Photographers who used Kodachrome film in the 1950s had no idea the photos they were shooting would have that look people would immediately identify with the mid-20th century for the rest of eternity.
They just knew Kodachrome was the coolest looking color film available at the time, and up until 1954 the film was sold process-paid since it was so difficult for labs to process.
This cutting edge color film made people feel like they were posing for special pictures, so they tried to look their best and pose properly whenever someone was shooting with a roll of Kodachrome.
Nowadays we can use filters and other digital effects to give our pics a vintage look, but these modern pics will never really have that softly muted Kodachrome feel only vintage film can provide.
Repotted a rose and a pelargonium
Fertilized the indoor orchids.
Cleaned up area around couch.
Also had a lovely lunch with M.
It has been really great to have some time to clean up the house in that deep de-cluttering mode.
So... huh. I guess this happened.
This is part of the on overcoming the fear of spiders continuity, and takes place before the end of that story. You should read that story first, for context.( Spring of 2077 - Nepal )
Symba was surrendered to the Human Rescue Alliance a couple of weeks ago when his owner went to a nursing home. Symba is 6 years old and weighs 35 pounds! The shelter in Washington, DC, put him on a diet and hoped to find a new owner who would continue the program. Publicity helped, and Symba has been adopted by Kiah Berkeley and Peter Sorkin.
“He is lovely. He is a really sweet guy,” Berkeley, 31, told ABC News of Symba’s personality.
The engaged couple heard about him like everyone else: on the news.
“There were a bunch of news stories about him,” she said. “We love cats. My fiancé and I had two cats already. I have a particular affinity for very large animals and he obviously was a really sweet, loving guy. Very cute.”
Every month has a fourth Sunday, a fourth Monday, and so on.
"30 days hath September,
April, June, and November",
so they have two "fifth Xdays" each; February has none (ignoring leap years); and the other seven each have three. That's 29 "fifth Xdays" in every year, and so 29 "fourth Xdays" that aren't "last Xdays". 12 x 7 = 84 "last Xdays"; 29 ÷ 84 = 0.345+.
I just joined a group that meets the fourth Saturday of every month. I had to specify "repeats the last Saturday of every month", then go through and manually shift about one-third of them back one week: namely, every occurrence that was on the 29th, 30th, or 31st day of the month. This is the kind of simple-minded, repetitious scutwork that computers can do far better than humans. I've given you all you need to add a very simple algorithm to your calendar, and a compelling reason to add it. Please do so.
SouthDale High School is out for Spring Break, so the Clark siblings invite the Fudo siblings to come with them to where their Aunt Roxanne lives in a place known as Metro City where the famed superhero Metro Man lives, but also where the dastardly Megamind lives.
Words: 1105, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English
Last time, petty crook Parker Robbins kicked the crap out of a Hydra recruiter, shot a demony-looking character in the midst of a break-in, and discovered the boots he stole from its corpse allowed him the power of flight.
Trigger warnings for racism, sexist language, gore, and a reference to rape.( Read more... )
It's not that we expected catastrophe at this AnthrOhio. But we were on edge. For one, the convention had moved its weekend, from the start to the end of May. This was actually a good thing for us. It meant the convention would not be part of the end-of-term rush for bunny_hugger. It also meant that the Columbus Zoo would have its amusement park sideline open. They have an antique carousel and a wooden roller coaster we'd never been able to ride because it was too early in the year to run every previous trip.
But it's still a change in the weekend, the sort of thing that can mess up a convention's tone. And it came a year after the convention changed its name for reasons we are not really clear about, and change of some uncertain number of the core organizational people. Even some of the traditions that had been kept were mutated too; things like the Atomic Battle of Doom were renamed something less spectacularly fun, something like the Foam-Flinging Frenzy. That's probably as good a name to describe what it is, a bunch of people shooting Nerf darts at each other, but I know the name we encountered first. It's given the convention the last couple years this ominous sense of possibly imminent doom.
The official notice of doom came at opening ceremonies, and the revelation that this would be the last AnthrOhio at the Holiday Inn Worthington. They promised the new location would be great, all the better, but this would be the con's farewell to a hotel that's gotten very familiar. I've spent at least three weeks of my life at it. bunny_hugger's spent over a month of hers. It feels very much like home. The convention didn't officially announce why they were leaving, but the answer's in the newspapers. The hotel's being demolished, to be torn down and replaced with ... two hotels. And some shopping space. The new hotels won't have convention space, though, so AnthrOhio has to move on to a place that turns out to be like a mile south and east. It'll still be almost the same drive. We'll be able to go to the same burrito place, really. Just we'll drive past the spot that used to be this little bit of home.
