New Jersey, Connecticut, and Kansas are among the states whose unempoyment systems are being overwhelmed with new claims, and the systems run on old computer language that stopped being taught before many programmers were born. According to a report on CNN Business, "On top of ventilators, face masks and health care workers, you can now add COBOL programmers to the list of what several states urgently need as they battle the coronavirus pandemic."
"Despite a dwindling number of COBOL programmers, a 2017 report by Reuters found that there are still 220 billion lines of COBOL in use today. 43% of banking systems are built on COBOL and 95% percent of ATM swipes rely on COBOL code."
Until N95's are available for everyone who needs them, you gotta do what you gotta do. @tifffanycuh has collected some the of the best (note: "best" as it's used here is not a safety classification!) improvised covid-19 face masks.
No, it won't ensure you don't catch covid-19, but some face coverage is better than none when making a trip out of the house. Tora Smart's a how-to vid walks us through a quick and easy way to create a face mask with materials you already have at hand:
"Let's all make our own masks and let front line health workers get first dibs on the real ones. If we all wear our own when we leave the house, there will be less spread. New information is revealing that some face coverage is better than no face coverage. BUT, please allow care workers to get the real ones first!"
Little Darlings strip club will begin offering drive-through strip shows for those who want to indulge in some adult entertainment, but do not want to enter the building, as the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention is recommending people keep 6 feet in distance between themselves and others.
"We're going to offer drive-up window strip shows," said Ryan Carlson, director of operations for Little Darlings. "Guests can drive up to the front door and we're going to have dancers separate by the 6-foot separation rule and they can enjoy a totally nude show right from the seat of their car."
The release of All of Me is Illustrated, Stories by Ray Bradury, celebrates the author's Centennial with the stories, "The Illustrated Man," and "The Illustrated Woman," published together in a 272-page hardcover book featuring over 100 contemporary photographs of illustrated bodies by some of the leading tattoo artists of the 21st Century.
"Bradbury's tattooed-person tales embedded within this glorious parade of contemporary inked bodies breathes new life into his notions about how tattoo meanings can change, how the viewer of a tattoo can see something different from what the owner might have intended, and how psychology intersects with the desire to permanently inscribe one's skin." —from the Introduction by tattoo historian Anna Felicity Friedman
This is not merely a pairing of Bradbury stories sandwiched between a collection of garden variety tattoo photography. Photographer Peter Roessler invites an atypical intimacy between his subjects—or "collectors" as they're referenced in the book—and their viewers. The collectors featured among these pages are revealing more than the body; they're sharing the stories those bodies have to tell. As Friedman states in her introduction, it's the intersection of psychology and the desire to permanently inscribe not just one's skin, but in these cases the entire body, that ultimately makes this book so compelling.
All of Me is Illustrated is published by RosettaBooks in cooperation with Inked magazine. Featured artists include Paul Booth, Steve Butcher, Jessa Bigelow, Ryan Ashley Malarkey, Yomico Moreno, Andy Pho, TeeJ Poole, Duke Riley, DJ Tambe, Tatu Baby, Carlos Torres, Dmitry Troshin, Jess Yen and Popo Zhang, with photography by Peter Roessler. Select images are also available as signed and numbered fine art prints.
In Debbie Harry's gripping new memoir Face It, she sets the story straight about the night she got into the car of serial killer Ted Bundy.
Her story factors into the painting by Robert Williams, "Debbie Harry's Fears," which the two discuss together in a short video.
It happened in Manhattan during her pre-Blondie years, in the mid-1970s. Debbie was walking cross-town, alone, around 2:00 a.m. on the way to a party for the New York Dolls. She couldn't find a cab, her shoes weren't made for walking, and a polite, nice-looking guy slowed his car beside her and offered her a ride. She claims to have never been one to hitchhike "not even during the hippie years," but she was desperate. And he didn't seem weird.
She recalls a white car with a stripped interior, which included the removal of the passenger seat interior door handles. Photos of Bundy's car track with her claim, but her story had been previously debunked, because supposedly Bundy was in Florida at that time, not New York.
After a valiant escape fit for an action movie, she eventually dismissed the experience. "I had not though about that night for maybe fifteen years," she writes in Face It. Until she happened across a magazine article about the execution of Ted Bundy, and saw his photo. In the story, Bundy's revealed his M.O. to the journalists who covered his death sentence, and Harry claims what Bundy told them was exactly what happened to her. When she saw his picture in the magazine, "the hairs on the back of my neck stood up," she states. "It was him."
Cat videos. They're almost like a universal language; even people who don't love cats love cat videos. And what better way to overindulge than with CatVideoFest 2020, coming soon to a theater near you. What started as an experiment at a Minneapolis art center eight years ago quickly grew into an international phenomenon, and it's sweeping the country, with a curated compilation of the latest and best cat videos culled from countless submissions including "sourced animations, music videos, and internet powerhouses." The first festival was held outdoors in the summer of 2012 and drew a crowd of 10,000!
