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René Magritte - Moderne, 1923.
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by Sarah Pavis, McSweeney's | Read more:

Eddie is Gone

For around a thousand years, Hawaiian kings and chiefs—known as ali’i—controlled the land, and access was determined by social order. As the Hawaiian monarchy adopted a constitution and began to democratize in the 1830s and ’40s, a series of land-ownership laws called “the Great Mahele” made it possible for private citizens to own property on the islands for the first time. The Great Mahele was intended to provide a substantial amount of land for Hawaiian commoners, but the concept of property ownership was alien to Hawaiians, and only about 1 percent of native Hawaiians ended up being able to take advantage of the law. American entrepreneurs and industrialists managed to acquire land that would become hugely lucrative sugar, pineapple, and coffee plantations, and 70 percent of native Hawaiians found themselves landless by the end of the nineteenth century.

King Kalākaua, who began his reign in 1874, was a Hawaiian nationalist as well as a reckless partier (they called him “the Merrie Monarch”). He defended traditions such as the hula from the attacks of American missionaries, who disapproved of and suppressed whatever they felt was irreligious or amoral. Unfortunately, the king’s heavy drinking and reckless spending were what probably left him vulnerable to a power grab by a group of white businessmen calling themselves “the Hawaiian League.” The Mahele had made it possible for these men to make or inherit obscene amounts of money from pineapple and sugar plantations. In 1887, the league forced Kalākaua to sign away most of his power, some say at gunpoint. A cadre of Americans with growing financial interest in Hawaii held Kalākaua’s sister and successor, Lili‘uokalani, in the palace under house arrest for eight months after a counterrevolutionary group of native Hawaiians attempted to restore her authority as sovereign. Among these American businessmen were James Dole, founder of the Dole pineapple plantation (where tourists can now lose themselves in the world’s largest garden maze), and his cousin Sanford Dole, who then became interim president of the Republic of Hawaii. Activists for native sovereignty held several twentieth-century protests of the monarchy’s overthrow at ‘Iolani Palace; in 2008, a group of native Hawaiians managed to lock the gates to the palace. To these activists, Hawaii never should have become part of the United States. (...)

The whitewashed versions of local history celebrating the welcoming Hawaiian culture, ethnic diversity, and natural beauty don’t simply dominate the tourism industry. They’ve been accepted chronicles of the islands in film and on TV, and were taught in local and mainland schools for much of the twentieth century. Today, a movie like The Descendants at least acknowledges the complicated history that left a few people in control of most of Hawaii’s land, and many popular guidebooks describe the collapse of indigenous rule as a result of certain monarchs’ poor choices and American colonialism. Hawaiian schools and universities teach rich ethnic-studies curricula of local history, mythology, culture, politics, and art. However, the fact remains that of the seven million tourists who visit the islands each year, a huge number will experience Hawaii as a Polynesian Disneyland, a place staffed and populated by smiling hula girls ready with leis and hollowed-out pineapples filled with rum. (...)

Winter is big-wave season on Oahu’s North Shore—on the radio, on the bus, in bars and restaurants, everyone was talking about “the Eddie,” a surf competition named after big-wave surfing icon Eddie Aikau, which only takes place when the waves at Waimea Bay are consistently breaking at over twenty feet. After I’d spent a deadening series of days composing pro-imperialist schlock for tour buses, Aikau’s story captured my imagination. His life seemed to epitomize the tension between Hawaii’s often-violent struggle against cultural interlopers and the popular image of a lush paradise for western recreation and consumption. Neither tour guide nor separatist, Eddie embodied the oppositional forces of tourism and resistance. Through his friendships, his surfing, and his ill-fated voyage across the ocean in a canoe, Eddie attempted to reconcile Hawaii’s cultural heritage with the aftermath of colonial destruction on the islands.

Eddie Aikau was born in 1946, and grew up with his five siblings in a Chinese graveyard in Pauoa Valley, on Oahu. Hawaiians of Chinese ancestry have lived in Hawaii for more than two hundred years, though most showed up in the mid-to-late nineteenth century to work on booming sugar and pineapple plantations. Pops Aikau and his kids maintained the cemetery grounds, digging up old bones and placing them in a mausoleum. The close-knit Aikau family spent most of their free time in the ocean. Diving, fishing, and paddleboarding animated a day-to-day existence of near poverty. As they became more proficient in the waves, Eddie and his brother Clyde started surfing with the native Hawaiian beach boys who partied with tourists and flirted with divorcées on the pristine beaches of Waikiki.

