Graffiti in the Wilderness: Rock Climbing in a Granite Museum
Yesterday afternoon, my father took my sister and me out rock climbing in the Quincy Quarries. He has climbed nearly every weekend for the past seven years. My sister never had, and I’d only climbed indoors and that was a few years ago.
The rocks in this suburban Boston climbing park are completely covered in graffiti, unfortunate as it makes the surface slippery and more difficult to grip. Visually though, it is interesting.
We think of graffiti as an urban thing. And nature as something separate. But the nature that exists not too far from the city is usually a pale substitute. Graffiti is always found in transportation centers — subways, trains, bus stations — the stations, the bathrooms, or the cars themselves. Marking a place you’ve been and don’t intend to return for a sense of permanence.
But we also unintentionally leave traces of ourselves in the near wilderness. Maybe JG Ballard’s themes are the concerns of children. As a child in suburbia, the same woods that seemed so expansive, contained random traces of civilizations like long abandoned rusty tricycles with the tires removed and moss growing over the handles. Trash and shattered glass, a bobby pin, a sock, a condom wrapper — the outside world is rarely experienced as something pristine — people always leave something behind. This may be why the longer you live in the city, the more likely you are to shun nature entirely. It is never as pure as you imagine it to be.
Rock climbers become obsessed with the surface textures, not unlike how in bicycling you are much more aware of little bumps or pieces of gravel in the road. It is similarly an individual’s journey and an intellectual sport. Just like you dodge the cars on your bike, you need to think about where to position yourself and how to grip. I wouldn’t be surprised if this were to become a fad the way biking is now.
Plus, it’s emotional. It’s fear rather that physical exhaustion that prevents me from ascending any higher than 20 feet. When we visited my grandmother a half-hour later for blueberry pie and ice cream, I was still feeling the rush. My hand was shaking as I lifted my fork like I had too much coffee.
In May, I read the quarries were cleaned of graffiti in order to film a Tina Fey movie. Can they really clean the paint off? Or do you paint the rocks granite grey?
Anyway, they didn’t do much of a job. I can’t imagine this much graffiti only collected in the two months since. But I’m not complaining. If only it were less haphazard — really beautiful work that respects it’s surrounding, and is mindful of those good nooks climbers need to get their feet in. Like, what I wrote about tagging houses, if only it were work as good as Swoon, Imminent Disaster, Conor Harrington, Armsrock… If the rocks will be covered with paint, why not graffiti that’s really great? The state could turn it into a legal graffiti park and maybe attract real talent. Think of it as an induced-Stendhal Syndrome.
Quincy quarries images by The Urban Pantheist, art by Swoon
Previously:
Urban Safaris: Graffiti Sites Considered for Heritage Protection
With Speed Graphic Cameras, Art is a Crime [Scene]
Related links:
- Quincy Quarry Panorama
- The Battle Over Central Park, New York magazine.
Please Don’t Leave a Facebook Comment on My Birthday
I’m trying hard here to word this in the right way, without sounding exasperated or too demanding, because it’s not the worst thing in the word — but it is unfortunate there is no Emily Post for our generation, spelling out why and how we might best celebrate birthdays. The “happy birthday” comments on my social network pages get a fraction of my attention, as it took a fraction of the attention of the 
person who wrote it. Perhaps it wouldn’t trouble me if it didn’t seem a substitute for presence or substantial communication.
First there is the question of why it matters anyway. Aren’t we a little too old for birthdays? It’s true, some are indifferent to the annual “special day” but most of us just out of habit are not. It’s the one day of the year to receive special attention without doing anything to earn it: our personal New Year in order to reassess the paths we’ve taken and expect to take.
Plus, we grow up demanding this attention. It’s the best day in a child’s life, and one she waits for all month. For children, going to someone’s birthday is almost as fun as having your own. Becuase there will be cake and an inflatable castle in the backyard, or, at the very least, a slip-n-slide.
In college, replace “drinks” with “cake.” You ask the seniors to “buy” for you and get drunk in the dorms. But sometime, once school is done, a birthday is too much of a hassle to celebrate. For the birthday person, it’s a little awkward to send an email out: “Hi friends, please pay tribute to me at this sushi restaurant. By the way, I’m not one of those people that expects gifts but it would be nice to see you all.” For the invitees, well, sometimes they feel they have other priorities.
A text message, “Can’t make it tonight sick/busy/tired,” is an everyday disappointment, but on one’s birthday, it’s difficult not to take it personally. I thought I was the only one who got upset about this, until I went out with my friend, at the club he was DJing the night of his birthday. There was only the lightest shower just before he started playing, but he received text message after text message, “I’d go out, but it’s too rainy.”
Friends of mine, five years or more older, who actually have the sort of responsibilities one would assume might cut into their social time, never seem to do this, but with friends five years younger — forget it. Were there a Getting Things Done-style book for keeping up with friends, well articulated methods how not to alienate ourselves from the people we like best, no one would read it anyway. A shame, as I find so much of my email consists of messages back and forth from friends on why one or the other can’t meet up on this or that day. We all over-extend ourselves, because we can. But what it seems to bring about is what, T. S. Elliot called the “sty of contentment.”
And so you get the Facebook and Myspace comments instead. Both applications allow for no one to forget your birthday. But, here’s the thing, it requires nothing of a person to type and post two words and an exclamation point on a page. This is all part of the problem of time and attention, and also of priorities. I don’t know anyone too busy to watch The Wire or Man Men, but somehow we get too busy to meet up with friends.
