainsbourg redefined French pop, from his beginnings as cynical chansonnier and mambo-influenced jazz artist to the ironic “yé-yé” beat and lush orchestration of his 1960s work to his launching of French reggae in the 1970s to the electric funk and disco of his last albums. But mourned as much as his music was Gainsbourg the man: the self-proclaimed ugly lover of such beauties as Brigitte Bardot and Jane Birkin, the iconic provocateur whose heavy-breathing “Je t’aime moi non plus” was banned from airwaves throughout Europe and whose reggae version of the “Marseillais” earned him death threats from the right, and the dirty-old-boy wordsmith who could slip double-entendres about oral sex into the lyrics of a teenybopper ditty and make a crude sexual proposition to Whitney Houston on live television.
Gilles Verlant’s biography of Gainsbourg is the best and most authoritative in any language. Drawing from numerous interviews and their own friendship, Verlant provides a fascinating look at the inner workings of 1950s–1990s French pop culture and the conflicted and driven songwriter, actor, director and author that emerged from it: the young boy wearing a yellow star during the German Occupation; the young art student trying to woo Tolstoy’s granddaughter; the musical collaborator of Petula Clark, Juliette Greco and Sly and Robbie; the seasoned composer of the Lolita of pop albums, Histoire de Melody Nelson; the cultural icon who transformed scandal and song into a new form of delirium.

"Now it's impossible to understand what will follow – namely the mad passion that will unite Bardot and Gainsbourg for no more than a few weeks but which will have serious repercussions for the both of them – without taking into consideration the reckless Don Juanism of this woman, who at the age of 33 is at the height of her beauty. Our anonymous contributor continues: 'She dealt with her conquests like a praying mantis: Serge, like me and like all the others, was zombified by Bardot. That woman had a supreme talent for grinding men into rubble. Serge was a totally atypical lover for her. He had the authenticity of a real artist, he hated money, and he led his life with a sort of heedless existentialist ethic. He was the exact opposite of the clean-cut types she had been with. I am convinced that Serge fascinated her much more than her other lovers. He brought her into a world of intelligence and talent, which no one had ever exposed her to before. Little did it matter that he had a face like a gargoyle from Nôtre-Dame. What's more, he brought a whole new world to her, served up on a silver platter, which is just what she needed at the time. Thanks to Serge she was hip again.'"

-Excerpted from Gainsbourg: The Biography


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stainedglassgardens: Candy Chang in Urbanized





















stainedglassgardens:

Candy Chang in Urbanized

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strangehoneymoon: Jerry hall and bryan ferry personally, i…



strangehoneymoon:

Jerry hall and bryan ferry

personally, i always thought Mick was a step down for Jerry after Bryan

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EXCLUSIVE: Hundreds Of Devices Hidden Inside New York City Phone…



EXCLUSIVE: Hundreds Of Devices Hidden Inside New York City Phone Booths

A company that controls thousands of New York City’s phone booth advertising displays has planted tiny radio transmitters known as “beacons” — devices that can be used to track people’s movements — in hundreds of pay phone booths in Manhattan, BuzzFeed News has learned.
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gurafiku: Japanese Exhibition Poster: Blue and White Ceramics….



gurafiku:

Japanese Exhibition Poster: Blue and White Ceramics. Nomura Design Factory. 2010

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Hypocrite Idler 3Q2014

idlerIdle pursuits of 2014 so far
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redzenradish-photography: Left Parenthesis In honor of National…



redzenradish-photography:

Left Parenthesis

In honor of National Punctuation Day

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Méret Oppenheim

oppenheimHer feats of transub­stantiation were mesmerizing.
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October 5, 2014



October 5, 2014

“Dr. No” was not only the first James Bond film, but the first film after my dad took me to see after forcing the movie theater in Larkspur to let me in to see Roger Vadim’s “And God Created Woman.” Most parents or fathers to be specific usually take their children to see Disney films or family-like narratives.  Not my father, he wanted to take me to see “Dr. No.” It was at the Chinese Theater on Hollywood Bouvelard, and the location was just magical.  I was 8-years old and knew the importance of movie stars, even at that young age.  I knew that they were important because their handprints were on the pavement in front of the entrance.  At that time, I wasn’t conscious of the names, but I just knew that these people were really something.  Also I knew that some were dead at that point, and never experiencing death at that time, thought it was a tad creepy.  To leave one’s handprints after they go on to the other “world.” With that in mind, I entered the palace of dreams to see one’s nightmare.

