For the Love of Lightning

It has come to my attention that the site of Wardenclyffe Tower, Nikola Tesla's last and most ambitious project, is up for sale to whoever wants it and has $1.6 million.  Friends of Science East, a nonprofit organization whose name pretty well explains their mission, is working with the State of New York and Suffolk County to purchase the land from Agfa Corporation, the company which owns the land and manufactured photographic emulsions there, and which has threatened to destroy the buildings on the property (one of which was the laboratory, originally (I guess to make the land more appealing to developers?)).  

So, to quote Billy Joel (verbatim), "Who gives a shit?"  I do.  I give a huge, corny shit about this.  Tesla, to me, is easily the raddest dude of both the 19th and 20th Centuries.  

A little background about Wardenclyffe.  Tesla bought the 200-acre site in 1901, and on the land he built Wardenclyffe Tower, an early transmitter of wireless telegraphy and a facility which could be used to demonstrate the wireless transmission of electrical energy.  This revolutionary invention was initially backed by J.P. Morgan and other heavy hitters in industry, who believed the development of a wireless power grid/communication system would be very lucrative.

Then, however, Tesla gave a public speech about Wardenclyffe, during which he made the following statement:

"As soon as [the Wardenclyffe facility is] completed, it will be possible for a business man in New York to dictate instructions, and have them instantly appear in type at his office in London or elsewhere. He will be able to call up, from his desk, and talk to any telephone subscriber on the globe, without any change whatever in the existing equipment. An inexpensive instrument, not bigger than a watch, will enable its bearer to hear anywhere, on sea or land, music or song, the speech of a political leader, the address of an eminent man of science, or the sermon of an eloquent clergyman, delivered in some other place, however distant. In the same manner any picture, character, drawing, or print can be transferred from one to another place ..."

Tesla believed the services provided by the tower and others like it could provide a free, "world system", making telecommunications and electricity available to all people, all around the world.  Morgan and the other investors, however, disagreed with Tesla's philanthropic views and immediately withdrew funding.  Morgan also convinced other potential investors to avoid funding the project.  With the funding collapsing and debts mounting, Tesla eventually awarded the deed to the Wardenclyffe property to the owner of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in order to pay for his lengthy stay there.  In 1917, the tower itself was eventually demolished because the US Government believed it could be used by German spies.  He died penniless, insane, and obsessed with pigeons.

Friends of Science East wants to take the Wardenclyffe property and restore it to its brief former glory, with plans to place a museum and research center in the original structure, and to rebuild the 187-foot tower.  Although I assume anyone reading this will be one of my penniless friends, they have set up a fund, to which you are welcome to donate, which will hopefully gather enough money to allow the memory of Nikola Tesla's achievements to finally be recognized in a public venue.

It's tax deductible.

More information on the Wardenclyffe facility.

Progress Report

Ok, let's put aside how new he is, how handsome he is and how black he is.  Let's put aside the fact that he's not his predecessor, and that his grandmother died a few months back.  Let's put aside the fact that John Roberts fucked up his oath of office, and let's put aside the fanfare and the hair-raisingly ironic Shepard Fairey propaganda, and the speech at the victory column.  In his two months of office, Barack Obama has been, in my humble and perhaps (PERHAPS) uninformed opinion, a pretty crappy president.  I know he's distracted by the strained economy, but even before that, even during the campaign, I never heard him (or John McCain, or Al Sharpton) breathe a word against the Patriot Act.  In fact, I don't think he ever mentioned it at all.  Now, I don't know if this is because he simply didn't have the time in all of his lofty, towering allocutions to say a little something about civil rights, or if he actually supports the legislation (See: Lord Acton's Dictum), or if I just haven't been paying enough attention.  But, I like to think I keep up on things, and I read most of the stories on the President when I scroll through the news every day, and I think that, even if I've missed some citation of the Patriot Act by America's Sweetheart, even if there's a reference to it tucked away in some far corner of the recorded media, my point stands unscathed.  Because, foks, this is EASILY the most vile piece of law to have come out of the last administration, and if Obama means business, he should be shouting its curses from the goddamn White House roof.  This may seem nitpicky of me, but, you know, it's one of the biggest mistakes ever made by our Government, and I haven't heard so much as an apology from anyone for, like, eight years of bullshit man.  

Now, I ALSO haven't heard anything about No Child Left Behind, which is also extremely bothersome, Especially since the President came out of a part of the country that was really taken advantage of by it.  And now I'm hearing that we're spending the better part $700,ooo,ooo to keep Mexican drug dealers out of the United States.  Frankly, aside from what Obama has said he plans to do at some point, I haven't seen enough of a difference between the old boss and the new boss to get me to vote again in four years.  This may change, and I hope it does.

