RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

I’ll be back in a few…

All things being equal, I’m a liberal. I believe in the idea of taxes and I believe that the point of paying them is to protect and enrich the citizenry of a society. I believe that monopolies are bad for a state’s economy and that the government should intervene when they develop. I believe that the rich should pay a significantly higher percentage of their earnings towards taxes than the poor. Civil Rights, (including of course gay rights) abortion, environmentalism, you can mark me down in the strongly ‘pro’ category for each of them.

With all this said, there are plenty of things about ‘liberals’ that piss off or embarrass me. These are usually things that a young and well meaning and ostensibly socially conscious person says in a well meaning and ostensibly socially conscious way. For weeks now, I can’t get a recent ‘slant’ (guest column) in the City Paper out of my head. Maybe sharing it with the anonymous masses will help me move on.

The article recounted an experience a young white person had when the subway broke down in North Philly and then their reaction to it. They questioned the cities preparedness for a disaster on the scale of Katrina or a terrorist attack. The well-meaning author (Temple student, John Paul Titlow) argued:

Most of the almost entirely black (except for me) sea of faces represent some of the most disadvantaged sectors of our society — working single mothers, students on their way to the most underfunded public schools in the region, and others. For most, SEPTA is the only conceivable way to get where they need to go — where, in most cases, they barely earn enough to survive…

…the hardest hit will be the primarily black low-income and homeless population, the people the report refers to as those with “special needs.” Among the lessons from Katrina were that neighborhoods without access to basic resources are the areas where attention is most needed. The committee’s report is a step in the right direction, but it does not go far enough.

I’m sorry, but that ^^^ is straight up fucking offensive. A good point - the cities lack of preparedness for a large scale disaster - was argued with the same condescending pity for the cities A.A. poor, which is usually held in reserve for a sick animal. Whatever the author’s intention, this came off as deeply condescending and impossible to read without feeling like John Mark Karr’s spindly fingers are crawling up your spine. Good god. I have a feeling that Titlow will look back on this in 5 years and feel a sense of deep and terrifying embarrassment. At least I hope so. Let me close with a letter written in response to the column.

I agree with John Paul Titlow that Philadelphia needs to take serious action based on the findings of the Emergency Preparedness Review Committee, but his analysis of the problem isunbelievably simplistic and sophomoric [Slant, “At a Disadvantage,” Aug. 3, 2006]. His argumentthat Philadelphia’s emergency preparedness planslights the poor and the blackis based on ridiculous evidence — his experience of a breakdown on Septa’s orange line:”Funny how the orange line is the first thing to break down in the city. The Market-Frankford, or as I sometimes call it, ‘the White Line,’ was running smoothly all day.” Funny how there are breakdowns and delays in public transportation all over the city, and in the suburbs! Has Titlow ever ridden the Market-Frankford line? As a person whose stop was 40th and Market for years, I must inform him that there is a wide range of people riding the blue line on any given train.His observations ofthe stranded passengers as poor black folk “barely earn[ing] enough to survive,” and the “few of them lucky enough to have cell phones” calling friends for rides, reminds me of early anthropological accounts of communities by outside observers. We don’t need uninformed paternalism, Mr. Titlow. We need to continue facilitating discussions among the city’s neighborhood spokespeople to determine how tobest go about preparing for the worst, and to begin enacting the agreed-upon solutions.

Lindsey Mears

Germantown

Right now, I’m listening to Michael Ledeen of the American Enterprise Institute speaking about Iran regime change on Fresh Air. All I can really think of is this quote, usually attributed to Albert Einstein:

Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.

This is really, deadly serious.

*edit: now that it’s over, I need to edit this. This man and those who hold his views are not insane, they are raving fucking lunatics. They are deluded to a point so far gone that they should be confined, given large doses of anti-psychotics and enrolled in serious, intensive therapy. The man should be in a straightjacket. Unfortunately he’s got the exclusive ear of the president and his administration. If we get out of this presidency without a war in Iran, consider yourself very, very lucky.

Since I don’t feel like writing anything, please enjoy Edgar Allen Poe’s 1844 classic, Morning on the Wissahickon. (aka The Elk) It’s written about that beautiful section of Fairmount Park in the Northwest section of the city. I grew up near there and spent a lot of time in some of the very same places he writes about here.

