Rex Curator

chriscantwell: Private Security Forces in Detroit So OCP from...

chriscantwell — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 19:56:17 -0800

Private Security Forces in Detroit

So OCP from Robocop isn’t going to happen, it’s already happening.

(via Daily What)

Duke Vest

davecrabtree — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 19:42:49 -0800

Met the woman who runs this company in downtown LA. They make rather affordable made-to-measure or off the rack reproductions of vintage clothing. This wool vest costs as much as a Filson, but with amazing slanted pockets and a V-shape for all you high-waisted panters.

Know Your Composers - A Top 40 Lizst (sorry, couldn't help it)

rexcurator2 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 16:33:00 -0800

My parents bestowed upon me a gift that keeps on giving. No, I’m not referring to an inherited midwestern Catholic neuroses. I speak of my abiding love of classical music. From the moment my mother sat me at the fusty upright grand at four and taught me to plunk my way through Ode to Joy they instilled in me a devoted appreciation of the greatest music the world has ever known.

That last statement is not open for debate. Perhaps you are moved more by Hendrix’s axe shredding, or Coltrane’s improvisational colorations, or the lyricism of Drake’s musings on the public solitary confinement of being nouveau riche in a media saturated society (Ed. note: holy christ has hip hop ever turned into soft teacup Chihuahua puppy crap). Occasionally I prefer those MP3s too. But consider the resources that comprise the woof and warp of classical music’s master works:

It begins with the birth of a genius. That genius is likely the progeny of two other extremely talented musicians. As such he or she is exhaustively tutored from birth within a musical curriculum. They develop their innate nature with tireless nurture and then develop into a musical superhero - a composer. That composer then writes pieces to be performed by sometimes one, sometimes hundreds of other only slightly less brilliant individuals who have ALSO spent their entire lives devoted to the noble cause of making music. Frequently, the resources of a kingdom are devoted toward achieving this cause on a grand scale as a king or prince or duke devotes copious treasure to the patronage of the composer, his orchestra, and the building of concert halls and opera houses. So, as the conductor’s baton clacks against his stand to silence the soft chaos of the warmup, what you are about to hear is the result of literally thousands of perfections - biological, devotional, economic, and inspirational - braided together into a single creative work.

The following is a clickable list of a true top 40: 40 youtube videos offering you a brief gleaming insight into the timeless passion, intellect, complexity, virtuosity, rage, jocularity, and sublimity that classical music’s most notable composers have gifted the world. So go ahead and put Drake on pause. Take care to start lovin’ this crew.

1. Mozart

2. Beethoven

3. Bach

4. Brahms

5. Rachmaninoff

6. Chopin

7. Lizst

8. Puccini

9. Wagner

10. Mahler

11. Mendelssohn

12. Schubert

13. Schumann

14. Satie

15. Sibelius

16. Faure

17. Dvorak

18. Gershwin

19. Prokofiev

20. Shostakovich

21. Bartok

22. Copland

23. Britten

24. Handel

25. Stravinsky

26. Debussy

27. Verdi

28. Haydn

29. Strauss

30. Bizet

31. Rossini

32. Rimsky-Korsikoff

33. Schoenberg

34. Vivaldi

35. Tchaikovsky

36. Mussorgsky

37. Poulenc

38. Kabalevsky

37. Ravel

38. Scarlatti

39. Gluck

40. Grieg

[dis]Service Industry

sugarfriedandraw — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 13:33:54 -0800

I get it, you moved to here hoping to create the future of your dreams. You followed passion, art, culture, and/or your girlfriend and embarked on a journey to discover your true self and shed the shackles of your false existence. Gone are the polos and boot cut jeans of the oppressor. Fading into obscurity are family dinners, first run movie theaters, and Two for Tuesday’s at Friday’s. You have been reborn, you are your own savior. You don yourself in laceless converse, stripped leggings, off the shoulder distressed sweater, and non prescription glasses. You stand for the dedication to your dreams with tattoos of dual track equalized portable radios, mockingbirds, and quotes in ribbon. And now you’ve entered my life. Not as a passer by, or the aroma of self-rolled American Spirit as I turn a corner. You are the one thing standing between me and my life necessity, my food. I call you ma’am, waitress, server, and ummmm hey you. I wave my hand, tap my fork, and sign impatiently. I’m not a jerk, really i’m not. I’m just hungry. And you are just lazy. I get it, your dream didn’t quite involve paying rent and you never imagined that it would cost $25 to put a half tank of gas in your 1988 Toyota Cresida. You also didn’t envision there would be so many other kindred spirits chasing the same dream. But here you are, and here I am forced together because you needed a job. A job that affords you to wake up at 10am after staying out all night watching that band that you wouldn’t like if other people liked them then waxing philosophically about the downfall of the industry that doesn’t have the balls to put out true music, real sounds, your art. And that job put you here with me, and I just want you to do your job. I’ve seen people with half your talent and aptitude do what you are failing, intentional or not, to do so I know you can do it. I just want you to find it within yourself to think of someone besides your self, and take my order. I’m not a jerk, I’m just hungry… and I get it.

