Artilleries

Oscars 2012: Live Action Shorts

2012-02-22T21:47:00.000-06:00

Most years (all years really), my selections in the Short Film categories for my Academy Awards ballot have been selected purely on a basis of how interesting their titles sound or their country of origin. Fortunately, this year, I was lucky enough to come across a showing of the live action shorts nominated for the award. Thus my choices are not based upon national favoritism nor titular appeal this year, but on actual cinematic quality. And needless to say, there is quite a bit of it, especially in spans of time shorter than how long it takes me to dress myself in the morning.

Pentecost (Ireland, Peter McDonald & Eimear O'Kane)

Pentecost features an extract from the life of a young Irish Liverpool FC fanatic. Said fanatic, better known as eleven-year-old Damian Lynch (Scott Graham), also happens to be an altar boy at the local church. Unfortunately, this results in quite a conflict of interest. After Damian accidently (but, let’s be real, not really) causes Father O’Toole to tumble from the altar one woeful day at mass, he is placed under a three-month probationary period during which he is separated from his beloved footie. Most tragically, Liverpool happens to be playing the European Cup Final during this time. Damian’s father offers his son a choice- to redeem his sins by performing faultlessly during Pentecost Mass and be able to watch the match, or to cause another scandal and never set eyes on football again.

During its 11-minute span, Pentecost condenses a storyline in such a way that wouldn’t function in any other amount of time. The footie/religion parallels in the film are impeccable, especially when a priest is giving his altar boys, Damian among them, a speech which more closely resembles a locker room pep talk than any type of religious motivation. The pacing and shooting style of the film makes it incredibly entertaining, and the final scene cuts the buildup in a way which makes Pentecost my near favorite of the bunch. In truth, Pentecost shows that, to Damian especially, individual passion is the real religion.

Raju (Germany, Max Zahle & Stefan Gieren)

An Indo-German fusion, Raju tells the story of a German couple, the Fischers, that travels to the growing Indian metropolis of Kolkata to bring home an Indian orphan, Raju. The two quickly fall in love with their new child, but are just as quick to lose him, literally. When Raju disappears in a street marketplace, his adopted father’s desperate quest to find him reveals that the Fischer’s temporary loss is part of a far larger problem.

Raju carries a fairly generic theme in that it revolves around a central premise of love, family ties, and morality. Painfully bittersweet, it brings into question the value of a promising future versus a familiar past. Perhaps the most poignant detail of Raju is the hazy, seemingly unrelated scene which accompanies the titles of the film. Only after the end credits roll did I have an audible “ah-hah” moment and put together its meaning, which summarizes Raju perfectly. Overall, however, the film does teach one clear thing- do your research before bringing home a foreign orphan.

The Shore (Northern Ireland, Terry George)

Carrying the most name recognition (I could actually whisper-yell “I know about that dude” during the titles of this film), The Shore centers on an Northern Irish expat who returns to his homeland nearly three decades after having left, an evidently American daughter by his side. Aforementioned dude Ciarán Hinds plays Joe, who finds a terrifying degree of discomfort in ever discussing his mysterious childhood friends, Paddy and Mary. However, due to the persistence of his daughter, Joe attempts to seek reconciliation, revealing the origins of the group’s falling-out in the process.

The Shore isn’t anything unconventionally exceptional when it comes to short film, but it does carry the weight of a feature length film in the confines of its 30-minute span. Most of the film projects a rather perplexing yet somber tone, broken by one quite lengthy and equally hilarious instance of comic relief involving a horse chasing down a group of workers, and eventually the resolution, which turns the film from “what is happening here and why is it depressing” to “feel-good.” Overall- nothing exquisite, but not at all bad. I have a nagging feeling the Academy will take this bait.

Time Freak (USA, Andrew Bowler)

A snappy science fiction comedy, Time Freak ‘s plot revolves around a young quantum physicist’s discovery of a working time machine. However, Stillman (Michael Nathanson), the physicist, decides to use his invention for things other than visits to the 1800’s. In fact, he develops an obsessive need to fix imperfections of a much shorter timespan- that very day. Hilarity ensues, and Stillman’s misadventures are further complicated by the intervention of his friend.

Some stranger’s openly projected commentary of “good ol’ American cinema” from somewhere in the back of the theatre fits this film pretty well. No Nicolas Cage or explosions, but Time Freak is straightforward, upbeat, fast-paced, and not at all ethereal or confusingly profound. It is constantly funny, and its witty ending wraps it up well. It’s clearly the only American short film, and a welcome one.

Tuba Atlantic (Norway, Hallvar Witzø)

In Tuba Atlantic, Edvard Hægstad plays Oskar, a lonely old country man who carries a seething aversion of seagulls, and is also dying in six days. He is visited by the lively Inger (Ingrid Viken), who is part of a religious “Death Angel” club which assists the dying in their final days. Initially Oskar, who is attempting to squeeze every bit of value from his final days, is quite apprehensive about his designated Death Angel. However, following some bonding involving the mowing down of seagulls with a machine gun, Oskar welcomes Inger’s help in sounding off a transatlantically loud tuba (literally, I shit you not- he actually built the thing) in order to contact his estranged brother in America one last time before his own imminent death.

If there were a grand checklist of characteristics Nordic films commonly have, Tuba Atlantic would have filled out every single one. Complete with a chilly and airy atmosphere, warm sweaters, quirky and highly improbable events, stray violin chords, and a grizzly old man, the film screams Norway. This combination works quite well. The film is unusual and amusing, yet equally touching, seagull genocide aside. In close competition with Pentecost, Tuba Atlantic is my top pick, but maybe that’s just my affinity for stray violin chords speaking.

All five films in this category share such overarching thematic similarities that I am forced to wonder whether these short film makers have some sort of secret occult collaboration society; all entries this year focus on fixing some type of mistake. Whether it is Damian’s atonement in Pentecost, the father’s moral dilemma in Raju, Joe’s attempt to restore ties in the Shore, Stillman’s very literal mistake fixing in Time Freak, or Oskar’s final amends in Tuba Atlantic, all represent a will to straighten out muddled pasts. And all are quite effective.

My pick: Tuba Atlantic.

My alternate: Pentecost.

What will probably win: neither of the above.

Personal Word Vomit No. 1: Procreation.

2012-01-11T01:21:00.000-06:00

Last year was a milestone year. There were two clearly documented instances of people finding it within the realm of possibility that I could have children. Actual children. Offspring which I had produced. It was highly unnerving.

Instance number one happened during a regular doctor’s visit. I had just finished grumbling about various ways in which my body was failing my standards when my doctor interjected with “You’re that girl who came in with her little child a few weeks ago, right?” He quickly ascertained from my look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” that he was mistaken. We moved on. He took my blood pressure, which was probably elevated.