Images by Laurie Simmons. The first a still from The Music of Regret
Rules for an American Fantasy Road Trip
The Wall Street Journal’s list of 50 things we can blame on high gas prices was all over the blogs this week. Strangely missing from it is the fact that cross-country roadtripping, the quintessential American experience, is becoming obsolete. This summer we should all be so lucky to weave in and out of little backwater and dirt road towns, where the people stare as they would at aliens, look at the young city persons with their skinny jeans and asymmetric haircuts!
Of course, the best way to roadtrip, as films would have it, is to go it alone. Then you are more likely to come across an attractive stranger, with whom you will exchange sidelong glances — sometimes through the rearview mirror. At the first rest stop, you will have the chance to evaluate whether or not the mysterious stranger is height/weight proportionate and not crazy-seeming (well, maybe a little crazy,) but this is still not the time to proceed with anything.
Several states later, another rest stop, and you exchange a faint “Hey,” and maybe a nod. Then you get gas someplace else toward the end of the day and have a deep conversation over a cup of terrible coffee about the terrible things that have happened to you in the past, like some uncle who used to beat you in the woodshed or something, carefully neglecting to mention your hometown, name, occupation, or age.
At some point in the conversation, one will ask the other, “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” with a shrug, is the only appropriate response to this question.
No one asks where you are coming from.
Only at the 5th rest stop, and the third cup of terrible coffee and second or third vague conversation, is it appropriate to inquire, “So where are you staying tonight?” Illicit substances may or may not be procured at this point in the adventure. The next morning you must have breakfast at a diner, maybe a retrofitted train car, where a middle-aged frizzy haired waitress with an obsolete name like “Blanche” or “Mildred” serves rubbery omelette with white bread toast and margarine. Different kinds of pies and grapenut custard are displayed in a revolving glass case by the door.
Five Easy Pieces is my favorite road movie, pretty much because it’s my favorite movie. But Laurie Bird in Two-lane Blacktop is the consummate roadtrip lady friend. She’s credited as “the girl,” even though she appears in a quarter of all the scenes, she never gets a name. So yeah, no exchanging names on the road. You’re nothing more than “the girl,” with nothing more than a backpack to hold all of your possessions. That’s another rule.
Sadly, the beautifully wistful Laurie Bird killed herself when she was 25 in her boyfriend Art Garfunkel’s apartment — he who wrote the consummate roadtrip lyric, “Counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike/ They’ve all gone to look for America.”
There’s that other roadtrip lyric, “Standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona,” which created a tourism platform in Winslow, Arizona out of necessity.
When Interstate 40 replaced Route 66, towns along 66 shuttered their diners and B&Bs. There were no more weary road travelers to feed. In the meantime, the Jackson Browne stomping ground capitalized on the song’s success by building a public space called “Standin’ on the Corner Park” complete with a totally heinous looking statue of someone “standin’ on the corner”:
A brief history of the town per Wikipedia:
The scene described in the song was replicated as a trompe-l’oeil mural painted on the side of a building in Standin’ on the Corner Park in Winslow. On October 18, 2004, a fire destroyed the building on which the mural was painted. The wall and the mural were preserved, but the park temporarily closed.
In November of 2006, the city of Winslow purchased the property where the building had stood. The wall with the mural was secured and the rest of the building torn down.
As of August 2007, the corner of the park, with the statue and the mural, is accessible again. Plans are underway to expand the mural to cover the remaining wall, and to expand the park onto both sides of the wall.
The town also posted a billboard on I-40 with the words: “Winslow, Arizona says ‘Take it easy’”.
Wikipedia also says the road movie, “has its roots in spoken and written tales of epic journeys, such as the Odyssey and the Aeneid. The road film is a standard plot employed by screenwriters. It is a kind of bildungsroman, a kind of story in which the hero changes, grows or improves over the course of the story. The modern “road picture” is to filmmakers what the heroic quest was to Medieval writers.” My then boyfriend, a few years ago, a very paranoid person who was nevertheless usually right about these things, always used to say “this is the last year we can roadtrip so we should do it now,” but at the time I thought going abroad would make the best escape.
Now it’s true. The roadtrip is already a forgotten concept like a drive-in movie. And there’s no other American experience that can take its place.
Images by Stephen Shore (except for the “Standin’ on the Corner”)
Previously:
Low-Tech Movement: Not Just Pedestrian Pride
Urban Safaris: Graffiti Sites Considered for Heritage Protection
Related links:
- Legends of America
- VQR: No Way Home
- Good news about $4 gas? Fewer traffic deaths, Eurekalert
- Out of the wilderness, The Economist, “People are shunning the great outdoors. Blame conservationists, not video games.”
- Martin’s Route 66 Gallery & Essay
- Goodbye to the Great American Road Trip, NYT
- Route 66 - The Land That Time Forgot, Dave Wyman
Thomas M. Disch: Cult Writer for the Next Generation
Several years ago, my copy of The Man Who Had No Idea got wet while I was out of town and it began to mold around the edges. I was then in an unpleasant financial situation — just buying the $2 old paperback gave me a great deal of anxiety at the used bookstore register. But instead of throwing it out, I took scissors to the offending bits. I read that book cover to cover except for the first sentence of every page that was cut away. The circumstance itself was pretty Dischian. His early short stories were about young people in a dumpy roach-infested apartments, who if forced to chose between food or books, would go to bed hungry. He was the sci-fi writer for the creative underclass.
As openly gay writer, Thomas M Disch wrote about being an outsider with authenticity. His imagination fueled a dozen vivid novels. And I’ve been a fan of his since I was 6: The Brave Little Toaster was the Wall-E of its day, the first cartoon to play at the Sundance Film Festival. From this post on Daily Kos, I learned, he’s also the man behind The Lion King. (Not that he made more that a few grand off of that one either.) But some good news, it sounds like the author of the post is working on a documentary about him.
