Magpie plays with dog. // Two computers play rock, paper, scissors. // Find the invisible cow, a game to test your patience. // A house made of silk. // Big fin squid. // Blade Runner in watercolours. // A guide to shooting rubber bands. (h/t, MeFi) // Monitor in motion. // Upmarket dog accessories. // How the Doctor Who theme might have sounded without Delia Derbyshire. // Drum kits of yore. (h/t, Coudal) // Factoid of note. // Luxury yacht pod. // Spectrographic handshake. // Diagnostic bee device looks fabulous, detects cancer. 

Man paints own building. Graffiti vandals devastated: 

The owner of a building in Queens used a crew of painters to work overnight and paint over graffiti on a warehouse in Long Island City, wiping clean a canvas that was used by thousands of artists over the years to transform an otherwise nondescript, abandoned brick building in a working-class neighbourhood into 5Pointz, a mecca for street artists from around the world. By morning, the work of some 1,500 artists had been wiped clean, the Brobdingnagian bubble letters and the colourful cartoons spray painted on the building’s brick walls all covered in a fresh coat of white paint. “We are supposed to be the vandals, but this is the biggest rag and disrespect in the history of graffiti,” said Marie Cecile Flageul, an unofficial curator for 5Pointz.

The moral of the story, gentlemen, is buy your own canvas.

Mark Steyn on America’s throbbingly intellectual Clown-in-Chief:  

As historian Michael Beschloss pronounced the day after his election, he’s “probably the smartest guy ever to become president.” Naturally, Obama shares this assessment. As he assured us five years ago, “I know more about policies on any particular issue than my policy directors.” Well, apart from his signature health-care policy. That’s a mystery to him. “I was not informed directly that the website would not be working,” he told us. The buck stops with something called “the executive branch,” which is apparently nothing to do with him. As evidence that he was entirely out of the loop, he offered this: “Had I been informed, I wouldn’t be going out saying, ‘Boy, this is going to be great.’ You know, I’m accused of a lot of things, but I don’t think I’m stupid enough to go around saying, ‘This is going to be like shopping on Amazon or Travelocity,’ a week before the website opens, if I thought that it wasn’t going to work.” 

Ooooo-kay. So, if I follow correctly, the smartest president ever is not smart enough to ensure that his website works; he’s not smart enough to inquire of others as to whether his website works; he’s not smart enough to check that his website works before he goes out and tells people what a great website experience they’re in for. But he is smart enough to know that he’s not stupid enough to go around bragging about how well it works if he’d already been informed that it doesn’t work. So he’s smart enough to know that if he’d known what he didn’t know he’d know enough not to let it be known that he knew nothing. The country’s in the very best of hands.

Tim Worstall on why the advice of Will Hutton should never, ever be taken: 

If we’ve got a cost that is higher than the benefit then this is a signal that we should stop doing this thing. Hutton is indeed arguing that the cost of a university education is higher, for many to most people, than the benefit that comes from having one. This is true whoever is paying the bills. Therefore we would rather like to have fewer people going to university… Hutton is arguing that university does not make sense in terms of value added for most students. He therefore proposes subsidy for those students. Which is ridiculous. If the activity is not value adding we don’t want more of it, we want less of it.

And from 1992, via Instapundit, the late Doris Lessing on language, academia and political correctness: 

A very common way of thinking in literary criticism is not seen as a consequence of communism, but it is. Every writer has the experience of being told that a novel, a story, is “about” something or other. I wrote a story, The Fifth Child, which was at once pigeonholed as being about the Palestinian problem, genetic research, feminism, anti-Semitism and so on. A journalist from France walked into my living room and before she had even sat down said, “Of course The Fifth Child is about AIDS.” An effective conversation stopper, I assure you. But what is interesting is the habit of mind that has to analyse a literary work like this. If you say, “Had I wanted to write about AIDS or the Palestinian problem I would have written a pamphlet,” you tend to get baffled stares. That a work of the imagination has to be “really” about some problem is, again, an heir of Socialist Realism. To write a story for the sake of storytelling is frivolous, not to say reactionary.

It’s remarkable how often some cultural critics see their own preoccupations in unlikely art forms. As when the film historian Sumiko Higashi saw the Vietnam War lurking somewhere among the zombies and wrote that although “there are no Vietnamese in Night of the Living Dead… they constitute an absent presence whose significance can be understood if narrative is construed.” Or when cineaste Robin Wood informed readers that the zombies’ cannibalistic tendency “represents the ultimate in possessiveness, hence the logical end of human relations under capitalism.” Or when a Channel 4 reviewer hailed Danny Boyle’s zombie film 28 Days Later as actually being a “powerful message” about “anger at call-centre queues.”

As usual, feel free to share your own links and snippets in the comments.

