steampunk

Published in the last decades of the nineteenth century and arguably the first dedicated periodical dedicated to science-fiction, the Franke Reade Library was quite a visionary—although that vision included Manifest Destiny, the white man’s burden and second-wave colonialism as well as the untapped potential of electricity—exploit in circulation in the five-and-dimes of New York and abroad.
Writing under the pseudonym Noname (which made me think of how the wily Odysseus called himself Nobody, Οὖτις, as a nom de guerre whilst combatting the Cyclopes and how Nemo is the Latin equivalent of the pen-name), the young Cuban-American Luis Senarens was certainly the first modern prolific writer in the genre, authoring hundreds of stories in this series and in others, later becoming the editor of a detective story and true-crime magazine. The comparison of Senarens’ work to that of Jules Verne (Captain Nemo) is and the two corresponded over their careers—taking elements of the other’s feats of engineering.

icebreaker and impasse

The somewhat ironically named Crystal Serenity is the first leviathan of a cruise-liner to haul holiday-makers through the once fabled Northwest Passage (only navigable year around since 2009 due to the arctic pack ice) and recently completed its maiden voyage, as Jalopnik reports.
Not only were guests a bit disappointed to not see majestic icebergs parting before them or penguins and polar bears accompanying them, it seems they also failed to appreciate the infamy of being the first “explorers” here. Aside from stark environmental concerns, as the sea-lanes widen and traffic inevitably increases, it also poses a vexing problem for Canada since the waters are part of the country’s internal territory but the rest of the maritime world has already decided (without conferring first with Canada) that there should be free and unhindered transit for all. Depending on how negotiations go forward, Canada might maintain its fishing and environmental regulations but not the power to bar any vessel entry—saddled with the responsibility for combatting piracy, smuggling and clean-up operations when a spill or a wreck does occur.

food, fólks and fun

Though the last franchise of a global fast-food giant closed nearly seven years ago due to the worldwide financial crisis, there is apparently still at least one committed gourmand, as the Reykjavík Grapevine reports, who received a parcel from Hungary containing a hamburger.
The customs office intercepted the package before the recipient could claim it, and it is unclear whether the meal was consumed afterwards (or if indeed this was a regular delivery but I do not imagine that much contraband gets through the Icelandic postal system). Given that the last value menu sold in the country was on display under glass at the National Museum looking little changed since October 2009 (it’s subsequently been moved to a plinth at a local hostel), I am guessing the Icelander was able to satisfy his nostalgic cravings.

the uncola

I really enjoyed reading this history of 7Up from Collectors’ Weekly and learning how a succession of marketing campaigns that brilliantly, verging perhaps on plagiarism sometimes, helped the UnCola distinguish itself from the cadre of competing tonics by making the soft drink resonate the movement of the times, echoing Peter Max (especially his playfulness), psychedelia and the Yellow Submarine.
It’s really worth browsing the entire gallery of billboards, posters and merchandise amassed by a few dedicated collectors that helped the beverage survive—including covert and overt references to protests of the Vietnam War and illicit hallucinogens. The only thing missing from the account is the effervescent story behind its original, secret recipe—which contained lithium—and is named in homage to the pep (or rather mood-stabilising effects) that that element with the atomic mass of seven can impart.

glass menagerie or radial symmetry

Hyperalleric invites us on a field-trip that they’ve helped to curate themselves to the Corning Glass Museum to marvel at the exhibit of antique glass models of deep sea creatures—tube worms, squid, corals and anemones—crafted in a nineteenth century workshop in Dresden from the stacks and storerooms of Cornell University, having acquired a sizable amount of them in the late 1800s for instruction in marine biology.
The glass-workers were quite skilled and came from a long line of artists, and in response to wide-spread interest in natural history at the time, turned their attention away from jewelry (though having gotten quite talented at making glass eyes for taxidermists) and tried to accurately capture the look of these delicate specimens that usually disintegrate once taken out of their native environment. The gorgeous creations were shelved and forgotten with the advent of photography, and later rediscovered and mended—nearly as fragile as the invertebrates they represent, displayed not just as other-worldly chandeliers and beautiful baubles but also studied as record (a novel sort of fossil) of the loss of biodiversity in the oceans over the ensuing century and a half.