Other than some neat pix of Mrs Heathen and the cats, this set is kinda thin, but here it is anyway.
Interesting note for the photo-geeks in Heathen Nation: the stolen Rebel had a top ISO of 1600. The new hotness, an Olympus E-M5, shoots at ISO 25,600; the pix of Sen. Wiggins are examples.
At the so-called Values Voter summit — sponsored the Family Research Council, a noted hate group — Santorum stated openly that “we will never have the elite, smart people on our side.”
Now they can blow up watermelons WITH THE POWER OF THEIR MINDS!
I can’t decide if my favorite thing about this is the “Scintillatin’ Dr J Calendar” or the fact that C-3PO is playing the drums.
There is a documentary coming about the Buick Grand National Regal.
Seriously, this guy has skills. Key aspect: Getaway car.
Via MeFi.
Kurt Eichenwald has, including the volumes of Presidential Daily Briefings now public, and it turns out the Bush White House knew way more than has been previously discussed, and chose to ignore those warnings out of a misguided and unsupported belief that the “real” threat was Iraq.
By May 1, the Central Intelligence Agency told the White House of a report that “a group presently in the United States” was planning a terrorist operation. Weeks later, on June 22, the daily brief reported that Qaeda strikes could be “imminent,” although intelligence suggested the time frame was flexible.
But some in the administration considered the warning to be just bluster. An intelligence official and a member of the Bush administration both told me in interviews that the neoconservative leaders who had recently assumed power at the Pentagon were warning the White House that the C.I.A. had been fooled; according to this theory, Bin Laden was merely pretending to be planning an attack to distract the administration from Saddam Hussein, whom the neoconservatives saw as a greater threat. Intelligence officials, these sources said, protested that the idea of Bin Laden, an Islamic fundamentalist, conspiring with Mr. Hussein, an Iraqi secularist, was ridiculous, but the neoconservatives’ suspicions were nevertheless carrying the day.
Ah, neocons. Fuck each and every one of them, and then put ’em in jail. Jesus.
You can tell it’s all true, btw, because the right’s response has been to send out professional liar Ari Fleischer to smear Eichenwald as a “truther.” In this segment on AC360, the level of sheer smugtastic douchery from Fleischer is breathtaking.
The Hairpin and Poetry magazine are collaborating; the first example is the former running two poems from Karr with an unmistakable subject.
You should not, under any circumstances, miss these if you are at all of the literary bent.
These are Matthew De Abaitua’s words. They are awesome:
Wendy Melvoin is fresh from high school. She is a wearing a V-necked sleeveless top, and patterned shorts. She is playing the first chords of a new song on her purple guitar, opening chords that she wrote, a circular motif with a chorus effect. Wendy is eighteen-nineteen and she has the high cheekbones and diffident confidence of a Hollywood upbringing. She half-smiles at the faces that crowd close to the low club stage. This is Wendy’s first gig with the new band, and the song she is playing is “Purple Rain,” and nobody in the audience has ever heard “Purple Rain” before because this is the night that Prince and the Revolution record the song.
No, seriously. This video link is the foundation of the take you know and love and have been listening to for almost 30 years. They took it live, from here.
The gig is a benefit for the Minnesota Dance Theater. Prince and the Revolution are taking dance lessons and their tutor suggests the gig as a way of supporting the financially challenged theatre; because Prince is a local lad, born and raised in Minneapolis, a city he will always come back to, he agrees to play.
In 1983, Prince is an international star, thanks to “1999″ and “Little Red Corvette.” He has released five albums in five years, from when he was eighteen years old. He has so many songs he forms other bands like The Time and Vanity 6 to play them. He is an impresario and a producer and he is also only twenty-three, not so far away from the poor black kid who stood outside McDonald’s just to smell the food he couldn’t afford. His instinct for self-reliance, his tendency to be dictatorial, has been blindsided by these two sophisticated young women, Wendy and, on her keyboards, her lover, Lisa; for the first time in his life, he will collaborate in a meaningful way.
[…]
The crowd at First Avenue, their faces straining against one another, receive the brief benediction of a wavering spotlight: to them, “Purple Rain” doesn’t sound like any song that Prince has played before: the tight electronic funk, his harsh and weird sex songs, the soul ballads in which he asks for forgiveness — “Purple Rain” is something new, something different. They don’t know how to react. In fact the crowd is so muted that when this recording is prepared for the album, the engineer loops some crowd noise taken from a football game to give it some life.
