5x5

warp factor: speed ratings of the fastest space ships in the galaxy

a gossip of mermaids: a delightful compilation of supernatural, ghoulish collective nouns, via the Wunderkammer that is Nag on the Lake

bling: uncompromisingly luxurious wrist watch that has an iWatch on the underside

plastic arts: prototype demonstration of a motorized sculpting glove

ennuigi: arcade game betrays Mario’s brother’s existential woes, world-weariness

psychobabble

The resplendent blog Mind Hacks confronts us with an elucidating list of fifty terms native to the industry—call them jargon or what you will—that ought to be avoided or especially refined from the way they are popularly featured and consumed. This catalogue of “maven” vocabulary is rather like the presumptuous way that connoisseurs describe, experientially and lusciously, the act of wine tasting, “velvety while a bit twiggy with a hint of brisk after-shave and the surprising suggestion of a soggy bonnet.” This warrant to speak of a nip in such rarefied language is a direct inheritance of the idea of dining libations as a medicinal complement to balance one’s humours, unsurprisingly like the prognoses and diagnoses of mental and behavioural conditions that fall under the protection of a certain ægis. Some words are better put back in the cabinet.  Such florid and expressive terms of the cognizanti that try to gain a purchase on unique cases ought not be banished from polite mention but should be used to forward dialogue on the common currency.

spoilers ahoy or mise-en-scène

Via Dangerous Minds’ Dangerous Finds, comes this brilliant cinematic critique of the current trend in Hollywood blockbusters’ expositions that have become impenetrably complex, byzantine and shamelessly porous. Rather than a simple, straightforward—however unlikely—plot that can be pitched in a few word, like if the secretary fails to type under forty words per minute with fewer than two typographical errors, the bomb hidden in the office will explode, which will then be buoyed up by a series of stunts and explosive precursors or with the sponsorship of a can of Mister Pibb consumed conspicuously. Cut and scene.

Since directors and producers have been dredging nostalgia for all its worth, perhaps having even travelled through time themselves in attempts to affect revisions and acclimate themselves to discontiguous time lines, however, it seems that movies have indeed become more ambitiously inscrutable. Perhaps this confusion is in part owing to franchises that hope to encapsulate and rehash universes and characters—who perhaps have cemented their identities in the minds of some fans as something iconic and inviolable or perhaps not by people less familiar with the particular genre and not as well studied as the filmmakers believe—that have been in development for decades. A ninety minute reel—though there’s also a trend in longer and longer movies, can hardly expect to distill an entire saga—even when a sequel or prequal is already a foregone conclusion, paradoxically. Whether or not a feature can holds its own outside of a triptych and creative minds are not concerned with resolution in storytelling, it does not satisfactorily explain the wherefore of escapades internal that settle as jarring and baffling for the audience afterwards. It’s not a memory that sits well, not like a stirring monologue or particularly spectacular chase scene, but rather something nagging and regrettable like proofreading one’s own missives after it’s already been published. Maybe the missing element that accounts for nothing shed on the cutting-room floor is, as the article suggests, that the license to syndicate, to portray a film centered around a defined group of superheroes adjudged to be iconic. Proprietorship probably does turn the process in ways that don’t pan out well on the screen. Of course I am not privy to any bemoaning examples, but some near equivalent might include a video game adaptation that could materialise in the near term or being able to offer one more action figure or variant in a different wardrobe already in production. It’s rather like the make-believe of security that the prop-masters, gaffers and grips—the stagehands of bureaucracy and contractors, that are ingrained and implicit in the theatre that stays behind the arras so the audience might never know. What do you think? Are you finding action movie plots a little too adventuresome and unhinged as well?

slaget i hafrsfjord

The intrepid adventurers at Atlas Obscura sends a picture postcard from Stavanger of the monumental commission of Sverd i fjell, which was among some our parting shots from our extended Norwegian vacation a few years back.
The peace declared that united the three warring factions of the western reaches of the kingdom under the leadership of good King Harald the Fair Hair (Harald Hårfagre) is really kind of obscured by the sheer scale and sight of three giant swords plunged into the beach of Madla—though the event is very much celebrated and romanticized in popular culture and stands just as large in the shared imagination. One thousand, one hundred eleven years after the decisive battle, King Olaf V degreed that this Viking victory be immortalised and it was wrought and wielded in 1983 by native sculptor Fritz Røed. One of these days, we’ll make it back to those shores and find those swords half buried regardless of how much time and tide has passed.