Disch was unmistakably erudite. Indeed, a few of his books discussed intelligence. In 334, a character is pained by the low IQ scores that by government mandate prevent him from ever having children. In Camp Concentration, researchers experiment injecting a form of syphilis modified to make the patients geniuses. Championed by the likes of Howard Bloom and more recently, Ed Park, his is the most accessible science fiction for non-science fiction readers.
But fans of the genre should know his work too. His book The Dreams Our Stuff Is Made Of, a long chronicle on how science fiction went mainstream, is so funny and illuminating. I just picked it up and randomly fell upon the line, “each dystopia, like Tolstoi’s unhappy families, is dystopic in its own way” — and that’s pretty representative of his humor.
Dana Gioia, chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts and a poet and critic, told the New York Times, “The reason his science fiction is important is that he combined a kind of really dark Swiftian satire with a modernist, really postmodernist sensibility.”
While most science fiction writers are emotionally detached, Disch was highly self-aware. He so rawly described depression and general mental illness, it is no wonder so many of his most loyal readers first discovered him as teenagers. To the uninitiated, I’d almost suggest putting off reading his early short stories and Camp Concentration until you are enraged about something. People call him an angry writer, which is true, but angry as a reaction to frustrating circumstances, not in an annoying or unpleasant-to-read way. He wasn’t ranting like Harlan Ellison or Lewis Black. He wasn’t misanthropic, well…not really. He was angry with a composure.
And much of that has to do with his age while he was writing. He was 25 when The Genocides was published. Camp Concentration and 334 were published before he turned 32. That anger seemed to have subsided after he met his partner Charles Naylor. And On Wings of Song, written several years later, while no less wry and engaging, has a sweetness to it that his previous books didn’t.
But Charles Naylor grew sick and died in 2004. And the money ran out. And he was facing eviction. His Livejournal entries over the past few years show he was growing increasingly unhinged. I looked over The Word of God yesterday evening. There’s much in there about the afterlife, references to the “Kurt Cobain Expressway” and passages like this:
Part of the problem with suicide is that there seems no way to guarantee that one’s own passage to the other side will be so exquisitely catered as it is in Crespi’s or Keats’s or Wagner’s versions. I tried suicide just once, when I was eighteen, living in a sublet on West 16th, for no reason that I can remember. But what teenager, gay, penniless, and without friends needs reasons? Anyhow it was a sincere attempt: I shut the windows, stuffed a towel under the door out to the hall, turned off the gas burners on the stove, and went to bed. When I awoke a few hours later, I was astonished that I wasn’t dead, and after I’d opened the windows and returned the towel to the towel rack, I called Con Ed to complain. The man I talked to explained that Con Ed had long ago introduced an element into the gas that would make people nauseous before they could die, and that’s why one no longer reads of suicides discovered in their ovens.
Darkly humorous as that example is, it was too disturbing to give it a thourough reading. The last few lines of 334 similarly haunted me. The character Mrs. Hanson says, “I do want it. I want to die. The way some people want sex, that’s how I want death. I dream about it. And I think about it. And it’s what I want.”
He will get the audience he deserves. I see other gay writers as well as women and non-whites, and just about anyone who has felt like a genre misfit, really responding to his work and taking influence. Heck, “slipsteam” is already deeply indebted to him.
I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one day his name is as popular among teenagers as Vonnegut’s. It is just too bad it didn’t happen while he was alive.
The Best Fireworks Display is Seen From a Plane Flying into LAX Sometime Between 9 - 10pm
Independence day is my favorite holiday. Partly because it’s not in the winter, so there’s no seasonal affective disorder. Another reason is you don’t need to celebrate it with your family. It is the first guaranteed easy day of summer. Plus it means my birthday is just a few weeks away.
Last year to the day tomorrow, I was flying into Los Angeles. The cheapest flight I could get was on the 4th in the evening. I thought I would be missing the parties, but what I got was so much more.
From my window I looked at the beautiful infinite motherboard of lights that is the city as seen from the air. And just above it, little ripples of hundreds more colored lights. The firework explosions were all so tiny, and yet I could see them go off above every city subdivision. And all of it was happening at once.
There was the Glendale fireworks and the Long Beach celebration over there. You could see another firework show above Malibu and Culver City, and Westwood, and everywhere else. A firework show for every neighborhood, and from my vantage point, I could see them all at once. It was one of the most beautiful and amazing things I’ve seen in my life; made even more special by that fact so few people will have the chance to experience it.
If this were a short story or a better crafted essay I might have played up my disappointement in missing all the Independence Day barbeques, or emphasize that the day has some sentimental significance to me besides what I’ve already written. But it is just a blog post so I’ll state the point here more directly, and even use a tired cliche to finish this post: the best things come when you least expect them.
Enjoy your holiday!
Images by Yoon Lee.
A Trip to the Zoo
The eyes of an animal when they consider a man are attentive and wary. The same animal may well look at other species the same way. He does not reserve a special look for man. But by no other species except man will the animal’s look be recognized as familiar. Other animals are held by the look. Man becomes aware of himself returning the look….
The relation may become clearer by comparing the look of an animal with the look of another man. Between two men the two abysses are, in principle, bridged by language. Even if the encounter is hostile and no words are used (even if the two speak different languages), the existence of language allows that at least one of them, if not mutually, is confirmed by the other. Language allows men to reckon with each other as with themselves. (In the confirmation made possible by language, human ignorance and fear may also be confirmed. Whereas in animals fear is a response to signal, in men it is endemic.) … No animal confirms man, either positively or negatively…The first metaphor was animal, it was because the essential relationship between man and animal was metaphoric. Within that relation what the two terms — man and animal — shared in common revealed what differentiated them. And vice versa.