And then there was a potentially truly awful situation. One of the guests of honor was a person we knew from online. And did not like, because the Guest of Honor had been consistently, quietly nasty toward my wife. I've had to deal with different grades of nastiness toward my wife, so I should say this was a low-key sort of nasty, the sort of person who conspicuously shuts you down when you want to talk about, you know, yourself in a circle that includes mutual friends. The person was mutual friends with the Big Name Furry Artist whom I called out on some of her bull a few years ago, at the loss of our mutual friends. There's much that makes me sad about this. One thing that does not is the loss of Guest of Honor from my online life. It's honestly been nice not to have to overlook Guest of Honor's little jabs at how my wife should stop wasting the group's time with her needs. (My needs never rated discussion in the group, by the way.)
Well, Guest of Honor has talents, I'd be lying to deny or minimize, and used those along with induced fame from the link to Big Name Furry Artist to get invited as one of the Guests of Honor to AnthrOhio, and deserves that as much as any one could. (Why do furry cons even have guest of honor, by the way? Really can't think of one that's ever made the difference in whether I'd attend one, and they seem to affect the programming and tone of the con even less than the con theme does. Maybe that's just a coincidence from every con I've ever been to.) Well, Guest of Honor didn't recognize us and probably had no idea we were there. And we had no reason to go speak to Guest of Honor. But, at the Opening Ceremonies, they did give Guest of Honor some attention and this was used to stand up and wave and absolutely shock me and bunny_hugger. The impression we got from a few seconds in person was that the person was exactly what we imagined from online. Some people are warmer, more pleasant in person than online; some are harder and less likeable; some are just weirder. Guest of Honor was exactly the person we imagined. It's uncanny. We were talking over it while reading over Guest of Honor's self-written con book bio and snickering at how much of it was ``Guest of Honor has this totally special special relationship with Big Name Furry Artist that Guest of Honor knows you're sooooo jealous over and gets to be the most special person in Big Name Furry Artist's life!''. Petty? So it's petty. Guest of Honor (and Big Name Furry Artist) chose to hurt us; we can snark in our rooms.
But all that set the broad parameters for the con: it would be our final tour of this hotel. Our last weekend with a place that'd given us so many memories. Also, somewhere, there was a table in the dealer's den whom we'd not stop to talk to because we had ample reason not to like the person running it. This is the setting. Now ... we go!
Trivia: The Milton Bradley Company's 1872 catalogue lists zoetrope strips for sale, explaining the ``simple figures printed on strips of paper become animated so that the movements of life are imitated in the most natural manner''. Source: Wondrous Contrivances: Technology at the Threshold, Merritt Ierley.
Currently Reading: DC Showcase Presents: Superman, Volume 3 Editors Dan DiDio, Mort Weisinger. You know, Lois Lane not working out that Clark Kent was Superman makes sense when you see some of the stunts Supes pulled that would demonstrate to any reasonable person that he and Clark Kent were separate people. It makes her out to be kind of a conspiracy theorist, really. ``How do I know that Clark Kent wasn't Superman wearing his shirt backwards and with a rubber mask concealing his face so that when I took a clipping of hair from the right side of his body it was really his left side, which I knew had lost its invulnerability due to exposure to red kryptonite? Huh?''
Cotton Jenny | I'm Gonna Hire a Wino | Out of the Frying Pan (And into the Fire) | Delta Dawn | Lady Takes the Cowboy Every Time | Cruel Summer | Stay Young | Good Vibrations | Nobody | Boys of Summer
( And one I associate with summer both because of how I first heard it and the contents )Meme list
Captain America has gone through so many changes over the years that it's hard to tell which side he's on these days. And as much as we want to root for him and hope he's still fighting for us all his actions have shown otherwise, so we have to assume that good ol' Cap we used to know and love is dead. If only some hero had the ability to see inside Steve's mind and find out what he's thinking maybe we could all sleep more soundly knowing the Captain is still lurking in there somewhere...
Show the world what heroes are made of by wearing this CAPTAIN AMERICA SKULL t-shirt by Gerkyart, it's one creepy cool design that will make your fellow fans grin with delight.
|WE'RE BAD GUYS!||HAIL HYDRA!||STARLORD ARCADE.||FINN SKYWALKER AND JAKE2D2.|
Are you a professional illustrator or T-shirt designer? Let's chat! Sell your designs on the NeatoShop and get featured in front of tons of potential new fans on Neatorama!