This is what Santa Monica should look like.

davecrabtree — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 09:26:36 -0800

This is what Santa Monica should look like.

Weekend Perspective #1

nickdaze — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 16:50:00 -0800

A nugget, from David McCullough (via Sullivan):

Once upon a time in the dead of winter in the Dakota Territory, Theodore Roosevelt took off in a makeshift boat down the Little Missouri River in pursuit of a couple of thieves who had stolen his prized rowboat. After several days on the river, he caught up and got the draw on them with his trusty Winchester, at which point they surrendered. Then Roosevelt set off in a borrowed wagon to haul the thieves cross-country to justice. They headed across the snow-covered wastes of the Badlands to the railhead at Dickinson, and Roosevelt walked the whole way, the entire 40 miles. It was an astonishing feat, what might be called a defining moment in Roosevelt’s eventful life. But what makes it especially memorable is that during that time, he managed to read all of Anna Karenina. I often think of that when I hear people say they haven’t time to read.

Made it on our shopping list. Moleskine luggage tags. The only...

nickdaze — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 14:38:23 -0800

Made it on our shopping list. Moleskine luggage tags. The only travel accessory Hemingway would have wanted more would be mojito luggage tags.

Work those coy math charms on me. SWOON.

davecrabtree — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 11:57:52 -0800

Work those coy math charms on me. SWOON.

Of note: NASA’s spacecraft models from the 1960s. Do you...

nickdaze — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 09:29:00 -0800

Of note: NASA’s spacecraft models from the 1960s.

Do you ever look at this stuff and wonder how the hell we went from this to the actual moon?

Know Your Booze: Applejack

davecrabtree — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 15:04:00 -0800

Every man should be able to drink and appreciate whisk(e)y. It’s a gruff elixir that has inspired as much poetry as it has destroyed the poets themselves. Winston Churchill drank it for breakfast. Don Draper probably drinks it on the shitter. Medics in the civil war used it as their only anesthetic during some field surgery amputations (when the chloroform napkins ran dry).

We can all agree it belongs in the Manhood Bible.

But our country wasn’t founded on whisky. George Washington’s drink of choice was not whisky. The Manifest Destiny settlers of the western frontier with all it’s bloodshed and typhoid fever (thanks Oregon Trail!) were not killing buffalo while jacked on whisky.

They were drinking applejack. And so should you.

This was George Washington’s steeze. A daily ration of it was supplied to troops in the Revolutionary War. Abraham Lincoln served Applejack in his Springfield, Illinois tavern. It purportedly swayed Wig rallies during the presidential election of William Henry Harrison.

Applejack is a 300-year-old whisky-strength (80 proof, 35% brandy base) “cyder spirit” made from your doctor’s favorite fruit. Actually, it’s traditionally made from uneatable crab apples which are pressed and fermented in a similar triple distillation process as whisky.

Let me back up for a second. Last year, I read Michael Pollen’s Botany of Desire, an artful presentation of human beings co-evolution with four “domesticated” plants: apples, tulips, marijuana, and potatoes. If you don’t read, it was made into a PBS documentary and is streaming on Netflix.

Pollen gives a reinterpretation of american folklore with Johnny Appleseed as a bible-beating, fire and brimstone preacher floating down the virgin Ohio River with a canoe full of apple seeds. Back then, all apples were sour crab apples (heterozygous bastards), so planting seeds to grow uneatable fruit seems absurd. Unless you’re fermenting the harvest into a delicious, esophagus-stripping liquor aka colonial crunk juice.

Which paints Johnny Appleseed as his own worst demon, a spreader of drunk sinning, meanwhile futilely combating frontiersmen morality with evangelical fervor that would make Jonathan Swift look like Christopher Hitchens (RIP).

Early colonists drank applejack because they thought water to carry disease. (Side note: The same trend happened during the bubonic plague outbreak where beer was safer to imbibe than water. Perhaps it’s worth renaming the Dark Ages to the Blackout Ages.)