-John Berger, “Why Look at Animals?” About Looking.
So maybe dolphins didn’t really commit mass suicide, and maybe elephants can’t really paint self-portraits, and maybe a parrot never served as key witness in a murder trial, and maybe monkeys don’t have real conversations– animals are a lot smarter than you think. 
To the left is my dog’s favorite toy, to the right is a coffee cup that scares the bejeebus out of her (it’s also a picture of her doppleganger.) Another example of how uncanny valley creeps out animals too.
The other day, I was in a shopping mall and for whatever reason stopped by the pet store. It was a typical mall pet store, the size of a closet, at the far corner where all the cheap and badly maintained stores are located. Seeing a dozen or so puppies in their cages gave me a terrible sense of guilt. Like I should take them all — pay for them — and save them from further torture. But that would only encourage the store to breed more puppies in even worse conditions.
The Sundance Channel’s Big Ideas for a Small Planet “animals” special is the best episode in an already great series. They highlighted an animal shelter in Dallas doing its best to provide safe, friendly, spacious (green) conditions for its inhabitants. The structural changes indirectly raised a practical question: who is going to go to the pound if you are only going to experience that guilty feeling that you need to save them all?
Another segment was on the maintenance of the Bronx zoo, where they emphasize that conservation is their major goal. It got me thinking about how much has changed since John Berger wrote “Why Look at Animals?” in 1977. Berger’s essay talks about the way zoos at once seek the distinction given to museums, although they are taking subjects out of the natural environment in order to display. So what you have is an animal with a “frame around it.”
Visitors visit the zoo to look at animals. They proceed from cage to cage, not unlike the visitors in an art gallery who stop in front of one painting, and then more on to the next or the one after next… When you look at these animals, even if the animal is up against the bars, less than a foot from you, looking outwards in the public direction, you are looking at something that has been rendered absolutely marginal; and the concentration you can muster will never be enough to render it…
The space in which they inhabit is artificial. Hence their tendency to bundle towards the edge of it. (Beyond the edges there may be real space.) In some cages the light is equally artificial. In all cases the environment is illusory.
Now zoo architects are working toward building less artificial environments(and cages are no longer acceptable in metropolitan zoos.) Still, the just open Norman Foster elephant house for the Copenhagen Zoo, and news surrounding it, shows the debate whether a zoo should exist at all never went away.
A design critic at The Guardian says, in an otherwise an enthusiastic post about the zoo addition, “How can any architect even begin to match the subtlety of a spider’s web or recreate the landscapes and forests elephants call home? Zoo architecture is, at best, an art, or beast, of uneasy and uncertain compromise.”
Images by Sarah Moon. Brightcove video and more about the artist.
The Weirdest Sci-Fi Kids Movies
Pretty much the only bad thing I can say about Wall-E is that I’m not 10 years old so I can’t enjoy it as much as I would were that the case. It even asks the question I find most fascinating in SF: how much of the natural world is an innate human need?
But the film is just another example of great science fiction aimed at young people. Generally kids have an appetite for the non-real and are willing to suspend belief rather than leave a theater arguing whether something is fantasy, regular sci-fi, hard sci-fi, or not genre at all. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if City of Ember is just as great. The Jeanne Duprau young adult novel was adapted for the screen by the very talented Caroline Thompson (who wrote Edward Scissorhands.)
Here some other great children’s sci-fi movies (and if this list seems 80s-centric, that is likely because of my age):
Jacob Two-two Meets the Hooded Fang, 1978
It is the darkest children’s story I can think of, outside of Daniel Handler and the Brothers Grimm, and this is its darkest adaptation. Jacob is sent to the “child prison” Slimer’s Island for insulting a candy store clerk. He says “Thank you very much, thank you very much!” The shopkeeeper thinks he’s insincere, but really Jacob has a bizarre stutter where he repeats himself. So for the crime of insincerity, Jacob is sentenced to “Two Years, Two months, two weeks, two minutes and two seconds”
Hooded Fang, a former wrestler, is the prison warden, and with a job like that is it redundant to say he hates kids? Hooded Flang’s two flunkies are Mr.Fish, a fish/human hybrid and Ms. Fowl, a bird-lady — all metallic makeup and theater whisper overacting. But never fear, child superheros Intrepid Shapiro and Fearless O’Toole are on the case.
I spent sometime in 2003 hunting the film down on VHS. Thankfully it’s now all on YouTube. Start from the beginning.
The Peanut Butter Solution, 1985
This is sci-fi mad science at its finest. Michael is spooked by something he finds exploring a haunted house. Soon afterward his hair falls out due to a condition the doctor calls, “Hairrem Scarrem.” No ten year old can wear a wig for long, so relief comes in the form of a ghost offering him peanut butter to rub on his head. Michael mistakenly uses too much and soon the hair growth is out of control. (A lot of you right now are laughing in anticipation of me mentioning that one mildly raunchy scene. Well, I’m not going to talk about it. This is a family website okay? Oh…alright.) Later, Michael’s art teacher gets the wacky idea to use his hair to build paint brushes. Soon they realize using these brushes allows an artist to instantly paint whatever he or she imagines.
The Peanut Butter Solution is the best known in a series of supernatural children’s movies, “Tales for All.”
Konrad, 1985
The most obscure film on the list. I’m tempted to purchase one of the VHS cassettes on Amazon as there is so little information out there on this one. This film is about a boy robot that arrives at their door totally naked inside a metal vat. From the All Movie Guide:
Directed by Nell Cox, Konrad centers around a strange, technology dominated method of placing children in appropriate foster homes. When a computer error sends Konrad (Huckleberry Fox), a seemingly ideal child, to an eccentric woman whose many quirks qualify her as a definite reject by the mysterious “birth factory’s” standards, no one is prepared for the resulting chaos. The film also features Ned Beatty, Polly Holliday, and Max Wright.
