An Aerial Theory & A Few Pictoral Mementos

I love the aerial shot, however undefined, because it has no reference point except the sheer size and spectacle of human achievement, its dense, connect-the-dot architecture. On the other hand, I dislike too much technology as it sedates the senses into an easy, in-front-of-eye complacency. I prefer the moments of WTF shock, where the what-the-beautiful utterance is frequent and entirely spontaneous, a blissful recognition of being alive to experience that very moment for itself, like looking out the window of a descending plane with the lights below spotting the human settlements against the onsetting darkness, a return to weight and to the earth.

Here are pics from my trip, friends:

Whoopi Likes Makin' W-h-double O-p-double E

During an interview with Barbara Walters, super seductress Whoopi Goldberg confessed to bedding 50 men. "It doesn't matter how many people you've been with in your life," Whoopi said, throwing it to commercial. "It's who you stick with." Sweet, sweet Whoopi in an unsisterly act.

It's not too funny (nor pretty) a thought to be honest, but it makes me think...nevermind, hit it Paul!

Bricolage

I am not a writer in the FedEx sense; that is, I write, not in post-haste, but as it comes on its own gradual incline into the mind. The advertisements and avenues of my day are particularly important as they date and locate who I am, the where and when I loved and lived. My writing is tied to me, as a ship moored to the dock. Only when it is sealed and seaworthy, will I let it go, to watch it address those ebb-and-flow waves whose origins are unknown to me.

I dislike those who can't tell (or take the time to tell) Juan from Juan. I'm always up for a British cup of twee and see myself, at times, like a mendicant (emphasis on the cant) wandering out of the wilderness, five fitful years of ascetic exile, and at peace with the world. Last, if Pythagoras said that all things are numbers, I'm just saying that the only things I can numerate are those that truly matter to me--family, best friends, flavors of gelato, favorite buildings, and, of course, lifetimes.

Triumph of the Will

My published Flavorpill post:
Filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl’s legacy rose and fell with her disreputable subjects, Adolf Hitler and his Third Reich — such that despite her innovations in cinematography and her poetic, Wagnerian approach, the Nazi-symbol asterisk beside her name assures that any reference to “Riefenstahl” comes with a “tsk-tsk” caveat. With that in mind, a warning: Triumph of Will, her notorious documentary on the 1934 Nazi Party Convention, is the most impressive (and insane) propaganda film ever commissioned. Part pre-WWII Nuremberg travelogue (in which the city’s Gothic architecture and waterways break up the Nazi marches) and part ode to der herky-jerky Führer, Riefenstahl’s “verité” document fascinates and disturbs.

Nights of Cabiria

My published Flavorpill post:
In one of Frank O’Hara’s off-the-cuff lunch poems, Giulietta Masina makes a seemingly random appearance as “wife of Federico Fellini, é bell' attrice.” The New Schooler was onto something, though, as the ever-expressive Masina defied rhyme and reason in any language. The early, neorealist Fellini used his better half’s buoyant energy to tenderize the movement’s trademark down-in-the-dumps focus. In their third (and arguably best) collaboration, Nights of Cabiria, she’s the proverbial prostitute with the heart of gold, whose luck with men is literally bankrupt—each one “cashing out” at their first chance. Despite the wallops to the belly, her spirit is never crushed, and Masina’s against-all-odds perseverance lends the sob story a strangely restorative quality.

My published Flavorpill post.
My mishmash:
In The Apartment, Billy Wilder’s satirical take on mid-century corporate life, Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine’s endearing chemistry remains the undiluted draw. The lovable Lemmon plays C.C. “Bud” Baxter, an insurance clerk no more distinguishable on his floor’s latticework of desks than any other Poindexter. Bud, however, holds the key to ending the 8:50-to-5:20 tyranny: let his superiors use his private space for some extramarital coitus in exchange for a ticket to the professional fast track. It’s all swell until the gal happens to be the very charming MacLaine, whereupon Lemon must draw the mutually exclusive line between mensch and moneyman.

Kind Hearts and Coronets

My published Flavorpill post.
My mishmash:
In 1999, the British Film Institute ranked Kind Hearts and Coronets as the sixth best British film, placing director Robert Hamer alongside the elite likes of Hitchcock, Lean, and Carol Reed. Kind Hearts is Hamer’s high-water mark and the highlight of his mini-retrospective at the BAMcinématek. The black comedy tracks a Machiavelli with a disinherited name (Dennis Price) who intends to avenge his mother’s misfortune by ascending to the D’Ascoyne family’s dukedom. Eight potential heirs--all played to droll, cross-dressed perfection by Alec Guinness--stand in his way of his crowning achievement. Within the murderous machinations is the Ealing Studios’ trademark irony as Hamer drenches each of Guinness’ demise in ageless wit and sophistication.