Hawaiians have been surfing for more than a thousand years. There are legends and prayers dedicated to surfing, and the practice deeply influenced and reflected Hawaiians’ social status. In Waves of Resistance, a groundbreaking study of the relationship between surfing, Hawaiian identity, and the movement for native sovereignty, historian Isaiah Helekunihi Walker identifies a “culture of respect and exchange” on the beaches of Hawaii. For hundreds of years, how one behaved in the surf defined one’s place in society. Surfing brought prestige and generated community. A poor kid living in a graveyard could make a name for himself by holding his own in ocean breaks. Pops Aikau knew this, and convinced a local teacher and activist named John Kelly to take Eddie surfing on the winter swells at Waimea Bay.Though the ocean is placid and family-friendly during the summer months, winter swells on the island’s North Shore are about as welcoming as a New England blizzard. Originating from storms in the north Pacific Ocean, the waves at Waimea Bay, one of the fifty-one beaches covering the North Shore’s eleven miles of shoreline, may not be the world’s biggest, but, measuring from the face of the wave, they reach heights of more than twenty-five feet. From behind, they’re taller than four-story buildings. These were the waves that would come to define Eddie as a surfer. (...)

Eddie couldn’t have been further from the mainland surfer stereotype of a bleach-blond show-off with a stoner drawl. In Eddie Would Go, a lovingly reported and extensive account of Eddie’s life (and a source for much of the biographical history in this essay), the writer Stuart Holmes Coleman draws an affecting portrait of Eddie as a deep, shy, and quiet person. He was short, with shaggy dark hair—a kid in a red swimsuit with matching Hobie board. In pictures, Eddie often seems to be staring past the camera. He was already hooked on the surf at Waimea Bay when, at twenty-two, he and another big-wave surfer, Butch Van Artsdalen, were hired to be the first lifeguards on the North Shore. Today, during the winter swells on Waimea, lifeguards on Jet Skis patrol just past the break, and yellow tape restricts dangerous sections of shoreline. Beachgoers respect the lifeguards’ authority. In the ’60s, however, swimmers regularly drowned at Waimea in the powerful current and unpredictable waves. Coleman writes that Eddie would let overconfident swimmers toss in the surf before rescuing them, so they’d leave the ocean with the necessary amount of fear and respect—what he called “the Aikau method of lifeguarding.” But no one drowned on his watch.

Eddie continued to grow as a surfer, placing well year after year in the Duke Classic. Named after Hawaiian surf icon Duke Kahanamoku, it was one of the only invitational surfing competitions in Hawaii at the time. But Eddie’s style of smooth, graceful turns and long, fluid rides began losing favor to a new approach. A group of Australians who had recently “discovered” the incredible surf in Hawaii pioneered a much more aggressive style of surfing, which they called “rip, tear, and lacerate.” The Australians were closely affiliated with the International Professional Surfers (IPS) organization, which had formed in 1976, and together they hoped to monetize surfing and bring the sport worldwide recognition. For these surfers, legitimizing the practice meant engaging in cutthroat competition and domination of the waves.

In 1976, a lanky young Australian named Wayne “Rabbit” Bartholomew published an article in Surfer magazine called “Bustin’ Down the Door,” in which he praised the “spontaneous direction changes” and “radically carved faces” of this burgeoning style of surfing. Rabbit argued (in a largely unintelligible 1970s surfer dialect) that the surfing innovations of 1976—as opposed to the native surfing tradition of the past thousand years—would be what finally brought respect to surfing as a sport. “The development of modern-day surfing is a bitchin’ example of ‘the extended limits principle,’ and it is still a fairly young trip,” Rabbit wrote. “When surfing became a popular pastime roughly twenty years ago, the objectives and directions were quite basic, as the pure novelty of riding waves was in itself a breakthrough and a stoker.” To native Hawaiian surfers like Eddie, the notion that surfing in 1976 was “young” and “basic” was more than just laughable; it was insulting.