What do great songs sound like the first time we hear them? Can you remember that feeling? When Bob Dylan heard The Animals’ version of “House of the Rising Sun,” he got out of the car and ran around it again and again he was so excited. The first time you hear a great song is so rare, and it can never be repeated; watching the crowd during this first performance of “Purple Rain,” I see that look on a few faces, a silent shocked awe. On the twenty-seven other recordings of “Purple Rain” on my iPod, the moment the first chord is strummed, the crowd cheer, acknowledging the anthem. They become a congregation, keen to be guided through the Purple Rain, and that has its ecstasies, even if it involves cigarette lighters held aloft, and hands waved in the air. But to hear silence flowing back from the audience, no singalong because they don’t know the words, is to eavesdrop on the shock of the new.
Oh, holy crap just go read the whole thing, and do NOT miss the first link up there — it’s the video.
Via MeFi. This shit, right here, is some quality Internettin’, boys and girls. Enjoy.
PS: The MeFi thread reminded me of this Hall of Fame peformance of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” with Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, Steve Winwood, and others, which I previously mentioned here. The best part, even over Prince’s amazing solo and the degree of “holy shit” you see on the faces of the other musicians is what comes at the end: Prince finishes his solo, tosses the guitar up into the air, and walks — no, struts — offstage.
The guitar never comes down.
BoingBoing has Phil Hartman’s 1985 SNL audition tape. Stick with it through the modernized Nicholson version of Hamlet at least; the German impressionist is also TOP NOTCH.
According to a new study, 62% of bankruptcies in 2007 were due to medical costs, and 3/4 had medical insurance.
Right, so, we got robbed.
Late enough Friday night for to actually be Saturday morning, someone tossed a big-ass decorative stone through our downstairs sliding glass door and made off with my laptop and my backpack, which contained a variety of other delights including my camera and some really nice headphones. Awesome.
Let’s take a look at the tape:
Apparently, when he was a child and yet already too large for the school bus, Andre the Giant was regularly driven to school by a friend of the family: Samuel Beckett.
With crack talent like this, it ought to be easy to see why we never watch local news.
So, yeah, it turns out this guy is a little odd by NFL standards — giant fantasy gamer, essentially disinterested in football beyond his niche (which he apparently does very well), and possessed of a genuinely quick and well-educated mind. In other words, he’s a huge nerd. That makes this even MORE awesome.
Also, if the first version of the letter offended your delicate sensibilities, well, he’s gone and posted a clean version as well.
Oh, and there’s a great MeFi thread on the whole thing, too. So that’s AN ENTIRE EXTRA BIT at no extra charge. See how good I am to you?
I’ll admit that, for 25 years or more, I had no idea what Pat DiNizio meant in the lyrics to “Behind the Wall of Sleep,” but now that I’ve actually seen a picture of Jeanie Shrimpton, well . . . right there with ya, buddy.
(Here, in this nuturing group, I’ll admit that I also didn’t understand the Stones reference (“…she stood just like Bill Wyman…”) until at least 1988.)
The context for this is right: Ravens linebacker Brendon Ayanbadejo spoke out recently in favor of a Maryland ballot initiative legalizing gay marriage. In response, wingnut jackass Emmett Burns — a Maryland state delegate! — [wrote a letter to the Ravens owner(http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/09/07/brendon-ayanbadejo-ravens-emmett-burns-marriage_n_1863488.html) asking that he “inhibit such expressions from your employee.”
So much WAT, amirite?
Anyway, Minnesota punter Chris Kluwe noticed, and dropped a righteous and mighty smackdown on state delegate Burns in response. It’s a thing of brutal and effective beauty, and you should go read the whole thing.
By way of followup, Kluwe provided some context for his remarks after the fact.
Wow.
Dan Spitz, best known as the lead guitarist for the band Anthrax, has become a watchmaker.
This Rube Goldberg music video is even better than the last one.
h/t Garissimo, via the Mysterious Spanked Barrister
Seriously. It’s interactive.
Well, you tell me. This vid has basically just the bass track to a live performance of “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” Enjoy.
Via Q.
Because, seriously, what could top (or out-creep) this Bert and Ernie pair?
I’m really, really confused how Among Others beat out Embassytown for best novel. The latter was legitimately compelling and inventive; the former is a terribly simplistic young-adult outsider-comes-of-age story that boils down to “Are you there, Sci fi? It’s me, Mori” and leaves more plot threads unresolved than not.
This is widely linked, but it’s spot on: Lance Still Worth Honoring.
Wear some yellow if you want, but a better choice is donating. The work they do helps an awful lot of people.
Yeah, that went about as well as could be expected for Hoke’s squad. Vastly overranked at 8, they got chewed up and spat out by a reloaded Alabama team that, under Saban, is producing NFL players at a terrifying clip.
Even overrated, this was about what we expected from any Big 10 – Alabama matchup. Recall what the 9-3 2010 Alabama team did to Michigan State in the Capital One Bowl, which remains the only time I’ve ever seen a team forced to punt on 4th and goal.
Also as expected, Alabama snags the top spot in the polls, leapfrogging even sportswriter fave USC in the process; the Trojans don’t play quality until November (Oregon on the 3rd).