The Amazon reviews are all enthusiastic and not in the somewhat apologetic nostalgic way you typically find with someone remarking on a film once loved in childhood.
Small Wonder, 1985 and Out of This World, 1987 (TV)
Two is a trend! OK, this is TV and I already posted about it, but in cased you missed it, here are my two favorite TV shows from childhood.
The Misadventures of Merlin Jones, 1964
This innocuous seeming Disney film starring gay icon and “Scrabbled Egghead” Tommy Kirk (and Annette Funichello) is actually a subversive argument against the covert CIA mind-control and chemical interrogation research program, MKULTRA. After investigating hypnosis, Merlin discovers the secret to mind reading. The resulting internal dialogue he intercepts is just barely as scandalous as what Mel Gibson hears in What Women Want. In my favorite scene he tells everyone in the college library to “SHUT UP!”
The Flight of the Navigator, 1986
A film about aliens and time travel with one of the coolest looking spacecrafts I’ve ever seen. David is abducted by an alien ship. Because of time dilation he thinks he’s only been gone a few hours, but he actually returns to earth eight years later. Wikipedia has a long plot summary. This is a science fiction classic that’s yet to get its due.
Others I missed:
A lot of great science fiction children’s movies came out of the 80s like The Explorers, Baby, and The Electric Grandmother, (unfortunately I don’t remember these ones very well.) There’s ET of course, and Pinocchio probably counts as sci-fi too. I remember The Boy Who Could Fly, but not too fondly. I also remember being a kid and thinking Honey, I Shrunk the Kids seemed pretty dumb. And don’t forget, two of the best fantasy films of all time — Neverending Story and Return to Oz — also came out of that era. Earlier Fred MacMurray made a career out of weird kids sci-fi, with Flubber and the Absent Minded Professor.
Update: Somehow when I wrote this I blanked out about one of my childhood favorites The Brave Little Toaster, written by the same person responsible for most of my favorite books 20 years later: Thomas M Disch. (Although, I guess it just bridges the fantasy/sci-fi line.)
William Gibson Completely Deleted from BoingBoing Archives
Valleywag just reported Boing Boing deleted every mention of William Gibson on the site. A list he wrote of “Top 10 Science Fiction Memes of 2006″ is now offline. They no longer link to his books. A few days later the podcast interview they did with Gibson was offline too. Only a “via” link to a site that’s not his own remains.
Ok, it wasn’t William Gibson. It was Violet Blue who was unceremoniously purged. But whatever it was she did that so grossly offended Boing Boing, it is entirely possible that Gibson, Douglas Rushkoff, Bruce Sterling, Lawrence Lessig, Steven Johnson or any other male Boing Boing favorite could say or do the same thing. Violet Blue is a published author too (who is only going to gain prominence now that Kate Lee is representing her.) If you believe Boing Boing would ever so thoroughly scrub their archives of any of these men, please leave a comment here. I am always welcome to dissenting viewpoints.
This is sexism. It’s also bad journalism. And it goes against the free interactive spirit of blogging.
If Tim Noah got on David Plotz’s bad side, and the Chatterbox column vanished, the whole web would know about it within the hour. Pitchfork cleared Nick Sylvester’s reviews from their site after it was discovered he fabricated parts of a Village Voice cover story, a move most would say was unnecessary, but in the end it was Pitchfork’s call. (CORRECTION 7/2/08: They didn’t. The reviews are still there. Here’s one.) You’ll still see Jayson Blair as a byline in the New York Times archive. They only pulled the stories containing lies. “The Jayson Blair stories are going to (stay) in the archives,” Craig Whitney, standards editor for the New York Times told OJR. “We can’t pretend he was never here.” (He also discusses constant requests from divorced couples to nuke their wedding announcements.)
But no one is calling Violet Blue a dishonest journalist. She’s pulled from the Boing Boing site for some reason anyone several miles or more from Ritual will never know, (and doesn’t care to know either.)
And in one way what Boing Boing is doing is a lot worse than MSM pulling the plug on someone. It’s a snag in the blog quilt at large. Say I linked to a Violet Blue Boing Boing post using the old blog cliche “read the whole thing.” That post is worthless now, as is any external commentary on the content that Boing Boing deleted.
As Rebecca Blood wrote in her outline of weblog ethics:
Changing or deleting entries destroys the integrity of the network. The Web is designed to be connected; indeed, the weblog permalink is an invitation for others to link. Anyone who comments on or cites a document on the Web relies on that document (or entry) to remain unchanged. A prominent addendum is the preferred way to correct any information anywhere on the Web. If an addendum is impractical, as in the case of an essay that contains numerous inaccuracies, changes must be noted with the date and a brief description of the nature of the change…
The network of shared knowledge we are building will never be more than a novelty unless we protect its integrity by creating permanent records of our publications. The network benefits when even entries that are rendered irrelevant by changing circumstance are left as a historical record. As an example: A weblogger complains about inaccuracies in an online article; the writer corrects those inaccuracies (and notes them!); the weblogger’s entry is therefore meaningless — or is it? Deleting the entry somehow asserts that the whole incident simply didn’t happen — but it did. The record is more accurate and history is better served if the weblogger notes beneath the original entry that the writer has made the corrections and the article is now, to the weblogger’s knowledge, accurate.