Rabbit and his compatriots’ naive arrogance regarding surfing and its provenance enraged locals. During the winter of 1977, a group of Hawaiian surfers swam out to the break at Sunset Beach and assaulted Rabbit, holding him underwater. Back on the beach, they told him to leave the North Shore for good. Rabbit may have “busted down the door,” but he clearly wouldn’t be moving in anytime soon. Terrified, Rabbit and his friends hid out in a room at the Kuilima Resort, taking turns keeping watch with a tennis racket in hand for self-defense.

by Nicole Pasulka, Believer | Read more:

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A Father to His Son

A father sees his son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.’
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum monotony
and guide him among sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
‘Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.’
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.
Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
and left them dead years before burial:
the quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
has twisted good enough men
sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.
Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use against other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
Bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.

by Carl Sandburg

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A Ballon Producing Balloons, Producing Balloons: A Big Fractal

Think about it this way: previously we thought that our universe was like a spherical balloon. In the new picture, it's like a balloon producing balloons, producing balloons. This is a big fractal. The Greeks were thinking about our universe as an ideal sphere, because this was the best image they had at their disposal. The 20th century idea is a fractal, the beauty of a fractal. Now, you have these fractals. We ask, how many different types of these elements of fractals are there, which are irreducible to each other? And the number will be exponentially large, and in the simplest models it is about 10 to the degree 10, to the degree 10, to the degree 7. It actually may be much more than that, even though nobody can see all of these universes at once.

ANDREI LINDE, a Russian-American theoretical physicist and professor of Physics at Stanford University, is the father of "eternal chaotic inflation", one of the varieties of the inflationary multiverse theory, which proposes that the universe may consist of many universes with different properties. He is an inaugural winner of the $3 million Fundamental Physics Prize, awarded by the Milner Foundation. In 2002, he was awarded the Dirac Medal, along with Alan Guth of MIT and Paul Steinhardt of Princeton University. (...)

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Standard Big Bang theory says that everything begins with a big bang, a huge explosion. Terrorists started the universe. But when you calculate how much high tech explosives these guys would have to have at their disposal to start the universe formation, they would need 1080 tons [ed. that's 10 to the power of eighty...can't figure out how to do exponentials in blogger] of high tech explosives, compressed to a ball smaller than 1 centimeter, and ignite all of its parts exactly at the same time with precision better than 1 in 10,000.

Another problem was that in the standard Big Bang scenario, the universe could only expand slower as the time went on. But then why did the universe started to expand? Who gave it the first push? It looks totally incredible, like a miracle. However, people sometimes believe that the greater the miracle, the better: Obviously, God could create 1080 tons of explosive from nothing, then ignite it, and make it grow, all for our benefit. Can we make an attempt to come with an alternative explanation?

According to inflationary theory, one may avoid many of these problems if the universe began in some special state, almost like a vacuum-like state. The simplest version of such a state involves something called "scalar field." Remember electric and magnetic fields? Well, scalar field is even simpler, it does not point to any direction. If it is uniform and does not change in time, it is invisible like vacuum, but it may have lots of energy packed in it. When the universe expands, scalar field remains almost constant, and its energy density remains almost constant.

This is the key point, so let us talk about it. Think about the universe as a big box containing many atoms. When the universe expands two times, its volume grows eight times, and therefore the density of atoms decreases eight times. However, when the universe is filled with a constant scalar field, its energy density remains constant when the universe expands. Therefore when the size of the universe grows two times, the total energy of matter in the universe grows eight times. If the universe continues to grow, its total energy (and its total mass) rapidly becomes enormously large, so one could easily get all of these 1080 tons of mater starting from almost nothing. That was the basic idea of inflation. At the first glance, it could seem totally wrong, because of energy conservation. One cannot get energy from nothing. We always have the same energy with which we started.

Once I was invited to give an opening talk at the Nobel Symposium in Sweden on the concept of energy. And I wondered, why did they invite me there, what am I going to tell these people who study solar energy, oil, wind? What can I tell them? And then I told them: "If you want to get lots of energy, you can start from practically nothing, and you can get all the energy in the universe."

Not everyone knows that when the universe expands, the total energy of matter does change. The total energy of matter plus gravity does not change, and it amounts to exactly zero. So the energy conservation for the universe is always satisfied, but it is trivial: zero equals zero. But we are not interested in the energy of the universe as a whole; we are interested in the energy of matter.

If we can have a regime where we have some kind of instability where the initial zero energy can split into a very big positive energy of matter, and a very big negative energy of gravity, the total sum remains zero. But the total energy of matter can become as large as we want. This is one of the main ideas of inflation.