THE NATURAL scenery of America has often been contrasted, in its general features as well as in detail, with the landscape of the Old World- more especially of Europe- and not deeper has been the enthusiasm, than wide the dissension, of the supporters of each region. The discussion is one not likely to be soon closed, for, although much has been said on both sides, a word more yet remains to be said.The most conspicuous of the British tourists who have attempted a comparison, seem to regard our northern and eastern seaboard, comparatively speaking, as all of America, at least, as all of the United States, worthy consideration. They say little, because they have seen less, of the gorgeous interior scenery of some of our western and southern districts- of the vast valley of Louisiana, for example,- a realization of the wildest dreams of paradise. For the most part, these travellers content themselves with a hasty inspection of the natural lions of the land- the Hudson, Niagara, the Catskills, Harper’s Ferry, the lakes of New York, the Ohio, the prairies, and the Mississippi. These, indeed, are objects well worthy the contemplation even of him who has just clambered by the castellated Rhine, or roamed

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone; but these are not all of which we can boast; and, indeed, I will be so hardy as to assert that there are innumerable quiet, obscure, and scarcely explored nooks, within the limits of the United States, that, by the true artist, or cultivated lover of the grand and beautiful amid the works of God, will be preferred to each and to all of the chronicled and better accredited scenes to which I have referred.

In fact, the real Edens of the land lie far away from the track of our own most deliberate tourists–how very far, then, beyond the reach of the foreigner, who, having made with his publisher at home arrangements for a certain amount of comment upon America, to be furnished in a stipulated period, can hope to fulfil his agreement in no other manner than by steaming it, memorandum–book in hand, through only the most beaten thoroughfares of the country!

I mentioned, just above, the valley of Louisiana. Of all extensive areas of natural loveliness, this is perhaps the most lovely. No fiction has approached it. The most gorgeous imagination might derive suggestions from its exuberant beauty. And beauty is, indeed, its sole character. It has little, or rather nothing, of the sublime. Gentle undulations of soil, interwreathed with fantastic crystallic streams, banked by flowery slopes, and backed by a forest vegetation, gigantic, glossy, multicoloured, sparkling with gay birds and burthened with perfume–these features make up, in the vale of Louisiana, the most voluptuous natural scenery upon earth.

But, even of this delicious region, the sweeter portions are reached only by the bypaths. Indeed, in America generally, the traveller who would behold the finest landscapes, must seek them not by the railroad, nor by the steamboat, not by the stage-coach, nor in his private carriage, not yet even on horseback–but on foot. He must walk, he must leap ravines, he must risk his neck among precipices, or he must leave unseen the truest, the richest, and most unspeakable glories of the land.

Now in the greater portion of Europe no such necessity exists. In England it exists not at all. The merest dandy of a tourist may there visit every nook worth visiting without detriment to his silk stockings; so thoroughly known are all points of interest, and so well-arranged are the means of attaining them. This consideration has never been allowed its due weight, in comparisons of the natural scenery of the Old and New Worlds. The entire loveliness of the former is collated with only the most noted, and with by no means the most eminent items in the general loveliness of the latter.

River scenery has, unquestionably, within itself, all the main elements of beauty, and, time out of mind, has been the favourite theme of the poet. But much of this fame is attributable to the predominance of travel in fluvial over that in mountainous districts. In the same way, large rivers, because usually highways, have, in all countries, absorbed an undue share of admiration. They are more observed, and, consequently, made more the subject of discourse, than less important, but often more interesting streams.

A singular exemplification of my remarks upon this head may be found in the Wissahiccon, a brook, (for more it can scarcely be called,) which empties itself into the Schuylkill, about six miles westward of Philadelphia. Now the Wissahiccon is of so remarkable a loveliness that, were it flowing in England, it would be the theme of every bard, and the common topic of every tongue, if, indeed, its banks were not parcelled off in lots, at an exorbitant price, as building-sites for the villas of the opulent. Yet it is only within a very few years that any one has more than heard of the Wissahiccon, while the broader and more navigable water into which it flows, has been long celebrated as one of the finest specimens of American river scenery. The Schuylkill, whose beauties have been much exaggerated, and whose banks, at least in the neighborhood of Philadelphia, are marshy like those of the Delaware, is not at all comparable, as an object of picturesque interest, with the more humble and less notorious rivulet of which we speak.

It was not until Fanny Kemble, in her droll book about the United States, pointed out to the Philadelphians the rare loveliness of a stream which lay at their own doors, that this loveliness was more than suspected by a few adventurous pedestrians of the vicinity. But, the “Journal” having opened all eyes, the Wissahiccon, to a certain extent, rolled at once into notoriety. I say “to a certain extent,” for, in fact, the true beauty of the stream lies far above the route of the Philadelphian picturesque-hunters, who rarely proceed farther than a mile or two above the mouth of the rivulet–for the very excellent reason that here the carriage-road stops. I would advise the adventurer who would behold its finest points to take the Ridge Road, running westwardly from the city, and, having reached the second lane beyond the sixth mile-stone, to follow this lane to its termination. He will thus strike the Wissahiccon, at one of its best reaches, and, in a skiff, or by clambering along its banks, he can go up or down the stream, as best suits his fancy, and in either direction will meet his reward.