The Oriental setting of the theater was perfect for Dr. No.  Bond was pleasurable, but Dr. No was better.  I identified with the villain because one, he expressed a world that I didn’t know, but by instinct I knew that it will be a better adventure.  Dr. No was the son of a German missionary, who abandoned him and his mother, a Chinese girl with a good family.   He eventually ended up as a member of the Tongs, but working for himself, he stole funds from the gang.  They eventually caught up with him, and to torture No, they chopped his hands off.   Over time, he had hands made of metal that was able to crush metal figurines with them.  The fact that he was a freak and outsider had a huge appeal for me.   He was evil, but totally understandable. “What is a monster?  A being whose survival is incompatible with the existing order. ”

As I grew older, and after my father passed away, I think of that film as an object that I shared with him. The trauma of the lost made me weary of having objects once owned by him, but at least in theory or idea, I have “Dr. No” to share with him.  That particular piece of art had a profound effect on me on many levels.  I became a fan of American noir films due to the theme of the outsider being forced by fellow citizens to take action in a manner that is perhaps not correct or right. Nonetheless, who can decide such decisions as one goes through life wearing blinders like a mistreated horse in Central Park.  I have a tendency to see the world in black and white.  Not because of the duality of those two non-colors, but more about the levels of gray that comes up in such an image.  I spend life in the gray area, not in the world of absolute fact.



I recently started to collect film stock that was shot or photographed by John Alton, the Prince of photographic shadows.  Through his eyes I can see the origins of Dr. No’s world - not exactly as exotic, but in substance very toxic in its vision of purity gone wrong.  My favorite actor of that period is John Hoyt, whose face seems to be made in celluloid perfection for Mr. Alton. I can never remember the narration, because that has traditionally been the least of my interests while watching a film.  Nevertheless the face and how it is projected on the screen is what I find interesting.  Even with “Dr. No” I have no recollection of the plot.  Just the image of Dr. No reflecting on his metal hands.  That says more to me than anything in this world.


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ageofdestruction: where: Atmosphere over the Americas,…





ageofdestruction:

where: Atmosphere over the Americas, photographed by GOES-13, 5th October 2014.

Mid-Level Water Vapor”, imaged in 6.5 µm mid-wavelength infrared light. 15 images, 1 every half hour, 0215-1615 UTC (10:15pm on the 4th to 12:15pm on the 5th EDT).

For scale, the second gif adds the location of some notable cities within the frame.

GOES-13 is a geostationary weather satellite operated by the U.S. National Oceanic & Atmospheric Administration.

Image credit: NOAA/NASA. Animation: AgeOfDestruction.

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oldloves: Robert De Niro & Toukie Smith, 1989



oldloves:

Robert De Niro & Toukie Smith, 1989

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The Unconquerable (14)

macinnesBattle without Glory
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Bill Dixon

dixon thumbHe played long, luminous tones on his trumpet.
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“Doutor Story” by Tosh Berman

Doutor Story
by
Tosh Berman



The meeting was scheduled for 5PM at the Doutor coffee shop near the Muashi Koyama station.  I showed up on time, but not a trace of her - so I ordered a peanut butter cookie and hot blended coffee.  Found a table for two, and took a place to have my coffee - very slowly mind you.



Since I was sitting by the entrance I played a game by myself where I counted all the umbrellas that passed by that door.  It was strangely meditative and once I counted to a hundred I felt a sense of relief.  If everything else fails at the very least, I counted 100 umbrellas.  It’s raining now and it has been for the past 15 hours or so - so the umbrellas were no surprise whatsoever.

