Here is an epic example of combining original documents with Web 2.0 technology.
The blog mentioned is more or less "real time" posts commemorating the final journal of an explorer. They also have a Twitter account. On the corresponding date in 2009, the archive will post an entry from the last journal of Robert Falcon Scott. I don't know anything about him, but the middle name "Falcon" is probably reason enough to go exploring the South Pole. Still, major spoiler alert if anyone wanted to read the blog in "real time" considering they give the ending away in the blog description. It's not like the "real time" Dracula blogs that everyone and their mom made once Dracula entered the public domain where we all know what happens in the end.
I had gotten my hopes up when I read "Cambridge" on the profile, but I don't think they meant this Cambridge, but rather quite clearly, this Cambridge. Though admittedly, the latter most likely has more prestige and a bigger archival collection than the former.
28 November 2009
23 November 2009
Your FDA Recommended Daily Allowance of Iron(y)
Here's a gem from a reading I had from my Intro to Archives class:
"It is noteworthy that during debate in the House of Representatives, one of
Representative Moss’s colleagues, a young congressman from Illinois, spoke in
favor of the bill, saying it
The name of that young congressman from Illinois was Donald Rumsfeld."
Timothy L. Ericson, "Building Our Own 'Iron Curtain': The Emergence of Secrecy in American Government," American Archivist, 68 (Spring/Summer 2005): 43.
This is what I think of as a case of historical irony, where perhaps whatever was said was not originally intended with irony (in the sarcastic sense), but has proven to be ironic over time and the course of further speech and action on the part of the speaker.
"It is noteworthy that during debate in the House of Representatives, one of
Representative Moss’s colleagues, a young congressman from Illinois, spoke in
favor of the bill, saying it
will make it considerably more difficult for secrecy-minded bureaucrats to
decide arbitrarily that people should be denied access to information on the
conduct of Government or on how an individual Government official is handling
his job. . . . [P]ublic records, which are evidence of official government
action, are public property, and there . . . should be a positive obligation to
disclose this information upon request.
The name of that young congressman from Illinois was Donald Rumsfeld."
Timothy L. Ericson, "Building Our Own 'Iron Curtain': The Emergence of Secrecy in American Government," American Archivist, 68 (Spring/Summer 2005): 43.
This is what I think of as a case of historical irony, where perhaps whatever was said was not originally intended with irony (in the sarcastic sense), but has proven to be ironic over time and the course of further speech and action on the part of the speaker.
21 November 2009
More posting of old material
Sorry guys. Bored in class, so I'm going through my Google docs and posting a blog entry.
Enjoy! (and stop me if you've heard this one before)
"Of course it's harmless. Just think of it as a large microwave." The tour guide beamed like a newscaster.
"I heard this thing can cause the end of the world and blow everything up!" A man wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words "These Colors Don't Run" bellowed loudly.
"And if in large enough amounts, doesn't microwave radiation cause cancer?" A woman chimed in, clutching her hyperactive, candy-scarfing children even closer to her as they struggled.
It was just another day at the Hadron Collider facility in Geneva, Switzerland.
"All right, perhaps a large microwave is a bad comparison." Unfazed, the tour guide continued. "But in all seriousness, the experiments done here are done under numerous controls and fail safes. Not to mention that such collisions of subatomic particles occur in the universe naturally."
It was amazing what one often-misquoted passage from a book could do to hamper scientific progress. What made it worse was to make up for the pulled funding due to all the public panic, the researchers had to make up for it by running guided tours of the facility. Next, for all they knew, they would be shut down for turning a supposed doomsday device into a theme park.
"You mean like the big bang?" Someone's kid said. "This thing can really blow up the entire universe?"
"Actually, no, the big bang is what created the universe."
Before the tour guide could further explain, the kid interrupted. "Well, my parents tell me that God created the universe."
The tour guide was tempted to ask the kid why they were even here, as this was a scientific research facility and his family seemed to prefer believing in magic.
"That's right, you tell 'em son!" The tour guide didn't even need to look up to recognize the voice of the "These Colors Don't Run" t-shirt guy.
Granted, she could have launched into an introductory course in physics, but chose not to. Even though she was qualified, went to university and got a degree in physics, all she could do is smile and read from the script ever-emblazoned in her mind.