I have already said, or should have said, that the brook is narrow. Its banks are generally, indeed almost universally, precipitous, and consist of high hills, clothed with noble shrubbery near the water, and crowned at a greater elevation, with some of the most magnificent forest trees of America, among which stands conspicuous the liriodendron tulipiferum. The immediate shores, however, are of granite, sharply defined or moss-covered, against which the pellucid water lolls in its gentle flow, as the blue waves of the Mediterranean upon the steps of her palaces of marble. Occasionally in front of the cliffs, extends a small definite plateau of richly herbaged land, affording the most picturesque position for a cottage and garden which the richest imagination could conceive. The windings of the stream are many and abrupt, as is usually the case where banks are precipitous, and thus the impression conveyed to the voyager’s eye, as he proceeds, is that of an endless succession of infinitely varied small lakes, or, more properly speaking, tarns. The Wissahiccon, however, should be visited, not like “fair Melrose,” by moonlight, or even in cloudy weather, but amid the brightest glare of a noonday sun; for the narrowness of the gorge through which it flows, the height of the hills on either hand, and the density of the foliage, conspire to produce a gloominess, if not an absolute dreariness of effect, which, unless relieved by a bright general light, detracts from the mere beauty of the scene.

Not long ago I visited the stream by the route described, and spent the better part of a sultry day in floating in a skiff upon its bosom. The heat gradually overcame me, and, resigning myself to the influence of the scenes and of the weather, and of the gentle moving current, I sank into a half slumber, during which my imagination revelled in visions of the Wissahiccon of ancient days–of the “good old days” when the Demon of the Engine was not, when picnics were undreamed of, when “water privileges” were neither bought nor sold, and when the red man trod alone, with the elk, upon the ridges that now towered above. And, while gradually these conceits took possession of my mind, the lazy brook had borne me, inch by inch, around one promontory and within full view of another that bounded the prospect at the distance of forty or fifty yards. It was a steep rocky cliff, abutting far into the stream, and presenting much more of the Salvator character than any portion of the shore hitherto passed. What I saw upon this cliff, although surely an object of very extraordinary nature, the place and season considered, at first neither startled nor amazed me–so thoroughly and appropriately did it chime in with the half-slumberous fancies that enwrapped me. I saw, or dreamed that I saw, standing upon the extreme verge of the precipice, with neck outstretched, with ears erect, and the whole attitude indicative of profound and melancholy inquisitiveness, one of the oldest and boldest of those identical elks which had been coupled with the red men of my vision.

I say that, for a few moments, this apparition neither startled nor amazed me. During this interval my whole soul was bound up in intense sympathy alone. I fancied the elk repining, not less than wondering, at the manifest alterations for the worse, wrought upon the brook and its vicinage, even within the last few years, by the stern hand of the utilitarian. But a slight movement of the animal’s head at once dispelled the dreaminess which invested me, and aroused me to a full sense of novelty of the adventure. I arose upon one knee within the skiff, and, while I hesitated whether to stop my career, or let myself float nearer to the object of my wonder, I heard the words “hist!” “hist!” ejaculated quickly but cautiously, from the shrubbery overhead. In an instant afterwards, a negro emerged from the thicket, putting aside the bushes with care, and treading stealthily. He bore in one hand a quantity of salt, and, holding it towards the elk, gently yet steadily approached. The noble animal, although a little fluttered, made no attempt at escape. The negro advanced; offered the salt; and spoke a few words of encouragement or conciliation. Presently, the elk bowed and stamped, and then lay quietly down and was secured with a halter.

Thus ended my romance of the elk. It was a pet of great age and very domestic habits, and belonged to an English family occupying a villa in the vicinity.

I absolutely need a pair of these. I wonder if I can get a chastity belt and a ball gag too.

I think the main leson here is that advertising in The Economist really works.

From the Guardian.

A man who claims to have developed a free energy technology which could power everything from mobile phones to cars has received more than 400 applications from scientists to test it.

Sean McCarthy says that no one was more sceptical than he when Steorn, his small hi-tech firm in Dublin, hit upon a way of generating clean, free and constant energy from the interaction of magnetic fields. ‘It wasn’t so much a Eureka moment as a get-back-in-there-and-check-your-instruments moment, although in far more colourful language,’ said McCarthy. But when he attempted to share his findings, he says, scientists either put the phone down on him or refused to endorse him publicly in case they damaged their academic reputations. So last week he took out a full-page advert in the Economist magazine, challenging the scientific community to examine his technology.

McCarthy claims it provides five times the amount of energy a mobile phone battery generates for the same size, and does not have to be recharged. Within 36 hours of his advert appearing he had been contacted by 420 scientists in Europe, America and Australia, and a further 4,606 people had registered to receive the results.