5x5

kool & the gang: Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem rock out to Jungle Boogie

shill: dreadful social media spoof campaign that perhaps hits too close to home

avtovaz: gorgeous gallery of vintage Soviet automobile advertising

good libations: an animated history of adult beverages

parallax barrier: guide to rigging one’s smart phone to project a holographic image

pokédex or psychomanteum

I suppose both iterations of the popularity of Pokémon came at the wrong phases of life for me since I really never understood the appeal of collecting pocket-monsters but I nonetheless found the fact that this bestiary, via Neatorama, has origins rooted in Japanese mythology and folklore—with sometimes a direct correspondence though the inspiring legendary creatures are far more imaginative and disturbing—really fascinating. Tornadus is basically the Shinto Elder god Fūjin—master of the winds and cultural-transmission of the Greek demi-god Boreas (Septentrio to the Latins).
Whishcash (I love these naming conventions that make me think of the Wizzrobes, Peahats and Octoroks of the Legend of Zelda) is patterned after the observed behavior mortal catfish thrashing about and swimming erratically just prior to a tremor and it was believed that a gigantic cousin, the Onamazu was in turn responsible for causing earthquakes by throwing its weight around. There are several more darker fables and ghost stories to read at the link. Moreover, this fascination with play and acquisition (got to catch ‘em all) is not a recent phenomenon either, but dates back to parlour games hosted in the homes of seventeenth century Japan. This was a very superstitious age for many, correlating with the popularity of séances and spiritual mediums in Victorian England and of course later incarnations—that sort of slumber party game, like light-as-a-feather or looking into the bathroom mirror with the lights off and conjurating Bloody Mary or that new elevator ritual where one runs the risk of being trapped in a parallel ghost dimension, and as night fell men and women came together for the Gathering of One Hundred Supernatural Tales and took turns exchanging nightmares, folktales and general unexplained encounters. After each round, the player retreated into a separate room, a sort of containment field where a wall of one hundred paper lanterns stood opposite a single mirror and extinguished one light. Generally the evening’s entertainment—involving elements of catoptromancy, divination from mirror gazing, which saw new demons and monsters summoned up with each epic session, did not last all one hundred rounds and was customarily called off by ninety-nine out of fear that all those spirits would become uncontrollable and their haunting permanent.

5x5

fine motor skills: Japanese surgeons in training undergo a battery of delicate, microscopic exercises   

ex libris: via Kottke, the Bodleian is making over 100 000 images and manuscripts freely available on-line

gelotology: an overview for the neglected research into how a baby’s laughter could hold profound psychological insights

fun, fun, fun auf der autobahn: Rick Moranis covered Kraftwerk in a 1989 album

skullduggery: ancient peoples may have buried horse skulls under the floors of homes and churches to achieve a sought after acoustic effect

vermicious knids or many mouths to feed

Although my Venus Flytrap seems to be thriving quite well—despite the dietary restrictions I’ve enforced and certainly don’t want it to suffer any malnourishment in the meantime, it is rather presenting me with a moral dilemma.
To begin with, I wonder what my ward might think of me being a vegetarian, not a carnivore—however passively, but a committed planter-eater, ravenous even. The opportunity to sacrifice an annoying indoor housefly, usually a persistent and irritating occurrence but presently the apartment is strangely silence, has not yet presented itself and I am not sure, unable to swap a pest but only shoo it away, if I could avail myself to the task. I admit that it’s probably a silly thing to rend my hands over, but I’m hoping that I might get away with a crime of omission, that the balcony might an adequate environment for insects in transit or find some unfortunate bug dead or dying of natural causes or not wholly splattered and disintegrated on the car’s grille. I don’t know if that would work. I bet the other, more sessile plants are getting a little jealous of this sort of doting and negative attention. What would you do?