So far Kylo Ren hasn't been the most interesting Sith in the Star Wars universe, and his angsty and whiny personality leaves a lot to be desired.
Kylo's so annoying, in fact, that the whole thing may be an act used to drive his enemies crazy and get his captives to confess. Maybe he's perfecting some sort of whine-based ASMR technique to use on any Rebel scum he captures?
Nah, he's just a whiny brat with a dark side, but this parody video by Auralnauts shows us what it might look like if Kylo Ren used ASMR triggers during an interrogation. It's surprisingly soothing!
-Via Geeks Are Sexy
I'm on a road trip to see my sister in Des Moines, and we stopped by the Little House site in Independence, KS on the way. This is the site from Little House on the Prairie. The cabin is a reconstruction, though the well Pa Ingalls dug was there. Anyway, observations and the like below.
( Read more... )
but I think I maybe might have
I mean I have two more boxes of books right here
but in the other room I have an entire empty bookcase
and in here there's a big gap where the three more shelves are going to be delivered.
So just at this moment, for once, I appear to have
and all my simple by author fiction in alphabetical order.
The anthologies aren't, of course, not by any other logic neither
and the Conan, Star Wars, and Doctor Who books keep their own logic in their own places, which are a bit crammed until those other three planks arrive.
But I have inventoried, shelved, and rearranged in something like author-series-date
and they all fit.
This may well be unprecedented in three generations.
It feels like I'm breaking some sort of natural law here.
... it also feels like I can finally be confident enough of what I've got to splurge on whole author fills to go in the gaps, so, this happy state may well not last long.
But right now
Reminding ze spouse that the kid gets the Benadryl AFTER tooth-brushing, not before, so the peak woozytime does not have to be worked through in order to get teeth brushed. -_-
The sky was a weird grayblue, and very very foggy. I wiped at the bathroom window to see if it was somehow condensation, but if it was, it was on the other side. Blurry atmospheric picture was taken. https://twitter.com/emccoy_writer/
So, obviously, breakfast was at 3pm. -_-
----------------------Quoted by BotEl-----------------------
Marianne, Ofanite of the Wind
Corporeal: 4 Ethereal: 3 Celestial: 2
Strength: 5 Intellect: 5 Will: 3
Agility: 11 Precision: 7 Perception: 5
Skills: Acrobatics/3, Area Knowledge (England)/3, Fast-Talk/2, Language (Local)/3, Running/2
Attunements: Ofanite of the Wind, Cherub of the Wind, Elohite of the Wind
Remaining CP: 6
E**** says, “Cheers, love, the cavalry's here!”
--From the MUSH
( INwatch+Bookwatch )
( Dragons under fold )
Jürgen Horn and Mike Powell have a postscript from their 91 day stay in Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh City). It's a gallery of the many dogs and cats they've photographed during their stay!
We judge a city based on a few critical factors: cuisine, transportation, museums, nightlife… and the cuteness of its street cats and dogs. And that last one is a category in which Saigon scores high. Check out some of the creatures we’ve met during our 91 days in the city. Which would you take home? You can only choose one!
There are more dogs than cats in the collection, with some puppies and kittens thrown in for good measure, at For 91 Days.
The silence of the lambs -- are Protestants concealing a Catholic-size sex-abuse scandal? I wouldn't be at all surprised.
The far-right endgame -- a suppressive oligarchy. Very Randian, and I mean Rand Corporation as well as Ayn Rand.
Mario comes bouncing in, smooshes a Goomba then starts punching bricks, discovering tiny Mario can't break through the brick blocks until he eats a mushroom that makes him tall.
This iconic level has been recreated by artists and game designers many times before, but this is the first time World 1-1 has been recreated in augmented reality, allowing designer/coder Abhishek Singh to play in Central Park.
-Via Laughing Squid
There are two farmers markets locally that we go to; the SU goes to the one by the railroad tracks with the good meats, and I sometimes go to the one downtown (locally, not DC), which has good veggies and fruit. I got ready to go to that one today. I got less than a mile away when my stomach said, loudly, "I don't feel well. I may give you back what you've eaten if you keep going."
What could I do? I took the next cross-street, which is a fairly direct route home, and came home and took something to settle the stomach, which continued to grumble.