We have found how to start this instability, and how to stop it, because if it doesn't stop, then it goes forever, and then it's not the universe where we can we live. Alan Guth's idea was how to start inflation, but he did not know how to stop it in a graceful way. My idea was how to start it, continue it, and eventually stop it without damaging the universe. And when we learned how to do it, we understood that yes, we can start from practically nothing, or even literally nothing, as suggested by Alex Vilenkin, and account for everything that we see now. At that time it was quite a revolutionary development: We finally could understand many properties of our universe. We no longer needed to postulate the cosmological principle; we finally knew the real physical reason why the world that we see around us is uniform.

by Andrei Linde, The Edge |  Read more:

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How to Live Practically Forever

This morning I went over to my grandmother's house to bring her buttermilk and ice cream. She calls me once a week or so:

"Jessie, go to the store for me, will you? I'm outta cornmeal and see if you can get some of that cream for my eyebrows. You know, that cream you got at the pharmacy that one time ..."

Most of my family lives within about five miles of her house, so I'm not the only one who gets calls like this from Gigi. She lives by herself in the home she and my grandfather bought in the 1940s, and she still does really well by herself, with a little help from about 15 friends and relatives. But Gigi's funny and interesting, and calls everybody Baby, so nobody really minds running her errands or looking in on her once a week.

So, this morning I got to her house before she unlocked the doors. She's too deaf to hear any sort of knocking or bell ringing, so I walked around the house, yoohoo-ing at every door and window (that's what we do in my family: we "yoohoo"), and eventually I got around to the back door, where I saw her cat slide through the broken screen. I looked in, and there was Gigi, in just a pair of gigantic panties, fluffing her white hair in front of the mirror. She might be 95, but the girl's still got it.

She screamed bloody murder when she finally saw me in the mirror, standing outside the screen door, yoohoo-ing at her, but she recovered fast, and after she got dressed, I helped her make her bed and rounded up her hearing aids — one of them was in the living room in a goblet full of loose change, and the other was on her night stand next to the antique handgun that she thinks is loaded, but which one of my uncles assures me is not.

Her coffee pot erupted this morning, too, so I was blotting coffee out of her kitchen carpet with a dishtowel when my uncle Lee called. Gigi's got the volume turned all the way up on her phone receiver, so when somebody calls, you can hear everything the person on the other line is saying.

Lee's not really one for preamble, so he got right down to it: "You know Cecelia died on Friday?"

Cecelia was a family friend — a baker. She made beautiful cakes like the ones you see in fancy magazines. I didn't know her very well, and what I do know about her history with my family really isn't my business to tell. I'll just say, there's a story there, and so her dying was significant, even though everybody knew she had been sick for ages. For a few minutes after Lee hung up, Gigi looked out the window, watery-eyed and very old looking, which I realized as I wiped coffee grounds off the kitchen cabinets, is unusual for her, even though sheis very old.

Cecelia, on the other hand, wasn't all that old — she might have been 70, maybe younger. But none of us die of old age; we all die of something, and Cecelia died of Parkinson's disease.

But two things Gigi hates are 1) being sad, and 2) not taking advantage of the opportunity to chat somebody up when they're sitting there right in front of her. In her life, she's known a lot of people who are dead now, and I've been with her when she's received similar news about somebody she knew. But strangely, the saddest I've ever seen her was the time Miss Josh, her Lhasa Apso died: she got extremely drunk on bourbon and cried all day with her friend Susan, who will cry about anything, always, to infinity. Especially dead pets.

So, I wasn't surprised when, after a grave minute, Gigi turned to me and asked how preschool was going for my three-year-old. She asked to see pictures of her on my phone, and when I handed it over, she got right up close to the screen with her 7X power magnifying glass with the built-in LED. While she did that, I started making her breakfast: peaches, coffee, and four little biscuits I found in the refrigerator with a dollop of orange marmalade on each one.

by Jessilyn Shields, The Hairpin |  Read more:

Alberto García-Alix

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Style

[ed. Ben Gazarra  from Tales of Ordinary Madness (1970), directed by Marco Ferreri.]

Las Vegas: The Last Honest Place on Earth

I once knew a girl who had grown up in a small town on the North Island of New Zealand. The town was populated by descendants of Scottish Protestants, who had established a place of sober, hard-working respectability. On Friday and Saturday nights, the young people would go to a barn outside the town limits, where there would be music and dancing and the young men would get drunk and fight each other. None of this spilled over back into the town: no one would say anything about the bruises on the butcher boy’s face; and if a couple had found an intimacy at a dance, that wouldn’t alter the formality of their relations during the rest of the week.