"I believe the best example would be as one of our researchers put it." She said. "Even if a collision of two protons -- positively charged sub-atomic particles -- occurred, any potential black hole resulting would be smaller than any known to astrophysicists."
"You mean to say that this thing can result in black holes! Those just eat up everything around them and get bigger, right?" Once again, it didn't take much deduction to figure out where that comment came from.
You fail physics forever. This was what our tour guide wanted to say. Still, that would only prove the smug sense of esoteric elitism lurking in academia. That would definitely not increase tours or awareness about the fact that the hadron collider is not a doomsday device.
Instead, our tour guide continued walking backwards and smiling, albeit while distracted in her thoughts. There was something that she seemed to be forgetting. What was it?
The good news was that the other tourists did not seem to be feeding into the panic line of questioning. So that was a plus.
"As I was saying earlier--"
The murmuring suggested that perhaps panic was not completely off the menu for today. When she turned around, she saw several technicians incapacitated on the floor.
This wasn't good.
"Stop! If you reverse the polarity of the--" A smartly-dressed man shouted, struggling to stand up from the kneeling position in which he had been tied.
"Shut up! I've had enough of you giving me long-winded explanations of why what I'm about to do is horribly wrong and will result in the death of everything as we know it!" A young woman in puzzling attire fiddled with the knobs and entered in a series of frenzied keystrokes.
The display lit up like Guy Fawkes on November 5.
This was really not good.
"Ah ha! The terrorists have taken over! I told you this was a threat!" The loudmouth from the tour group shouted.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to be quiet." The tour guide looked to see if there was anyone else with the young woman.
"Be quiet? I--"
There was simply no time to be civil about this. The tour guide whipped out a small pistol from her coat pocket and shot the man.
"Frank!" The woman next to him wailed, falling to her knees beside him. "You crazy bitch! What have you done?"
"Relax, it's only a tranquilizer." She tucked the gun back into her pocket and cautiously started approaching the controls. "And please, Madam, watch your language. There's kids about."
"You there, help me out of these ties! I have to stop her! I have to--"
"Shut up." She said and ran past the bound man.
Huffing and puffing along the way, she caught up to where the young woman had run. It was basically a large circular corridor, a doughnut made of steel and concrete and intricately calibrated instruments.
"You!" She pointed a finger to little effect. The young woman continued... whatever it was she was doing with all those wires and gadgets.
"I apologize for the inconvenience, and for incapacitating your team... not so much for the investigator charged with tracking me... but I really don't have time for much more of these pleasantries. I just want to go home." The young woman prattled hurriedly.
"Well, I suppose I'm not exactly in a position to stop you, what with me being a lowly research assistant tasked with tour hosting." She shrugged. "Nonetheless, by the authority of this research facility as well as the international scientific community, I am going to have to ask you to leave, especially if what you are going to do will endanger the population in any way."
"Oh, I'll be fine. Thanks for asking though." The young woman took out a soldering iron and continued fiddling about. "It'll just be a moment and then..."
"Then what? You're going to blow up the universe?" The tour guide seized the soldering iron from the girl's hand. It seemed to be one of those neat ones that cooled on contact with non-metals like skin and heated up on contact with metal.
The girl rolled her eyes. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing... now kindly, get out of my way."
For someone her size, the kid packed a mean right cross. The tour guide knew, if only because she used help her father train her younger brothers in boxing. She didn't have much time to reflect on it, however, as her view grew dark before she even hit the floor.
"Crap!" She sat up with a start, immediately wincing in pain and clutching her head in her hands.
After a moment's realization, she realized that the fact that she was in pain meant that she was still alive and that the universe had not exploded or collapsed in on itself. Maybe the girl managed to get home after all.
Had everything worked out all right?
"See, I told ya. This thing's a danger to the general public. Oughta be shut down..." The tour group materialized in front of her muddled vision.
Maybe the universe was better off imploded.
"No worries!" She stood up, flashing a beaming grin. "This was all just part of the tour. Now see, the universe is just fine. Now let's get back to the main room for some coffee and doughnuts."
This seemed to appease everyone, including the hyperactive sugar monster children.
Enjoy! (and stop me if you've heard this one before)
"Of course it's harmless. Just think of it as a large microwave." The tour guide beamed like a newscaster.