History can be rewritten, but it cannot be undone. Changing or deleting words is possible on the Web, but possibility does not always make good policy. Think before you publish and stand behind what you write. If you later decide you were wrong about something, make a note of it and move on.
This is a discussion we need to be having. Already blog archives are rarely looked over by the authors or major readers of a site. But they are found by people googling something specific.
Evidently, this isn’t the first time Boing Boing has removed a post because of a perceived microfeud. In February this year, Rex Sorgatz wrote, “BoingBoing linked to me yesterday. For 10 minutes. Then someone apparently told them that I’m the guy who hates on BoingBoing. Post deleted.”
From the post in question:
One of these days I’m going to do a take-down article on a sacred cow of the internet: BoingBoing. I’ve already got a few ledes written: “BoingBoing, the pretend-thinking-man’s Fark,” “BoingBoing, your source for two-week-old links,” “BoingBoing, keeping post-hippiness alive since 1991….” And so on. Truth is, I like Cory and Xeni and the gang — they’re swell people. And I bet I’m the only one here who owns every single issue of bOING bOING — the magazine. But BoingBoing is clearly the most over-rated blog on the internet (which is easy to declare, since it’s also the third-most-popular).
Those are the words of a disgruntled fan, not a hater. There’s nothing there that wouldn’t get published in a print magazine Letters to the Editor section. Seems like Boing Boing should listen to Will Leitch’s parting words: “Someone Hates You Online. Try Not To Be Offended.”
Like Jim Harper at Tech Liberation Front, I get annoyed when people use “Big Brother” to describe non-coercive private actions. BoingBoing, as a private entity, is entirely free to censor their own material. They get a lot of flack for their overly eager moderating policy, but for the most part it seems to keep the trolls at bay. (Although, here’s an example of a heavy hand.)
But, Boing Boing hates corporate censorship too. They made a huge fuss when SmartFilter blocked their site for its “nudity.” And rightfully so. The story even ran in the NYT. The most interesting point coming out of the Valleywag story, was a comment from one of Cory Doctorow’s former students:
I find this extremely disappointing given that Cory Doctorow was a visiting Fulbright professor at the USC Annenberg School of Communication in the Public Diplomacy program. Needless to say, there is a great deal of irony in Cory assuming such a “public”, democratic position, and yet for BoingBoing to censor voices like they seem to be doing.
I took Cory’s graduate seminar, which was a life-altering experience, but he clearly is stuck in larger “networks”, I guess.
Another blogger writes she’s angry “because I know that — because Boing Boing taught me — that we’re supposed to call out sites that do shit like that. So that’s what I’m doing.” Unfortunately, it’s unlikely any other bloggers will. This is a big fish in a small enabling pond situation. Most bloggers will ignore the story because they want to keep in Boingboing’s favor. Big media will ignore it, because they think it’s insignificant Mission District coffee shop gossip. Banning Violet Blue doesn’t exactly merit a Vanessa Grigoriadis expose.
However, this unfortunate incident is now noted on the Boing Boing Wikipedia page (”Sex blogger Violet Blue has, in the past, been regularly mentioned in Boing Boing, including a being the subject of a Boing Boing Boing interview. On the 23rd of June 2008, Blue posted on Tiny Nibbles that all posts making mention of her had been deleted from Boing Boing, without explanation. Boing Boing has refused to comment at this time.”) In the meantime you can hear the podcast on The Internet Archive.
So what might really be behind Boing Boing’s people purges? Fear of the inevitable. In cycling the person racing ahead of everyone else has to work the hardest. The person behind has an aereodynamic advantage from the drift, meanwhile the rider ahead has to work as much as 35% harder. That’s a great metaphor for everything — especially in technology. The leader is always the one who sweats the most. Because everyone can see where he is heading, but he can’t turn around to look at what’s coming from behind. There’s going to be a website that will do what Boing Boing does now, but better. Whomever develops it, is likely watching this event closely and vowing never to make this kind of mistake.
Images from “The Commissar Vanishes: The Falsification of Photographs and Art in Stalin’s Russia,” by David King
Update: 6/30/08 Finally the media is commenting on this. The LA Times blog has a pretty long piece on what happened:
No one, including Blue herself, has any idea what’s behind the scrubbing. BoingBoing has been conspicuously silent; despite considerable confusion in the blogopshere, the site has not posted about the issue or said they planned to. Blogger and long-time BoingBoing contributer Xeni Jardin did not respond to an e-mail from me, and several other bloggers and writers reported non-answers too…
It’s bizarre that BoingBoing has failed to take any steps to clarify the situation.
For one thing, post-snuffing is usually “a serious no-no,” said Eve Batey, Blue’s friend and Chronicle editor. “That’s just against the rules of the blog world.”
But there’s also the fact that BoingBoing has often presented itself as a stalwart of cultural openness. Doctorow himself is a well-known copyfighter — a crusader against restrictive intellectual property laws. He has removed a post at least once before — when writer Ursula K. Le Guin asked that an excerpt of her book be taken down — but he immediately wrote a long, apologetic explanation of the incident.
I really hope Wired News and others continue to cover this story.
Update 7/1/08: If you are reading this for the first time, understand you’re a little bit late to the conversation. I wrote this post on Saturday. I first read about the deleted posts on Valleywag last Wednesday. I wrote this post because no one was talking about the issue, I would have been happy enough staying out of it, had other blogs and news sources commented on the Valleywag post. Since Monday, mainstream media picked up the story and today Boing Boing finally made an announcement, admitting the posts were deleted an entire year ago.