This is how Protestant countries work. Civic spaces are designed for polite, hard-working respectability, and young people let off steam and the sinners do their sinning in self-contained places outside town limits. The US is a very Protestant country, and Las Vegas is its barn.

Actually it’s two barns, a couple of miles away from each other. The original one, Fremont Street, Downtown, is a ramshackle place. Apart from the slickly remodelled Golden Nugget, the one-time Glitter Gulch is a couple of shabby blocks of casinos and bars and souvenir shops covered by a canopy and blasted at night with music and air-conditioning and lights (“The Fabulous Fremont Street Experience!”), surrounded by slums and bail bondsmen storefronts. The other, the Strip, is the gaudy place of postcards and movies and the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign, where high-rise casino-resorts stretch out along Las Vegas Boulevard. (...)

In July, I’d driven in from LA in the company of two old friends. We followed Interstate 15 through the Mojave Desert shimmer of heat, truck stops and Joshua trees and the occasional sun-blasted forsaken town. Both of my companions are Londoners who have been living in Los Angeles for about 15 years. One has made it big in Hollywood as a writer and producer of network television shows. The other is a professor of the history of science at California State University.

The Money and I had planned this trip some months ago. The Professor had joined us at short notice, leaving his wife and two small children behind. The Professor’s wife had been unresisting, maybe even encouraging. Because this is America, it is understood that men need to get together, to drive through the desert, that men need to drink cocktails and argue about politics in the Bellagio bar. But I wasn’t here to let off steam. I’d come to Vegas for a meeting of the board of the UK Poker Federation, and to take part in the World Series of Poker (WSOP). (...)

The journalist Marc Cooper published a very good book about the city nearly ten years ago that was called The Last Honest Place in America. Its thesis was that Las Vegas is brutal but self-evident: it’s all about money. Anyone can wander into the high-end casino-resorts, and people do, streams and streams of them, looking for bars and nightclubs and adrenalin adventure, drinking luminous cocktails from giant glasses, girls in tiny skirts and high heels, boys trying to act like high rollers, the prostitutes waiting in the casino bars, with the looks they send out that manage to be both candid and modest, You’re a discerning and attractive gentleman. You and I maybe could . . . ? and the disabled people rolling slowly through the aisles between slot machines in wheelchairs and mobility scooters – because, as the recession deepens, the proportion of disabled people in Vegas has risen noticeably: Mammon has finally found its Lourdes. And, if you’ve got a dollar in your pocket, you’re entitled to play. But Cooper’s book was published when Vegas was indisputably the gambling capital of the world. It’s lost some of its swagger recently. It has become more expensive. Profits from the casinos of Macau now exceed those of Las Vegas, which need to protect their income stream from the likes of Dolores Smith.

Nonetheless, I still love Vegas, its calculated gaudiness, its relentlessness, the haven it has made for smokers and gamblers and pleasure-seekers. In other contexts, I might find it decadent rather than magnificent that a resort in the desert has more championship golf courses than anywhere else in the world. The water comes from the Hoover Dam and, I’m sure, is also diverted from helplessly thirsty towns in southern California. As the journalist and president of the International Federation of Poker, Anthony Holden, says, “I love its nerve and its boldness and that every year something new happens.”

The conversations with cab drivers here are better than any you’ll find anywhere else, such as when the ex-marine explained to me the difference between gay and straight couples travelling in the back of his cab: “They want to give each other blow jobs? The straight couples ask you first. The gays just do it.”

And I love that you can play poker here all of the time, with many hundreds of games to choose from at any moment in the day. Every cash table, it seems, has at least one of the following: a cocky young man wearing enormous headphones, an implacable white-haired gentleman, an American Oriental who’s a dangerous opponent and a ferocious old lady with dyed red hair who bets aggressively, and whose ancient hands are covered with heavy jewellery and raised veins.

This is what I was here to do. In a fog of jet lag, I set about trying to raise my stake for the Main Event. I spent my days and nights in Vegas, as the Money and the Professor sampled cocktails and swimming pools and Vegas steaks, playing poker tournaments.

by David Flusfeder, The New Statesman |  Read more:

Photo: Getty Images

Harnessing the Power of Waves

Portland, Ore. About 15 years ago, this environmentally conscious state with a fir tree on its license plates began pushing the idea of making renewable energy from the ocean waves that bob and swell on the Pacific horizon. But then one of the first test-buoy generators, launched with great fanfare, promptly sank. It was not a good start.

