|Mr. Pickles Turnbaugh|
Best Dog Ever...
1) You have 2 days to finish. So revise and strategerize (can't resist).
2) Remember to consider your options with evidence. Do not draw exclusively from TTC.
3) Typed or handwritten.
This is a movie as drenched in genre love as it is in the arterial spray from its hordes of sliced and diced characters.from A.O Scott's review of Lincoln-
The smaller, plainer America of the mid-19th century is evoked by the brownish chiaroscuro of Janusz Kaminski’s cinematography, by the mud, brick and wood of Rick Carter’s production design and by enough important facial hair to make the young beard farmers of 21st-century Brooklyn weep tears of envy.Music- Rolling Stone Paste Pitchfork AV Club
But ultimately, Hitchcock was the runaway “favorite”: a full 65 percent of the study’s cerebral cortices lit up the same way in response to the clip from “Bang! You’re Dead.”Hasson’s conclusion was fascinating:
[T]he more “controlling” the director—the more structured the film—the more attentive the audience. “In real life, you’re watching in the park, a concert on Sunday morning,” Hasson tells me. “But in a movie, a director is controlling where you are looking. Hitchcock is the master of this. He will control everything: what you think, what you expect, where you are looking, what you are feeling. And you can see this in the brain. For the director who is controlling nothing, the level of variability is very clear because each person is looking at something different. For Hitchcock, the opposite is true: viewers tend to be all tuned in together.”Period 1 Voting
The air smells faintly of salt water, and strongly of bonfires, diesel fuel, and weed. Seagulls squawk, the sky on the horizon is just turning green, and the air is cold in that prankish West Coast way that’s impossible to take seriously and pointless to dress for. Once the sun comes up and the fog burns off, it’s going to be a perfect day.It’s 6 AM, high tide, and I’m a thirty-minute, eucalyptus-dense drive south of San Francisco in Princeton-by-the-Sea, a tiny village with some of the biggest waves in the world and not much else. Shadowy figures are perched in the beds of pickup trucks; they speak in low voices and occasionally take sips of coffee. I’m sitting on the ground in the near dark, waiting for a surf contest to begin.An unusually steep, unusually deep Pliocene-epoch sedimentary reef rises half a mile offshore. This is where Mavericks breaks, where from November to March waves can top out at 100 feet, making them roughly ten times the height of what most surfers would consider “big.” Sharks are common, as are riptides and exposed rocks. Accomplished big-wave surfers — famous ones — have died here.
As requested by Bailey- Evidence of Anderson's theory of innovation from last week's TED discussion.
Someone who used to prowl around CBGB and other clubs when punk and new wave were breaking their first guitar strings told me he had seen one particularly untutored band at least 30 times.“Really?” I asked. “Yeah,” he said. “The first 15 times, they were just awful.”I didn’t need to ask why he had stuck it out because the band was Television, and they went on to harness their early chaos into two obliquely beautiful records.Some restaurants are like that. Even if they don’t have the mechanics down yet, their glimmers of originality can keep drawing you back.None of my five meals at the Pines since its opening late last summer in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn has been in the “just awful” category, but two were so frustrating I swore I’d never return. The opening line of my notes on one dinner reads, “I am done with giving this place a chance.”Three months later, I was back. That night, the Pines and its chef, Angelo Romano, were in control of their chords and the tempo from start to finish.
The 17 tribes of Nagaland are united, historically, by an enthusiasm for heads. The Nagas: Hill Peoples of Northeast India—my reading matter on the two-hour drive from Dimapur to Kohima, in the state of Nagaland —contains dozens of references to head-taking but only one mention of the item that has brought me here: the Naga King Chili (a.k.a. Bhut Jolokia), often ranked the world’s hottest. “In the Chang village of Hakchang,” the anthropologist J. H. Hutton is quoted as saying in 1922, “...women whose blood relations on the male side have taken a head may cook the head, with chilies, to get the flesh off.” Hutton’s use of “cook” would seem to be a reference to Chang culinary practice. Only on rereading did I realize the Chang weren’t eating the chilies—or the flesh, for that matter—but using them to clean the skull.From Smithsonianmag.com
Chase the scent of great barbecue in New York City, and you are rooting for a team that will, sooner or later, let you down. You are a Red Sox fan in any season from 1919 to 2003. There will be enough victories to keep the dream flickering, and there will be nights when you watch the ball hop between the first baseman’s legs.
But every loss feeds a new hope in your heart. This winter, hope came in threes. Barbecue hounds ran to Gowanus to get burnt ends and char siu pork steak at Fletcher’s Brooklyn Barbecue, and to Williamsburg to find out whether BrisketTown deserved to be crowned the Brisket King of New York in a recent cook-off. They descended on the East Village to take apart Flintstonian beef ribs at Mighty Quinn’s Barbeque and watch men in heavy black gloves grab pork shoulder by the fistful and shake it into dripping hunks — yes, real pulled pork on Second Avenue.
All three places slow-cook their barbecue with hardwood only, no gas allowed. All three places serve meat that is largely raised on pastures or outdoors, including pork from old breeds with flavorful rosy flesh and a thick girdle of white fat that bastes the meat as it melts.
I was prepared for violent death when I arrived at Plaza México, and violent death was what I got. The first bull was small and puppy-like; he hardly seemed vicious. After a series of hypnotic dodges and maneuvers that were so elegant as to not even look dangerous, El Juli failed on the initial thrust of his sword. The steel blade clanked down to the dirt. Only on the third thrust was the sword (called an estocada) successfully inserted. The matador rolled his eyes, thinking finally, and went to retrieve his hat from where he had ceremoniously placed it in the center of the ring. The bull seemed suddenly aware that not only was he doomed, but that he had been duped, publicly humiliated. He bucked briefly and desperately, then he fell for a final time. The trumpets played a funereal dirge. I have never been to war, but bullfighting as an approximation for it only makes sense to me in that both activities are draped in flags and often based on antiquated ideas.Solid Breakdown of our newest meme...