In the culture pages of the Guardian, Charles Firth recounts a tale of exasperation, injustice and heroic suffering. Specifically, his struggle to find funding for an artistic work space:

In 2007, four idiots who thought of themselves as writers scammed an awkwardly inaccessible office in a beautiful old building that had very few tenants… The enlightened trustees were happy to let a group of earnest young writers use the space until a “proper” tenant came along, charging us something like $230 per month.

$230 a month for a large office in the heart of Sydney. A bargain by any measure. One that attracted other Creatives In Need Of Comfort™.

Slowly, other writers came to hear about the space. A well-respected essayist, a proper novelist and a budding popular historian moved in, and the room acquired a certificate of incorporation as a non-profit arts organisation, a set of stern rules (don’t be loud, don’t be messy, don’t interrupt)…

Stern rules regarding mess and noise. I suppose selling out was inevitable. Almost as inevitable as the end of that temporary peppercorn rent.

Meanwhile, the rest of the building had filled to capacity, and the 17 writer-members now had to find $2,300 plus GST per month to cover rent. As I spent increasing amounts of time on administration, my attention turned to arts grants. 

But of course. 

My understanding of the system was that it was there to support those producing cultural works: artists and writers. This proved naïve. The true purpose of arts grants is for one set of arts bureaucrats to provide funding to create a new generation of arts bureaucrats. The qualities most highly valued by funding bodies are the ability to reproduce accurately the funding body’s logo, and to file a report that can be included in their annual report alongside words like “new,” “innovative” and, above all, “successful.” 

Mr Firth, it turns out, isn’t too impressed by socialised arts funding and its box-ticking apparatus – sentiments with which some readers may feel empathy. But those feeling empathetic may want to avoid applauding just yet.

Unfortunately, the Sydney Writers’ Room was none of these things.

Being artistically innovative and successful is something rarely said of office space. Even office space with rules regarding mess.

Its mission was to provide a space that placed no expectation on success or failure. You just had to be quiet and write.

Office space, in short, for those who consider themselves deserving of special favours and perpetual indulgence. Those “legitimately worthy,” as Mr Firth puts it. Not worthy because of what they have produced, but worthy because of what they may produce, possibly, at some point in the future, should muse and ability permit. And so taxpayers must be given the old shakedown, not just for written works they didn’t ask for, but for the potential for works they didn’t ask for, and to ensure the further inflation of Mr Firth’s self-regard. You see, it’s simply impossible to write anything at all unless one has a large office sited in a beautiful old building in the heart of Sydney, all bankrolled indefinitely by the taxpayers of Australia. Bloggers of the world, please take note.

Cat plays theremin. (h/t, CMJ) // Nazis with cats. // Panoramic ball camera. // The interactive periodic table of swearing. Sound essential. // The sound of arrogant dependency. // What Google would have looked like in the 80s. // 4G trench coat with charger. Coat’s “average download speeds range from 3 to 6 Mbps, with spikes as high as 10 Mbps.” // Make your own gin. // Kitchen of the future, 1964. (h/t, MeFi) // inFORM, an interactive dynamic shape display. // Elk starts trouble. // Village of the Damned, 1960. // Virtual anime robot masturbator. // Dolphin masturbates using decapitated fish. // Re-entry. // An advert for tissues. 

This is for those of you who want to know how to cook tinned ravioli. First you’ll need a good tonne or so of thick, oozing lava…

Writing in the Guardian, feminist campaigner Caroline Criado-Perez alerts us to another pressing issue of the day:

There’s a new ad on the woman-hating block… I first saw the ad this weekend, and it’s been niggling away at me ever since. 

Time well spent, no doubt. The pressing issue is of course Vagisil deodorant, a tool of the Patriarchy with insidious mind-warping effects. 

It’s partly its insidiousness in presenting Vagisil as if they are on our side – no need to worry girls, this odour is completely normal! The thing is, if this supposed odour… is completely normal, there would be no need for a product to deal with it, would there?

I fear I’m venturing into alien territory here, given my limited knowledge of how ladies smell below the waist – some more than others, apparently. But still, something obvious ought to be said. There are any number of human odours, secretions and emissions that are normal and generated to varying degrees, but this doesn’t mean one would necessarily wish to share them with others. Even as a display of defiant womanhood. Years ago, I worked with a big-boned lady with unusually strong body odour. She was, so far as I could tell, scrupulously clean and, judging by the array of deodorants in her handbag, very much aware of this distinctive characteristic. Her battle with perspiration and pungency was, sadly, being lost, especially during summer, though I and other colleagues were appreciative of her efforts to minimise the social fallout.

What Vagisil does is pretend to be our friend, helping us deal with this smell that’s been plaguing our social life; in reality they are manipulating us into thinking we stink in the first place… adding yet another paranoia to the long list carried around by the 21st century woman trying to survive in a system that teaches them to hate themselves.

