David Erik Nelson's Blog, page 43

Last Suppers and Folks Killing Folks for Killing Folks

Running Chicken: This photo series — “No Seconds” by Henry...

A good while back my old friend Ari Kohen wrote about Henry Hargreaves's “No Seconds” (sampled above)--a series of photographs of the last meals of various American death-row inmates.

I don't agree with Kohen on his analysis of Hargreaves's art--which I believe should be judged foremost on its aesthetic, not moral, value--but Kohen's points on capital punishment are worth your time, because they are grounded in both solid reasoning *and* meaningful personal experience. I really, really strongly suggest reading the post at that second link, which concludes:

Ronnie Frye’s death was meant to bring some measure of comfort to the victims of his crime, the family of Ralph Childress. Perhaps it did; I know Ronnie sincerely hoped that it would. But it also created another innocent, grieving family: Ronnie’s. As I have written a great many times on this blog over the past couple of years in one way or another, the death penalty is not a solution to the problem violence; it is violence. I know this from first-hand experience; it is not theoretical or abstract to me.

Incidentally, in the course of his argument Kohen happens to mention my favorite pet cause: If folks are going to argue that a woman needs to see a detailed fetal ultrasound prior to terminating a pregnancy, then a jury should certainly see childhood photos of any actual living, breathing, participating human being before burdening some other living, breathing human beings with slaughtering that person. Everyone is some mother's son. If we can't stomach that, then we've got no business cutting folks down. If we *can* stomach it . . . well, then maybe you should be setting aside the childhood pic of you that you want shown prior to your execution. I'm going with this one:

Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #419 (published January 29, 2009): "Be honest. The future won't depend on shit."

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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #419 (published January 29, 2009)

Be honest. The future won't depend on shit.

Giant Squid: Ask the Giant Squid: To Knit, Perchance to Dream; Aye, There's the Rub by the Giant Squid. . .

To All of My Knit-Bewitched Mojonauts,

These are but a very small sampling of the many missives electronique I have received in the three-and-three-thirds years since I first showcased the quick-knitted-wit of my dearest Sara Swanson and her noble knitted squid hat for infants and the consuming of cats' crania, as pictured below:

Today, I am proud to announce that finally, finally, we are well prepared to sate the hunger of those many, many stitchwomen looking to knit a net of architeuthic splendor to ensconce and ensorcle the heads of the very important adults in their lives (including, but not limited to, themselves). . . .

Fiction: Whiteman's Blood by Onyenezi Chika Victor. . . We called it Porto Kiri, they called it Fernando Po. That's were I set out early to prove a point in my life. Maybe to prove a point to my beloved Adaure. She was the loveliest of all fruits in the largest of all trees; succulent and stunning. My village, Umuaki, was the largest village among the six clans, that's why the old men described it as okeosisi, big tree. In this big tree a beautiful fruit hung, every passerby wants to pluck this fruit including the Whiteman in our town, the district officer. We called him Nwadishi. He drive a beetle, a Volkswagen car. Children would happily pursue Nwadishi's car just to touch it—then you could hear them shouting in Ibo, "Emeturum moto Nwadishi aka" ("I touched Nwadishi's car.") Then it was the first car to set its foot in Umuaki. . . .

Poetry: Fleas in the Thatch by Nadine GalloThey say fleas used to

be an awful bother to people

in the thatched houses.

You wouldn't need an alarm

clock to get you out of bed . . .

Rant: Tallest of Allest by Doug MathewsonWhen I was kid nobody seemed as tall as a cowboy. The cowboys I admired changed as I grew up, from Roy Rogers singing on the range to Clint Eastwood delivering harsh retribution. I knew nothing about sports, but was astonished by how Michael Jordon flew, arching higher and higher in magnificent flight. Latter heroes loomed large to me as rock-and-roll giants. They delighted me with their music, cleaver lyrics, and brilliant shows. Giants they were, till I encountered someone larger by far.

I was in Manhattan, headed for a gallery opening downtown. Tower Records in Times Square projected a moving image eight stories high of Jay-Z walking majestically and confidently, striding out of a fog-filled back ground, Savile Row overcoat slung over Armani shoulders, his penetrating eyes looking at, and then through, me. A completely over-powering image, commanding and compelling. . . .

Me & Mitt, Mitt & I: Pranksters, Bullies, Mormons, Jews, Education--AMERICA!