Instance number two took place while I was picking out a scrawny Christmas tree at Home Depot, with my mother no less. As always, the man who wrapped the trees and who I’d imagine had the highest splinter incidence of any job chainsawed off the very bottom of the trunk so the tree could drink its water or whatever it is that trees do. As a good-hearted gesture he offered the cross-section of the trunk he’d just created as a way of measuring how old the tree we were about to mutilate was, asking if we had any “little ones” at home who would appreciate these tree age dynamics. My mother responded with “just one” clearly (or at least to me) referring to me, her only child. Tree man forced a smile and handed the tree fragment to me, adding “oh you have one.” He was also promptly met with the look of “what you have just assumed is in all realms of terribly, horribly wrong” and attempted to reclaim the tree fragment. I kept it anyway. Why is there an age limit on interest in trees?

What I suppose I’m trying to get at here is that, provided this were any time before 1900, I would probably be mashing up cornmeal for a troupe of my own youngins by now. But this was the year 2011 and I somehow found it utterly inconceivable (insert Vizzini here) that I could have possibly procreated by now. Hell, as far as I’m willing to go at this point in time is drafting Punnett squares of what my hypothetical offspring would look like mixed with good looking celebrities. No actual uterine parasites allowed in here, no way!

To be quite honest I can’t even imagine any time in the future where I would look upon having children as a legitimate possibility. I mean my current interest in offspring really does not extend beyond:

Naming them
Clothing them

I’ve had extensive experience with the children of others and I’m just really not a huge fan of jam hands and screaming and non-rational humans and I don’t care what kind of hormones I would be under the influence of because I would still most likely not find child rearing all that thrilling. And I could really care less about what lackluster genes I pass on (oh yeah fuck you Darwin!).

Chances are I’ll have a complete motherly turnaround when it’s far too late and I’m some old curmudgeon who attempts to impregnate herself with a turkey baster, but I really just can’t see myself being responsible for another living, breathing human being when I can barely make myself breakfast. I suppose I’m just another product of changing societal attitudes regarding not seeing children as some sort of grand prize in life, and I certainly won’t judge those who do choose this, but thus far, I really, really can’t fathom having a mini-me of my own.

So preemptive sorry, (non-prospective grand) parents.

Bird & Schneller's Sonic Arboretum 22-12-11

2011-12-28T02:03:00.000-06:00

If someone were to ask me to describe ideal pneumonia-inducing weather, I would probably draw upon last Thursday's in Chicago as the prime example. Luckily, I only had to endure a good half-hour while waiting in a rather disorganized and disgruntled line in front of the Chicago Museum of Contemporary Art. Even if I am to potentially die from exposure, my experience one indoors was worth every bit of lung I may or may not cough up.

What I'd been standing in line for was a long awaited Andrew Bird show. I had attended one last year at the Fourth Presbyterian Church, which was quite good, but I hadn't gotten the Bird fix I needed. This year's show, which took full advantage of the Museum, was far more of a happy combination of both art and music.

As much signature to Andrew Bird as carefree head-shaking and performing barefoot, the Sonic Arboretum, as the installation is know, focused on Bird's idiosyncratic gramophone-like horn speakers (made by Ian Schneller), and how arrangement of sound can come to affect surroundings.

The show itself was quite good. Bird announced preemptively that he was a tad sick (I'd guess on account of the weather), and apologized if he had to turn to instrumental pieces only. Somehow, with the help of copious glasses of water, he pulled through, dishing out favorites like Skin Is My, Plasticities, Tables and Chairs, Lazy Projector, It's Not Easy Being Green, and something I deeply regret not to have recorded- Effigy. The open floor provided plenty of room to move around and, of course, to creep closer and closer to the stage. The horn speakers did their work as well, occasionally bursting with sound and surrounding the audience with Bird's crooning and layered instrumentals. It was a relatively short performance, but a great one. And Bird definitely deserved a full bottle of Nyquil for being able to squeeze out an encore.

The installation was rightfully stunning even long after the show had ended. As intended, the gallery of the MCA was open to wander through as recordings of Bird playing vague instrumental tunes and harmonizing (recorded earlier by Bird in the same museum) seemed to both lead and accompany visitors through every room, while still retaining their own presence. A very particular effect was achieved. Bird himself puts it best:

"As a composer, I am interested in how one's environment and the scale of a landscape affect one's musical imagination; how seeing a storm approach, pass overhead and continue eastward can calibrate the mind to hear music beyond the 8 bar phrase. How the surrounding walls of sand stone at Zion National Park provoke their own frequencies, or the wind strumming through a field of prairie grass has its own phrasing. A steamy mossy forest in the northwest has a certain grain and texture." (Event Pamphlet)

This really did give a walk through the gallery far more dimension than one in silence, and seemed to seamlessly tie the installation in with the regular works. Schneller's speakers were a work of art on their own, serving both a stellar aesthetic and auditory purpose. If anything, the Sonic Arboretum was a sensory wonder.

(As a side-note, I strongly suggest a listen to a recording of Bird's live show at the Rio Theater earlier this year.)

Pedantic Social Commentary No. 2: “I was born in the wrong decade.”

2011-12-15T17:21:00.000-06:00

It’s another epidemic among today’s sullen, pseudo-nostalgic plebeians to pine for life in another time period.

Somehow, many seem to be under the impression that, in the late 1800’s, life was entirely comprised of listening to Debussy and wearing frilly frocks to parties in the garden, the sole historic event of the 1940’s was the dress silhouette, and the late 1960’s were all about peace and love and John Lennon. And so on. Life was just better in the olden days. Who needs technology? Your Kindle is evil. Modern day is b-o-r-i-n-g.

Take what seems to be that uncontrollable, festering obsession with the 1940’s. Pinup bathing suits, cat-eyes, and victory rolls run rampant. Resurrected images of Casablanca, Rita Hayworth, and Rosie the Riveter reach every dark, damp corner of pop culture. 40’s vintage is chic. Go polio, war, and a myriad of various -isms! Wait, okay, maybe not that last bit. But hey, life in the 40’s wasn’t about that. It was about fashion, and victory rolls… and Casablanca.

For some reason, severe social inequalities, an overwhelming abundance of potentially deadly day-to-day situations, and crippling diseases have all been selectively omitted from our visions of history. Understandably, tuberculosis holds a slightly less pleasant connotation than Tchaikovsky’s Polonaise, but we still long to hop into a time machine and crank the lever to 1879.

We pick and choose certain aspects from history which appeal to us, creating a romanticized version of the past which we see in cinemas and old photographs and Marilyn Monroe t-shirts. Why? Because for some reason, we can never be content with what we have. For some reason, the far-reaching conveniences of the internet, modern transportation, and polio vaccines pale in comparison to the falsely constructed glamor of the past.

The eerie abundance of status updates phrased something along the lines of “I was born in the wrong time period” (oh, the irony) makes me wonder: given the chance, would half of these people last a day in 1776, 1879, or even 1969 without feeling the deep dark chasm lack of internet has left in their hearts? How could they possibly tweet about Napoleon’s comeback at Waterloo, or sitting around in a bomb shelter during the Battle of Britain? More importantly, how would they feel about dying in their mid-forties?

