Taking a cue from some friends of mine, I decided to make some Valentines this year. They got a little held up, on account of being snowed in and me not having any stamps.
But, they were mailed before the big day, so I hope everyone gets a kick out of them!
This was the card that I sent to the Gargoyle, my Alma Mater. I love you guys; each and every one.
Last night had the singular pleasure of almost getting killed with my friend Keith. We were walking around downtown DC, killing time before a late movie, and looking for a bar or a restaurant that wasn't packed or at least not packed with jerks. The weather has been bad in DC lately, making some of the roads treacherously narrow with mounded snow. At one particular intersection (F and 10 NW), the bright white hand indicated that we could begin to cross and we did so.
At the same time, a large red SUV clearly marked as an EMS vehicle began to make a left turn directly into us. When it was perhaps 20 feet away we both stopped and stared at its progression. We were clearly visible, Keith clad in an iridescent white jacket, and directly in front of the driver's field of vision. "Is this actually happening?" I asked.
It's hard to say how close it was before the drive finally noticed us and adjusted his trajectory, but it felt very, very close. I noticed the particular pattern the street lamps made on the red fender of the vehicle; shining little flecks in the paint that made it shimmer like the individual stars in a galaxy, while still having a smooth finish. "What the hell?" I asked out loud.
It was at that point that I saw the driver's face, mouth open in utter terror, as the SUV swerved away from us. Obviously, I can never know what went through the driver's mind when he finally saw us, but his face communicated a very clear message to me: "I am about to kill two people in an idiotic and avoidable traffic accident that is clearly my fault, and the irony of doing so in an EMS vehicle is very apparent to me."
I mention all of this because it is funny but also because Keith and I were headed to see Harold and Maude before we were nearly killed. For those unaware, Harold and Maude is a '70s cult classic film that focuses on three things: the music of Cat Stevens, cars, and death. The titular Harold is a 19-year old with something of a death obsession, who rebels against his mother and his phenomenally privileged life-style by driving hearses, attending the funerals of strangers, and frequently faking suicidal deaths. It's at a funeral that he meets Maude, a free-spirited and rebellious woman on the cusp of octogenarian-hood.
The film is, in a word, delicious. The humor oozes out of every scene, with actors playing brilliantly off each other. The story itself is lovingly constructed so that every moment has meaning, and tells us a little more about the characters. Its satire is crippling, quietly eviscerating just about every beloved modern American institution: the church, the Army, the family, psychiatry. By tearing these down, the film challenges the way we look at life and death. Why drive a fancy car? Why not pose for ice-sculptors? Why not casually steal cars, and be disarmingly honest and kind? Why don't we all steal more trees? Why don't we live our lives on our own terms, and not fear an inevitable death?
Don't be fooled by the philosophy, though. The movie cherishes its characters, even the most reviled. Everyone is charming, vulnerable, and even likable in their own way.
The essence of the film, as I understand it, is conveniently stated by Maude. She holds up a daisy, one of many where she and Harold are sitting, and says, "The trouble with people is that they are one of these," indicating the flower, "but we let ourselves get treated like one of those." The camera zooms out as they stand, showing an endless field of white gravestones that cascade down hills and spread across ravines. We are flowers, but we let ourselves be treated like corpses.
I'd like to conclude by talking about a specific part of the film that I found to be especially interesting. However, it occurs at the end of the movie and I don't want to ruin anyone's personal enjoyment of it. I've already done that once this week. So: SPOILER ALERT. Nothing specific, but I am just covering my bases.
What truly touched me about the movie was the actual character growth. Most films will present someone with a major character defect, and then at some point that character will break and become something new and better. We've come to accept this about-face as character growth, but it's really not. It's a complete change, not growth. You may as well substitute a completely different character in for the first, because the two have little connection. Growth happens slowly, almost imperceptibly. It is a natural progression, that you can feel the shape of without knowing what will happen next.
Over the course of the film, Harold truly grows. He learns to like people, and then he learns to love people. The penultimate moment of the film is the cusp of a transformation. Sad Harold is about to give himself over to a life of love, and probably become Happy Harold: a one-dimensional being of pure joy that we all can look at admiringly, but know we will never attain. However, the story won't let that happen. In the end, Harold learns not just to like and love but to live: and he does this by letting go.
This movie savors the painful and beautiful parts of existence, and reminds us that life is strange and wonderful. Life is living, and living is motion through sorrow and joy. But it's all worthwhile, as long as we don't live like we're dead.
As you may have heard, the DC-area has had a bit of a rough time with the snow. Personally, I have been snowed in for seven days now. But with a little more time on my hands then I am used to, I am able to get some excellent reading done.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, on a subject very visceral to me at the moment:
The Snow-Storm
Announced by the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number of proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
leaves when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.
I did a pretty terrible job of getting XMas presents out this year. Between timing, finances, and general madness things just didn't get done. The only package I managed to get mailed out (so far; two more pending) was to PAL KRIS. There really are more coming, I promise!