I continue to write a monthly column for the Ann Arbor Chronicle. This latest installment is about the school Mitt Romney and I attended, bullying, pranks, progress, identity politics, and how institutions seek to change over time. It starts like this:

Mitt Romney and I went to the same high school – three decades apart. This would be immaterial, except the Washington Post just published a fascinating 5,500-word remembrance of Mitt Romney’s hijinks at Cranbrook, a high-pressure prep school in Bloomfield Hills, Mich.

I attended this same school in the 1990s; it’s an architectural gem, the staff is excellent, the program an academic crucible. Later, as a University of Michigan student, I shared a broken-down house with three fellow Cranbrook alums. One was in a sociology class, and we were delighted when he revealed that his textbook listed Cranbrook as “one of the last vestiges of American aristocracy.”

Because Mitt and I attended Cranbrook exactly 30 years apart, we ended up standing back-to-back on a balmy June evening in 2005 – the same year Mitt received the school’s 2005 Distinguished Alumni Award. The governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and I stood together at the lip of a deep, inset fountain, which gurgled contentedly, almost as though it was whispering ♪♫Daaaaave, I would be an excellent place for a GOP splaaashdown!♫

The rest is here: The Ann Arbor Chronicle | In it for the Money: Mitt and Me

We Almost Lost Toy Story 2

How Pixar Almost Lost Toy Story 2 to a Bad Backup - Tested

Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #257 (published December 15, 2005): "Perpetually sore from the electric bull."

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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #257 (published December 15, 2005)

Perpetually sore from the electric bull.

Giant Squid: Ask the Giant Squid: Midget Vs Lion by the Giant SquidDear Giant Squid:

Any thoughts regarding the theoretical cage match between a lion and forty midgets? Of particular interest to me: who would win?

Many thanks,

k

Inquisitive K.,

Far from shockingly, this is indeed a matter upon which I have meditated much, considered thoroughly, and come to some conclusions. Primarily of note is the relationship of size to numerosity.

Consider: Clearly it is the case that much more oft than not, the small must fall before the strong. Although ants are sagacious in their autonomy, the ant is oft eaten by the vexsome and nigh-unto brainless cat, so much the larger and more tactless than she (As an aside, K., were you aware that a cat can live for almost seven weeks without use of its head? Strange, and yet true. They are creatures nigh unto totally autonomic in function.) Similarly, there is little question of who shall be victor in such popular match-the-ups as David vs. the Goliath, polar bear vs. marmoset, Christian vs. lion, hurricano vs. tenement or Roe vs. Wade. Can a cat challenge a king? For certain it is not the case, for the average cat has a mass under 7 kilos, while an average king posseses some 90.

So, then, we know that the larger does conquer the smaller. There is a matter of size.

But, consider thurther: There is size, and then there is multitude. . . .

Fiction: Must be Love by Nadine DarlingHe hasn't shaved since they bought the test.

He has his hand between her knees, then on her belly. It's already there, the belly, pressing out like the flat of a tongue.

"See here," says Jack, "how fat do you plan upon getting?"

"Oh, massively so," says Suzanne. "Massively."

"Just checking."

"I want to dance," says Suzanne.

"Fat people love dancing. It's humorous. Also, falling down stairs. Also, getting their hands caught in giant mouse-traps."

"Then, let's do all of that," says Suzanne. "Right now."

"I want to go home," says Jack.

They're in the new car, which smells of wet and leather and other people's air, and it's raining out and early. Several paramount stop lights are out; yellow-slickered traffic cops stand in the middle of intersections, arms akimbo, like Rubbermaid reverends, whistles clenched between their teeth, middle-aged dissatisfaction coming off them in waves like a musk. Jack drives carefully, hunched forward, his hand still on Suzanne's belly, listening for new-car sounds that shouldn't be there.

She touches his forearm, his elbow. She watches the side of his face as he drives, the peppery stubble, his fine jaw grinding gum, a slight chap creeping up his lower lip like frostbite.

"Do you know what this is like?" Asks Suzanne. . . .

Poetry: Animist Youth by Jon Reevewhen Mama Bear met Roosevelt

at an orphanage in Bombay,

when the circus elephant appeared

on trial for lunatic espionage

when we were young animists

we blinked like windshield-wipers over mud. . . .

