Some tentative good news. If they were trying to make hantavirus the new COVID, it doesn't look to be working. It is a nasty disease to those who get it, but it's not a credible pandemic. And I think for much of the population there's a feeling of "fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me." Maybe I'm wrong, but I hope not.
There's some irony in me writing this post while sick. It's just some kind of cold, though. I'm hoping to send it packing within a couple of days.
Is this the ideal place to be? Not necessarily in a physical sense. The recording was made in Leipzig, and not everyone can travel to Germany. But there's a nice balance here. Church bells and some kind of motor. Birds chirping. Human voices, and with them, a dog. This is where nature meets culture. Maybe this time they can be friends.
The aloha shirt, also known as the Hawaiian shirt. Where, I wondered, did it come from?
There's an answer. Apparently a certain mania for Hawaiian things had already hit the mainland by World War I, decades before Hawaii became a state. Ukuleles were a popular instrument through to the end of the 1920s, at least. And the shirt became a craze over the next decade, during the Great Depression.
Fads are fads, though, and usually burn themselves out pretty quickly. The ubiquitous 20s image of college men wearing raccoon coats to the football game had become a period piece by the start of the 40s. But I have a few aloha shirts, or at least light button-down short sleeved shirts with printed designs that evoke the tropics. So do a number of people with a considerably more credible claim to being cool. So how did this particular fad last? Well, there's the comfort factor, but the truth is you just never know.
Did you know that Edward Lear wrote a sequel to The Owl and the Pussy-cat in which the cat dies? By falling out of a tree, of all things? The Victorians, man. Or something that happened in his life.
This animated rendition of the original is kinda nice. I like the crumpled paper figures of the main characters.
These worlds were soon joined by others – there was Earth-3, an evil mirror universe where all "our" superheroes had supervillainous counterparts and Lex Luthor was the only superhero, Earth X (originally intended as Earth [swastika] before a last-minute change) where the Nazis had won and the superheroes were fighting in an ongoing resistance... and when DC bought up other companies, like Charlton Comics or the characters from Fawcett Comics' Captain Marvel line, their stories were claimed to have occurred on other earths in the multiverse too.
This also allowed DC to do stories that they could never do with the main versions of the characters – Superman could get married, or Batman die, and it would be the "real" Superman or Batman, in fact the original ones who had been in the very first stories about those characters, but it would still not disrupt the status of the characters in their own comics.
And this state of affairs lasted for about twenty years, until DC made the mistake so many entertainment companies make. They started listening to the complaints of fans.
While there are a few not-unexpected wokeisms, this blog post presents a good overview of Crisis on Infinite Earths, the twelve issue "maxiseries" from 1985-86 that DC used to wrap up their multiverse and start what they hoped would be a cohesive new single universe. That includes an explanation of why there was a multiverse in the first place, which is an interesting chain of events in itself.
In a way, Crisis marked a fall from grace, the beginning of the end despite it's being a good comic story in itself. This has little to do with the presence or absence of multiple universes. As Hickey notes, DC would eventually bring back the idea of the Multiverse. Marvel would, in time, openly start doing multiverse stories as well. It's a durable concept.
No, the problem is that it taught both major comics companies that permacrisis was the way to go. If you could draw in new readers―or at least maximize the readership you already have―by doing an extended crossover that Will Change Everything, then there's no reason to not be doing that all the time. Or at least that seems to be the thinking of editors and publishers. The result is that eventually, pretty much no one is allowed to tell any other kind of story. Which can get pretty wearing after a while.
Interesting. A pendant from about 15,000 years ago, identified by great British geologist as being made from a wolf or badger tooth, has been reidentified as belonging to a seal. The seal obviously came to a hard fate. But there's still some nice craftsmanship apparent.
The Magdalenian, still part of the Paleolithic Era, had an apparent burst of creativity, leading to some beautiful artifacts that are still in existence. Of course the British Isles would have felt very different at the time from what they are now. The population, however dense or sparse it might be, spoke no language we'd even vaguely recognize. It would be fascinating to see firsthand what daily life was like for these people.