The thought that bothers me the most is my meeting with Mary-Jane.   I can’t imagine why she wanted to consult with me, in such terrible weather.  Yet, as a gentleman, I agreed to do so. Mary-Jane is what one would call a “fuck-buddy.” But this meeting doesn’t seem to be the usual case.  So I was a total nervous as I sipped on my new chilled coffee.



She shows up and she looks fantastic.  Now I’m happy that this will be a “fuck-buddy meeting - but alas, her eyes are not saying anything like that.  It is showing hesitation.  Which in my experience is always a bad sign.  She sat down and grabbed my hand and put it in between her legs.   She then removed my hand and said “no more. ”

I didn’t say anything.  She didn’t say anything.  After three minutes of silence between us, I told her: “When I say start, you must count all the people who are carrying an umbrella coming into this coffee shop.  When I say stop, let me get your number and then I’ll give you my number.”

She consented to do this.  I counted up to 3 and said go!” Our eyes glance toward the entrance and after 15 minutes I said to “stop.” She counted 12 and I counted 16.

We stared at each other and I told her that our numbers are different and therefore we cannot possibly be capable either for friendship or being “fuck-buddies.” She understood.  She smiles at me.  She got up and left the table.  She had an umbrella with her.   She raised her umbrella as she stood at the entrance of the coffee shop and yelled “one!” And then she walked out.




Tosh Berman
October 5, 2014
Meguro, Tokyo at Doutor coffee shop.
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“The Death Instinct” Out Now at your favorite Independent Book Store


The Death Instinct

Published by TamTam Books
By Jacques Mesrine. Introduction by Robert Greene. Translation by Robert Greene, Catherine Texier.

France's Public Enemy Number One from the late 1960s to the end of the 1970s--when he was killed by police in a sensational traffic shootout--Jacques Mesrine (1936–1979) is the best-known criminal in French history. Mesrine was notorious both for his violent exploits and for the media attention he attracted, and he remains very much a public media figure in France and Europe. In 2008 there were two feature-length films based on his life, one of them starring Vincent Cassel in the lead role. Mesrine wrote The Death Instinctwhile serving time in the high-security prison La Santé; the manuscript was smuggled out of the prison and was later published by Guy Debord's publisher Gérard Lebovici (who briefly adopted Mesrine's daughter, Sabrina, before being assassinated, a few years after Mesrine). The Death Instinct deals with the early years of Mesrine's criminal life, including a horrifically graphic description of a murder he committed early on in his career and a highly detailed account of the workings of the French criminal underworld--making this book perhaps one of the most intriguing and detailed anthropological studies of a criminal culture ever written.


PUBLISHER
TAMTAM BOOKS

BOOK FORMAT
PAPERBACK, 6 X 9 IN. / 325 PGS.
PUBLISHING STATUS
PUB DATE 11/30/2014
ACTIVE
DISTRIBUTION
D.A.P. EXCLUSIVE
CATALOG: FALL 2014 P. 77    
PRODUCT DETAILS
ISBN 9780966234688 TRADE
LIST PRICE: $16.95 CDN $16.95
AVAILABILITY
IN STOCK

The world now has jacques mesrine's "the death instinct" in stock.  buy it at your local bookstore.  and if they don't have it, they can order it for you.  
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The originals

Richard Price's history of the NYC Housing Authority:
In most housing projects these days, a hard-times hidden economy thrives, what Mark Jacobson and others call the gray market, consisting of improvised and in some cases ingenious ways of making ends meet—apartments doubling as daycare centers, some licensed, some not; takeaway lunches sold out the door or lowered from the window; a legion of bootleg car mechanics whose garage is the street; come-to-your-house handymen, plumbers, carpenters, computer programmers, and repairmen; just-text-me drivers for hire; CD and DVD duplicators leaving for the commercial strips of Fordham Road, Harlem, and elsewhere; wholesale candy hustlers, kids mostly, heading out to Grand Central Station, Penn Station, and tourist-centric Times Square, introducing themselves as grassroots fundraisers in order to sell ten-cent chocolate bars for two dollars a pop, a 2,000 percent markup.
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Dead right!