Rant: Pricing Paradigms by Eric HowertonYou know what really grinds my gears? The way that marketers and advertisers price things that we purchase using almost whole numbers like $19.95 or $9.99 or $29.98 . . . are these fucking people kidding? Do they honestly believe that a person is going to be looking at the price for a movie, and say to themselves "Wow . . . only $15.99! That's only $15 for a movie, but I expected to pay $16 . . . what a great price!". Is that the thought-process they were shooting for when they took off A PENNY and hoped that the American public would buy into their crap? I guess they seem to think that people will think they are getting a better deal, or that the item in question is less money than originally expected, purely on the basis of our in-ability to round decimals. . . .

"Like a man who eats sesame oil, his anus farts": The Rock-Solid Aphorisms of Ancient Sumeria

The Gecko Wears a Tiara: Ancient Sumerian Proverbs

A note from the compiler:

Man’s oldest recorded literature is found in the ancient proverbs of Sumeria, written down starting about 4,400 years ago (though most are only 3,800 years old). Then again, these were already proverbs passed down for generations back then, so they are probably far older.

Some of these seem very obvious now. Others are bizarre, many are funny, and a number contain real nuggets of wisdom. Than again, Sumeria was what we now call Iraq, so take that wisdom with a grain of salt.

Oxford University has created a web repository of these texts, and their English translations, called the “Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature.” It's located at

http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/

I’ve been fascinated by these and can’t resist sharing my favorites, arranged by category. They’re like a time travel machine, taking us back millennia and revealing what was strange about their society, and what is strangely similar.

-- Mark Saltveit, December 2007

While I do not endorse the dig at Iraq--kick a culture when it's down, why don't ya?--but I do endorse this collection, including such classics as:

"Putting unwashed hands to one's mouth is disgusting."

"The mother who has given birth to eight young men lies down exhausted."

and

"You should not have sex with your slave girl: she will chew you up."

Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #148 (published August 21, 2003): "A hall pass for Nirvana."

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Poor Mojo's Almanac(k) Classic issue #148 (published August 21, 2003)

A hall pass for Nirvana.

Giant Squid: Notes From The Giant Squid: Hey Ladies!

by the Giant SquidDearest Giant Squid, some advice on the fairer sex is needed for I am in dire need of your wise counsel:

Why do I always pick one of two women:

A- Lesbians

B- Women with boyfriends

C- Red heads

and how do I avoid this conundrum?

I assume it's a curse from my fore-fathers, who were sea-faring vikings, for I have fallen many times also for the red-haired fiery women of Irish and Scandinavian descent. Please help me.

Your Dear Admirer And Loyal Companion,

Rick Delicious

Delicious Rickard,

Of initial mostforth interest to me, in this query, is that you begin by announcing a problem two-parted, and then name three parts of that two, going one in excess, in parts, of the named size of the whole. This confused greatly, until I recalled my own treatise brief and true on the matters of numbers, their significancies. . . .

Fiction: Tokens of Affection (part 2 of 2) by Terence S. HawkinsEveryone was suspect. I couldn't ask the girl at the desk at the gym for a second sweat towel without wondering whether she was spending her free time at the xerox. I wondered whether it had to be a woman at all. Recently a male MFA had taken to following me around the weight room until I was driven to lacing my conversation with phrases like, "Jeez, aren't tits great?". . . .

Poetry: The Unknown by Secretary of Defense Donald RumsfeldAs we know,

There are known knowns.

There are things we know we know. . . .

Rant: Political Selections from:
THE DEVIL'S DICTIONARY (part 2 of 2) by Ambrose Bierce(Abridged in 2003 for Modern Readers and Those with Taste and Grit by Morgan Johnson). . . LAWFUL, adj. Compatible with the will of a judge having jurisdiction.

LAWYER, n. One skilled in circumvention of the law.

LIAR, n. A lawyer with a roving commission. . . .

The "Myth" of Sustainable Meat?