LSU will drop again before they rise, since they’ve opted to open against creampuffs (and even their SEC schedule starts soft, with Auburn on the 22nd; they don’t play a quality team until Florida in October).
Rightly or wrongly, Michigan counts as a quality win, and those are in short supply early in the year (even if, after the rout, they’ve been dropped to #19).
The new top 10:
FSU is way overrated. I’m shocked that South Carolina is still in the top ten, too, given their shaky performance over the weekend — the Gamecocks only barely escaped Vanderbilt.
Bama should cruise over Western Kentucky next weekend without trouble, but meets Arkansas the week after in the first (or second?) real test of the season.
Roll Tide, and pass the whiskey.
Do not watch if you’re not done with seasons 1 and 2. Contains spoilers. Tight tight tight!
First, the usual Hater’s Guide at Deadspin, and then the somewhat more focussed and — let’s be fair — relevant Why The Rest Of The SEC Hates You.
The former’s best bit:
Turning our attention to football, how much fun is it that USC is ranked No. 1? That’ll make it all the more enjoyable when the Trojans get destroyed by an SEC school in the national title game. USC is 10 times more lovable when it’s getting crushed. And I remain in awe of Lane Kiffin, a man who now sits atop the college football rankings without actually having done anything, ever. He’s amazing.
So true. I’m not playing favorites; Deadspin continues thusly:
- Alabama. I appreciate Nick Saban for being, in essence, the anti-Joe Paterno. There’s no illusion of affection here. No coddling. No “I’m going to turn these wayward young boys into fine young men” bullshit. Saban is precisely what a college football coach should be: a merciless, evil man who will eat your liver raw if you dare get in the way of him winning football games. Anyone not interested in winning games can go get FUCKED, and I find that kind of attitude refreshing in a sea of phony sentimental profiles of coaching legends. No one loves Nick Saban, and that’s good because no one should ever love football coaches. Football coaches are horrible people.
And I salute Alabama fans for their terrifying devotion to FOOTBAW. Can you imagine what Alabama people would be capable of without football to occupy them? I think we should all be happy that the Crimson Tide are there to distract them from starting Racial Holy War. Such shiny helmets.
Once again, Roll Tide.
Jesus Christ: Rushbiddies.
Suspicion-less inspections have absolutely got to stop. They are plainly illegal and against all established precedent.
You are not required to answer these bullshit questions. You cannot be detained without suspicion. That is ILLEGAL.
DHS is creeping evil. Period.
This is lovely.
This will be ALL OVER THE NET today, but you really shouldn’t miss the footage of the koala who hitched a ride on a canoe.
I know you’ll be as surprised as I was to learn that, apparently, a Republican CAN lie too much for Fox News. This morning, Fox is running an editorial on Paul Ryan’s address that includes this:
On the other hand, to anyone paying the slightest bit of attention to facts, Ryan’s speech was an apparent attempt to set the world record for the greatest number of blatant lies and misrepresentations slipped into a single political speech. On this measure, while it was Romney who ran the Olympics, Ryan earned the gold.
The good news is that the Romney-Ryan campaign has likely created dozens of new jobs among the legions of additional fact checkers that media outlets are rushing to hire to sift through the mountain of cow dung that flowed from Ryan’s mouth. Said fact checkers have already condemned certain arguments that Ryan still irresponsibly repeated.
The author goes on from there.
The WSJ has a piece on Saban and the Tide up. It’ll rot behind the paywall, so here’s a few key bits:
With all due respect to the 123 other schools that play major-college football, the sport’s foreseeable future boils down to one question: Can anyone stop Alabama?
The Alabama Crimson Tide, college football’s defending national champion, has become the game’s “it” team, an all-powerful and impervious Death Star of a program. Alabama has won two of the last three national titles. Its coach, Nick Saban, won another one while he was at Louisiana State—meaning he has won the title in three of the past seven college seasons he has coached.
The Tide is a 14-point favorite Saturday over No. 8 Michigan—repeat: a two-touchdown favorite against a top-10 team—in its season opener. The last time Alabama was an underdog was 28 games ago, against Tim Tebow and Florida in the 2009 Southeastern Conference championship game. Result: Bama 32, Florida 13.
And then there’s this:
Since Saban’s arrival in 2007, Alabama has produced 11 first-round NFL draft picks, by far the most in the country. Since 2003, only four colleges have churned out more first-rounders than Alabama has since 2009. Three of those programs—Miami, Ohio State and Southern California—have had NCAA rules-related scandals. The fourth school is LSU, which Saban coached from 2000 to 2004. He signed nine of the Tigers’ 12 first-round draft picks.