Of course, I can’t say I wouldn’t gladly turn back the clock to 1918, 1815, 1720, or even 2000 B.C, but only on the condition that I partake as an observer, and preferably for a short amount of time. There’s nothing quite like experiencing history firsthand, but it’s another thing to live in it.

What I would guess to be my attempt at such an experience is collecting its relics. It’s no question that I’m fond of old things. Hell, I spent a week’s wage on a WWI Brodie Helmet. Antiques are how I get close to history without having to actually experience it (or seek out a time machine), while still retaining modern conveniences. I would never willingly transport myself to the Western Front (not out of lack of respect, but out of sheer self-preservation), but if I can own a fragment of it, it’ll do. It’s why I enjoy a good period drama, why I do listen to Tchaikovsky and Grieg and Satie, why I have a rather wide array of old, mismatched china gathering dust on my shelf. I enjoy these little glimpses of history, but I avoid living in the past. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade my current spot in the time-space continuum for any time period. Not even the Jazz Age. Sorry Hemingway.

Although very, very far from his chef d’oeuvre, Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris explores quite a good and relevant point- the prettily-painted versions of history we crave to live in were once someone else’s mundane reality. Chances are, people of the forties saw the 1800’s as far more glamorous than their own time, just as discontented youths several decades from now will be collecting I-Pods and yearning for the long lost days of the newspaper and of skinny jeans, seeking to experience the past just as we do.

This longing to have been born at some other point in history can be explained, but it is neither rational not practical. It’s just another episode of selective blindness, either to the problems of the past, or the conveniences of the present.

Unintentionally Procured Wehrmacht Mail

2011-12-02T20:52:00.001-06:00

One of the greater miracles of Eastern Europe is the overabundance of 20th century remnants, especially of the Second World War. Lithuania especially, due to its role as the battlefield between Germany and the Soviet Union, tends to have gathered quite a bit of interesting trinkets. Thus, it's really no wonder that the flea markets there are a WWII fanatic's paradise. From Wehrmacht helmets, to Soviet fighting knives, to propaganda-ridden postcards, a good Lithuanian flea market is guaranteed to vacate wallets.

Last summer's damage at the Klaipėda Sea Festival's flea market turned out quite interesting. A loot of an old Cuban cigar case and a pocketful of Lenin-blazoning Soviet lapel pins already captured, I came across a Russian man who had splayed out countless German and Soviet relics on the sidewalk. Using only hand gestures, we managed to communicate price information quite well and, somehow, I ended up with an old German letter.

In the rush and fog of my purchase I had been oblivious to the fact that I was buying a specimen of Wehrmacht Feldpost.

Feldpost, as it was known, was meant for simple, inexpensive, and secretive communication with Wehrmacht soldiers and was used by Germany throughout WWII. Addressed to an R. Flöser in Wilhelmsfeld and postmarked August 13th, 1942, this letter is clear correspondence with a soldier of the front. I somehow had the luck of choosing the least legible one of the bunch, so deciphering the exact addresses and details has proven to be quite a challenge. Not to mention the letter itself, which can only be described as a cryptic scrawl. I could guess that the letter is meant for a soldier in Battalion 23191, but my finds are truncated there. Therefore, most of my purchase remains a mystery, possibly to my benefit.

And the letter itself. Have a crack at it.

Useless Yet Aesthetically Pleasing: Arms & Armor

2011-11-26T15:44:00.001-06:00

Sadly I've neglected Artilleries these past few weeks, so I'll attempt to redeem my absence in the coming month.

One of my favorite things to rummage through online museum collections for has got to be metalwork, especially arms and armor. The intricacy in the design of medieval and Renaissance armor is simply fascinating.

Of course, most of the armor found in museums today is flamboyant for a reason. Glitz and glam were not very necessary on an actual battlefield, so most of the armor used in combat was not quite so elaborate as it was practical, and most did not survive to present day. Further, following the explosion (forgive the pun) of firearms use following the Hundred Years' War in the mid 15th century continuing through until the early 1600's, metal armor slowly became obsolete. It failed to protect against modern weapons, and was unreasonably cumbersome (most suits of armor weighed 30kg or more). Thus, armor became a type of formal or ceremonial dress wear and was eventually considered bygone in practical use (don't tell the Swiss Guard).

Armor of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shield of Henry II of France, ca. 1555.

Shaffron of Henry II of France when Dauphin,
Romain des Ursins, ca. 1490-1500.

Gorget, French, ca. 1600-1625.

Burgonet, Italian, Filippo Negroli, 1543.

Reinforcing Buffe with Tilting Targe,
German, 1560.

Shaffron and Crinet, Franco-Italian, Romain des Ursins,
ca. 1480-1495.

Gorget, French, ca. 1660-1610.

Burgonet, Italian, Lucio Piccinino, ca. 1575.

Swept Hilt Rapier, English, ca. 1600.

Dress Sword, English, Matthew Boulton,
ca. 1790.

And a bit of modern "dress" armor from
Dior's Fall 2006 Couture collection.

Who is this Guy anyway?

2011-11-05T19:28:00.000-05:00

Unfortunately, The Gunpowder Plot is yet another textbook case of a cultural phenomenon being misinterpreted as a social statement piece. I’d imagine a casual remark to November 5^th would be something along the lines of “Bonfires! Those cool looking masks from V for Vendetta! Rise up against the machine man!” In reality, Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot of November 5^th represent far more than a goatee and a few anarchical tendencies, so here’s the full story.

Guy Fawkes, or Guido Fawkes as he is also know, was born in 1570 to a family which regularly attended the Church of England, yet had strong Catholic history. In 1591, after selling his father’s estate, Fawkes fought for a very Catholic Spain, a country which had lost its armada to England only five years prior, in the Eighty Years War. Fawkes soon rose in ranks and became a junior officer, later travelling through Spain to recruit supporters for a Catholic rebellion in England, with little success.

In 1604, Fawkes joined a group of thirteen pro-Catholic conspirators in England seeking to rid the throne of King James, a prominent protestant. Meeting in an inn in London’s Strand, the group devised a plan to use gunpowder to blow up the House of Parliament. Urban legend dictates that the original plan was to dig a tunnel beneath the House of Lords, but this was never proven. Instead, Fawkes and his fellow conspirators leased a room in an undercroft beneath the House of Lords, filling it with 20 barrels of gunpowder. Fawkes’ task was simply to light the fuse, then escape to mainland Europe.

Fawkes with some fellow Gunpowder Plot conspirators.

However, in an attempt to protect Catholics in parliament, the group sent an anonymous letter to Catholic-friendly Lord Monteagle, warning him to keep away. Monteagle showed this letter to King James, who ordered a search of the cellars below the House of Lords, where Fawkes was discovered, holding nothing but a match and a watch.