Two weeks back a lot of blogs (including our own Newswire) gave James E. McWilliams's New York Times op-ed a nice signal boost: The Myth of Sustainable Meat - NYTimes.com

Upon inspection, McWilliams's argument is looking like something of a straw man. For example, *a lot* of his claims (which are unsourced) are oddly out of date--until you realize that Williams is a history professor specializing in the Early Republic and not, you know, a farmer or agronomist or biologist or landscaper or gardener or migrant laborer. In that NYT op-ed Williams called out Joel Salatin of Polyface Farms, who has responded at length:

Joel Salatin responds to New York Times’ ‘Myth of Sustainable Meat’ | Grist

Let’s go point by point. First, that grass-grazing cows emit more methane than grain-fed ones. This is factually false. Actually, the amount of methane emitted by fermentation is the same whether it occurs in the cow or outside. Whether the feed is eaten by an herbivore or left to rot on its own, the methane generated is identical. Wetlands emit some 95 percent of all methane in the world; herbivores are insignificant enough to not even merit consideration. Anyone who really wants to stop methane needs to start draining wetlands. Quick, or we’ll all perish. I assume he’s figuring that since it takes longer to grow a beef on grass than on grain, the difference in time adds days to the emissions. But grain production carries a host of maladies far worse than methane. This is simply cherry-picking one negative out of many positives to smear the foundation of how soil builds: herbivore pruning, perennial disturbance-rest cycles, solar-grown biomass, and decomposition. This is like demonizing marriage because a good one will include some arguments. . . .

Just for the record, I think that Salatin sounds kinda nutty, but at least he's a detail-oriented nut with precise claims that can be refuted or confirmed. McWilliams, meanwhile, makes claims like: "Free-range pigs are routinely affixed with nose rings to prevent them from rooting, which is one of their most basic instincts." I've seen a fair number of free-range and hobby pigs here in Michigan, but have never seen one ringed. I've never seen *any* pig ringed. I'd been given the impression that no one bothered any more (it used to be mandatory in some towns; for example, as late as 2000 it was still the law in Detroit, of all places). Ringing is clearly not "routine" in Michigan, where I buy delicious pastured mulefoot pigs from Mark Sponsler of Parmanian Acres. Upon googling, I've discovered that the practice is now hotly contested among free-range pig farmers. In fact, this claim about "univeral snout ringing" is one that McWilliams has been making since 2009, and getting called out on by farmers. I don't know that any corrections or retractions have been published. Thank God he never went on This American Life. Anyway, none of this seems to be slowing McWilliams down.

But, perhaps more to the point, why is it that every op-ed in the Times recently seems to have been written by someone shilling a book? That seems like a funny coincidence.

dave-o is the author of "Snip, Burn, Solder, Shred: Seriously Geeky Stuff to Make with Your Kids" and "Tucker Teaches the Clockies to Copulate."

The Tourist-Trap Gift Shops of Ancient Egypt

Radiological investigation of an over 2000-year-old Egyptian mummy of a cat

Mummified cats were the tiny plastic American flags of the Ptolemaic Dynasty:

From about 332 BC to 30 BC, animals began to be raised near the temples for the specific purpose of being mummified. People bought the mummies and left them at the temple as offerings. For this reason, many cats that had died prematurely and by unnatural deaths have been found. Kittens, aged 2–4 months old, were sacrificed in huge numbers, because they were more suitable for mummification. This is likely the case of the cat mummy from the museum in Parma. Indeed, the abnormal findings in the caudal portion of the calvarium may suggest an unnatural death. Cat mummies were so numerous that in the late 19th century, mummified cats were shipped from the town of Beni Hasan, in middle Egypt, to the English port of Liverpool to be pulverised and sold as fertiliser in England.

FACT: Some day our "I ♥ Jacksonville!" snow globes will be treasured artifacts in museums run by hyper-evolved cyborg centipedes with graduate degrees their parents disapprove of, and our most sublime artistic achievements will be lost to bit-rot, leaky roofs, and demagnetization.

Hunh . . . this sounds like a pretty good product, and it has 4.5 stars on Amazon

Amazon.co.uk: Customer Reviews: Veet for Men Hair Removal Gel Creme 200 ml

4 of 5 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars Streamline, 23 April 2012
By J Dog

After liberal application to my entire body, I managed to cut 3/100ths of a second from my 100m PB.

Not only does the streamlining help with speed I have also noticed that there is less 'clatter' when going over hurdles.

My balls now slice through the air like greased ferrets down a Yorkshirmans trousers.

Thanks Veet. See you at the Olympics.

Is "slice through the air like greased ferrets down a Yorkshirman's trousers" a standing stock phrase in England? "I agree, Janet; we never thought Labour and the Democratic Unionists would come together on any issue, but that resolution went through the House of Commons like a greased ferret down a Yorkshirman's trousers, didn't it?"