"I heard this thing can cause the end of the world and blow everything up!" A man wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words "These Colors Don't Run" bellowed loudly.
"And if in large enough amounts, doesn't microwave radiation cause cancer?" A woman chimed in, clutching her hyperactive, candy-scarfing children even closer to her as they struggled.
It was just another day at the Hadron Collider facility in Geneva, Switzerland.
"All right, perhaps a large microwave is a bad comparison." Unfazed, the tour guide continued. "But in all seriousness, the experiments done here are done under numerous controls and fail safes. Not to mention that such collisions of subatomic particles occur in the universe naturally."
It was amazing what one often-misquoted passage from a book could do to hamper scientific progress. What made it worse was to make up for the pulled funding due to all the public panic, the researchers had to make up for it by running guided tours of the facility. Next, for all they knew, they would be shut down for turning a supposed doomsday device into a theme park.
"You mean like the big bang?" Someone's kid said. "This thing can really blow up the entire universe?"
"Actually, no, the big bang is what created the universe."
Before the tour guide could further explain, the kid interrupted. "Well, my parents tell me that God created the universe."
The tour guide was tempted to ask the kid why they were even here, as this was a scientific research facility and his family seemed to prefer believing in magic.
"That's right, you tell 'em son!" The tour guide didn't even need to look up to recognize the voice of the "These Colors Don't Run" t-shirt guy.
Granted, she could have launched into an introductory course in physics, but chose not to. Even though she was qualified, went to university and got a degree in physics, all she could do is smile and read from the script ever-emblazoned in her mind.
"I believe the best example would be as one of our researchers put it." She said. "Even if a collision of two protons -- positively charged sub-atomic particles -- occurred, any potential black hole resulting would be smaller than any known to astrophysicists."
"You mean to say that this thing can result in black holes! Those just eat up everything around them and get bigger, right?" Once again, it didn't take much deduction to figure out where that comment came from.
You fail physics forever. This was what our tour guide wanted to say. Still, that would only prove the smug sense of esoteric elitism lurking in academia. That would definitely not increase tours or awareness about the fact that the hadron collider is not a doomsday device.
Instead, our tour guide continued walking backwards and smiling, albeit while distracted in her thoughts. There was something that she seemed to be forgetting. What was it?
The good news was that the other tourists did not seem to be feeding into the panic line of questioning. So that was a plus.
"As I was saying earlier--"
The murmuring suggested that perhaps panic was not completely off the menu for today. When she turned around, she saw several technicians incapacitated on the floor.
This wasn't good.
"Stop! If you reverse the polarity of the--" A smartly-dressed man shouted, struggling to stand up from the kneeling position in which he had been tied.
"Shut up! I've had enough of you giving me long-winded explanations of why what I'm about to do is horribly wrong and will result in the death of everything as we know it!" A young woman in puzzling attire fiddled with the knobs and entered in a series of frenzied keystrokes.
The display lit up like Guy Fawkes on November 5.
This was really not good.
"Ah ha! The terrorists have taken over! I told you this was a threat!" The loudmouth from the tour group shouted.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to be quiet." The tour guide looked to see if there was anyone else with the young woman.
"Be quiet? I--"
There was simply no time to be civil about this. The tour guide whipped out a small pistol from her coat pocket and shot the man.
"Frank!" The woman next to him wailed, falling to her knees beside him. "You crazy bitch! What have you done?"
"Relax, it's only a tranquilizer." She tucked the gun back into her pocket and cautiously started approaching the controls. "And please, Madam, watch your language. There's kids about."
"You there, help me out of these ties! I have to stop her! I have to--"
"Shut up." She said and ran past the bound man.
Huffing and puffing along the way, she caught up to where the young woman had run. It was basically a large circular corridor, a doughnut made of steel and concrete and intricately calibrated instruments.
"You!" She pointed a finger to little effect. The young woman continued... whatever it was she was doing with all those wires and gadgets.
"I apologize for the inconvenience, and for incapacitating your team... not so much for the investigator charged with tracking me... but I really don't have time for much more of these pleasantries. I just want to go home." The young woman prattled hurriedly.
"Well, I suppose I'm not exactly in a position to stop you, what with me being a lowly research assistant tasked with tour hosting." She shrugged. "Nonetheless, by the authority of this research facility as well as the international scientific community, I am going to have to ask you to leave, especially if what you are going to do will endanger the population in any way."