Several weeks old now, but I meant to link to it much sooner as it is excellent: Diana Athill on why it's silly to be afraid of being dead.
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Reading like Nabokov

Janine Barchas on Nabokov's annotations of Mansfield Park.
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Rage, grief

Colm Tóibín on the literature of grief (I am eager to read his new novel):
A few years later, in her introduction to her translation of Sophocles' Elektra, one of the great plays about grief, Carson's tone seemed less certain as she wrote about the scene in which Orestes returns and hands his sister an urn with ashes which he says are of her dead brother Orestes. Orestes listens to Elektra mourn at some length before he announces that he was just fooling and that he has, in fact, been alive all the time and is now in front of her. Carson quotes the actor Fiona Shaw saying that she found the "deception/recognition scene between Elektra and Orestes 'unspeakably impossible to play'."

"Critics and scholars (and translators)," Carson goes on, "agree, this scene is a hard nut to crack. Why does Orestes decide to trick his sister into thinking he is dead? Why does he give it up in the middle? What does Sophocles want to achieve here? The alternation of lies and truth, high emotions and low, is bewildering and cruel, the tug of war over an empty urn almost bizarre." So, too, Philip Vellacott, who translated Euripides's version of the play, wonders about this scene and identifies the point "where Orestes should reveal himself … He does not reveal himself. Why?"

Surely the solution is simple. Surely Orestes' trickery is the very currency of grief. Orestes, having lost his father, is unable to come clean. The issues of life and death have entered his spirit and poisoned him so that his approach to re-meeting his sister will be all gnarled. He cannot deal simply with emotion. As Carson writes about Euripides's version of him: "All in all, Orestes is a peculiar customer – not exactly insane but strange and unknowable. His consciousness is entirely his own." Thus his response will be filled with doublespeak and trickery about the very things – the difference between being dead and being alive – that he cannot manage to come to terms with. Becoming "bewildering and cruel", as Carson puts it, and "bizarre", are what has happened to his personality under pressure. While his sister has been doing all the shouting, Orestes has let the pain seep silently into the very core of his being so that nothing he does will ever be easy to explain. While people are busy avoiding his sister because of what she says, they have been perhaps even busier avoiding Orestes because of his silence.
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nitratediva: Sassy reporter Glenda Farrell has seen enough…



nitratediva:

Sassy reporter Glenda Farrell has seen enough horrors in The Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933).

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ufansius: Dead Man’s Hand (Portrait of Wild Bill Hickok) – Van…



ufansius:

Dead Man’s Hand (Portrait of Wild Bill Hickok) - Van Hanos

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Closing tabs

It can't really be a week since I last posted here, can it?

Hmmm, yes, it can: because I foreswore any voluntary/frivolous forms of writing until I had cleared the desk of letters of recommendation (big round of due dates on Monday and Wednesday) and most of all this now-overdue tenure letter that was supposed to be finished by mid-September. Have just had a very nice quiet Saturday evening at home working on it, and have emailed the PDF to the relevant department chair with a sense of TRIUMPH!

Will now segue to the couch for a glass of wine and the rest of the Wollstonecraft I'm teaching Monday: have finished all the reading for Tuesday's lecture already (had to do SOME work yesterday but was too tired to deal with this letter, even though it was more important), which means that my tomorrow is now clear for (a) a longish run and (b) a lovely day of reading and note-taking for the other (more enjoyable) thing on which I'm currently delinquent, the short paper on Swift and commentary that I am due to deliver in Dublin on October 18! We were supposed to send them to the respondent a long time ago, but this is one of those things that is difficult to feel as a hard deadline in such a flurry of other more concrete and consequential ones (sorry, Frank - if you are reading this, I promise I will get it to you at least a few days before the conference, and hopefully a full week in advance!).

Closing tabs:

Book historian Erik Kwakkel on some of the world's oldest doodles (utterly enchanting).

A must-read piece by my friend Marco Roth on the language of secrecy, a contribution to Alysia Abbott's new collaborative project recording the memories of the adult children of parents who died of AIDS.

