Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Day of the Ice Heave (or: the Earth Strikes Back)




This is raw footage, shot in portrait rather than landscape (which I thought went out of style 5 or 10 years ago), but I include it in its entirety because it is way more dramatic than anything that was shown on the news.

This is an ice heave, a bizarre weather phenomenon in which an ice sheet on a lake is bulldozed by winds with such force that it becomes alive. It moves with frightening speed, making a deafening sound like a shattering chandelier, with an even more bizarre "sh-sh-sh-sh-sh" sound that reminds me of the locust-like cameras flashing in The Right Stuff. This is a glacier forming not in thousands of years but in a couple of hours, and comparably moving at light speed.





This video goes on pretty long and includes some confused, shrill commentary, but I still like it better than the snippets shown on the news. It's more immediate and captures the confused reactions of people who do not know what the hell is going on (including the woman who keeps yelling at her kid, "Keep away from that!"). The tinkly fingers of the edge of the eerily accelerated glacier sneak forward like spider's legs, and the ice sheet moves with so much relentless force that it shatters windows and pushes in walls.






Nature is striking back. There is no doubt about it now. We've become completely accustomed to stories about wildfire, flood, insane amounts of snow and parching drought: what is happening to the weather now? We all walk around with question marks hanging over our stupid heads, when we bloody well know the answer.

What we've done, all that we've done through industrial pollution, millions upon millions of cars, and other forms of casual rape, is to destroy the world's millenia-long balance of climate permanently. Whatever we do now is too little, too late. We have barely begun to awaken to a nightmare which can't and won't go away: we can't fix it now and still refuse to take responsibility for it. 






This will only escalate, and soon: the ice caps are melting at an alarming rate, species are going extinct, and green space is being ruthlessly ripped out to build soulless condos not suitable for a robot to inhabit, let alone human beings. Nowhere is that better illustrated than around here, where the horror of narrow, ugly attached "homes" assaults the eyes. With unusual candour, these have been named "saltbox" homes, but to me they look more like crackerboxes made of particle-board, cement and wire. These "homes" have no yard, front or back, and only the odd sickly sapling bolstered on both sides with sticks. I can only imagine how a family would ricochet off those narrow, cramped walls. A bed would take up the entire room.

What does it mean? Can you guess?

We've run out of space.





How have we come to live like this?  Rip out the green space, pile all our discards into the landfill and forget about it, and I won't even get into the massive, ever-growing, floating horror called the Great Pacific Ocean Garbage Patch (and I have news: they've found another one in the Atlantic) made of discarded computers and other throw-away plastic debris. We look at these things, think "too bad", then quickly push the delete button in our minds and carry on. 

My husband is a scientist, and he refuses to see that any of this is related to climate change or global warming. He just says "everything goes in cycles", meaning that very soon, perhaps next year, everything will return to calm, pastoral beauty with gentle rains and benevolent sun.





Don't count on it. It's not going to happen any time soon. Or ever.





Sunday, May 12, 2013

Taco Time: fun with the Shatmeister




They don't call him Kinky Jim for nothing.




"That. . . last. . . taco. . . too. . . much. . . hot. . .sauce. . ."




"Calgon! Take me away!"




"My wife doesn't understand me."





"Yes, but Sulu's busy tonight."


Chased down with horse and hounds



“Happiness leaves such slender records; it is the dark days that are so voluminously documented.” 


Oh MY my. This was a quote by Truman Capote that rattled around in my head for years and years. But I only remembered the gist of it, something about not remembering when we've been happy. Like all Capote quotes, it was elegant, graceful and went straight to the point. I never thought I'd find it again, and even doing a google search was pretty unfruitful (to coin a phrase) for the first couple of hours or so. Then, under the tag "happiness". . . 

Oh yes.




Back in his youth, he was a sort of male literary Marilyn Monroe, probably showing his hairy leg to journalists if it would get him laid. He was like that.




But Jesus-bloody-Murphy and hell's bells, wasn't he beautiful?






What can I say? These exotic poses pre-dated the Advocate Personal Ads by quite a few decades. But I guess that pouty lounging look got him noticed. His infuriating ability to stun with a phrase did the rest.








Whoever you are, holding me now in hand




Whoever you are, holding me now in hand,

Without one thing, all will be useless,

I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further,

I am not what you supposed, but far different.
Who is he that would become my follower? 

ho would sign himself a candidate for my affections?










The way is suspicious - the result uncertain, perhaps destructive; 
You would have to give up all else - I alone would expect to be your
God, sole and exclusive,
Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,
The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives
around you, would have to be abandon'd; 






Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further - Let
go your hand from my shoulders,
Put me down, and depart on your way.

Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial,
Or back of a rock, in the open air,








(For in any roof'd room of a house I emerge not - nor in company,

And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) 

But just possibly with you on a high hill - first watching lest any
person, for miles around, approach unawares,
Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or
some quiet island,









Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you,
With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband's kiss, 
For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade.

Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing,
Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip,
Carry me when you go forth over land or sea; 
For thus, merely touching you, is enough - is best,
And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep and be carried
eternally.







But these leaves conning, you con at peril,
For these leaves, and me, you will not understand,
They will elude you at first, and still more afterward - I will
certainly elude you,






Even while you should think you had unquestionably caught me,
behold! 
Already you see I have escaped from you.


For it is not for what I have put into it that I have written this
book,
Nor is it by reading it you will acquire it,





Nor do those know me best who admire me, and vauntingly praise me,
Nor will the candidates for my love, (unless at most a very few,) 
prove victorious,









Nor will my poems do good only - they will do just as much evil,

perhaps more; 

For all is useless without that which you may guess at many times and
not hit - that which I hinted at; 
Therefore release me, and depart on your way.



'Scuse me while I kiss this guy (or commit suicide)

Truman Capote: Quotable Quote!





“There were hints of sunrise on the rim of the sky, yet it was still dark, and the traces of morning color were like goldfish swimming in ink.”



Thursday, May 9, 2013

Jon Hamm, the Kent-Smoking Man





I think we may have walked this way before. But it's time to walk it again. This is the Kent Man, with the gleaming skyscrapers of Madison Avenue towering above him. Though the ad copy refers to "scientists and educators", my first thought was, "Like fuck!  He's an ad man."

The ad is circa sometime in the early '60s, when medical experts were beginning to grumble about the negative health effects of smoking. Imagine the panicked discussions in boardrooms across the nation! "How are we going to put a positive spin on this so people think it's GOOD for them to smoke?" One astonishing television ad from the era had a bellicose man with a cigarette in his mouth proclaiming, "I want a treat, not a treatment."

Unfortunately, his "treat" all too often DID lead to a "treatment", usually received too late.






The ad guy puffing away on his Kent ("For the best combina-tion of fil-ter and good taste/Kent satisfies best!" went the cheery little jingle) looks so startlingly like Don Draper of Mad Men, it's downright eerie. I wondered if I could get Don's head into the Kent ad, and was almost successful.






Of course it's never perfect. Head shape and angle, skin color, all that stuff, will never match up exactly.
Besides, in the ad the guy is looking up, squinting actually, in a cool Madison Avenue sort of way.







Kind of like this? Looks a bit like Rod Serling on a bad day. One eye looks more or less OK (these are the Kent Man's eyes, by the way) but the other one, well. . . It would have been best to have that eye in shadow, but I don't have those kind of skills.






Here Don stares into nothingness in his typical God-how-misunderstood-I-am-because-I-was-poorly-mothered-if-in-fact-I-was-ever-mothered-at-all expression. I guess he stares at the sidewalk when he lights up.





DEFINITELY not mothered. At all. Ever.

Plus it looks like he's going to throw up.






This is my personal favorite. His hands have suddenly turned into brown oven mitts, but never mind.
At least he looks happy.







Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Cutest video ever, ever, EVER!!!





Instant replay. . .








Oh rapture!: New Images of Milky the Clown



It's not every day I find a  new image (new to ME, I mean - these were likely taken 50 years ago) of the source of my childhood nightmares, Milky the Clown. Milky was the surreal symbol of Twin Pines Dairy, sponsor of Milky's Party Time and other lactitious Detroit children's programs.

This one I haven't seen before. Like a nun's habit, Milky's costume covers everything but his face, which is thickly plastered with white greasepaint like something from a movie made in 1917. And his hat. . . his hat isn't like any other clown's hat, unless you look back about 100 years.

Milky wasn't a clown of his times. This was why he was so scary. He seemed like the nightmare reverse negative of an old Betty Boop cartoon, jumping not out of an inkwell but a vat of Twin Pines milk.








Was this magic, or a form of sorcery? Was his baggy monochromatic white costume and dead-white face a deliberate attempt to mimic the ancient itinerant carnival clowns depicted by Leoncavallo in Pagliacci?




Well, maybe. Except for the pompoms.


And this one is no less than Enrico Caruso, the most famous tenor of all time. Wearing Milky's costume, or a close approximation of it.




What's the magic word? . . . Twin Pines! ("But that's two words," I used to protest, provoking offended stares.)






And never mind that Pagliaccio, upon whom Milky based his classic white pointy-hatted costume, murdered both his wife and his romantic rival, leaving a pile of bodies on the stage. The little tykes won't know anything about that, will they?




We hope not.



 


Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book
    It took me years to write, will you take a look