No Jumanji for Kipunji

The three-foot tall primate was discovered just three years ago and is now on the verge of extinction. I hope no one told them to get comfortable, especially with us humans around--we're treacherous!

Via Treehugger.

Batman Cares (& is everywhere)

The Chicago Tribune has broken down our superheroes' (and heroines') rub-out methods and other card-displaying acts into political affiliations. Strangely, the anti-evil, comic-strip world is full of Republicans--Superman is a Reagan Republican as are Iron Man, the Punisher, and Silver Surfer while Batman and all the heroines are Democrats. My addition: Professor Xavier is a communist for his school and all-for-one attitude.

Digesting the Digital World

While not putting the STOP! in dystopian (after all he's using a digital camera to capture dehumanizing progress), Branislav Kropilak's photography does cut a pretty and precise figure. The images are always pristine, pixel-free, and unearthly, with a cold geometry measured by its deviation from the perfect rather than its inaccurate (re: human) relation to degrees--in short, art for the android. Yes, it's all very lovely in its sleek industry.

Via Cool Hunting.

Poultry Propaganda

Via Boing Boing.

They Were Built Stronger Back Then

Philippe Petit walked on a wire between the World Trade towers in 1974. Do you think that his "little" name caused him to go big or go home?

75 Things Your Testosterone Needs Before Termini Station

Lists are so totally cool right now.

Which Came First?

Via PSFK.

No MSG Here

Via Boing Boing.

The Skeleton Dance and Fantasia

My published Flavorpill post:
For better or worse, our childhoods were stamped with Walt Disney’s early zeal for non-sequitur logic. (Dalí, who christened him an American Surrealist, saw them as flip-books of delirious dreams.) After he conjured up the money-making Mickey Mouse in 1928, Disney directed The Skeleton Dance, which stars four human skeletons in a cute, demented danse macabre. The Silly Symphony removes reality’s fetters to pave the way for the icon’s freewheeling, all-ages masterpiece, Fantasia--a dialogue-free pastiche composed of eight animated sequences in which the visual mayhem syncs with Stravinsky and Mussorgsky’s bombastic swells.

Orson Welles and the Mercury Theatre on Air

Shepard Fairey Steals and Still Sucks

Holy bulgogi. How could this happen? I can't believe Kobe, my all-time favorite athlete, agreed to this. Then again, he has demonstrated iffy judgment before.

Skeleton Dance

One of my favorite Silly Symphonies. Unfortunately for Disney, I think that this line sums up nine-tenths of today's popular opinion towards him:
"The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interrred with their bones."

Man Ray for the London Tube, 1938

The Chrysler Building

In an apparent effort to compete with Dubai’s fast-rising skyline on whatever landmass possible, Abu Dhabi has purchased a 75% stake (formerly owned by Prudential Financial) in the Chrysler Building, Manhattan landmark, apotheosis of Art Deco architecture, and my most beloved building in the world. Gargoyled, spired, and majestic, I still remember my 3-D puzzle facsimile of it--one which I built, disbanded, and, alas, ebayed off.



From Skyscraper.org:

The Chrysler Building
405 Lexington Ave.

Developer: Walter P. Chrysler
Architect: William van Alen
Structural Engineers: Ralph Squire and Sons
Height: 319 m /1,046 ft
Floors: 77

The 1,046-foot Chrysler Building was the tallest building in the world from 1930 to 1931 and was part of an intense race for this title. In 1928, developer William H. Reynolds hired William Van Alen to design the world's tallest building for a site leased at the northeast corner of Lexington Avenue and 42nd Street, across from Grand Central Station. Later that year, Reynolds sold both lease and plans to Walter P. Chrysler, who wanted to build a new headquarters for the Chrysler Corporation. Van Alen altered the plans to reflect his new patron: a domed lantern became a metal clad spire; the frieze on the 30th floor became a line of hubcaps; new gargoyles were enormous, Chrysler Eagle radiator caps; fenders and hood ornaments became part of the decoration.