Monsters of Bach

I've started listening to only classical music lately, as much as someone can really "only" voluntarily listen to one kind of music. Maybe it's just that I'm going through a non-musical phase, but I don't think so. I don't really miss rock n' roll or pop or even jazz all that bad; and I think I would miss classical quite a bit if it were somehow stripped away from me. Maybe it's because I've been spoon-fed the young-people stuff since I was little by my parents and friends. It's like some weird, weird psychological thing whereby in order to gain independence from my immediate circumstance, I run to the biggest status quo in music. I think it must be the same way Alice Cooper became a Republican. This is not to say I'm a musical Luddite; I still prefer composers of whom there are photographs to composers of whom there are only portraits. I'm just sick of trying to keep up with the newest Santogold release as if I give a shit, and of keeping company with hipsters far hipper who will always be more on top of it than I am, and of being told that hearing a new song I like in a movie is the wrong, dumb people way to discover music. And I'm sick of tall, birdlike women and tall, birdlike men who wear quilted nylon coats and skinny jeans, teetering around Uptown like blueberries stuck on twigs, who go to progressive films and "care" about "tolerance" but who still have this whole bizarre, elitist Cult of Beauty thing going on, uniforms and all. Now, if anyone really reads this, I'm likely to catch flak about never having been a true "music person" in the first place, an accusation about which I don't PARTICULARLY care. It might also be you could criticize my syntax and word choices today as "pretentious," which is fine. I'd rather be a pretentious jerk with a vocabulary grounded in dictionary English than just another internet dolt, lolling and fapping around in a deep, deep well of stupid, stupid people with no individual personalities or thoughts.

Update Announcement and Short Grievance

Sorry about the delay in posting.  Believe it or not, I've been drawing all week, but I've been lazy about getting back up on that horse (scanner) again.  

In other news, EVERYBODY STOP REFERRING TO EVERYTHING AS (adjective)sauce.  IT MAKES NO SENSE, AND YOU'RE ALL STUPID FOR HAVING THOUGHT WELL ENOUGH OF IT TO INJECT IT INTO EVERYDAY VERNACULAR.  NOTHING IS RADSAUCE, AWESOMESAUCE, OR ANY OTHER KIND OF SAUCE.  JUST SPEAK NORMALLY, FOR GOD'S SAKE.

I’m Gonna Cack Ya

I’m in that goldilocks zone of boredom where I’m too bored to thumb through my DVD library for something to watch, but not bored enough to do schoolwork. That’s Blog Country right there. These moments do not come often, as is demonstrated so clearly by my spotty attendance record with this here journal, and when they do come, it’s not guaranteed that I’ll have anything interesting to say.

I was at a bookstore with my sister last weekend and in their vinyl LP section they had five or six records with titles to the effect of “Songs of the Third Reich”. I guess they, along with all the other records at the shop, came from the same gentleman’s collection. He also had copies of “MacArthur Park” and “Purple Rain”, so I imagine, to his credit, that the Nazi records were more a reflection of his interest in history than his preferences in music or racial purity.

I finally brought myself to walk into American Apparel this week. Since I am not a tall, stringbean-like man with a wall-eyed expression or a swan-like woman with grandma glasses and a Pocahontas headband, I felt more than a little out of place. But I had assumed this would happen going in. What I hadn’t assumed was that the dressing rooms would consist of a series of voting booths at the back of the store, made just barely private by thin white curtains. In my little booth, I couldn’t help but hear the lady employees, all dressed like Peter Pan, talking about making their boyfriends cry as they folded clothes. Another thing I hadn’t assumed about American Apparel was that the employees would be so nice. I guess they must not ship them in by crate from L.A. along with the clothes, huh? Ha-ha; Minnesota is clearly better.

My mother sends me letters every week। She mentioned in her last message that she felt bad that she hadn’t been keeping up in her weekly writing. This made me feel awful, because I have never in my entire life written a letter to her. It would be too picture-perfect, too functional of me to write her a response telling her she’s the most important person in my life, or how grateful I am for everything she’s given me (which is almost everything I have), or that when I think of home I mostly think of her.

I don’t like Joanna Newsom. It’s not that I don’t respect her abilities as an artist, or that I don’t like harp music, or that I’m jealous that she’s only twenty-six and already way more hip than I could ever hope to be (although that is troubling to me). It’s that I feel she goes out of her way to sound like a muppet that bothers me.