Fawkes was detained and tortured (on the rack) extensively, eventually revealing details of the Gunpowder Plot and admitting he had wished to blow up the House of Lords. The trial of Guy Fawkes and eight other conspirators took place in early 1606. All were found guilty and condemned to be hanged, drawn and quartered, and otherwise mutilated. During the day of execution on 31^st January, 1606, Fawkes was the last to be hanged. However, Fawkes jumped from the gallows, breaking his neck and avoiding the pain of the process of his execution.

In celebration of King James’ narrowly escaped assassination, Londoners began a tradition of lighting bonfires with effigies of prominent Catholic figures or Fawkes himself. The tradition quickly evolved into Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, and continues today far outside of London.

Several notable rhymes concerning the Gunpowder Plot exist, most notably this one:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.Guy Fawkes,
Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd (or by God's mercy*)
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holla boys, Holla boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

Although only part of the Gunpowder plot, Guy Fawkes became its figurehead. Anywhere from T.S. Eliot to Harry Potter, Fawkes has left his mark. He most notably appears in David Lloyd’s 1982 graphic novel, V for Vendetta, in which the main character, V, seeks to represent the anti-establishment mentality of Fawkes, and imitates both his appearance and plot. Fawkes surged again in popularity following the 2006 release of the cinematic rendition of V for Vendetta. Both the graphic novel and subsequent film consisted of a rebellion against a dystopian society (rather than Fawkes actual mission, which was far more along the lines of religious extremism), turning Guy Fawkes into an image of fighting against tyranny and giving him what can only be described as a cult following.

The mask as it appears in V for Vendetta.

Thus, the Guy Fawkes image used in V for Vendetta became a staple of numerous protest movements and organizations, most recently OccupyWall Street and the hacking group Anonymous. In fact, it is so widely used that it is the top selling mask on the internet. Ironically, Time Warner profits from every one of these masks sold due to copyright claims stemming from V for Vendetta.

Occupy Wall Street has been quite keen on the Fawkes mask.

Let’s face it, the real, rather sadistic objectives of Guy Fawkes are largely masked (da dun tss) by the image propagated by V for Vendetta today. T.S. Eliot had it right in his Hollow Men; Fawkes may have not had overwhelmingly benevolent objectives, but he fought for a cause. This is the core, and seemingly sole message Fawkes transmits today. Through selective omission and the blurring of history and cinema, Fawkes somehow no longer represents religious extremism, but a fight against tyranny. And sitting around bonfires.

Condensed message here: Use the mask all you’d like, just make sure to remember [remember] Fawkes’ original intentions.

Halloween (somewhat): Old Prussian Cemeteries

2011-10-29T02:28:00.000-05:00

Growing up in rural ex-Prussian Lithuania had its advantages for my father, especially when, this past summer, he provided me with an all-expense-paid all-inclusive tour of the small fishing village of Rusnė and its surrounding area.

We set of on a horridly soggy and equally early morning, aboard a rather old borrowed car of a brand I’d never even known existed (Proton? Is that even a real company?). Very fortunately for us, the rural Lithuanian roads where nowhere near paved. In fact, they were more along the lines of unceasing rivers of vaguely red sludge upon which our poor vehicle groaned dolefully.

Stopping briefly to chase around a herd of very talkative newly-weaned calves and to scope out the Curonian Lagoon from a watch post, we continued on to a secluded patch of trees that, had I not been told otherwise, I would’ve mistaken for an ideal setting for a gruesome homicidal wood-creature film of sorts. There, I was informed, was the setting of an old Prussian cemetery.

Not knowing what I’d see, I zealously expected some sort of grandiose burial plot complete with granite tombstones, bouts of vigil candles, and an eerie statue or two. The works. The reality was quite, quite different. In fact, the cemetery, if you could call it that, was no more than a plot of dauntingly overgrown vegetation scattered with fragments of broken headstones and iron railing. It was beyond vandalized, it was virtually non-existent.

Fortunately, I was subject to a brief history lesson from my father. Apparently, following the Soviet occupation of Lithuania in 1944, the Russians had sought to eagerly erase every trace of Prussian culture from the nation, especially in the west, where it was most prominent (the west was already the badly battered doorstep between Nazi Germany and the USSR). This involved both the destruction of Lutheran churches, exile of German nationals, and methodical demolition of Evangelical Lutheran burial plots such as the one I was treading upon. The Russians even went so far as to unearth most of the traditionally crafted Prussian ironwork and stick it under the ground several kilometres away to rust.

Names can only be made out on one or two tombstones, and most crumble slowly into the ground in this isolated patch of greenery seemingly exempt from the surrounding agricultural work. Surely, in a few decades, what’s left will be overwhelmed.

I attempted to sift through some of the greenery in the hopes of finding more headstones, or, admittedly less likely, some tremendous historical artifact. My hunger, however, and the prodigious abundance of insect life in the area successfully chased me back into the car a short while later.

I spent the remainder of the evening chiselling mud from my shoes and about the next four weeks recuperating the blood I’d lost to mosquitoes.

It reads L. Girth 4 Jan 1812 - 21 April 1880
and L. Girth 29 Dez. 1863 - 35 Febr. 1895

And here are some gratuitous images of unrelated objects in the area.

Belated Birthdays: Oscar Wilde

2011-10-20T15:18:00.002-05:00

We’ll pretend Oscar Wilde’s birthday wasn’t four days ago because I am in need of a solid excuse to wax poetic about his existence.

If I attempted to pinpoint the moment I fell madly in love with Oscar Wilde it would be in vain. It might have been sometime around my reading of excerpts from his plays ages ago, during which I was cackling madly to myself, and also likely subject to the worried gazes of onlookers. A dry mix of Victorian humor and social commentary, shaken not stirred, is side-splitting, all right? Don’t judge. And Wilde is formidable at it, if not the very best. Peppered heavily with sneering commentary of Victorian culture, Wilde’s work, whether farce or earnestly (pun somewhat intended) pensive, does not lack relevance. From the Harry Wottons to the Cecily Cardews all, often regrettably, exist today.

And yet, Wilde isn’t just some extraordinarily glib well-worded satirist. Quite far, in fact. The dimension to his work is astounding (and what makes his writing, most notably Picture of Dorian Gray, so effective). Especially poignant are Wilde’s writings following his exile, which actually turn rather depressing. Nevertheless, whether Wilde is pictured reclining on a chaise lounge and noting caustically the flaws of his society, or scrawling away solemnly to Robbie Ross, either image is that of both a quintessentially Victorian aestheticism, and universal literary magnitude.

Simply put, there’s quite a reason as to why my Complete Works of Oscar Wilde has essentially been beatified on my bookshelf.

The complete text of Picture of Dorian Gray, plus a myriad of other texts can be found here. A wonderful archive of manuscripts and letters by Wilde (it's quite amusing to see the process of his work- just compare the draft and final versions of The Artist from Poems in Prose) is offered over here. Another online manuscript archive, with a bit of analysis included here. Enjoy.