Today, disappearing seems virtually impossible. This, I think, is what accounts for our renewed fascination with it. We are burdened with our search histories and purchase histories and data stats that constitute our profile, to then be lumped and farmed out and sold to the highest bidder. Disappearing means disconnecting―unimaginable yet totally captivating. Precisely because it has become less feasible, that deep urge to be anonymous, or even to be someone else, exists ever more powerfully within us. The desire to disappear doesn't go away just because times change and technology strangles us. That we cannot fulfill the urge as easily is perhaps the greatest tragedy.
That's from Playing Dead: A Journey Through the World of Death Fraud by Elizabeth Greenwood. The act it studies certainly isn't for everyone. While most of us have parts of our life we might like to walk away from, faking your death means walking away from all of it, which is a less appealing proposition for most. A loved one who knows that you're still out there might be squeezed for information on where you are. Still, some have attempted it, and it seems likely that some have succeeded.
There's a broader fascination with people who break or at least tweak the rules. How could there not be? Every day brings more evidence that we're not the ones making the rules. Did you choose the law that all new cars have to have surveillance equipment and kill switches? Probably not, but if you buy a new car, it will certainly affect you.
Of course as more of these new cars are built, the old kind that only you could drive look better all the time. One skill that could become valuable in the next few years is the ability to shut off or better yet spoof these detectors so that they don't know what you you're doing at all hours of day and night.
At this point it feels unsporting to bring up anything related to xoJane, an online women's mag that Time Inc. shut down a decade ago after buying it at a fire sale price. But the Tempest Challenge recently floated back into my brain, so I need to vent.
Speculative fiction writer K. Tempest Bradford issued a challenge to her readers, and I quote, “I Challenge You to Stop Reading White, Straight, Cis Male Authors for One Year”. Does cutting all meat out of your diet make you more pliable to stuff like this?
Another writer online soon defended the idea in the following terms:
It’s only a year
It doesn’t have to start and end on any particular date.
In the grand scheme of publishing, it’s extremely unlikely that a large enough group of people will be avoiding white straight cis male authors to ruin anyone’s career. If I don’t read a book by John Scalzi (or some relatively unknown white straight cis male) within a particular span, nothing says I can’t read it once the year is up. There are unlikely to be a ton of people doing it the exact same time as I, so White Guy will still sell pretty close to the same number of books within a given year as he would have otherwise.
These things are true as far as they go, but miss a couple of important points. For one thing, if you follow through with this kind of thing, it tends to overwrite the things you'd ordinarily look for in a book―writing you enjoy, a topic you're interested in―with matters like the race of the author, or whether they agree with their original birth certificate on what gender they are. This is, I assume, the whole point.
And you have to wonder if this actually helped any "diverse" writer. The "challenge to avoid books by whitey" has a quality of "eat your veggies." Would you really want to be the veggies everyone is supposed to eat? The truth is that voluntary return readers only become return readers out of love. It can't be forced.
Anyway, I just started reading Erasure, a 2001 novel by Percival Everett. Everett is a seeming rarity in that he's a substantial literary writer of the 21st century, but he's also enjoyable to read. He doesn't need any more justification than that.
When animator Don Bluth worked for Disney in the 1970s, he was struck by the fact that much about the studio’s 30s/40s hot streak had already been forgotten. It wasn’t just the spirit of those old movies that was missing, even basic techniques were falling through the sands of time.
The Nine Old Men were going gray. Walt himself had been dead for half a decade. Nobody was preserving the hard-won knowledge and craft of the studio’s RKO years. He would ask questions like “how did you do the rippling water in Snow White and the Seven Dwarves?” and be astonished that nobody could tell him. In some cases, even the technique’s inventors had forgotten!
Ever since the failure of Sleeping Beauty, Disney had been fighting a war against budget overruns. Animators were urged to cut costs, to reuse footage, to do more with less. The result was that old knowledge and techniques atrophied because there wasn’t the money to apply them. What doesn’t get used gets forgotten: and soon you’re doing less with less. Bluth had arrived in a dying place: its animators the caretakers of an ancient language they could no longer read. Almost like Plasmo himself, trying to reach the sky with old scraps of the past.