Heard a great talk Thursday on Soay sheep - it put me in a good mood! (I went to another very good one on Tuesday, my friend and colleague Joey Slaughter talking about the literature of counter-insurgency. I find great academic talks absolutely exhilarating, while boring or bad ones make me want to stick a fork in my eye: I have never found the knack of tranquilly zoning out, I am more squirming in my seat in distress!)

Some good links at this Paris Review post, including a really fantastic poem called "Treacle" by Paul Farley that I urge you to go and read in its entirety. (Should be paired with the sugar section in The Rings of Saturn!)

Among other features of a very busy week, a fun meeting with rare-book curator Karla about what we will show students in the forthcoming library sessions: lots of great stuff there that I am too lazy to link to, but I cannot resist sharing my enthusiasm about this!

Finally, Lindsay Gibson makes me curious to read Joseph O'Neill's new novel.

Light reading around the edges: Seanan McGuire's latest October Daye book, The Winter Long (this kind of urban fantasy is not for everyone, but she is a writer of immense gifts!); Arnaldur Indridason, Strange Shores (a weak contribution by a strong writer, full of ridiculous things - I kept on saying to myself as I was reading discoveries just don't happen like this!, but on the other hand it passed an evening when I was too tired to do anything more productive!); and Sarah Waters' latest novel, The Paying Guests, which I absolutely loved.

Wollstonecraft calls: I need to get offline!
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October 4, 2014



October 4, 2014

“I long ago came to the conclusion that all life is 6 to 5 against.” I have to tell ya, I’m at the end of my rope, and it fits my neck perfectly.  But that’s OK because I’m keeping my eye on the ball, and I’m not going to lose that ball.  So far, I have put out two books: “Sparks-Tastic” and “The Plum in Mr. Blum’s Pudding.” One work is a non-fiction account of yours truly following a band (Sparks) I love in London, and the other book is a collection of poetry written in Japan.   At this point and time, and looking at my bank balance, I really need to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.

 I haven’t worked at a paying job since 2012.  At this time I have lived on my wit and charm, but that can only go so far in today’s world.  I somehow managed to purchase (well borrowed to be honest) money to pay an one-way ticket to Tokyo, hopefully to find not really an adventure, but some sort of moolah.  My only talent is to be able to write.  I’m really bad at showing up at work, or even working with co-workers.  Usually I’m despised by my fellow citizens of the time-clock, and I mostly made some dough on the side, by running an on-going crap game in the employee room at a certain retail store, even to this day, I can’t mention.



I’m sort of the guy who came from nowhere - and I wasn’t going anywhere, but somehow I got I kicked off somewhere.  At times, I feel like the dice is loaded, but not towards my favor.  So dear people, my readers, and Facebook friends - I just need to ask you a favor.

I really do need to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, and I can’t wait till next year, because there may not be a next year for me.  It needs to be this year.  Now, as I see it, my main competitor is the Japanese writer Haruki Murakami. I actually came to Tokyo to plead with him to not to accept the award if he is the chosen one.   I ask, because basically I need the attention, and even more important the cash prize that goes with this award.  As I last heard, the award amount is now $1,100,000.00.   Now, if I get the award (and the money) this will enable me to do nothing but write.  I know you people out there are enjoying my daily postings on my blog and Facebook, and I just have to remind you that I’m not being paid for this work.  I did have an agreement with Facebook C.E.O. Mark Zuckerberg to get a certain amount of payment if people out there pushed “like” on my page.  Sadly I didn’t get enough “likes” for his taste.  That is what I get for working for a guy who was born in 1984 ... if you get my drift.



So now, I must call upon you.  All of you.  I want you to write a letter or e-mail to the Swedish Academy in Sweden and comment that “Tosh Berman should win this year’s Nobel Prize in Literature.” That is all you have to mention.  I did send copies of my book to the Academy so they know who I am. I know that some members of the Swedish Academy even “liked” my page.  Also, if you can, please do “like” this post, because that too could bring attention to the Swedish Academy.  Also it has been noted that the Academy has at times awarded writers who lean to the left.  Well, I’m here to let you know that I’m a hardcore leftie.   I don’t believe in any political party in the United States.  Pro two state solution for Israel and Palestine (hardcore pro-Palestine by the way), and for every left wing movements that took place in Central, South, and North America.   So I should fit in their category of a writer who does ‘good’ in their writing.