Groundbreaking took place on September 19th, 1928. In 1929, however, Van Alen's former partner, H. Craig Severance, began work on an even taller building at 40 Wall Street for the Bank of The Manhattan Company. Not to be outdone, Van Alen secretly had an 185-foot spire built within the fireshaft of the Chrysler Building. As soon as Severance had completed his 927-foot structure in August 1930, Van Alen had the 27-ton spire raised to the top of the Chrysler Building in a mere 90 minutes, surpassing his downtown rival handily.

The Chrysler Building has an H-plan with setbacks at the 16th, 23rd and 30th floors. The main shaft rises 68 floors, although offices only go up to the 65th (the 66th through 68th housed the exclusive Cloud Club and an observation lounge). Four banks of eight elevators each brought up over one thousand workers and visitors daily at an unprecedented speed. The novel use of aluminum and chrome-nickel steel for exterior details was mirrored in an interior of luxury; elaborate, wood marquetry, rich, varied marbles, and dramatic custom lighting created an interior as theatrical as its exterior.

Van Alen and Chrysler fell out over allegations of contractors' bribery; the Chrysler Corporation never fully utilized its space and Van Alen's career virtually ended. Moreover, critics were unimpressed with the building, calling its metal-clad form too "romantic," "overly ambitious," or even worse, "merely advertising." However, it is just these aspects that make the building perhaps the most notable of New York's skyline.

When completed, it became the tallest man-made structure in the world, surpassing even the Eiffel Tower in Paris. Its reign was short lived. On May 1st, 1931 the 1,250-foot Empire State Building opened at 350 Fifth Avenue (Shreve, Lamb & Harmon) and became the World's Tallest Building for over four decades.

Sea Change

South America seems to be all over my RSS reader lately. Ingrid Betancourt and 14 other hostages were rescued from Colombian rebels--a story now slated for a theatre near you. Meanwhile, Fritz Lang’s baroque masterpiece Metropolis will be re-released in its uncut entirety (80 years after it premiered during the Weimar Republic) thanks to footage discovered inside an Argentinean museum archive. Argentina (but more likely the Patagonia region of South Chile) seems to be the location of another long, lost piece of German history: the most-wanted Nazi war criminal, Aribert Heim aka Dr. Death. But by far the happiest news happens to be the discovery of a new reef in the Abrolhos Bank near Brazil. The reef is home to a dense array of sea creatures, including rarer species like soft corals, mollusks, and Mussismilia, a mushroom-shaped coral.

UPDATE! Photos here.

Where The Danger Lavas Live

Pro-surfer CJ Kanuha has chrome cahones and even those would melt in the 200C waters. It reminds me of the loco last scene in the Keanu-Swayze classic, Point Break, but only in a cursory, what-the-hell way.

As always, there's plenty of sexual innuendo with volcanoes and the testosterone-troubled daredevils who come out when she blows her lode.

Go Go Gadget

On another note:
Most people get the heebie-jeebies at the mere thought of mass mocking and there’s an actual word for it: gelotophobia. It’s somewhat ironic that such a funny, dessert-sounding word came to describe the debilitating fear of being ridiculed. But gelos actually means laughter in Greek, so eureka!

Peg One for Penguin

The nonpareil publishing house Penguin has released the third volume of their aesthetically-pleasing, pocket-emptying books. It's part of their "Great Ideas" series, which feature books famous for their dense discourse on philosophy and politics. Fairly affordable ($40 a set), they would add instant cachet, as well as a distinguished design, to any library. Reading them is a different story. I'm inclined to pose the simple-minded question: can you judge a book by its cover?

Yet, I love the idea of including choice quotes on the covers as well as the series' overall color palette. Here are some of my favorites from the collection thus far (although all of them are lookers), each one apparently mimicking and improving upon their era's prevalent stylistics:

For Volume I
Volume II
Volume III

Undersea Allure

Even sea creatures need a break from America once in awhile. This may or may not be why the Gulf of Mexico's population of Golden Rays migrate twice a year from western Florida to Yucatan. Despite rolling 10,000 deep, the graceful gliders don't suffer from group mentality; instead, they feel as shy as schoolboys and schoolgirls.