In the comments, Suzie Q writes:
Here’s the best theory I’ve come up with - and DO feel free to send this around the blogosphere, since hitting on the wrong answer will get the real answer just as surely as hitting on the real answer will get no response - it all comes down to this article on friend-of-boingboing Amanda Congdon:
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/g/a/2007/04/05/violetblue.DTL
This is a pretty blatant slam on Congdon for dishonesty regarding her corporate sponsorships, and may in fact have been related to Congdon leaving ABC ( I believe I heard a rumor about them getting upset when they found out about the side vlogging).
Essentially, Violet Blue possibly got Amanda Congdon fired, or at least that’s what it looks like. I would imagine that very likely, VB found out about this in a Boing Boing-related way. It could even be that VB didn’t get her fired, but betrayed their trust in revealing the info about her.
Which is why they’re not saying what the reason is. Because it’s actually the only thing that would make them look more hypocritical… because it’s anti-transparency.
But note that the only hint we get in their note of explanation is that VB’s posts were removed about a year ago - and this was the only really noteworthy thing she did around that time; at least, publicly.
Of course no one really knows what is going on here, but maybe this is worthy of a Vanessa Grigoriadis expose after all.
Another update: “violet blue boing boing” is #31 on Google Trends today. “Violet Blue” is #12.
Update 3: Here’s the post about Rex that was deleted.
Update 4: LA Times Web Scout this afternoon:
In its explanation of the Blue purge, BoingBoing cited what it called an “erroneous” claim that it had removed 100 Violet Blue-related posts. They did not name the allegedly erroneous post as mine or even bother to link to it, so let me name the post: it was mine, and I linked to it earlier in the sentence. Notably, BoingBoing did not offer the correct number of purged posts (saying only that they had “unpublished some posts relating to her”). Also, someone from BoingBoing refused to tell me how far off my count of 100 was.
Let me correct the record. With some help from Violet Blue herself, and her boyfriend, who stayed up late last night writing a script to scan the WayBack Machine for Blue BB posts, I can present this spreadsheet.
It contains 72 BoingBoing posts containing the name of Violet Blue. I found one duplicate in the 40 or so that I spot checked. This was not a high duplication rate, and Violet’s boyfriend, she said, had written a second script to eliminate duplicates. Maybe it missed one or two. So maybe 72 is slightly high.
In any case, let’s say that more than just “some” posts were removed. And let’s also note that this search only went from January 2005 to August 2007, when the archive ends. Further, BoingBoing’s Internet archive has many different gaps in it where other Blue posts might have been sitting.
In sum, I was remiss to take at face value Violet Blue’s number of 100. I should have said at least 70.
I apologize for the imprecision.
Update 7/2/08: Zenarchery articulates why this is a great breach of ethics far better than I did.
Also, I’m no longer allowing comments to this post
Urban Safaris: Graffiti Sites Considered for Heritage Protection
Simon at Ballardian says Melbourne is not quite as lovely as the Treehugger article I linked to suggests:
[The] Treehugger article only explores Melbourne’s inner city. The suburbs are a different matter. Perhaps the overseas versions might weed out the worrying strain of Mad Max style behaviour that sees cyclists as game to be hunted.
But then again, such behaviour inspired Mad Max itself, one of the finest films ever made.
Well, it may not be a “pedestrian paradise,” but Melbourne is in the middle of a debate that could lead to some curious developments in urban landscapes around the world. Australia’s National Trust and Heritage Victoria is considering graffiti for heritage protection (via.)
Scott Hilditch, chief executive of Graffiti Hurts Australia, says that protecting graffiti would effectively condone acts of vandalism and cost the Australian government over $260 million (U.S. $250 million) a year to clean up.
Some artists oppose the idea as well, protesting that it is contrary to the spirit of the art form itself. Melbourne curator and artist Andrew Mac says it would interfere with the natural process of street art: “The work is ephemeral. It’s not meant to last. It lasts purely as long as the weather and other graffiti artists allow it to last.” Mac also feels that the councils backing protection may have real estate motives in mind, such as promoting graffiti sites to fuel tourism.
The Banksy House
A London suburban Victorian terrace house tagged by Banksy famously went for bid at four hundred thousand dollars, “a buyer would receive the mural—with the house thrown in ‘for free.’” The house was later destroyed by “vandals” — nevertheless — maybe therein lies the answer to our national housing crisis.
We could send Swoon and Elbow-Toe to the poorest neighborhoods in Cleveland, Washington Dc, Detroit, and elsewhere. Why stop at the cities? We could tag barns in North Dakota too. 
I’d pay a lot to live in a Swoon-tagged house. And I’d certainly move in a neighborhood I’d never otherwise consider in order to do so. But bidding would be fierce. We could see these properties turning into hipster summer homes, for when the trust fund PBR drinkers want to rough it in the “Common People” sense.
Anyone can see street art, not just the people willing to step in a gallery. And that adds value. The more eyes on a work of art, (usually) the more valuable it becomes (although diminishing marginal returns plays here too.) This is why artists will often reduce the price of their work to display it in a museum rather than sell it to someone for his personal collection.
If art economics is difficult to understand, the economics of street art is unprecedented in its confusion. In England, Banksy is as famous as Damon Alburn and earl grey tea. His prints sell for millions. But this month, one of his pieces was whitewashed in Northern London.
Art critics know that street art and graffiti refer to very different things. As Hrag Vartanian put it, “What appears to differentiate street art from its graffiti predecessor are two things: the self-consciousness in its conversation with the city and its lack of the aggression and violence.” But city workers can’t be bothered to appreciate the difference, and maybe there is aesthetic merit to be gleaned from its aggressive older cousin.
I think the Australian preservationists are on to something, and one day we all will be thinking bigger. Maybe downtown Detroit will be heralded as an architecture splendor — an UNESCO site, the modern day Cesky Krumlov. Tourists in fannypacks and shorts will motorbus out to see it, and marvel at the public artwork as they would walking through Florence, Italy.
