bread and circuses

With the latest spate of celebrity culling, there is one outstanding example of the ways in which reality becomes perverted. The Michael Jackson circus far outshines in terms of discussion and descent into madness the losses of Ed McMahon, Karl Mauldin ("Don't leave home without it") or Farra Fawcett-Majors--the fact that she died from anal cancer, which is surely a sad and tragic thing, and the condition has not had news reports dedicated to it, is pretty significant. I thought it was some biographical-vandalism when I first saw it, but I guess now no one will be comfortable taking about anal cancer is mixed company. There is talk now that Michael Jackson is to be buried without his brain, freezing it so he can be reincarnated in a robot body as Captain Eo. I've unfortuneately bought into that whole speculation and wild rumour trap. Like with Elvis, the King of Rock, one wonders if the King of Pop (he was married to his daughter, by the way) is really dead. It was certainly a brillant career move, erasing all the debt he accumulated. Michael Jackson spread those very rumours about him buying the skeleton of the Elephant Man and sleeping in a hyberbolic chamber, but that wasn't the half of it. Seeing Jackson interviewed makes me think that he might have tried a stunt like that--faking his own death and disappearing with Elizabeth Taylor to the Island of Doctor Moreau. Remember those "Paul is dead" rumours in the early eighties about Paul McCartney? I think McCartney's friend and business partner Michael Jackson started them, too. What is it about eccentricity (maybe that's too general or mild of a term) that drives disbelief that they're gone, anti-fame?

off-colour elephant

Everyone has occasion for fancy napkins, and one ought to always have a stock like this handy--I really adore the characters--Inconstant Sparrow, Magical Mushroom, Blinky Pengiun, Off-Colour Elephant and Psychadelic Frog who licked himself. I might like to be a graphic artist for the conglomeration that produces stuff like this. Graphic designers, however, no longer sit at a drafting table or are plucked from the ranks of those talented enough to raw Petey Pirate or Tommy Turtle any longer. I only use mundane general-issue sorts of graphics programs to make tepid slideshow presentations--it is like watching someone else's tedious holiday snapshoots, though I think H and I are on the crest of a resurrgence it that activity. We rather like showing off and seeing the pictures of others on vacation. Still I don't imagine that I could hack it as a graphic designer, when the graphic desigher says that he does not know how to do something, maybe it is not a matter of drawing skill or manual dexterity but rather lack of familiarity or patience with certain software.

ersatz

Quite possibly it is acceptable, from time to time, to fool Mother Nature. Either manifested as these great fly-swatters in the desert or as a non-descript kiosk about the size of a bank of public toliets, environmental researchers are developing a pretend tree of sorts--one that can snatch and sequestir stray carbon in the atmosphere. It doesn't seem like a great improvement from the original design, at first, since trees rather just happen and one only has to take care not to cut them down. These synthetic trees, however, grab carbon dioxide from any source (though it's not as if real trees are discriminatory and insistent on taking carbon dioxide only exhaled from the lungs they gave oxygen to) year round (trees only breath-in for half a year) and inside of producing wood pulp or fruit, the carbon collected can be compressed and liquified for other uses.

In other ugly plant news: the EU has lifted a regulation governing the aesthetics of produce on grocery shelves. The headlines read praise all-around for lifting the almost 20 year ban on wonky fruit and veg. Apparently, there was a law stipulating that 26 varieties of fruits and vegetables ought to be show-bread material, defining roundness and uniformity standards, while perfectly edible knobby carrots and lumpy tomatoes were wasted. This is a good thing, to not associate nutrition with the ideal apple or pear. Maybe shoppers were just averse to finding suggestive plant bits in their shopping carts--a great phallic cucumber or hinder-shaped apricots like H and saw at the super market, yesterday, just hours after the ban was rescinded.

bob the builder

Over the weekend, H and I worked more on the living room and hung strips of wallpaper. The bit of color was an accent--a single strip off-set from the wall's center. To make sure the paper was self-same and perpendicular to the floor and the paste was swabbed economically, H needed a heavy weight, a plumb-bob, and what proved to be the handiest object, the right size and the right amount of heft, was my little copper and iron crucifix suspended from a lenght of kite string. Incidentally, it was the same little cross that has been on tour with us in Rome and overlooking the plaza pictured. I told H he looked as if he were fishing for nuns.