On another note, the romantic nature of these photos (taken by an amateur photographer named Sandra Critelli) conjure up Jean Painleve's surreal and magical images. Here's one of his more famous shorts:

Independence Daze, For Which I Have These Flashes

A wonderfully upside-down weekend, the most happening in a long while.
Thursday: non-stop Nintendo-ing. Super Mario 3 + Contra + Time = Game Over.
Friday: The Feelies and Sonic Youth at Battery Park beneath splendidly overcast skies and the intermittent pit-pat of rain, which seemed to fall into blimpy mentality, aka being uncertain about other peoples' perception if it should precipitate; city-sponsored fireworks (the power! the glory! such execution! such phosphorescence!) from the Bushwick lofts, drunkard-sparked fireworks on the Bushwick lofts.
Saturday: Hail the Conquering Hero; 4 White Castle jalapeno sliders eaten immediately, Brueghel beer after. Q: Is it the beer Brueghel got smashed up on, or is it the by-the-barrel beer of those ruddy-faced peasants of lore?
Sunday: A Wimbledon finals to remember (and well worth the seven hours of rain-delayed marathon tennis), with Federer losing to Nadal in heartbreaking, heroic, and probably reign-ruining fashion. Hancock, which was strange, surely entertaining for the simple-minded, and now sitting restfully enough in the back of my mind as summer filler; Will Smith deserves a place with fireworks, watermelon, and BBQs on a Fourth checklist). Bike-riding, reminded that bikes have been around for nearly 200 years and that there is nothing better than a dusky ride, the breeze billowing your shirt, stirring your soul in the circular direction of stripped-down and serene thoughts, and your wheels tilted towards home after a long weekend.

Also, here's a project. I've named it Only a Game (After Saewon). It's inspired by both my beloved Los Lakers and their scar-worthy Finals loss and my dear friend Saewon's own sad-then-rad portraits on her fridge.

Arsenic and Old Lace

Arsenic and Old Lace embraces rule#1 for a screwball classic: the hero must have a mayhem-making secret. For Cary Grant, an anti-marriage newlywed (rule#2: contradictions become common sense), the “secret” is his kooky family: two kindly spinster aunts who inure themselves to the idea of Kavorkian-style “assistance” for lonely old gentlemen; one brother who thinks he’s Teddy Roosevelt; and another, murderous, brother who resembles Boris Karloff. Once director Frank Capra situates the relatives (and thirteen dead bodies) under one roof, Grant’s many confused, Kabuki-like faces encapsulate his try at resolving family matters before his honeymoon. But with all the macabre amusement, even the traces of Capra-corn seem forgivable.

The Magic Lantern

My published Flavorpill post:
Entertainment technologies move forward mercilessly, pulling our imaginations along from one medium to the next like freights of raw ore. For instance, the advent of motion pictures in the late 19th century made off with a healthy pie-chart portion of the audience for magic-lantern projection shows. But before the initials F-O-X or W-B were carved into popular consciousness, magic lanterns provided a wonder-filled synthesis of images, live music/sound effects, and the unknown. Tonight, Tokyo's Minwa-za Company demonstrates the early multimedia art of Utsushi-e, a multi-lanterned elaboration on the Western art. On Wednesday, the American Magic-Lantern Theater evokes the Victorian spirit with a sight-and-sound spectacle on America's history; afterward, pre-cinema scholar Deac Rossell discusses the medium's history and transformation.

Salvador Dalí: Home Movie & The General

My published Flavorpill post.
My mishmash:
In his early art criticism, Avida Dollars (or to be anagramically correct, Salvador Dalí) extolled the great silent comedians—Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd, and the lesser-known Harry Langdon—for the surrealist sensibility in their only-in-the-movies adventures. The earnest, stone-faced Keaton was Dalí’s favorite of the four, a strange preference when one considers the Spaniard’s where’s-Salvador? personality. Yet, Keaton was custom-cut for the painter’s belief in tireless invention and technical resourcefulness, particularly in his masterpiece, The General. In it, the agile Keaton pursues the Union goons who stole both his train (the titular General) and his bride-to-be. The evening opens with Alma DeLuce’s silent short, Salvador Dalí: Home Movie, which glimpses the artist in Chaplinesque pantomime.

Passing Through

My published Flavorpill post.
My mishmash:
1977 was the debut-then-disappear year for two underground LA classics, Charles Burnett’s Killer of Sheep and Larry Clark’s Passing Through. Rediscovered last year, the two are Other-side hieroglyphics in motion: both offer honest representations of African-American life during the rough-and-tumble 70s—KoS a poem for the proletariat, PT a portrait of the artist as an angry young man. The latter, which screens tonight, focuses on a jazz saxophonist and his band, who struggle against a corrosive stream of big-business prejudice to start a record company, while the innovative, restless sounds of Sun Ra, John Coltrane, and Charlie Parker fill the air.

Sea, I Told You

China's green nightmare, among many. Officials ask: Who invited this fun-gi?

Via the New York Times.