I had put down my glasses for some reason; when I picked them up, one side piece fell off, behind the hinge. We went to Kaiser; no, they couldn't fix it, but they recommended a shop some distance away that was going to close in about 90 minutes. It took half an hour to get there, but we did. The cost isn't bad -- $65 is a lot better than ordering new glasses and going without for two weeks because the old ones hurt to wear -- and I can pick them up Monday.
The guy who does the repair also does lenses, replacement and new prescriptions, and I may take my very old Bausch & Lomb sunglasses there to get polarized lenses for them, or maybe even the distance half of my prescription so I can use them in situations where I'm at an angle to the sun that puts light on the *back* of the glass (which means I see the glass surface or dust or smears and not through the glass).
So, I can't drive till Monday after we pick the repaired glasses up, since I need them to drive (legally). I was going to get tickets for a local play - I know one of the actors - but the computer glitched on me and blew the sale, and I'm too frustrated, so it will be next weekend.
(I am very glad that I did not agree to be in the Second Life fundraising event today -- which took place about the same time we were driving along the six-lane looking for the address for the glasses repair place.)
(Oh, yeah, I got locked out of my credit union account on Thursday -- their new 'security system' sent my passcode slower than their time limit for entering the passcode, so I had to repeat the process, and then it said that was the wrong passcode... I got in this morning, no problem.)
And I discovered one of the two soprano coyotes -- it's the collie that belongs to what must be new people in the house behind us (none of the people look familiar and the others had a beagle.) It was listening for the *real* coyote in the park and singing replies. The baritone coyote is still out there being a coyote somewhere, I suspect.
But the contractor who bid on the masonry work we need looks very good and we said yes. And the garlic and onions I planted seem to be doing fairly well; I need to trim back lemon balm from shading the garlic, but that's all.
So the world is slightly fuzzy around the edges, but it's not that bad.
Ugly Prey: An Innocent Woman and the Death Sentence that Scandalized Jazz Age Chicago by Emilie Le Beau Lucchesi. A nonfiction book about Sabella Nitti, a woman who was found guilty of murdering her husband in 1923 Chicago – making her the first woman to be given a death sentence by an American court. (Note: not really. Plenty of women had hung or burned or otherwise received capital punishment before Nitti, but a lack of historical awareness meant that the lawyers, judges, and general public at the time reacted as though this was a new development, and chose to be proud of it or appalled by it as their personal politics dictated.) She is probably best-remembered these days as the inspiration for the Hungarian-speaking woman in the musical Chicago; here she is protesting her innocence during the Cell Block Tango.
Nitti was an Italian immigrant, illiterate, a farm wife, ugly (at least according to the reporters covering the case), and spoke no English or mainstream Italian, but only a fairly rare dialect called Barese. In addition, she was saddled with a defense lawyer who seemed to be actively losing the ability to maintain a train of thought – his behavior during the trial was remarkably unhelpful to her cause, and he would later spend years in a mental asylum. These factors almost guaranteed she would receive a guilty verdict despite the fact that it was never even clear if her husband was actually dead (it seems likelier he just decided to abandon the family), much less that she was the one who killed him. The local sheriff and one of Nitti's own sons seem to have been the prime movers in pinning the crime on her, despite the lack of evidence.
The depiction of the prejudices and passions of 1920s Chicago was where the book really shone. Women had newly gained the vote, and many saw the potential death sentence of a woman as connected to that – with power comes responsibility. Others argued that women were inherently deserving of mercy: "She is a mother and a mother has never been hanged in the history of this country. I do not believe the honorable court here will permit a mother to hang.” And then, of course, there was the issue of looks, of proper decorum – the pretty, fashionable yet obviously guilty women judged innocent by their all-male juries, and Nitti condemned to hang.
The first 2/3rds or so of the book, when Lucchesi is guiding the reader through Nitti's life before her husband's disappearance and the subsequent trial, are pretty great. Unfortunately the last third loses the thread. Lucchesi detours into describing the backstories of various prisoners Nitti would have met or other contemporary court cases in Chicago; none of it seems to have much to do with Nitti, who disappears from the page for chapters at a time. Some of these would become the inspiration for other characters in Chicago, but since Lucchesi won't mention the musical until the epilogue, the reader is left to make the connection on their own or be confused. (Overall I found the book's lack of direct acknowledgement of Chicago odd – it's so obviously hanging there, waiting for the reader to notice it, and yet Lucchesi treats it like a devil who will bring bad luck if its name is invoked. Not to mention the missed marketing opportunity.) Others, like the two chapters spent on the Leopold and Loeb case, just seem to have interested Lucchesi and were vaguely connected, so she threw them in as a afterthought.