But time and technology turned the page, and now the first commercially licensed grid-connected wave-energy device in the nation, designed by a New Jersey company, Ocean Power Technologies, is in its final weeks of testing before a planned launch in October. The federal permit for up to 10 generators came last month, enough, the company says, to power about 1,000 homes. When engineers are satisfied that everything is ready, a barge will carry the 260-ton pioneer to its anchoring spot about two and a half miles offshore near the city of Reedsport, on the central coast.

“All eyes are on the O.P.T. buoy,” said Jason Busch, the executive director of the Oregon Wave Energy Trust, a nonprofit state-financed group that has spent $10 million in the last six years on scientific wave-energy research and grants, including more than $430,000 to Ocean Power Technologies alone. Making lots of electricity on the buoy and getting it to shore to turn on lights would be great, Mr. Busch said. Riding out the storm-tossed seas through winter? Priceless. “It has to survive,” he said.

Adding to the breath-holding nature of the moment, energy experts and state officials said, is that Oregon is also in the final stages of a long-term coastal mapping and planning project that is aiming to produce, by late this year or early next, a blueprint for where wave energy could be encouraged or discouraged based on potential conflicts with fishing, crabbing and other marine uses.

The project’s leader, Paul Klarin, said wave technology is so new, compared to, say, wind energy, that the designs are like a curiosity shop — all over the place in creative thinking about how to get the energy contained in a wave into a wire in a way that is cost-effective and efficient.

“Some are on the seabed on the ocean floor, some are in the water column, some are sitting on the surface, some project up from the surface into the atmosphere, like wind — many different sizes, many different forms, many different footprints,” said Mr. Klarin, the marine program coordinator at the Oregon Department of Land Conservation and Development. “There’s no one-size-fits-all kind of plan.”

Energy development groups around the world are closely watching what happens here, because success or failure with the first United States commercial license could affect the flow of private investment by bigger companies that have mostly stayed on the shore while smaller entrepreneurs struggled in the surf. Ocean Power Technologies also will be seeking money to build more generators.

by Kirk Johnson, NY Times |  Read more:

Photo: Thomas Patterson

JustinGuitar.com

[ed. For both the aspiring and established guitar player, JustinGuitar.com is the best learning resource on the net (imho). And it's free! Take the time to check it out, especially the extensive lessons index.]

There are many hundreds of free guitar lessons here, most with video and audio, and as you can imagine it's taken quite a lot of work for me to put it together. It's important to me to help everyone that wants to learn to play the guitar, not just those with money to spend on tuition, so I run it on an "honour system".

It relies on the honesty of it's users to make a donation if they can afford to. Donations allow me to keep it free, so if you like what I'm doing here then please support the site, don't leave it for "everyone else": make a donation or buy some products Thanks for your support!

Wishing you love, peace and happiness (and many years of guitar fun!)

Justin

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Justinguitar.com went first live in July 2003 as a small web site offering a few lessons as a sample to promote private lessons. It grew steadily over it's first few years, with Justin often adding content to keep himself occupied while on tour, much of it done on a laptop in hotel rooms around the globe.

After seeing the popularity of YouTube Justin began making instructional guitar videos in December 2006, initially filmed and edited by his friend Jedi. In September 2011 his YouTube instructional videos have been watched over 100,000,000 (yep that's 100 million) times and the web site receives well over 20,000 unique visitors a day!

It has received many accolades in both the traditional press and new media as well as radio and tv shows. By keeping quality guitar instruction free for those that cannot afford or get to private lessons has given the site a huge user base right around the world. Helping the poor, the shy and those just too busy to make regular lessons.

The approach is patient. Learn one thing well and be able to use it before you learn more. The method works, and many hundreds of thousands of people around the world have benefited from the lessons on the site.

The Independent newspaper said that he is "One of the most influential guitar teachers in history".