Here are a few favorite Wilde-isms:

"When good Americans die they go to Paris." (A Woman of no Importance)

"The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read." (The Critic as Artist)

"The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast." (Lord Arthur Savile's Crime)

"The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius." (The Critic as Artist)

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." (De Profundis)

"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!"

(The Ballad of Reading Gaol)

Lippincott's original 1890 version of The Picture
of Dorian Gray

A bit of Wilde comic relief from Kate Beaton.

Handwriting of Famous Dead Folk

2011-10-12T14:47:00.001-05:00

I adore aesthetically pleasing and/or innovative signatures. I won't delve into psychoanalyzing the fact that an "i" is dotted slightly to the left, and that such a thing represents some sort of childhood trauma, or any of that hyper-analytical pseudo science. Frankly, I just think signatures are interesting, so here are a few from notable historical/literary/artistic figures.

John Hancock

John Keats

David Lloyd George

Albert Einstein

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Adolf Hitler

Joseph Stalin

Thomas Alva Edison

Queen Victoria

Andy Warhol

Kurt Vonnegut (note the asterisk)

Jean-Luc Godard (who is, thankfully, not deceased,
but I enjoy his signature)

Vincent van Gogh

F. Scott Fitzgerald

Ernest Hemingway

Napoleon Bonaparte

Music: Beirut's The Rip Tide

2011-10-05T14:48:00.001-05:00

A tad belated but necessary regardless, I must speak volumes on Beirut’s new album, so hold on and prepare for word vomit. Zach Condon of Beirut (it’s always tricky with largely one-man bands like these- are the band and the leader synonymous or not?) released The Rip Tide August 30^th of this year, to relatively good critical review, and good god was the wait worthwhile.

When Call to Arms began to play on a road trip through Eastern Europe four or five years ago, Beirut wormed itself into my heart instantly. With Hispanic, Balkan, and a myriad of other rhythms from all far corners of the earth, yet a simultaneous ability to retain painfully beautiful melodies, Beirut was nothing short of perfection.

However, the gap between The Flying Club Cup, released in 2008, and the new album was, to put plainly, a tad excessive. I went into Beirut withdrawal. I came to a point where I might as well have been thrashing frantically in a padded cell in anticipation for something new. The trouble is, The Rip Tide has nine new tracks. Nine. Hardly enough, right?

Wrong, at least somewhat. These nine tracks, whether individually or as a collective unit, are a fair reward for such a lengthy wait. Undoubtedly, as with The Flying Club Cup and Gulag Orkestar before it, The Rip Tide documents Zach Condon’s slow transition from pure, slightly musically abrasive folk, to more melodic, pop-driven tunes. Condon, however, does not completely relinquish the accordion, trumpet, and ukulele. He inserts it tactfully, mixing it with lyrics which are, as per usual, ingenious. Tracks like Payne’s Bay are strongly reminiscent of much of Gulag Orkestar, for example. Santa Fe, however, a likely homage to Condon’s hometown (I have never tried to track down another human being quite to such an extent as to when I visited that city), might as well be a modern pop ballad.

I can’t deny that I do pine for some good Balkan-inspired cacophony of countless instruments and Condon’s idiosyncratic tone, but I’m not disappointed by Beirut’s newer sound. Though it is more of a widely appreciated style, it remains uniquely Beirut’s.

I’m crossing my fingers for an EP sometime soon, since having to make it through another three years replaying my entire Beirut library is an extremely painful prospect.

Here are a few tracks from The Rip Tide worth noting:

East Harlem

Santa Fe

Port of Call

The Peacock

Numismatics, somewhat

2011-09-25T20:47:00.001-05:00

A week or so ago, I returned to the flea market where I'd discovered my Vietnam-era lapel pins and Lautrec-themed tea mugs. As promised, I'd come back for the 1940 New Zealand Penny with George VI.

Fortunately, after rummaging through the box of coins for what I had intended to find, I had also come across a few other coins. The owners were offering some sort of "two coins for one dollar" deal (not at all smart on their behalf, but very lucky on mine), so I grabbed a few extra. I had trouble finding a fourth coin that I wanted, but, ironically, it turned out to be the most valuable one, a Victorian farthing (a quarter penny, or around £0.50 today) from 1881. The others include aforementioned 1940 New Zealand Penny, a 1919 British Penny, and a 1938 French Two Francs. They're not worth a fortune, slightly less than $30 if anything, but it was quite a bargain regardless. Here they are in reverse-chronological order.

Tchaikovsky Feature

2011-09-14T16:05:00.001-05:00

Tchaikovsky is, without question (albeit a bit of competition from Liszt, Grieg, and Debussy), the pinnacle of classical music to me. I adore the entire Romantic Era (what is modernity how does it work), but Tchaikovsky is exceptional, so here are some of my preferred pieces.

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky was born on the 7th of May, 1940, in Votkinsk, in the Russian Empire. Composing music from the age of 14, Tchaikovsky went on to study at the St. Petersburg Conservatory and, at the age of 26, began to teach at the Moscow Conservatory. Come the early 1870's, Tchaikovsky was becoming internationally noted for his moving, dramatic melodies. With aid by a hefty commission by Nadezhda von Meck, Tchaikovsky continued to compose such works as Eugene Onegin, The Nutcracker, and Swan Lake, among a myriad of other pieces.

Nocturne in C-sharp minor, Op. 19, No. 4 (1873)

Piano Concerto No. 1 in B-flat minor, Op. 23, 1st Mvt. (1875)

Polonaise from Eugene Onegin, Op. 24 (1878)

Serenade for Strings in C major, Op. 48 - I. Pezzo in forma di sonatina: Andante non troppo - Allegro moderato (1880)

1812 Overture, Op. 49 (1880)

Symphony No. 5 in E minor, Op. 64 - II. Andante cantabile, con alcuna licenza (1888)

The Nutcracker, Op. 71 - Act II, Pas De Deux: Variation II: Dance Of The Sugar-Plum Fairy (1892)

Downton Abbey and why you should find time to watch it

2011-09-11T18:36:00.002-05:00

Downton Abbey comes back for a second season this time next week, and I could not be more thrilled, ergo I feel the need to pimp it out. Another side of the blogosphere recommended it to me recently, and I've fallen in love and I can't get up. It's a well executed period drama, and well worth watching.

Downton Abbey centers around the life of an aristocratic family, the Crawley's, in early 20th century England. It follows both the conundrums of the family itself, and its numerous servants and staff. This ranges anywhere from the Crawley's eldest daughter's attempts to find a husband, to a housemaid looking for a job as a secretary.

It shares many characteristics with a Jane Austen novel, only holds the advantage of being set in a more current time period. This allows for the seamless interweaving of cultural and historical plot lines, such as the Titanic, women's rights, and the Great War, which also helps the series to be centered on more than just marital problems. It doesn't involve quite as much social commentary as an Austen work would, however, it does copy the (sometimes excessive) melodrama quite well.