Because we all need a mantra:
Breakfast is the only meal of the day that I tend to view with the same kind of traditionalized reverence that most people associate with Lunch and Dinner. I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every twenty-four hours, and mine is breakfast. In Hong Kong, Dallas or at home — and regardless of whether or not I have been to bed — breakfast is a personal ritual that can only be properly observed alone, and in a spirit of genuine excess.
The food factor should always be massive: four Bloody Marys, two grapefruits, a pot of coffee, Rangoon crepes, a half-pound of either sausage, bacon, or corned beef hash with diced chiles, a Spanish omelette or eggs Benedict, a quart of milk, a chopped lemon for random seasoning, and something like a slice of Key lime pie, two margaritas, and six lines of the best cocaine for dessert… Right, and there should also be two or three newspapers, all mail and messages, a telephone, a notebook for planning the next twenty-four hours and at least one source of good music… All of which should be dealt with outside, in the warmth of a hot sun, and preferably stone naked.
Carry on.
Rickenbacker forever, baby.
The New York Times sent a guy to look into SEC football. Madcap hilarity ensued.
h/t to the indomitable DC Principal. And, of course, Roll Tide.
But, then again, how many of you would really want me to know how to make and pour my own lava?
An Emirates passenger from Bangkok to Hong Kong decided to document his A380 First Class experience.
N.B. that I could not even SEE First on my trip in June. They entered (on the 777) through a different door, and that plane did not appear to have the lounge area the A380 has. But still: HOLY CRAP.
FWIW, economy looks about the same, as does business class.
Somehow, we here at Heathen Central missed this when it came out, oh, twelve years ago.
It’s just what it says on the tin: Jimmy Page playing with the Black Crowes, live. If that idea appeals to you, you’ll probably enjoy the execution as well. I sure am.
John T. Edge on covers our exploding food scene in Savoring Mutt City: Why Houston is becoming a top-tier destination to eat and drink.
The story begins:
We’re boating the high-top cloverleaf in a kandy-kolored streamline baby, if you know what I mean. A 1967 LeMans ragtop, stardust blue, with red-lined fatties and cigarettes-and-whiskey mufflers.
It’s a summer night, circa right now. I’m in the backseat, leaching liquor and perspiration onto the vinyl. Chris Shepherd, who spent the afternoon at a Vietnamese nail salon here in Houston, is digging his shellacked toes into the front passenger-side pile, while Bryan Caswell palms the steering wheel and blasts Black Joe Lewis and the Honeybears through a removable-face Blaupunkt that would have gotten him laid in tenth grade.
Goddamn if that didn’t just send me to eBay motors searching for late-60s absurd convertibles… Apparently, if you don’t care about “original” or “concours,” you can get something for well under ten grand…
Sally Jenkins delves into the hypocrisy of the USADA.
Neil Armstrong died over the weekend. He was 82. When he took that famous “one small step,” he was not yet 39 — which shows in his official NASA portrait.
If you haven’t watched it recently, this is a good time to review the video taken at the time. Also, io9 has the text from the Times coverage back in 1969, which is pretty great. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m not sure we as a species have accomplished ANYTHING even remotely as awesome as this since July 21, 1969.
This is my favorite picture of Mr Armstrong. Buzz Aldrin took it, after Armstrong had come in from the most significant walk in the history of mankind. You can see the gravity of the moment in his eyes.
Here’s the thing: Armstrong then mostly eschewed the spotlight, and never did anything to sully the accomplishment or what it meant for the space program, for the US, or for humans in general. He was, by all accounts, an unassuming and humble man who understood what he had been a part of in the larger, human sense despite (as is and was obvious) the Cold War aspects of the space race. In an age of serious term dilution, this was a guy who really was a hero.
There’s lots of grreat stuff in the Metafilter thread, which includes a pointer to The Big Picture feature on Apollo 11 from the 40th anniversary a few years ago. (Also noted in that thread: Charles Lindbergh knew both Armstrong and Orville Wright.)
And here’s the other thing. It’s awful that Armstrong has died without seeing another serious move in space in 40 years. We quit in 1972. Nobody’s been out of low earth orbit since, and that means — as XKCD points out — that we are quickly running out of people who’ve walked on other worlds.
This is shameful, and we should fix it.
Good Lord, there were only 12 to start with, and only 8 survive. (The youngest of these giants is the sprightly 76-year-old Charles Duke.) Perhaps, when someday we manage to escape low earth orbit again, someone can do for Armstrong and Aldrin what those great me did for Yuri Gagarin. The notion that these 8 may die without seeing us exceed their journey is the worst sort of anti-tribute.
Finally, here is a statement from the Armstrong family, which concludes with
For those who may ask what they can do to honor Neil, we have a simple request. Honor his example of service, accomplishment and modesty, and the next time you walk outside on a clear night and see the moon smiling down at you, think of Neil Armstrong and give him a wink.
Will do.