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The Art of Nature

[ed. I don't necessarily agree with this but it's an interesting argument. The author's main assertion - that human tinkering with Nature is natural - seems to imply that even if we happen to wipe ourselves out by some unanticipated mistake the response would be, well that's just Nature re-balancing itself. I'd like to think we have a little more skin in the game than that. And, I don't accept the concept of restoration as a legitimate alternative to conservation, particularly when trade-offs for real benefits are negotiated away for some indeterminate future return. Anyone involved in environmental restoration will tell you - Nature is much more complex and costly to restore than most people can imagine, and success by no means certain. Protecting and conserving natural environments is always the cheapest alternative, and should always be the first priority.]  

When European settlers first moved from the East Coast out into the great hinterland of North America, they believed that what they saw was nature. Jasper Cropsey, Thomas Cole, Frederic Church, and Albert Bierstadt painted their grand mystical visions of a landscape unsullied by mankind, and it is that pristine picture which has stuck ever since.

Of course, the settlers were wrong. It was in fact a landscape that had already been tailored by Indian nations to fit very specific lifestyles and satisfy religious needs. Like bees scattering pollen, the Indians had carried seed across the continent and bred wild teosinte into tender corn. If the first humans had not crossed the Bering land bridge over ten thousand years ago then much, perhaps most, of the prairie would have been deciduous oak and beech forests. Thoreau, on the other hand, who puttered about Walden for long enough to see what was under the surface, knew well that the “wilderness” in which he lived had been farmed and dwelt upon by earlier peoples. What he probably did not know was the reason they were no longer around: as many as nine-tenths of the natives had been wiped out by European diseases brought over by the Spanish nearly four hundred years before.

The point here is not another postcolonial rant about the crimes of the West, but rather what we mean by nature and what our conception of ourselves as humans in relation to it really is. If we define natural as that which is not human, denying that our species emerged as the result of a naturally occurring process, then we resemble the creationists who want school boards to ban even the teaching of human evolution. We did not suddenly supervene upon this planet by divine intervention. It is far more miraculous that we emerged, and are still emerging, from the matter, energy, and information of the world. We owe our humanity to our power of speech just as the elk derives his identity from his antlers, each species responding to the peculiar demands of their environments. Man himself grew up out of the earth. After all, “Adam” means “red clay.” If we do decide to define man as natural but classify our social and cultural creations as artificial, then we subscribe to the idea that humans are only natural in isolation. This is a theory that all the human sciences—anthropology, psychology, paleoanthropology, linguistics, ethnology—emphatically reject.

As the great bacteriologist Lynn Margulis has pointed out, we are part of an immense web of earthly life. We are ourselves made up of a collection of ancient bacteria, protists, and viruses that have been consolidated mostly—but not entirely—into our genes, expressed as organelles and ingenious chemical machinery, and still freely exchanging snippets of DNA and RNA with other organisms. Then again, if we say that everything is natural, including anthropogenic global warming, modernist art, and Hiroshima, then what becomes of our tendency to value the natural and revere nature? And if the word refers to everything, is it any use at all?

All societies, the anthropologist Claude Levi-Strauss tells us, distinguish between nature and culture, the raw and the cooked. The philosophical, moral, and aesthetic dimensions of the distinction, however, differ profoundly from one society to another. Indeed, one might almost categorize societies in a way that would nicely cut across the usual economic, technological, and historical divides solely by the content of their nature/culture distinction. Are emotions natural or cultural? Is nature “good” and culture “bad,” or vice versa? Is nature dynamic and culture static, or the other way around? Is nature self-aware and culture innocent? Is nature personal and culture collective? Different societies emphasize different distinctions, and the conflicts within all cultures consist to a large extent of a struggle over the strategic definition of these words.

by Frederick Turner, Lapham's Quarterly (2008) |  Read more:

Beauty Through Bamboo

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Leaving Home, but None of Its Comforts

I don't remember everything I took with me when I went to college, but do I know it all fit easily into the back seat of our family car. The twin-size sheets were new; nearly everything else (pillow, stereo, ugly green rug) had been scavenged from home or a thrift store.

As for electronics, that summer my well-meaning parents went to a garage sale and were talked into buying an Apple Macintosh with a drive that accepted only large floppy disks. My suspicion that it was embarrassingly out of date, even by 1994 standards, was confirmed by my roommate’s look of disbelief when I tried to boot up.

Altogether, furnishing my dorm room cost maybe $50.

These memories came back as I stood inside a Target store in South Philadelphia one night last week at midnight, watching 1,200 students from Temple University swarming the aisles like amped-up contestants on a shopping-spree game show.