The plot line does not bore or drone on, as the series moves incredibly quickly. Two years are covered in the first series, and a gap of another two is inserted before the second (for all we know series five will be set in 1973). The soundtrack, composed by Little Dorrit's John Lunn, is a perfect fit. Costume design for this series is stellar, especially for someone who adores 1910's fashion (the sheer abundance of hats is enough to make me squirm). The acting is nothing short of stunning, and the faces are just, well, let's put it this way:

The painfully romantic storylines between Dan Stevens and Michelle Dockery's characters (out-of-place distant relative Matthew Crawley and eldest daughter Mary Crawley, respectively), and Joanne Froggatt and Brendan Coyle's characters (Head Housemaid Anna and Valet Mr. Bates), are a highlight, in my opinion, and somewhat reminiscent of a Jane Austen-esque story. Dame Maggie Smith's portrayal of the Countess of Grantham is another favorite; her blatantly aristocratic attitude (à la "what is a weekend?") is an endless treasure trove of hilarious sardonic remarks.

Of course, stripped of the period appeal, Dowton would most likely be treading near soap opera ground, but the hats really do save it. Overall, the series does a commendable job of taking the seemingly mundane life and culture of the beginning of the 20th century and transforming it into a cacophony of music, costume design, acting, and often heartbreaking storylines that are sure to please. Find a box of tissues if you are emotionally volatile; Julian Fellowes, the writer, is practically a sadist when it comes to creating an endless array of obstacles to prevent good things from happening. Watching this show is essentially a masochistic experience.

Season two premieres on ITV on September 18th, and on PBS in the United States on January 8th of next year, so I would suggest finding your way to the former. Happy watching.

Art: Edward Hopper

2011-09-07T17:09:00.000-05:00

Edward Hopper was born in Nyack, New York on July 22nd of 1882. Trained as an illustrater, Hopper later became a member of the Ashcan School (of famed John Sloan, Arthur B. Davies, and Maurice Prendergast), and continued to cultivate his own particular style.

Starting in the mid 20's, Hopper's style became more concrete, his paintings stern and geometric, and his subjects isolated and anonymous. A master of light and space, Hopper is celebrated as one of America's most exceptional artists.

Here are a few Hopper favorites of the public's and my own.

Arguably Hopper's most famous work, Nighthawks, 1942.

Chop Suey, 1929.

Gas, 1940.

House by the Railroad, 1925.

Summertime, 1943.

Summer Evening, 1947.

New York Office, 1962.

Morning Sun, 1952.

The Lighthouse at Two Lights, 1929.

Automat, 1927.

Threadbare Flea Markets Dot Com

2011-08-28T13:07:00.001-05:00

Honestly, I expected there to be far more junk the elderly have left behind sitting around in flea markets. Of course, I only stopped by one, but aside from expired cosmetics, kitschy porcelain kittens, sunglasses of questionable quality, and garden vegetables, I could barely find anything. I did, nevertheless, snatch up a few lackluster items.

The first is a set of two military pins. From what the internet has helped me ascertain, they're grade E-4 and US Marine Corps. Dating them, however, has proven to be difficult. The clutches read "Ballou Reg'd" and "Jandy Reg," which leads me to believe they're from the 1960's, most likely Vietnam.

Otherwise, I also managed to grab a set of English bone china Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec themed tea mugs from Royal Windsor. They're not expensive china, actually relatively cheap, but the set of four was inexpensive and Lautrec is one of my favorite artists, so I couldn't restrain myself.

They include Aristide Bruant, Jane Avril, La Goulue, and Divan Japonais.

Among other noteworthy things I did not purchase there was an overpriced WWII Good Conduct Medal and a 1940 New Zealand penny with King George VI on the obverse (the latter which I will probably come back for next time, to be honest).

Moral of the story- don't expect much from flea markets, and do your research before opening your wallet.

Costume Institute Part One: Yves Saint Laurent

2011-08-24T14:52:00.000-05:00

Public archives are the greatest thing to ever be great, especially when it comes to major museums like the The Metropolitan Museum of Art. In addition to its extensive archives of artwork, the Met also has a database called The Costume Institute, its historical fashion branch. Anything from a Mantuan dress from the late 17th century, to jackets by John Galliano, The Costume Institute archives it all by the thousands. Since digging around public archives is a pastime of mine, I figured I would share my favorites from this one, featured by designer, starting with Yves Saint Laurent.

Born in French Algeria in 1936, Yves Saint Laurent was a prominent French designer who, after working extensively for Dior, started his own company. Known for its incredibly constructed, yet feminine silhouettes and its introduction of prêt-à-porter (ready-to-wear), YSL remains one of the leading French brands to date.

Evening Ensemble
Silk
Fall/Winter '83-84

Shoes
Feathers, Leather, Synthetic
2004

Pantsuit
Wool
Spring/Summer '70

(House of Dior)
Cocktail Dress
Silk
Spring/Summer '59

"L'Eléphant Blanc" (House of Dior)
Evening Dress
Silk, Metallic thread, Glass, Plastic
Spring/Summer '58

"Refrain" (House of Dior)
Cocktail Dress
Silk
Spring/Summer '58

Dress
Wool
Fall/Winter '65-66

Evening Ensemble
Silk, Metallic thread, Beads, Sequins
Spring/Summer '80

Old Suitcases and Co.

2011-08-21T13:07:00.002-05:00

Among the myriad of my grandfather's old attaché's and books that my father showed me this summer (all of which I wanted to keep, in all honesty), I found a suitcase. Cleaning up some years ago, my father had stuffed it full of old books and left it behind a sofa. I spent an hour or so rummaging through it, flipping through books filled with plays and other literary works.

More than the books, however, I wanted the suitcase. With a quick paint job and some W2, it would be good as new.

Anything from "The Music of Foreign Nations" to
"The Secret of the Siberia Platform" to "Dictionary
of the Amateur Gardener".

"HEY, PEOPLE! Collection of one-part plays against the
imperialist war, and the bourgeois and fascist morality"
1967, not-so-subtle literary propagada.

Apparently produced in the Leather Goods Factory of
Vilnius in December of 1974. Price- four rubles and eighty
kopeks.

Count Tishkevich and some historical reenactment

2011-08-15T22:37:00.000-05:00

This summer I visited the Palanga Botanical Garden, a quiet little sanctuary of plant life, ponds, and plenty of benches that help to escape the ever-present and overwhelming uproar of Lithuania's main resort city. To my delight, I entered the garden during one of their main summer events, a historical reenactment of sorts.