Here is their address:  

The Swedish Academy
P.O. Box 2118
SE-103 13 Stockholm

Their e-mail address is sekretariat@svenskaakademien.se

Do write to them, and tell them that you demand that Tosh Berman should win the Nobel Prize for Literature.   Come on people.  You have read my books, you have enjoyed my daily writings here, so please do something and help support a fellow writer.  A fellow artist.  A fellow human being.

Also if you can “like” (if you’re reading this on Facebook) this post, it may help me as well.

Thank you (in advance),

Tosh Berman
Writer

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nitratediva: Joseph Frank ‘Buster’ Keaton (October 4, 1895 –…



nitratediva:

Joseph Frank ‘Buster’ Keaton

(October 4, 1895 – February 1, 1966)

"He was a lovely person and a supreme artist—and I think one of most beautiful people who was ever photographed." —Orson Welles

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icancauseaconstellation: Saul Steinberg, fingerprint birds,…



icancauseaconstellation:

Saul Steinberg, fingerprint birds, 1951

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icancauseaconstellation: Deee-Lite – “Groove Is In The Heart”…



icancauseaconstellation:

Deee-Lite - “Groove Is In The Heart”
Elektra, 1990

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oldloves: Tracy Chapman and Alice Walker were in a relationship…





oldloves:

Tracy Chapman and Alice Walker were in a relationship when they both lived in Brooklyn in the mid 1990s.

Walker discussed the relationship with an interviewer in The Guardian in 2006:

""Why was it kept so quiet at the time? "It was quiet to you maybe but that’s because you didn’t live in our area," she answers with a throaty laugh. She has written about the relationship in her journals, which she plans to publish one day.

So why did they decide against using their relationship to make a big social impact like other celebrity lesbian couples, such as Ellen DeGeneres and Anne Heche, have in the past? The idea seems to amuse her. “I would never do that. My life is not to be somebody else’s impact - you know what I mean? And it was delicious and lovely and wonderful and I totally enjoyed it and I was completely in love with her but it was not anybody’s business but ours.”“

!

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Code-X (32)

vuitton conneryBritish Cosmo­politanism
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October 3, 2014



October 3, 2014

Throughout my life, I have been fond of the Charlie Chan film series and the Flash Gordon serials as well.  One of the things that I picked up from my father’s generation is the love of the adventurer who faces the deadly Orient.  That far-off culture that is wise and smart (Charlie Chan) and ruthlessly evil as well (Ming the Merciless and Fu Manchu).   As a child one is approached by the things he sees on the massive (cinema) and small (TV) screen.  It is not just one angle, but the fact that my entire culture is based on a fantasy of some sort.  When I was a child, evilness came from the Orient.  I used to play on the streets of San Francisco Chinatown, thinking of myself as Flash Gordon battling the aliens that were invading Earth - which was basically, from my perspective, a very white planet at the time.


What is fascinating is that the actor Charles Middleton (Ming) and Warner Oland (Charlie Chan) were white. Yet both played a character from the Orient.  At the time, even in my childhood, I knew that these actors were non-asian, but it never bothered or broke the fantasy for me.  I was living in a world that was totally one-dimensional.  Even though my parents knew and were friends of people who were otherwise not white, I still felt like I was in a white world, and that was the only world that existed.  I never even question it.



The only TV show I watched as a child was the Mickey Mouse Fan Club.  I was fascinated with the show because I felt that the kids on the show were like me.  White. I wouldn’t have been upset if an Asian or black child would be on the show, but the fact that the issue never came up is an interesting way to examine that world.  Children from all over the world probably belong to the Mickey Mouse Club, but what does that mean?  But even that, the kids on the show were exotic to me.  It was white, but it was a weird “white” to me.  I clearly didn’t belong to that culture.  My “culture” was to adopt characters that I was fond of and pretend to be that person, as I marched up and down Grand Avenue Chinatown lost in my fantasy of chasing dragons and monsters - mostly who were produced in the mysterious Orient.  Yet, there was something sinister about the Mickey Mouse Club, but I could never put my finger on it.   For one, the theme song written by Jimmie Dodd, who can be seen as the auteur of the Mickey Club clan.   Probably the first song that I have ever sung to myself: and I would also sing along with Jimmie at the end of the show as well.  The lyrics are:

Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me?
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E
Hey there, Hi there, Ho there! You're as welcome as can be!
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E
Mickey Mouse! (Donald Duck!)
Mickey Mouse! (Donald Duck!)
Forever let us hold our banners high,
High, high, high!
Come along and sing a song and join the jamboree!
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E
Mickey Mouse Club!
Mickey Mouse Club!
We'll have fun
We'll meet new faces
We'll do things and we'll go places
All around the world we're marching...

Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me?
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E
Hey there, Hi there, Ho there! You're as welcome as can be!
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E
Mickey Mouse! (Donald Duck!)
Mickey Mouse! (Donald Duck!)
Forever let us hold our banners high
High, high, high!
Come along and sing the song and join the jamboree!
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E
Yeah Mickey!
Yeah Mickey!
Yeah Mickey Mouse Club!

Spoken:
Now Mouseketeers
There's one thing we want you
Always to remember

Come along and sing our song
and join our family

M-I-C
K-E-Y
M-O-U-S-E

Through the years we'll all
Be friends
Wherever we may be
M-I-C
K-E-Y
M-O-U-S-E

Mickey Mouse
Mickey Mouse
Forever let us hold our
Banner high

Now it's time to say goodbye
To all our company

M-I-C
Spoken:
See you real soon
K-E-Y
Spoken:
Why? Because we like you!
M-O-U-S-E




Jimmie was in charge of the club, and he was a role model for the kids on and off the screen.  Not only was he like that on the show, but also the cast was invited to his house for backyard barbecues and sing-alongs.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but my love for the Orient actually made me aware of another world than the one that was projected into our house.  There are many levels of illusion, and this is only one.  As a child I founded something quite creepy about Jimmie Dodd and his Mouse theme song.  I didn’t know why, but over a short period of time, I realized that Ming the Merciless actually meant more to me than the Mickey Mouse Club.  It didn’t damage me, but I realize that there was a whole world out there, and I became interested in knowing where Charlie Chan and Ming came from.  Totally fictional characters, I do know that, but I was curious in how they came to be in my culture.   Over time, I realized that I wasn’t the focus of the world’s attention.  That I was just pretending to be Flash Gordon, which in fact, I much preferred Ming.  It is amazing to think that the “American” culture can bring such great geniuses like Eddie Cochran, yet one would define themselves into a world that was made up of “white culture.” Not saying that it’s bad, but actually kind of evil when you think of it.  And with that in mind I realized that I am part of an immoral culture that doesn’t even know why it is doing what it does.  To this day, we tend to see the other world as truly “other, ” when in fact we’re projecting that image to suit our purposes either by our stupidity or naiveness.   As Eddie would say “,that’s really something.”


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kiameku: Marline van der Eijk



kiameku:

Marline van der Eijk

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STEPIN FETCHIT, and wife DOROTHY STEVENSON (1929)Fox, Fetchit…



STEPIN FETCHIT, and wife DOROTHY STEVENSON (1929)Fox, Fetchit became a Fox contract player in 1929 after several years of film making. This portrait with his first wife was distributed at the time for publicity. It is stamped on the back “Screen Secrets, July 31, 1929,” and was for that magazine. Thrice married, he is likely the most controversial of character actors in film history. Born Lincoln Theodore Monroe Andrew Perry in 1902, he was a talented physical comedian who achieved star status as a supporting character player, and who also was a millionaire in the 1930’s.It is even more unusual and rare to find any kind of 20’s portrait of Fetchit.

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Boston Book Festival

boston-book-festival-201307171611-2_57HiLobrow's cofounders to speak at BBF on Oct. 25.
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Radium Age: Context (8)

Cyrils-Auto-Sled-1The Grand Duke Cyril's ice sled, 1911
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