Manifest your drunk destiny today. I buy mine from Laird’s of New Jersey which is the oldest family of American distillers since 1698. A 750ml bottle of Laird’s Blended Applejack contains six pounds of apples. No yeast or starters or additives, perfect for a night cap on your raw food diet. You can find it at BevMo or online.

Drinking whisky to reenact a culturally resonant coolness (the Don Draper effect) pales when compared to sinking your gullet into the last remaining dregs of the American frontier.

The Tatt that Saved Civilization

nickdaze — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 14:53:00 -0800

Ok, so the world ends. Knowledge is lost, marauding gangs rampage, you know the drill. However, before it all came tumbling down, you had the foresight to tattoo a brief phrase that holds the key knowledge to restart civilization…

Don’t forget, you’re limited by the remaining infrastructure, or lack thereof. E.g., “invent the internet” involves everything from advanced metallurgy to the chemistry of coolants used in data centers and would be completely impractical. Especially if you got it on the sole of your foot.

So, what would you get inked?

In case you don’t know how to wear an oversized, braided...

davecrabtree — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 21:58:26 -0800

In case you don’t know how to wear an oversized, braided cable scarf with swag, this is how it’s done.

Extra points for the clenched fist about two seconds away from knocking out the photo poacher.

Resolution: Be A New Year's Hack

rexcurator2 — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 11:14:23 -0800

Resolution: Be A New Year's Hack:

Are you already 7% body fat? Have you already received your certification as a master saucier from Le Cordon Bleu? Did you sweep a Victoria’s Secret model (Ed. Note: stayaway from Swanepoel, she’s mine) off her feet on NYE and are left with nothing left to achieve this year?

Well then this resolution’s for you.

My acquaintance at Techcrunch posted this opportunity and my eyes bugged: free online coding classes. Each week for an entire year you receive a tutorial in your email, walking you step-by-step through how to program in Java, Ruby, and Python.

Don’t know what those are? Look at your computer. No, not your fantasy football spreadsheet, close that. See the internet? That’s Java, Ruby and Python. See the economy, specifically the only sector still growing? That’s Java, Ruby and Python. See the basic alphabet of the future? Yup, you guessed it.

Many say this skillset is as valuable as an MBA… and it’s being given away for free. So sign up, get your friends to sign up, and by May your iPhone ap will knock Angry Birds from the top spot on Itunes.*

*Or your money back.

Riddle: How does one turn a dairy product to gold? Answer: Tony...

rexcurator2 — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 14:13:00 -0800

Riddle: How does one turn a dairy product to gold?

Answer: Tony Bennett’s voice.

May you spend 2012 in the company of his inspiration.

Go Fly A Kite

rexcurator2 — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 12:37:00 -0800

Go Fly A Kite:

Play = happiness. Simplicity = happiness. Kites = simple play. Double syllogism for the win(d).

And since we’re on the topic…

Wind occurs when molecules heat and thusly rise, leaving space for colder molecules to fill in. That “filling in” results as wind. Of course, this filling in isn’t uniform across the planet, as the sun heats our atmosphere unevenly, creating everything from a breeze tussling baby’s first curl to the monsoons deluging Southeast Asian rice paddies. To further complicate matters, each north-south “filling in” is deflected by the spin of the Earth. The land at the equator moves faster than at higher or lower latitudes the same way the rubber on your tire must move faster than the axel of your wheel. Therefore “filling ins” moving towards the equator linger behind the direction of the Earth’s rapid counterclockwise spin and travel westward, and those moving towards the poles are further from this momentum and travel eastward. That’s why the prevailing winds generally blow east-west instead of north-south.

So imagine: each time a kite dances at the end of your twine it is infact manifesting a fleeting marriage of the sun’s fusion, the spin of our planet, and molecular mechanics.

Or more aphoristically put: It takes a village to raise a child; it takes a universe to fly his kite.

It’s been two months. A onslaught of Frankenstein-ed...

rexcurator2 — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 10:14:00 -0800

It’s been two months. A onslaught of Frankenstein-ed carols warped into anthems of greed. Spending more than you can afford to prove to those you love that you love them. Pepper spraying for X-boxes, swearing at cops in the airport arrivals, and riding red-eye cross country economy next to the diminutive Asian lady with a hacking horse cough and a face mask tilted akimbo like a bacterial snowblower chute into your mouth.

But then, at last, the 26th arrives. The presents have been opened, the coveted BMW has failed to materialize in the driveway, and you’re left with your humble little self, your humble little family and friends, and perhaps a humble little chocolate lab that’s finally starting to go white around the maw.