"Oh, I'll be fine. Thanks for asking though." The young woman took out a soldering iron and continued fiddling about. "It'll just be a moment and then..."
"Then what? You're going to blow up the universe?" The tour guide seized the soldering iron from the girl's hand. It seemed to be one of those neat ones that cooled on contact with non-metals like skin and heated up on contact with metal.
The girl rolled her eyes. "Trust me, I know what I'm doing... now kindly, get out of my way."
For someone her size, the kid packed a mean right cross. The tour guide knew, if only because she used help her father train her younger brothers in boxing. She didn't have much time to reflect on it, however, as her view grew dark before she even hit the floor.
"Crap!" She sat up with a start, immediately wincing in pain and clutching her head in her hands.
After a moment's realization, she realized that the fact that she was in pain meant that she was still alive and that the universe had not exploded or collapsed in on itself. Maybe the girl managed to get home after all.
Had everything worked out all right?
"See, I told ya. This thing's a danger to the general public. Oughta be shut down..." The tour group materialized in front of her muddled vision.
Maybe the universe was better off imploded.
"No worries!" She stood up, flashing a beaming grin. "This was all just part of the tour. Now see, the universe is just fine. Now let's get back to the main room for some coffee and doughnuts."
This seemed to appease everyone, including the hyperactive sugar monster children.
12 November 2009
Something I meant to post sooner...
This was just some rambly piece I wrote sometime last summer prior to my coast switch. Sadly, I don't think I ever got around to actually getting a copy of Portland Noir let alone actually review it. I probably never posted this because it's pretty incomplete, but I am now... 'cause that's just how I roll.
* * *
It may not seem like it under the broiling blue sunlit sky of July, but Portland was made for noir. Most months out of the year average about 40 degrees and cloudy, with the occasional sprinkling or downpour. After writing a few reviews for Akashic Press's Noir series, I've known the score: seedy deeds in shadowy backdrops that are just in the backyards of others. However this time, they dumped their exquisite literary corpses in my backyard.
Where do I fit in? Me, I'm just an archivist, or at least I will be when I get back from Boston in a couple of years. Boston, the other side of the coin that is Portland, and not just because of that slice of history that ordained that the naming of the city was by pure chance: either after Portland, Maine or Boston. Massachusetts. I've never been to either, but from what I've heard, Portland, Maine is just about as chill as we are here in our latitude.
I was standing in the basement of The Blue Monk, Miles Davis playing on someone's iPod hooked to some speakers, the editor, Kevin Sampsell reading from Portland Noir's introduction. The drink in my hand is sweating more than I am, despite being fresh off the bicycle, backpack straps still damp, hair plastered in a permanent flip. I see a lot of dames all dolled up, red slinky dresses, an old 40's-style black floral print that looks like it's fresh out of Chinatown with a perfectly curled coiff to match.
If they're playing the old school noir angle, I guess I could consider myself the new school. Spaghetti strapped tank top, rolled-up jeans, no bra, tattooed and pierced, the sort of siren who'd sucker some poor schmuck into a drinking contest and leave him with the bill or just to wake up the next morning with his wallet and a few organs missing.
No, that's not my style at all. The wardrobe matches, but I wouldn't do something as urban-legendary as hunting alligators in the sewer. Surprising that there haven't been such reports in the Shanghai Tunnels, but there's enough lore to keep a tour guide busy, shilling the tourists. If anything, I'd rather be like Pynchon's V., ever-elusive, but always present during interesting times. Either that, or I'm thinking of Carmen Sandiego. I did once have in my possession a rather sweet red leather trenchcoat.
To applaud the readers and the blues singer they got in for the night, I violate an inveterate law of drinking: never set a drink on the pool table. I frown at the ring on the green felt. Even though others have their equally sweaty beers set on the table, the waitress addresses me specifically, saying "it would be great" if I kept my drink off the table.
Christ. I thought I had left the Midwest to get away from passive aggressive politeness. Still, she had a point. Marring the felt of a pool table is an unforgivable sin most likely punished by banishment, exile. Figures that I'm going to Boston, all the way the hell on the other side of the country to the point where it's practically time travel.