Target had bused the students from campus and rearranged the store for the after-hours event. A D.J. played dance music in what was normally the baby department; mini-fridges and cases of Red Bull were stacked along a central corridor. Students’ carts were filling with hanging mirrors, garbage cans in bright colors, shower caddies and bed-in-a-bag sheet sets.

Gina D’Annunzio, director of student activities at Temple, said she had resisted Target’s previous overtures to host an after-hours event. But this year the timing had worked out, and Ms. D’Annunzio remembered that as a little girl she had dreamed of getting “locked in a mall” — a common fantasy, judging by the scene at Target.

Jordyn Richman, an 18-year-old freshman, had come for a mattress pad, a body pillow, a night light and push pins. Before arriving at Temple, Ms. Richman had already spent $300 on dorm décor at Target and Ikea stores near her home in Boca Raton, Fla. The additional items she was buying would “round out” her room, she said.

In recent years, the Target run — or a shopping trip to a similar big-box store — has become a new college tradition, right up there with spring break and sleeping through class. This time of year it’s common to see students and parents roaming the aisles, checking off items from an ever-growing list of essentials. The goal, it seems, is to turn the dorm room into a plush home away from home.

Derek Jackson, director of housing and dining services at Kansas State, is among those who have observed a growing influx of comforts like coffee makers and the rise of color-coordinated rooms.

“We get requests saying, ‘Can you give us dimensions for the windows, because we want to hang curtains?’ ” he said. “Back in the old days, students were just trying to make their rooms purposeful.”

And of the 72-inch TVs he has lately been seeing students lug into residence halls, Mr. Jackson said, “If they can fit it into their room: that’s the mind-set.”

by Steven Kurutz, NY Times | Read more:
Photo: Dan Gill

Elizabeth Bunsen. infinite 3
http://elizabethbunsen.typepad.com/be_dream_play/
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Let's Be Friends

Regardless of Bill Clinton’s personal feelings about Obama, it didn’t take him long to see the advantages of an Obama Presidency. More than anyone, he pushed Hillary to take the job of Secretary of State. “President Clinton was a big supporter of the idea,” an intimate of the Clintons told me. “He advocated very strongly for it and arguably was the tie-breaking reason she took the job.” For one thing, having his spouse in that position didn’t hurt his work at the Clinton Global Initiative. He invites foreign leaders to the initiative’s annual meeting, and her prominence in the Administration can be an asset in attracting foreign donors. “Bill Clinton’s been able to continue to be the Bill Clinton we know, in large part because of his relationship with the White House and because his wife is the Secretary of State,” the Clinton associate continued. “It worked out very well for him. That may be a very cynical way to look at it, but that’s a fact. A lot of the stuff he’s doing internationally is aided by his level of access.”

Bill Clinton’s international diplomacy also has benefitted Obama, although the White House has been careful to control the spotlight. One rough moment occurred in 2009, when Clinton flew to North Korea to negotiate the release of two captive journalists, Euna Lee and Laura Ling. Ling’s sister Lisa had worked closely with Clinton and with the Obama Administration to obtain the women’s release. In the sisters’ subsequent memoir about the ordeal, “Somewhere Inside: One Sister’s Captivity in North Korea and the Other’s Fight to Bring Her Home,” they expressed surprise that Clinton wouldn’t be stepping off the plane with Lee and Ling as they greeted their families in front of reporters; the White House had asked him to remain on board. “We feel strongly about this decision,” Lisa was told in a conference call with a White House official. Once the plane was on the ground, however, a State Department aide assured her that Clinton would leave the plane with the former captives, and he did. Obama called Clinton a few minutes afterward and thanked him for the mission. It was the first time the two Presidents had spoken in quite a while, Lisa was told.

Throughout 2008 and 2009, Obama rarely contacted Clinton, a decision that the Clinton circle attributes to Obama’s loner personality. A Democrat deeply familiar with the relationship complained that the press has often made it seem that Clinton harbored “lingering resentments” from the primary battle: “It’s always sort of implied that it’s Clinton’s fault.” The truth, he added, “is that Obama doesn’t really like very many people.” He ticked off the names of some of Obama’s longtime friends: the Whitakers, the Nesbitts, Valerie Jarrett. “And he likes to talk about sports. But other than that he just doesn’t like very many people. Unfortunately, it extends to people who used to have his job.”

by Ryan Lizza, New Yorker |  Read more:

Illustration: Andy Friedman