Yes, of course. The option to deodorise one’s nethers and render them fragrant – say, before engaging in some intimate beastliness – isn’t a matter of, um, taste or personal judgment, but constitutes “woman-hating.” And the existence of said option not only “attacks and diminishes women’s self-confidence,” it teaches those same women – the ones with no minds of their own, it seems – to “hate themselves.” Because womenfolk simply can’t be trusted to determine whether a product is useful or a complete waste of money. Which, on reflection, is an odd position for a feminist
campaigner to take. Should someone think to market Zesty Scrotal Freshness Wipes, I’m pretty sure I’d retain the wherewithal to decide for myself whether to rush out and buy a multipack or stick with showering and a little talc.

After the customary denunciation of the market and its morally corrupting effects, and intimations that women
are mere flotsam on an ocean of advertising, Ms Criado-Perez informs us, somewhat triumphantly:

I’m not buying Vagisil. Ever.

The market in action. Problem solved. 

Update:

Good
news, menfolk! There’s been a miracle breakthrough in male hygiene technology…

Tim Blair on the self-regarding eco-guru David Suzuki:

Self-importance comes with the territory when you’re a warmist. After all, you’re saving the planet. Who could be more important than you? This elevated sense of self manifests itself in curious ways, such as Tim Flannery’s prediction of a universal belief system or his insistence that everybody is always writing about him, or Will Steffen’s fear that a retired public servant wanted to shoot climate scientists and Michael Mann’s mistaken Nobel Prize claim. But those three are mere junior narcissists compared to David Suzuki, who is now starring as a global climate martyr in a “powerful live theatre and public engagement project” about himself.

Tim Worstall on the myths and omissions of the “gender pay gap”:  

Women who work part time earn more than men who work part time. Women in their 20s earn more than men in their 20s. Women who don’t marry and don’t have children earn more than men. What kills the average wage of all women, in comparison to the wage of all men, is that women – and it’s important to note that this is on average – take career breaks to have children and often then either more time off or lighter workloads to raise them. We might want to say that this isn’t a good idea. We might think that it’s just fine that people who make different life decisions earn different amounts of money. But what this isn’t is a gender pay gap. And anyone who wants to change matters has to recognise that it isn’t a gender pay gap so it isn’t something that is going to be changed by blathering on about gender. It’s about children and the having of them. And, if we’re to be honest about it all, as long as more women than men decide that they want to take those breaks and changed workloads in order to raise their children, then we’re always going to have that motherhood pay gap. Whether it’s a good or bad thing is entirely reliant upon your personal definitions of good or bad.

Theodore Dalrymple on modern priorities:

The slowness [of the police] to react – infinite slowness, in fact, since they did not react at all – contrasted oddly with an experience I had the previous Sunday. A couple of American filmmakers came to Paris to interview me… and decided that the little park opposite my flat would be a good place to do so. They set up the camera, but a few seconds later, before they could ask me a single question, a municipal policeman arrived. They were not allowed to film here without a permit from the mairie of the arrondissement, he said. I explained that these were Americans, come all the way from Texas expressly to interview me. He, a very pleasant and polite man of African origin, phoned his chief to see whether an exception could be made. As I suspected, it could not. I told the film crew that we should make no fuss; the man was only doing his job, silly as that job might be. As it happens there were several drunks in another part of the park making aggressive-sounding noises and breaking bottles, but them he did not approach, perhaps wisely, as they were several and he was only one. He thought he would have more luck with someone wearing a tweed jacket and corduroy trousers as I was.

And Jack Dunphy on our student intelligentsia:

Only on a college campus, and nowhere more so than an Ivy League one, does it take a committee to figure out the obvious. Which in this case is that a group of coddled elitists, none of whom would dare set foot in the New York neighbourhoods that benefited most from the NYPD’s “stop-and-frisk” tactics, decided that their opinions… are the only ones deserving of a public airing, and that anyone whose opinion may differ is therefore worthy of mockery, shame, and contempt.

As usual, feel free to share your own links and snippets in the comments. 

Raccoon likes grapes very much. And has better table manners than quite a few children. // Face recognition for pets. // Flying around Mount Fuji with a jetpack. // The effects of Gravity. // Coffee grinders of yore. // Arteries and veins. // Saving women from ochobo and other social gaffes. // NASA gifs. // 4.6 million may be a few too many notes. // Philosophy chart of note. // Autonomous lights. (h/t, Julia) // Lettering by hand. // The thermal dip mirage. // “The living unicorn,” 1985. (h/t, Coudal) // The whale warehouse. // Wine in a can. // You’ll want one for the lab: A table that mimics 3D objects in real time. // And BatDad strikes back. 

Attention, all you seekers of amour. I feel a need to share with you this archive of lovelies from Russian dating sites. From the total beefcake experience and provocative fruit-play to ninjas, rubberwear and unspeakable appetites. Something for everyone.

No, don’t thank me. Thank Peter Risdon.