I had finished that drink, some ridiculously sweet concoction modeled to be a grown up iced chai (pretty much an iced chai with "good" vodka), I ordered another house specialty, called the "purple rain." It reminded me of the purple drink you see in the Sunny Delight commercials, sweet, almost so much so that it hurts your teeth. Still, this was what I wanted. I wanted a night of expensive girly drinks, listening to the reading of one of my favorite fiction genres and a safe, but slightly tipsy bicycle ride home to evaporate the sweat from my neck and bare shoulders.
As sweet as the drinks were, they still packed a good wallop. Deceptive little minxes, they were, like a pretty porcelain doll with painted rosy cheeks, dressed in tulle and satin, but used to smuggle dope through an airport.
The stories seemed to be fiction mixed with a strange dose of reality, the authors stating "This is basically me, except I'm not actually dead" or "This is a story sort of about a friend of mine."
Today, I picked up a book from Powell's about various poisonous plants. I figure if I leave this on my nightstand and the guy sticks around the next morning, I've found myself a keeper.
* * *
* * *
It may not seem like it under the broiling blue sunlit sky of July, but Portland was made for noir. Most months out of the year average about 40 degrees and cloudy, with the occasional sprinkling or downpour. After writing a few reviews for Akashic Press's Noir series, I've known the score: seedy deeds in shadowy backdrops that are just in the backyards of others. However this time, they dumped their exquisite literary corpses in my backyard.
Where do I fit in? Me, I'm just an archivist, or at least I will be when I get back from Boston in a couple of years. Boston, the other side of the coin that is Portland, and not just because of that slice of history that ordained that the naming of the city was by pure chance: either after Portland, Maine or Boston. Massachusetts. I've never been to either, but from what I've heard, Portland, Maine is just about as chill as we are here in our latitude.
I was standing in the basement of The Blue Monk, Miles Davis playing on someone's iPod hooked to some speakers, the editor, Kevin Sampsell reading from Portland Noir's introduction. The drink in my hand is sweating more than I am, despite being fresh off the bicycle, backpack straps still damp, hair plastered in a permanent flip. I see a lot of dames all dolled up, red slinky dresses, an old 40's-style black floral print that looks like it's fresh out of Chinatown with a perfectly curled coiff to match.
If they're playing the old school noir angle, I guess I could consider myself the new school. Spaghetti strapped tank top, rolled-up jeans, no bra, tattooed and pierced, the sort of siren who'd sucker some poor schmuck into a drinking contest and leave him with the bill or just to wake up the next morning with his wallet and a few organs missing.
No, that's not my style at all. The wardrobe matches, but I wouldn't do something as urban-legendary as hunting alligators in the sewer. Surprising that there haven't been such reports in the Shanghai Tunnels, but there's enough lore to keep a tour guide busy, shilling the tourists. If anything, I'd rather be like Pynchon's V., ever-elusive, but always present during interesting times. Either that, or I'm thinking of Carmen Sandiego. I did once have in my possession a rather sweet red leather trenchcoat.
To applaud the readers and the blues singer they got in for the night, I violate an inveterate law of drinking: never set a drink on the pool table. I frown at the ring on the green felt. Even though others have their equally sweaty beers set on the table, the waitress addresses me specifically, saying "it would be great" if I kept my drink off the table.
I had finished that drink, some ridiculously sweet concoction modeled to be a grown up iced chai (pretty much an iced chai with "good" vodka), I ordered another house specialty, called the "purple rain." It reminded me of the purple drink you see in the Sunny Delight commercials, sweet, almost so much so that it hurts your teeth. Still, this was what I wanted. I wanted a night of expensive girly drinks, listening to the reading of one of my favorite fiction genres and a safe, but slightly tipsy bicycle ride home to evaporate the sweat from my neck and bare shoulders.
As sweet as the drinks were, they still packed a good wallop. Deceptive little minxes, they were, like a pretty porcelain doll with painted rosy cheeks, dressed in tulle and satin, but used to smuggle dope through an airport.
The stories seemed to be fiction mixed with a strange dose of reality, the authors stating "This is basically me, except I'm not actually dead" or "This is a story sort of about a friend of mine."
Today, I picked up a book from Powell's about various poisonous plants. I figure if I leave this on my nightstand and the guy sticks around the next morning, I've found myself a keeper.
* * *
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