Already tourists enjoy the spectacle of poverty. When I was in South Africa a few years ago, i was shocked at the opportunities to visit the shantytowns (”Townships”) by bus tours. Brazil is notorious for its “Favela tours.” Here’s a good post on poverty tourism by Vagabondish, explaining how to minimize the exploitation of the people who live in these areas:
I think that if it’s managed by real, interested professionals, and sensible ground rules are set – don’t take photographs, don’t give money or candy away (donate through a suitable charity or organization instead), stay in small groups, and so on – then perhaps poverty tourism really does provide some benefits for the locals. And at this stage in its development, when it’s mostly undertaken by fairly seasoned travelers who are genuinely interested in understanding more about a country and its people, it seems that such tours can truly be managed in this way. My fear is that poverty tourism could become a more mainstream activity, and money-hungry travel agents will start sending in large air-conditioned buses full of ignorant tourists snapping hundreds of pictures, and then the rot will really set in.
Still, I can’t feel comfortable with the idea of the New Orleans disaster tours. Something about busing out to see a someone’s personal possessions strewn about, reduced to trash and chaos, bothers me more than seeing human faces of a tragedy.
Art by Elbow-Toe
Related links:
- The Very Public Life of Street Art by Hrag Vartanian in the Brooklyn Rail
- My Love for You interviews Elbow Toe
- Shadow Cities by Robert Neuwirth
- Graffiti artist Mike Baca (standing trial for seven years for graffiti vandalism and trespassing, which is twice the usual sentence in NY) Juxtapoz
Saying Yes and Hearing No
Steven Pinker, extolling the virtues of human language, observes that information is the sole commodity that a person can give away and keep at the same time. I would add that sexual pleasure is also something that a person can confer on another and personally enjoy simultaneously. The linkage between sex and language can further be divined by noting that the English language tacitly acknowledges that sex was the primary force behind the evolution of speech. I doubt that it is mere coincidence that the word ‘intercourse’ has two common meanings, only one of which refers to speech.
- Daniel Dennett
The best advice I’ve heard in a long time, comes from a trashy women’s magazine I picked up at the gym the other day: “aim to hear the word ‘no’ at least three times a day.” Like most good advice, I’ve yet to fully integrate it into my life (I’m at the “maybe” and “we’ll see” one or twice a week stage.)
For their fall collection, Viktor & Rolf sent their models down the runway wearing the word “No” written in makeup on their faces or sewn into their clothes. Models without a cause. But the fashion designers called it female empowerment. And it is, I guess. People generally dislike saying “no,” more than they dislike hearing it — it means you’ve been challenged. Saying it can burn a bridge. Hearing it can be a great motivator.
But the economic principle of diminishing marginal returns (one scoop of ice cream is nice, two is better, three is alright, and four scoops is worse than none at all) definitely applies to this advice: hearing “no” more than three times a day would be demoralizing to the most blissed-out zen yoga instructor.
Is there anything worse than disputing a balance with a call center representative? They’ll tell you “no” three times in a single sentence. This week’s New Yorker goes behind the scenes of Avoke, a voice software company that measures the exact moment a caller breaks from “cold anger” (”in which words may be overarticulated but spoken softly”) or “hot anger” (”in which voices are louder and pitched higher”) to full-on WTF?!???!?!?
The article mostly explains the difficulty in programing a computer we can talk to both by hearing and speaking language. One major speed bump: we have a lot of words that mean the same thing, just with subtle nuances. Take the word yes:
Even a simple concept like “yes” might be expressed in dozens of different ways –including “yes,” “ya,” “yup,” “yeah,” “yeahuh,” “yeppers,” “yessirree,” “aye, aye,” “mmmhmm,” “uh-huh,” “sure,” “totally,” “certainly,” “indeed,” “affirmative,” “fine,” “definitely,” “you bet,” “you betcha,” “no problemo,” “and “okeydoke” — and what’s the rule in that? At Nuance, whose headquarters are outside Boston, speech engineers try to anticipate all the different ways people might say yes, but they still get surprised. For example, designers found that Southerners had more trouble using the system than Northerners did, because when instructed to answer “yes” or “no” Southerners regularly added “ma’am” or “sir,” depending on the I.V.R.’s gender, and the computer wasn’t programmed to recognize that.
One of my friend Iris’s favorite words is “yes.” She notes, “around the world, ‘yes’ or its equivalent frequently tops surveys as the most beautiful word in a given language; for you, too, is it the only word that you really want to hear?”
But how often do we hear it? Most positive responses are yep, ok, sure, will do, etc etc. What else could a film called “Yes” be about other than bodice ripping? The scarcity of “yes” in daily discussions must have something to do with its frequency as bedroom utterance.
When John Lennon first met Yoko Ono, he walked up a ladder to read a single tiny word with the aid of a magnifying glass: “Yes.” Then there is Molly’s soliloquy in Ulysses closing the book famously with the words “..yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”
Interestingly, the Irish language has neither “yes” nor “no” (A fact that surely didn’t escape James Joyce when he wrote that.) Per a Wikipedia article that’s since edited, but is archived on Answers.com: “In it to indicate a positive or negate response to a question, the verb of the question is repeated in either the positive or negative form. For example (verb underlined)”
“An bhfaca tú an timpiste?” (”Did you see the accident?”)
“Chonaic.” (”Saw.”)or
“Ní fhaca.” (”Did not see.”)
The terms Sea (”is so”) and Ní hea (”is not so”) mean “yes” and “no”, but can only be used in response to the question An ea? (”is it so?”).
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