Disney is, of course, huger than huge. As a business, that is. They've certainly got a great number of revenue streams. At the same time, their cultural impact has been hollowed out. The movies and TV shows they release and that get any kind of attention are from acquired properties (Pixar, Marvel, Star Wars, etc.) Did you know that they still make a "canon" animated feature every year? Maybe, maybe not, but if you're anything like me you'd be hard pressed to name a recent one. Did you know that they've spent the last decade or so making diminishing returns live action remakes of their classics from yesteryear? Yeah, that gets attention, but not necessarily the kind you want.
Apparently the downfall was a long time coming. When Bluth worked there, replacing all cel animation with CGI wasn't a plausible option. That doesn't mean that no one was thinking along those lines already. They finally made that move in the 21st century, after an anomalous traditional animation renaissance that lasted through much of the 80s and 90s.
The larger point is true, of course. Collectively, it's easier to forget old methods of creation than it is to bring them back. Or to come up with new ones, for that matter. Something to keep in mind with the current push to stop doing pretty much everything.
The post where I got the above, by the way, is the first time I've ever heard of Plasmo. Apparently it's just an Aussie thing. His cartoons sound charming, though.
There should be a pane of thick, darkened glass between idol and audience. To be accessible was to lose. The man who sits in a cafe all day, mumbling as he reads the papers: he’s accessible. A taxi driver is accessible. A star shouldn’t even be seen eating.
That's a quote by Chris O'Leary, in a post about David Bowie, a subject on which O'Leary has done a lot of very good writing. Specifically about Bowie's internet ventures of the late 1990s. But it has me thinking beyond that field.
A while ago I started seeing people―mainly girls and young women―talking about "feeling seen." As in, "Thank you, that really makes me feel seen." But is this always a good thing, and is it a rare thing? We live in a world of both extensive surveillance and voluntary (more-or-less) self-exposure on social media. Everyone's seen. Everyone's seen a lot.
There's something to be said for stars going the Greta Garbo route: making movies or records or whatever and retreating to a private realm the rest of the time, while your image floats through the world on posters and covers. For the rest of us, it's probably better to blend into the physical world, not trying to sell yourself. It's definitely better for children and teens.
And it's probably not happening anytime soon. Still, worth trying.
There's something weird that I've noticed lately. Recently I was inside the Providence Public Library on 150 Empire St. for the first time since a renovation/reconstruction they did a few years ago. It's a big library for the city, and it's still pretty well stocked. But the rather extensive reference section I remember isn't where I remember it being. As far as I can tell, it's not anywhere else either.
Much the same thing happened in the Rochambeau branch where I usually go. Their entire reference section is now the Oxford English Dictionary.
Some of this is understandable. Britannica and other encyclopedia concerns no longer produce multivolume hardcover editions. But there used to be all sorts of books that didn't circulate, but that were on display to the general public, who could freely look at them. Not having that anymore feels like something vital has been discontinued.
It can be a creepy experience being in a modern tall building. By "tall" I mean five stories or more. Because the kind of modernism I mean, and one that's still pretty dominant in architecture, opposes all outer ornament. That includes ledges. If for any reason you go outside the window, there's nothing for you but a straight drop and "splat!"
Of course these windows aren't supposed to open. Everyone is supposed to be inside, protected by all that stone, steel, and glass. Well, one hopes, anyway.
What happened to Syd Barrett? The short answer is drugs and madness, I guess. LSD has been used to treat certain ailments, but is less than great in treating schizophrenia. In later life he laid low and stayed out of trouble, but seemed to have sealed off the part of his brain that had started Pink Floyd.
Possibly necessary for self preservation, but sad nonetheless. He had been inspired. His gift carried him unsteadily through two solo albums, and as late as 1974 he created some interesting guitar demos, albeit not developed into anything. And of course there were early Floyd songs like "The Scarecrow", both eerie and touching.
I don't know Victor Brauner's art that well, in general. From one telling of his life story, I know that he got in the middle of a fight between two other artists and lost an eye, which is an awful thing to happen to anyone, much less an artist. But depth perception or no, he kept painting throughout his life, which you have to respect.
The sculpture above, Wolf Table, is a well-known piece by him. It's also very good. It captures a twoness that can happen in dreams. Also, note that one of the table legs is bent and has a paw. What phase of the moon is it, anway?