I’ll try to put some interesting content up in the coming few weeks। I have some neat projects I have to do for school, and they ought to be pertinent enough blog material।

As Captain James Tiberius Kirk and Commander William Thomas Riker begin to slash their way through the dense, alien jungle, they barely have time to wonder why they are appearing together on the same television series before they are AMBUSHED by SAVAGE, BACKWARDS MONGREL-MEN (and a dinosaur)! ALL IN NEXT WEEK’S EPISODE: PLANET OF THE MONGREL-MEN.*

*“TWOK Captain Kirk™” and “Commander Riker™” action figures intellectual property of Gene Roddenberry. “Mongrel-Man™” action figure property of LucasArts™. “TYRANNOSAURUS RES™” figure provided by China™. Foreground scenery provided by Nerf™. Background scenery created with Crayola™.

My Review of Robert Redford's "Ordinary People"

I know it's been awhile since I've posted, but I have a good excuse. My computer is broken and I'm forced to use the one at work for my trifles. Anyway, I've just finished watching and writing a very mean review for Robert Redford's 1980 puke-fest, "Ordinary People." Here it is:

Awful:

It's hard to know where to start on this piece of cinema garbage. I met Judith Guest once (she's from my home state), and you might think that that encounter would have sweetened my attitude going into this viewing. But when I see a film that's so bad on nearly every level, like "Ordinary People" is, no amount of charm on the part of the writer can sway me.

I think the music in the film is a good place to start. Pachelbel's tedious, boring "Canon in D Major," placed like heavy stone bookends at the beginning and conclusion of the movie, exemplifies the rhythmic, repetitious, gag-worthy melodrama of the story, and its association with high society fits the well-worn pants of the "rich people with problems" scenario from which this film can't seem to get away.

The cinematography is serviceable, but by no means is it innovative or even especially beautiful. Neither is the sound used in any new or meaningful way.

One might argue that camerawork and audio engineering were made simple with the intent of focusing attention on the story or the performances. But what story? The whiny, self-indulgent, tennis sweater-donning tragedy of a well-to-do family on the rocks? Or maybe director Robert Redford wanted us to concentrate on the high school-level psychology the film throws at us like an afternoon PSA.

To be kind, the performances, save for that of the always austere and dignified Donald Sutherland, are flaccid and contrived at best. Mary Tyler Moore is especially bad as she begins to pack her suitcase and breaks down crying, and it's clear that she is being coached by someone offscreen as her face twitches around and her eyes keep focusing on an unidentified point.

The fact that "Ordinary People" stole the Academy's "Best Picture" award in 1980 from both "Raging Bull" and "The Elephant Man"--undoubtedly two of the best films in Hollywood history--will go down as one of the all-time greatest crimes against cinema, not only because those two films are better than this one, but because this one is so very bad.

*

I should also note, if only for personal recording, that today is my 20th birthday. I have work for six hours and then class for six hours. Happy birthday, uh-huh.

Where's the Poop?

It's been a long time, but I don't know where else to turn. While this was meant primarily to be a video blog, I refuse to further update my old blog, which, while occupying a very cached-away place of love in my soul has proven too embarrassing and misunderstandishable for further use.

I only write now because I have realized that to write is a commitment tantamount to that which one must give a child or a lover, and although I don't actually know what I'm talking about, it must be that this is true because someone else's blog says so. I expect that what I have to say will rarely be of any consequence or relevance to anyone but myself, but perhaps time and a yet-unexposed group of similarly world-weary, pretentious young bastards will prove me wrong.

Now then; today I'd like to talk about Mickey Dee's, and more specifically about the meat of the matter. WacArnold's has launched a campaign, emblazoned on the sandwich boxes grabbed at by our corpulent children, bragging that their burgers are made with 100% Pure Beef. Rather than taking a more reassuring "This is what isn't in our food" route with a title like "FDA Allowable 2% Animal Feces," the Golden Arches has called into question the content of all of the Quarter Pounders, Double Quarter Pounder with Cheeses, and Big 'n Tasties made and served before these ads were printed. Am I supposed to assume that my suspicions have always been correct; that the hamburgers of my childhood were not only assembled and served with beef and a smile, but also with a dash of medical waste?

Maybe I'm being unrealistic. Maybe it's just that, before this campaign, McDreamy's put the meat from other animals into their sandwiches. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? Christ knows we've all had hotdogs that probably had a few bits of pigeon or saltwater iguana in them, and the worst that ever came of that was violent, effervescent diarrhea, right?

I know, I know. I'm being very hard on America's most popular eatery. I apologize. After all, they're just saying what they are. Certainly that must be better than the wily pitches of snakeoil salesmen Billy Mays and Ron Popeil. But something about McDuck's' sudden decision to advertise the contents of their meat smacks of the same kind of false sincerity observable in the "About Me" sections of countless MySpace rapists and in the smile of Ronald Reagan. Haven't Ray Kroc and company had something like fifty years to make their burgers with 100% Pure Beef, or at least to say so? Why now? Is it because of that ambiguously motivated but brilliantly cast Richard Linklater film? I want answers, McDonald's Chairman Andrew J. McKenna, Sr.