It's a good example of historical crime writing, even if it needed a better structural editor.
I read this as an ARC via NetGalley.
Golden Hill by Francis Spufford. THIS BOOK IS SO GOOD EVERYONE READ IT IMMEDIATELY. A novel set in 1746 New York City, the book opens with the arrival in town of Richard Smith, fresh from London and bearing a bill for a thousand pounds. All of the novel's action is compacted within the next 60 days, as various New Yorkers wait to receive word from England proving Smith is who he says he is and if he really is owed such a fabulous sum; in the meantime they (and the reader) are left to figure out the mysterious Smith: a conman who should be thrown in the city's freezing jail? a wealthy aristocrat who your daughters should be encouraged to woo? a French spy, come to exploit the division between the city's new-born political parties? an actor, a Catholic, a gay man, a libertine, or possibly even a Turkish magician? Through it all Smith delights in giving no answers, reveling in the New World as a place to remake himself. I generally am suspicious of books that deliberately hide information from the reader, but it's done so well here and leads to such a delightful revelation that I think it was the perfect choice.
Spufford's style is a moderate pastiche of 18th century novels; here are the opening lines as an example:
The brig Henrietta having made Sandy Hook a little before the dinner hour—and having passed the Narrows about three o’clock—and then crawling to and fro, in a series of tacks infinitesimal enough to rival the calculus, across the grey sheet of the harbour of New York—until it seemed to Mr. Smith, dancing from foot to foot upon deck, that the small mound of the city waiting there would hover ahead in the November gloom in perpetuity, never growing closer, to the smirk of Greek Zeno—and the day being advanced to dusk by the time Henrietta at last lay anchored off Tietjes Slip, with the veritable gables of the city’s veritable houses divided from him only by one hundred foot of water—and the dusk moreover being as cold and damp and dim as November can afford, as if all the world were a quarto of grey paper dampened by drizzle until in danger of crumbling imminently to pap:—all this being true, the master of the brig pressed upon him the virtue of sleeping this one further night aboard, and pursuing his shore business in the morning. (He meaning by the offer to signal his esteem, having found Mr. Smith a pleasant companion during the slow weeks of the crossing.) But Smith would not have it. Smith, bowing and smiling, desired nothing but to be rowed to the dock. Smith, indeed, when once he had his shoes flat on the cobbles, took off at such speed despite the gambolling of his land-legs that he far out-paced the sailor dispatched to carry his trunk—and must double back for it, and seizing it hoist it instanter on his own shoulder—and gallop on, skidding over fish-guts and turnip leaves and cats’ entrails, and the other effluvium of the port—asking for direction here, asking again there—so that he appeared most nearly as a type of smiling whirlwind when he shouldered open the door—just as it was about to be bolted for the evening—of the counting-house of the firm of Lovell & Company, on Golden Hill Street, and laid down his burden while the prentices were lighting the lamps, and the clock on the wall showed one minute to five, and demanded, very civilly, speech that moment with Mr. Lovell himself.
However, it's 18th century language hiding a 21st century attitude; this is a novel deeply aware of gender and racial divisions, for all that they're mostly hidden behind humor and a page-turning sense of suspense. It's a New York City shaped and haunted by the ghosts of the slave revolt of 1741, and its shadow lies over every page, thought it's only ever directly addressed in one on-page conversation (though goddamn, it's a conversation with resonance). Smith meets and begins to court Tabitha Lovell, who is described as a "shrew" by her family and the rest of this small-town New York. Her portrayal though, is much more complex than that stereotype, and it's never quite clear how much she is an intelligent woman brutally confined by social strictures or how much she suffers from an unnamed mental illness.
And yet it's fun book, an exciting book! There are glorious set-pieces here: Smith racing over the rooftops of winter New York, outpacing a mob howling for his blood; a duel fought outside the walls of the city that turns in a split second from humor to horror; a play acted on the closest thing New York has to a stage; a card game with too much money invested. The writing is alternatively beautiful and hilarious, and I'm just completely in love with all of it.
I really can't recommend this book enough. I came into it not expecting much, but it turned out to be exactly what I wanted.
I read this as an ARC via NetGalley.
Mount TBR update: No change: 18
What are you currently reading?
The Bedlam Stacks by Natasha Pulley. A new book by the author of The Watchmaker of Filigree Street, a book which approximately one million people have recommended to me and yet I still haven't gotten around to reading. But, uh... I've got this one! :D