Anyway, because Kris sent me a totally awesome drawing of Mrs. Frisby and the Great Owl I got to thinking that I should do something special and hand made. Not being much of an artist I opted to write a story on the package.
It was a great full-circle moment. My dear Gran Betty was notorious through the entire US Postal system for her maddening labels and liberal use of foul smelling, aged packing tape that I could smell from the yard. Parcels weren't so much packed as "encased." Post cards would arrive with text that covered every side of the back, and frequently the front. Occasionally the text would be written in fun shapes.
Her mode of addressing a letter or parcel was peerless: "To Sally, her son Max, and their friend Saul (who can also read)." She meant well, I know, but it is hard not to look back on this and laugh.
And it was that background that lead me to do this.
What follows is my auspicious on-the-fly story. Do enjoy the thrilling tale of "Mr. Snow and She-Goat."
So it goes like this: Mr. Snow woke up on the last day of fall and walked to the door of his cabin in the woods. All the leaves had turned rusty and fallen on the forest floor, and only the great green pine trees were left in the woods. Mr. Snow smiled because he knew that soon his work would start, and he would being making snow for the whole world.At the thought of this he breathed a deep breath and let it out long and slow. Oh, what joyous work! But as he let out his long, slow breath, he saw it misting in the air in front of his face! "So cold already!" He said. "I must get to work!" So he went back into his cabin and folded away the bed on which he had slept for all of spring, summer, and fall. First, he made himself a big breakfast, because without that there was no way he'd have enough energy to make all the snow.
Then, he put on his big coat, and went outside to inspect his tools. They hung on the side of his cabin, under some pine boughs to keep the rain off them. Mr. Snow pulled back the first bough, and found his steel ice-tongs; heavy, and large enough to carry an ice block the size of a man! He picked them up and tested them three times. The joint went "squeak! Squeak! Squeak!" and the jaws went "snap! Snap! Snap!" "Good," said Mr. Snow. "These are ready to be used."
Next he pulled up another bough and found his sled; big enough to carry a whole town, and all the chickens in Amsterdam on it. Its runners were as big as two men, and were made from pure silver. Mr. Snow laid the sled on the wet ground and slid it back and forth three times. It went "sloop! Sloop! Sloop!"
"Good," said Mr. Snow. "This is ready to be used."Next Mr. Snow picked up another bough and found his ice knife. It was as long as a river, and had teeth like the mountains on the horizon. It would cut right through solid ice like it wasn't even there, but could not prick a finger or cut so much as a blade of grass. Mr. Snow picked it up and waved it through the air three times to test it. It went "swoop! Swoop! Swoop!"
"Good," said Mr. Snow. This is ready to be used. Last, he reached for the final bough but did not find anything underneath it! "How strange," said Mr. Snow. "I have my ice tongs, my silver sled, and my great ice knife, but where is my snow grinder!?"
Without his magic silver snow grinder Mr. Snow could not make any snow for winter! "Oh dear," said Mr. Snow. He got very worried. He looked all around the cabin for the snow grinder but did not see it anywhere. "Ah-HA!" Said Mr. Snow. "What's this?" in the mud where the snow grinder should be were fresh tracks. They headed away from Mr. Snow's cabin, and into the woods. Pilling his hood, Mr. Snow followed the racks, hoping that they would lead him to his snow grinder -- and soon! Because the first snow of winter was coming.
The tracks went on through the woods, under a log, and through a cold little river. Mr. Snow's big boots went "shlup! Shlup!" all the way, because it was so muddy. The tracks went on past the river, through the the meadow, and up the mountain to a cave. There, at the mouth of the cave stood She Goat, and her hooves were covered with mud.
"She Goat," said Mr. Snow. "I have walked all the way from my cabin over rivers, and mud to see you."
"Thank you, Mr. Snow." said She Goat. "It's every nice to see you."
Mr. Snow asked, "She Goat, did you take my snow grinder from my cabin?"
"I will tell you, Mr. Snow. But you must swear by all four seasons that when I tell you, you will listen and grant me a request."
"I will not," said Mr. Snow. "I have been robbed and greatly wronged, so I will not grant you a request, but I will listen and will not harm you if you swear by your horns to tell the truth."
"I swear by my horns, Mr. Snow," said She Goat. "I took your snow grinder because every year you first cover North Town with the most and deepest snow every year. It is beautiful and good, but because you do it so early, all of my children are trapped on the wrong side of the stone bridge that goes over the river. The shepherds cannot stay there, and my children spend all winter cold and hungry on the wrong side of the bridge," said She Goat.
Mr. Snow stroked his beard and said, "She Goat, I am sorry. You were right do do as you did. I will make you a promise. From now on, no snow will fall on North Town, the first place it snows on Earth, until the last of your children cross the stone bridge that goes over the river."
She Goat bowed and thanked Mr. Snow. Then, she went in to her mountain cave and brought out Mr. Snow's snow grinder. He tested it three times and it made the sound of snow flakes falling on ice in the dark. "Good," said Mr. Snow. "This is ready to be used."