Perhaps your father lost a friend too soon to a heart attack on Christmas Eve. Perhaps the conversation drifts to how to care for mother in her illness-accelerated dotage. Perhaps you return from your childhood cinema and as opinions are bandied around you realize you’ve changed, or your friends have changed, or the world has changed.

Perhaps your sister cuddles her husband as their eyes glimmer with talk of their first house. Perhaps your compatriot receives an email informing his passion has at long last become his profession. Perhaps the new puppy curls up against the old puppy by the foot of the fir.

If only there were a carol for this day. No wall of choral sound, no ulterior retail motive, merely a tune offering a bittersweet goodbyehello. A humsong to flick on as we pull away from the holiday circus back onto the toll road.

Maybe Bill Callahan gifted it to us with this acoustic gem. Maybe not. But I do know this: when you’re “Riding For the Feeling” you keep the true meaning of December 26th in your heart every day.

Know Your Painters: Henri Rousseau

rexcurator2 — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 17:28:00 -0800

Know Your Painters: Henri Rousseau:

Oft lambasted for being a “Naive Ignoramus”, post-impressionist Henri Rousseau came to be a lode star for Picasso, Kandinsky, and Klee. Whether it was by choice or by necessity of his being rejected by the more established traditional galleries of Paris, Rousseau displayed his charmingly “wrong” works at the Salon of the Independents. Yet even amongst outcasts he was still frequently ridiculed for his technical failings as an painter. By his own admission, within his own heart he aspired to the popular photorealism of his age. Unfortunately, this son of a tinsmith was cursed with unique vision, peculiar talent, and a doggedly earned autodidactic education. He would forever remain an outcast.

However, all geniuses are outcasts of one sort of another; and genius laughs last, eternally. From his autumn years through today, the artist derided as the “Customs Officer” (a cruel mockery of his even less impressive post as a toll collector) has inspired the vanguard creatives, whether be they the Surrealists, the poet Wallace Stevens, multi-million dollar animators, or even Joni Mitchell. So come, step into his jungle. You’ll have good company.

These scenes are carved into books. Filed under: look at this...

nickdaze — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 12:29:00 -0800

These scenes are carved into books.

Filed under: look at this next time I drop acid.

Homeless Portraits by Lee Jeffries This shit just ends me.

nickdaze — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 15:23:00 -0800

Homeless Portraits by Lee Jeffries

This shit just ends me.

Your Suit is Too Big

chriscantwell — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 10:05:00 -0800

Yes, you. The one with the Bluetooth earpiece. Your suit is too big.

I’m also talking to you, the guest at the wedding who just pulled it out of the closet, dusted off the shoulders, and said “This looks great.”

It doesn’t matter if you’re big or small, tall or short, wearing a suit that is too big is a fundamental crime against your own waning masculinity. You look like this. I’m not talking about dropping a grand on an expensive name brand in order to correct the problem. It’s only worse if you’re wearing a top shelf formal and it hangs on you like a deflated hot air balloon. It doesn’t really matter where the suit is from. Buy it at a wholesaler, buy it a department store, heck, buy it online. Just get it tailored correctly. Pull it in in the right places and you’ll be wearing a suit like a man is supposed to wear a suit.

If you’re buying at a department store, a handy tip I learned is to almost always go ONE SIZE DOWN from what the salesman recommends, even if he measures you out (and if he didn’t measure you out, get the hell out of there… and if you bought a suit from a place that didn’t measure you out then stop reading and go here). This is not the case if you’ve been going to this salesman for years and you’re on a first name basis. Odds are, he knows what fits you best and you should trust him.

But if you just walked into Nordstrom, Macy’s, et al, go ONE SIZE DOWN. If the smaller size is too tight, go slim instead of regular in the recommended size (but remember, not all suit sizes come in slim).

Have the store tailor it for you (usually free), or better yet, go to your tailor. You know, the one with whom you’re on a first name basis. Mine is Eddie.

A three-piece doesn’t excuse you from this rule. Neither does a double-breasted. If anything, both those styles require more finesse in tailoring in order to pull them off correctly. If you do it right, then they blow a two-piece out of the water, but it’s an inverse relationship. Think of it this way: if you’re going to tell an offensive joke, it had better be REALLY FUNNY. The same is true of three-pieces and double-breasteds. They’ve got to be tailored to perfection.

So stop wearing the big suits already. You may think you look your best, but really you look your worst.

READ: This is NOT an endorsement of the skinny suit, all high ankles and no socks in the summer time. It’s not a bad look but it’s not every look. Just use the throttle and exercise control.