Every Thursday during the summer months, the garden, which was established on the estate of famed Lithuanian count Tishkevich, let loose in the park some 10-15 reenactors dressed in early 20th century garb. They wandered about, largely ignoring the park's regular visitors, and mimicking the daily activities of the Tishkevich family. A gardener trimmed shrubs and conversed with a visiting cyclist; a maid helped prepare tea; a governess strolled by with younger children. The "Tischkevich family" itself strolled about the garden, went for rides on a rowboat, and conversed at a table, all while a violinist played along with several classical pieces (including a slightly mismatched Oginski Polonaise). It was quite an experience. Personally, I just wish the garden had included a dozen or so more reenactors to really flood the place. Either way, here are a few shots of the event.

Banana Republic and how it will be the financial death of me

2011-08-10T23:36:00.000-05:00

A few months ago I discovered that one of my favorite stores, Banana Republic, had created an exclusive Mad Men inspired collection which would debut sometime in August. I'm already used to expecting ingenious and quality creations from Banana, but I feel like the store crawled around in my head for a while, compiled all of my tastes in clothing and pop culture, and spat them out in this line. This Banana/Janie Bryant collab is the greatest thing to ever be great (and terribly expensive). Here are some of my favorites from the collection.

From what I've heard from employees of Banana who have gotten an early peek (and a %50 employee discount...), the shoes for the collection are absolutely stunning, but the clothing is not made from the same quality material that one would expect from the store. Apparently, many are awkward fabrics that are difficult to shape or iron, yet cost the same as a regular silk Banana dress.

Nevertheless, this is a brilliant campaign, and I can't wait until the leftovers seep into the sales rack so I can actually afford them.

Banana launched the collection just a few moments ago, as I was writing this, and you can find it here. To celebrate the event, the store is also having a cocktail party tomorrow (or today, if you are east of the central time zone), where customers buying merchandise with their cards will receive a complimentary cocktail. Information here.

KBH

2011-08-10T00:27:00.000-05:00

This blog has been barren for the past month because I have spent a significant amount of time trekking around Europe, stopping in Denmark and then continuing on to my Eastern European homeland, Lithuania. Finding internet access is equivalent to capturing a unicorn there, so I was entirely on my own.

My summer journey started off with a couple of days in Copenhagen after flying in from Reykjavik. I stayed at a fantastic B&B with a sometimes awkwardly humble Danish man who fed his guests fresh buns and coffee for breakfast.

Otherwise, here are a few things I managed to see.

Danes must be very fond of equestrian sculpture.
There were so many.

I'm fascinated by different nations' post boxes I can't help it.

Obligatory.

Nyhavn was easily my favorite place. I have such an affinity for ships and it was just stunning.

Overall, I'm a tad disappointed I didn't get to spend more time in the city, but it was wonderful regardless. Although a bit expensive, I must admit. The one beer 60 DKK gets you can buy you seven in Lithuania.

Ancient shares

2011-07-01T23:56:00.000-05:00

I was rummaging through my antiques today and I found stock certificates that I snatched up one day for a nickel a piece. I have two, one from 1914 for 45 shares and one from 1918 for 10. Adjusted for inflation, the first was purchased for a sum of $101,683.80 (sobbing a little bit). The second reads as "Without Nominal or Par Value."

The first company is the "Resistal Fabrics Company", and the second is "Semter Limited." The first was purchased by a William Kootz in the presence of William A. Otto, and the second was purchased by Otto himself.

I've tried to track down the firms and names on the certificates using the great and powerful internet, but to no avail. The companies were most likely bought up ages ago, or simply went out of business. Hypothetically, if I were to find the currently existing company that bought up those mentioned on my certificates, I could feasibly sell these shares. Which would be a nice, but highly unlikely situation.

Either way, here they are:

Graphics and such

2011-06-28T00:34:00.000-05:00

I went on a vector/graphic-making frenzy today and this is what I came up with after some time with the pen tool

Not a single outside resource this time, surprisingly. Even that robin was one that I managed to photograph today. I guess I'm getting better at this.

Hemingway, a manly man

2011-06-27T23:56:00.002-05:00

Ernest Hemingway, in addition to being one of my favorite authors and human beings, has plenty of incredibly intriguing photographs from all phases of his life. Here are some I consider noteworthy:

A young Hemingway and his gun in Michigan, 1903.

Hemingway, a Red Cross volunteer, in Milan in 1918.

Hemingway in his Paris apartment, 1924. Even I can't wear a beret
that well to be honest.

Hemingway fighting a bull (quite literally, that's him at
the bull's head) in Spain, 1925.

Hemingway on safari in Africa, 1934.

Hemingway, a friend, and a fairly large marlin in Key West,
1935.

Hemingway with his 12-gauge in Cuba, 1952.

Hemingway and some boxing gloves.

With a cat and wine in Cuba.

Hemingway kicking a can, my personal favorite.

Hemingway in his bath.

How literature has become a discontented youth's bitch

2011-06-27T16:13:00.001-05:00

In this universal rebellious teenage phase that the internet and general sub-25 population as a collective unit seems to be going through, having deep, angst-ridden thoughts is hip, man. It's edgy to be misanthropic. Life is a lost cause. Throw on your wayfarers and scowl at humanity behind them, bro.

You know what's also cool? Having literary classics to back up your angsty thoughts. That makes your misanthropy legitimate. And who better to legitimize your emotions that the holy trifecta of Plath, Salinger, and Fitzgerald?

The internet's peculiar love affair with these three authors rests simply on the fact that, with some mild misinterpretation and misapplication, their works and ideas can serve as a seemingly solid foundation for disillusioned youth everywhere. From "man society sucks Plath gets me she puts all of my profound thoughts into words I just want to stick my head in an oven" to "Holden Caulfield is my kindred spirit Salinger's writing is so accurate" to "Gatsby had it right we never get what we want society is just one huge facade" to the works of many other authors, literature has been bastardized left and right to help a blasé and discontented teen spirit express itself.

Just google blog posts about Sylvia Plath quotes, I dare you. Sylvia Plath, along with the aforementioned authors, has become more of a brand than an author. Like Mac or Starbucks, Plath has become a name, one which, when plastered on anything really, lends it some sort of legitimacy as a disgruntled societal statement.

Take, for instance this quotation:

"We are not angels. Nor are we the devils you have made us out to be."

If I claimed it to be from Sylvia Plath, the internet would attack it like a troupe of starving hyenas, dismember it, and use it to express deep thoughts and the frustration of today's youth. Maybe something along the lines of normal people in society think we folk who choose to express our feelings and grievances through the arts are useless and abnormal. If I revealed that this quotation is, in fact, from Slobodan Milosevic, perpetrator of the Bosnian Genocide, and regards international views on the conflict, all profound interpretations would immediately disappear. It's not Sylvia Plath anymore, so it doesn't express our societal views, man.

It's a shame, it really is, that great works and great ideas by great authors devolve into statement pieces like this.