The End!
Absofacto - Paper Crane from Absofacto on Vimeo.
I've known Jon a while, mostly though his interaction with the elusive #mattthompson and his role in Mason Proper. His music and that of Mason Proper has always impressed me by its forward looking nature. It is the kind of music that knows how to be progressive without losing sight of the music.
Jon and the rest of the Mason Proper guys are an inspiration for a work-a-day like me, who has aspirations of artistic...well, anything.
Also: Jon has a bunch of music on his site available for the very reasonable price of whatever you want to give him. KEEN!
There is something about a martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth
I think that perhaps it's the gin.
By Ogden Nash, sent to me by Aunt Ba.
The Remnants of Joona is a short film, apparently performed with a live electronic accompaniment ala the old silent flicks with the organ playing along. The film is comprised of several line drawings on muted, colored backgrounds with very basic animation to spice up the scene.
The video follows a team of interplanetary scientist as they explore the planet Joona, and discover the strange species that live there. It has a very hard-sf feel with the technical-style drawings and the focus on flora and fauna, but the art also has a kind of whimsical surreal quality to it.
I find the overall effect very pleasing. It actually reminds me a lot of the weird indie sf comics from the late 1980s, which I've always been mysteriously drawn to.
Playlist is here, individual episodes embedded below. I highly recommend watching the playlist on a large sized player, since you have to do a fair amount of reading.
Depending on how long you've known me and how long you've been following this blog, you're either about to start rolling your eyes or staring in disbelief as I peel back the layers and reveal a whole other kind of nerdy.
Sometimes, I get bored on Google Maps. I'll roll around the old test ranges in the American southwest, or look for neat boats around major port cities. One of my proudest moments was zeroing in on the HMB-1, the submersible drydock used to steal a russian sub and later house the Sea Shadow.
Another favorite was stumbling across this amazing man-made island in Baltimore Harbor called Fort Carroll, originally designed by Robert E. Lee.
Having a girlfriend and a job have kept me away from this kind of thing for sometime, but last night I was at it again. This time I was trawling for aircraft, and the best way to do that is to find the boneyards.
Boneyards are were older aircraft are stored indefinitely, and usually broken down for spare parts or recycling. Probably the largest is the 309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group (AMARG) near Tucson, Arizona, located on Davis-Monthan Air Force Base.
Views of this site are amazing, and it's hard to not wax poetic when outrageously deadly and exorbitantly priced weapons sit rotting in the sun en masse. You really ought to take a look at it.
There are thousands of aircraft in this facility, and after some browsing I came across these handsome fellows:
The distinctive wedge shape stirred something in the my mind, and after sleeping on it, I remembered what they are. These appear to be the Lockheed D-21 drones developed from the design and technology of the SR-71. Strange little things with a bizarre and troubled history, certainly worth reading the wikipedia article. My favorite part:
When Ben Rich, Kelly Johnson's successor at the Skunk Works, visited Russia in the 1990s after the fall of the USSR, a contact gave him a package that contained parts of the D-21 that had disappeared on the first operational flight. It had crashed in Siberia. The Soviets had apparently been puzzled as to what it was, but it appears that they also obtained the wreckage of the D-21 lost on the fourth operational flight. The Tupolev design bureau reverse-engineered the wreck and came up with plans for a Soviet copy, named the "Voron (Raven)", but it was never built.
I took a closer look around google maps and found a total of 7 such aircraft at the Tuscon boneyard. Wikipedia says that 17 were mothballed at the site, so 10 have already been broken down or moved to permanent display elsewhere.
Now, I'm happy to admit that I have no background in aircraft design or identification, and could be completely wrong. But hey, even if I am, maybe you learned something today.
The New Yorker made a bad layout decision, and this is how I read their review of The Princess and the Frog:
Disney's first classically animated African-American heroine (voiced by Anika Noni Rose) gets short shrift in this new twist on an old tale, in which a young girl in Louisiana bayou country kisses a frog that was once a prince, and turns into a frog herself. The nineteen-twenties jazz-age setting in the film, we watch Viggo Mortensen, as the Man, and Kodi Smit-McPhee , as the boy, walk though a dichromatic gray-brown post-apocalyptic landscape, peopled only by a few survivors (some of them cannibals feasting on human captives). The grimly punitive monotony of hte leafless, colorless, humorless production may fool some people into thinking it's art. With the golden Chralize Theron, as the Man's wife (seen in flashback to better days), and Robert Duvall, as a bitter old coot waiting to die. Shot in a wrecked industrial landscape near Pittsburgh.
As I was reading this, I was thinking, "wow, this movie is not at all what I expected." Apparently my reading of the review got jumbled with a neighboring review for The Road, an adaptation of a Cormac McCarthy novel.
I'm almost disappointed that this was a mistake. It sounded kind of cool! Maybe I'll start intentionally mashing up NYer reviews.