I just found a bunch of old scanned photos. This little guy used to stare at me through the bathroom window in a total shithole I used to live in.

And this was my hallway after a lovely winter snow. (no heat)

Man that place sucked.

This post is intended for fans of Toynbee tiles. If you’re not a fan, I’m sorry, but there wasn’t a whole lot I could do to make this entertaining reading for you. It’s largely technical and entirely esoteric. However, if you are a fan, this post represents the largest disclosure in Toynbee tile research in a very long time. Revealed herein is new, possibly earth shattering information. Read on.

Classic Toynbee tiles stopped appearing in cities across the country sometime in late 2002 or early 2003. Immediately following the disappearance of the original tiles, several new styles of tile started showing up in Philadelphia streets and on highway exit ramps surrounding the city. Until recently, it was generally believed that these new tiles were the work of a copycat.

The font on the new tiles is different. The material (at least on the smaller ones) seems to be something new and far more brittle. The tiles are placed differently, close to the curb and on highways. They’ve also wandered from center city seemingly following the subway and elevated train lines. New tiles have been spotted at 52nd street, Temple campus, Drexel campus, even in Frankford and the lower Northeast. There are 3 tiles on I-95 near the Linc, and farther north on the same road. There are also several on I-76 and the Blue Route. But that’s where they ended. These new “copycat” tiles never appeared outside of Philadelphia. (For a complete taxonomy of the tiles, click here)

Taken as a whole, all of these facts suggest the work of a copycat. Without getting into too much minutiae, the new tiles don’t appear to be as skillfully crafted as their predecessors and their M.O. seems much different.

But 2 tiles changed all of this. The first was discovered in early June at Cottman & Torresdale in Northeast Philadelphia. The second was found in central Connecticut by a man named Brian Stroehlein. About 2 weeks after the discovery of the NE Philly tile, I read this thread over on metafilter and contacted him. He was nice enough to pull over and get a couple shots of the CT tile with his Nikon D70. The image he sent me represents the first new style tile found outside of the Philadelphia area. Already, this news is very big in the strange little world of Toynbee tile research.

But I think this news is potentially much bigger. The Cottman Torresdale tile shook the tile community. The font on the sidebar sections was extremely close to that of the original tiles. Was this just the work of a copycat working harder to emulate the original, or was it the work of the original tiler? The question hung in limbo until the discovery of the CT tile.

What struck me about this tile (besides its location) was that it was a near exact copy of the NE Philly tile. The emphasis here is on the word ‘near.’ There is 1 very small difference between the tiles. The CT tile contains the message:

YOU MUST LAY TILE YOU!!

While the NE Philly tile says:

YOU MUST MAKE TILE YOU!! YOU!!

Just a week or so a go a tile at the Broad Street exit of I-95exit was discovered. It too is identical to the other two, except that it says:

YOU MUST TILE!! YOU!

Other than these tiny differences, the tiles are identical. Without revealing anything I am not at liberty to speak of, I have to say that the tiny differences in these otherwise identical tiles strongly suggest that these new school tiles display the very same unique form of obsessive behavior that inspired the originals. If they were exactly the same, I’d say a copycat was banging them out out of a single stencil. That they display extremely minor differences, but are otherwise precise clones suggests that they’re the product of genuine obsessive behavior. Put together with their geographic diffusion and stylistic similarities and I am close to being convinced that these new tiles are the work of the original Toynbee tiler. In short, this is huge news. That’s all for now.

I recently wrote that I didn’t give a shit that 2 Fox News journalists were abducted in Gaza. To rehash my point, it’s not that I wish them dead or terrorized or substantially abused, just that I don’t have any real emotional reaction to their captivity. My disdain for Fox (the organization) overpowers my liberal sympathies. For example, how would you feel if you heard that an aging nazi war criminal had fallen down the stairs and fucked up his hip? It’s sort of like that.

But anyway, all that’s changed now I see that one of those Fox News journalists is Johnny Carson. That man is nothing but class. To see him beheaded by Islamo-Hizbollio-Fascists will be truly disheartening.

Too bad its inventor considered it a useless novelty.  From the Smith website:

Heron, the great inventor of Alexandria, described in detail what is thought to be the first working steam engine. He called it an aeolipile, or “wind ball”. His design was a sealed caldron of water was placed over a heat source. As the water boiled, steam rose into the pipes and into the hollow sphere. The steam escaped from two bent outlet tubes on the ball, resulting in rotation of the ball. The principle he used in his design is similar to that of today’s jet propulsion. Heron did not consider this invention being useful for everyday applications: he considered his aeolipile invention as a novelty, a remarkable toy.