in-situ

Previously, I've mentioned the unease that major construction projects give me around the workplace. Of course, the US army has to make good on its commitments, regardless of how delays and set-backs have made the particular building project in question moot or obsolete. In the past, the army has whipped up this procrastination into a fine art--having all the contractors paid just in time for base-closure and hand-over of facilities back to the German government. Looking at some of the work they are doing now, it appears that the construction firms have gotten wise to this tactic, and, in order to save themselves the extra work a year later, are putting a nice local touch on sidewalks, breezeways and pedestrian malls. It's as if they are terraforming the base in prepartion for an eventual take-over. There's even plans for a Biergarten. The work the teams are doing is very nice, though it doesn't fit the overall junkyard character of the place that hasn't been re-done--but I imagine there is still just enough time for all the just-in-time re-engineering.

mitfahrgelegenheit

One resource bearing search results in the forefront leaves one with this icon as the only graphic-representation of car-pooling. What if this war-time propaganda is the only notion of ride-sharing, our small effort for economy and to shrink our carbon-footprint, is the only entry that is distilled into the Encyclopedia Galactica? America isn't known for its subtlety, is it? Sort of in the same way one of the first live television broadcasts was the Hindenburg bursting into flames. Most people, I think, still assume this type of stance to car-pooling to work--that it is common-sense, maybe a bit noble--but still, most people don't consider themselves part of this horsey-set. There were relatively few follow-up campaigns--no mascots for ride-sharing. Even hitchhikers were roundly condemned as murderous vagants. Like suburbanites and small-city dwellers, no one would take public transit if they didn't need to. I yet have some reservations about the inbound journey, thinking of what errands I need to accomplish during the day and the extra stops I'll need to make afterwards. The lessened environmental impact and the conversation on the way home, however, make up for any imagined inconvenience--not to mention the respite from having to be behind the wheel.

touʹəl

Since settling in and having long ago abandoned old linens, like with the pillows, to packing-related missions, I have felt uninspired to order new towels. Towels are some of the most genuinely innovative pieces of handiwork in existence. One can use them far beyond the conventional shower--they can be used as a sling or a brace or a tourniquet, to wipe up all sorts of spills and splashes, be worn as a skirt or a superhero cape or swami turban--and can feel better and more luxuriant than few things. I think that I keep threatening to order some to dampen the rush to buy an expensive set from the boutique. New towels should be things one comes across spontaneously or they fall from the heavens fully-formed and in a gift basket. By myself, however, I find myself also very non-committal and reluctant to buy anything but one patchworked item at a time. We do need to hold some in reserve in order to practice some restraint with the laundry, but there is also the matter of the decor of the bathrooms. One could be decidedly nautical but we are veering away from that style. I like Frog Royalty too well to keep with bleached sea shells and sand dollars. The other bathroom is more modern and industrial, which I like as well, except for the decorative tiles which have little metallic silver accents on every three or four tiles. They are not harsh and glaring but it looks like something that would grace the dressing-room of Jem and the Holograms or if Charlie Sheen's interior decorator trophy-wife in Wall Street had designed it.

Terpsichore

There is no Muse of blogging--at least, not the likes that Robert Herrick or some sentimental poet would sing odes to, beseeching inspiration. If there were a blogging Muse, I'd wager that she'd be by turns loud and whiney, impatient and absent, and more than just a little bit raunchy. The word museum comes from a place to worship the Muses but I don't know that I'd like to make a special trip to this one's temple--Terpsipornai we could name her, delight in harlots, or perhaps she already exsists in the sister Clio, Muse of History, whose name means to "recount" or to "make famous." There's no Muse of journalism either, and yet there's no shortage of commentary and analysis for every topic, accessible or not. Maybe that's why the news business is collapsing. Maybe the trick is to pick a subject and stick to it--the well never seems to run dry then. There is no longer the Johan Daily, nor would I have the fortitude to publish such a thing--although there's always the pleasant unmentionables, there is no ephemeral news-cycle that I would care to share. The Muses were all about inspiration for improvisation, in any case, and not about research and re-worked rehearsals.