A Century of Slang

2011-06-24T02:08:00.001-05:00

An aspect of pop culture that is exceedingly fascinating is slang and popular phrases that can be ingrained into every sentence one decade and incomprehensible the next. So here's to some bits of slang from the decades of the last century:

1900's:
lollapalooza- something great or fantastic
livewire- an exciting individual
bunk- nonsense
bash- a drunken spree
to have bats in one's belfry- to have nonsensical, wild ideas

1910's:
a stuffed shirt- a pompous individual
meathook- a hand
roscoe- a handgun
floozy- a loose, promiscuous woman
wino- a homeless alcoholic

1920's:
to take for a ride- do drive someone away in order to kill him/her
butt me- give me a cigarette
gams- the legs of a woman
putting on the ritz- doing something stylishly
spifflicated- drunk, also canned, corked, tanked, primed, scrooched, jazzed, zozzled, plastered, owled, embalmed, lit, potted, ossified and fried to the hat

1930's:
platter- a record
lunger- a person with tuberculosis
cement mixer- a bad dancer, also a dead-hoofer
dog house- a string bass
drilling- shooting someone, also plugging, throwing lead, filling someone with daylight, or giving someone lead poisoning

1940's:
motorized freckles- insects
active duty- a promiscuous man
to bag- to shoot down a plane
lettuce- money, cash
to be rationed- to be in a steady relationship

1950's:
passion pit- a drive-in theater
tank- a larger car driven by older people
ankle biter- a small child
lid- a hat
radioactive- popular

1960's:
copasetic- all right, okay, sure
bitchin- great, enjoyable
shotgun- to blow through the wrong end of a marijuana joint
crash pad- a place to sleep
dove- a pacifist

1970's:
to veg out- to relax
to book- to run away, to flee
to close the shades- to shut up
peelers- police, also pigs, the man
the rabbit died- I'm pregnant

1980's:
tubular- interesting, exciting
road pizza- roadkill
ill- uncool
eat my shorts- a comeback
grindage- food

1990's:
fugly- very ugly
to wig out- to go berserk
the shit- something excellent, also fresh
dawg- a friend
to bounce- to leave

Luftpost

2011-06-23T21:56:00.000-05:00

I got a birthday letter today from friends in Nürnberg, Germany. To be honest there is something so appealing about letters like these in the mail. If I had the choice between a myriad of emails and one handwritten letter, I would pick the latter without hesitation.

Especially letters like these. The only aesthetically pleasing ones I get come from Germany. It's as if they don't sell these envelopes anywhere else.

Honestly if I got my bills and library fines in envelopes like these I would be happy to pay them.

Eisenstaedt at Penn Station, 1943

2011-06-23T03:18:00.002-05:00

Alfred Eisenstaedt was a Prussian-born photographer who is probably most famous for his iconic V-J Day in Times Square photograph. Eisenstaedt had worked in Nazi Germany, photographing personalities such as Hitler and Goebbels, before fleeing to the United States in 1935. There, he worked with Life magazine, taking photographs of both iconic American scenes and celebrities such as Hemingway and Sophia Loren.

To me, however, some of Eisenstaedt's most moving photographs are the series he took in New York's Penn Station in 1943, of soldiers leaving for war.

and my favorite

You can find some more here.

Minimalism Appreciation

2011-06-23T02:08:00.001-05:00

Although I personally see clutter, to a certain degree, as comforting, minimalism is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Anywhere from art

from Frank Stella's Black series

to interior design

via Juan ValldeRuten.

to architecture

via Good Millwork

to food

via nicknamemiket

to film posters

via Pedro Vidotto

minimalism is refreshing. Stripping something down to its core meaning, purpose, or design is a fairly arduous task, it's not just look-mom-I-drew-a-circle-on-a-piece-of-paper-am-I-a-minimalist-yet. It takes an incredible amount of skill to make something seem simple and clean without making it cold or meaningless.

Then again I am extremely hodgepodge-appreciative and would never manage minimalism on my own.

But you catch my drift.

BASTARD FROM A BASKET: There Will Be Blood and how it is unironically perfect

2011-06-20T22:22:00.000-05:00

Few things are more depressing to me than when genuinely perfect cinematic feats are reduced to a few catchy lines or an iconic scene. Take 2004's Der Untergang, for example, a German film chronicling Hitler's last days cooped up in his bunker. One of the top 100 films ever released on IMDb? Countless Bambi award winner? Oscar nominated masterpiece? Nah, who gives two shits. The internet in all its glory has forever reduced Der Untergang to a single scene of a shouting, red-faced, and incredibly irate Hitler pounding on a table due to god-knows-what. But who cares? It's extra hilarious with fake subtitles about the new iPad. Look ma, no hands!

The same goes for one of my favorite films of all time, There Will Be Blood, a 2007 release by Paul Thomas Anderson, with the magical ever-disappearing fairy princess of the British thespian world- Daniel Day Lewis.

Usually my conversations about this film go as follows:

Casual bystander: So what's your favorite movie?
Me: Well, probably There Will Be Blood.
(Casual bystander is overcome with a quizzical look)
Me: With Daniel Day Lewis?
Casual bystander: ...
Me: About oil tycoons at the turn of the century?
Casual bystander: ...
Me: That one movie where that one guy goes 'I drink your milkshake.'
Casual bystander: Oh that one yeah I think I saw that.

All right that scene is admittedly unintentionally hilarious. And sometimes I like to think of There Will Be Blood as a comedy about bowling and father-son relationships. And Daniel Day Lewis and his method acting and his mustache are probably all I'll ever need in life.

But let's get kind of serious over here. There Will Be Blood is nothing short of a masterpiece. Its plotline is so beautifully complicated, balanced out with simple, incredibly moving scenes of Plainview and his son. Daniel Day Lewis' acting is off-the-rocker fabulous. That "I've abandoned by child" scene makes me want to die and never come back. To be honest, this film is everything I will ever need. It should be showered with Oscars from now until forever in every category.

Honestly though if the only reason you've ever heard of this creation has to do with milkshakes, you should quit your homeostasis until you get your derriere to a Blockbuster and rent the thing.

I leave you with a word of wisdom from Daniel "Drainage" Plainview:

Ready to Start

2011-06-20T18:06:00.001-05:00

I am faced with a tragic flaw in life- my incredibly and unnecessarily short attention span. Unless I have a 12-gauge to my head, I honestly don't think I can spit out more than two or three sentences at a time without suddenly realizing that there is something astounding taking place elsewhere. The same goes for the fact that I have thus far clung to blogging platforms focused largely on cats and misanthropic "lol humanity sux am I edgy yet" statements that can be maneuvered with one hand during the early morning hours.

For instance, during the process of typing the paragraph above I checked two other tabs on my browser, stared out the window for a while, and stuffed spinach pierogi in my mouth.

Another flaw of mine is my inability to get right to the point of anything. The point being the fact that, congratulations, the universe has birthed yet another blog full of musings of a lackluster human, and, well, other things. I'm not going to assert that this blog will be unprecedented™ or exceptional®. Actually, I don't think I can even say it will survive that long.

Most importantly, I really can't say what you'll find here. I can't guarantee much. Let's see how this pans out.