"The 15 m high visitor's tower provides you with a 360-degree view from the tower of Dresden's Town Hall and reveals the extent of the destruction in the panorama by Yadegar Asisi, almost 3,000 m² in size."
I'll admit to having been a CBD denier. I dismissed it as a bullshit trend; the second-most overrated after kombucha. The variety of products I'd tried always left me feeling somewhere between slightly nauseous and groggy. And mentally dull. It didn't seem to matter what form the product took, or which sort of extra bells and whistles had been added to "enhance" the oil.
Add to that the dizzying variety of distinctions: hemp extract vs. hemp seed oil, full-spectrum vs. broad-spectrum, oils vs. tinctures, the addition of terpenes, the claims of "sustainably grown," "lab tested," and "pure," and, most maddening, the all-over-the-map price points that make no clear sense. Reading ingredient labels left me further confused, but more determined to sort it all out.
I wanted something simple, but my standards were high. A Google search for "organic CBD drops" was a rabbit hole of false leads and dead ends. So I created my own filters, and after researching about a trillion oils, winnowed down the options from there.
Filter #1: Organic
If I opt for organic vegetables, why shouldn't my CBD oil rise to the same standards? This one simple step eliminated all but a handful of products.
Filter #2: Purity
I wanted plain CBD oil drops, not a Wiccan brew of essential oils, spices, and exotic immunity boosters preserved in alcohol. Furthermore, I'm a grown-up, I don't need my CBD oil to taste like a candy cane or an orange popsicle, and I couldn't find any good reason why it should contain another ingredient besides its carrier oil. Coconut-derived MCT oil is the popular go-to of the industry; it's quickly-absorbing and easy to digest, and pretty much tastes like nothing. Works for me.
Filter #3: Price point
This part was shocking; price points have little bearing on quality. I saw prices vary as much as fifty bucks between products that for all intents and purposes, were virtually the same. Some of the more expensive ones had prettier bottles or cooler-looking labels, but were actually of inferior quality to some of the cheaper brands.
Filter #4: A little help please!
I needed word from an entity who knew more than I did. I looked at several "Top 20" lists online, but a lot of those sources were dubious, and literally none of the selections on the lists I saw passed the filters I had set. In the end, CBD Validator was my go-to: "the first and only independent, unbiased and easy-to-use tool that rates CBD oils using a 50-point proprietary rating system based on source, price per dose, safety, quality, and transparency."
From there, it was a short walk to their highest-ranked oil. Sitting at #1: Bravo Botanicals.
Bravo's oil met all my criteria, and at only $30 for a 500 mg bottle, they also KO'd their competitors on price. Certified USDA and Vermont Organic, full spectrum, subtle flavor, and only two ingredients, but the proof was in the dropper. After putting it to the test I'm here to say that Bravo Botanicals CBD drops are nothing short of bliss in a bottle.
But that needs some qualifying. Fortunately—at least at this stage in my life, knock wood—I don't suffer from many of the conditions CBD oil is said to remedy; seizures, chronic pain, inflammation, or anxiety. I wanted to know how it effected sleep, stress/irritability, and focus. I can't speak to other factors.
Sleep: I am not, by nature, an early riser. But I aspire to be one. An intermittent pattern of waking bright-eyed, mind racing, at 4:00 a.m. doesn't do me any favors, and by the time I get back to sleep, it's time to wake, and my whole day is lost to a foggy drag. I wanted to know if CBD drops could get me to sleep, and keep me sleeping through the night, without the next-day hangover I've experienced with over-the-counter sleep aids. Bravo's drops passed the test. Without changing any other aspect of my routine, I'm weeks in, and have not once seen the dreaded digits "4:00" glowing in the darkness of my bedroom. It was a complete turnaround.
Stress: What if, I thought, the Bravo dropper helped get me through those days when there just aren't enough hours. Could CBD oil really quiet the drumbeat of a work-related panic? Evidently, yes. But it wasn't like a two-martini lunch. I wasn't bleary-eyed or slurring my speech; I could function. But on those days when life felt like a runaway train, I was unflappable, I stayed on track, and I enjoyed the ride.
Focus: See above. This was something that especially concerned me, because I wasn't willing to trade my short-term memory for a sense of calm. In the end, I found that this wasn't a factor. In fact, with the reduction in stress, my focus improved. It was a win-win.
I learned that there are some obvious distinctions I had never considered about CBD, like the way the plants are grown and the method by which the oil is extracted. Bravo is a no plow, no till, organic farm, that boosts its soil's beneficial microorganisms with biological compost teas. They use only subcritical CO2 extraction to process the plant, which means their product is never touched by ethanol or alcohol, and it's free of chlorophyll and residual plant waxes. As I later discovered, these are not common industry practices., and I do believe it makes a difference.
Side effects? None that I've noticed. Do I use the drops every day? No. And my sleep pattern has seem to reset, for now. But should I find myself waking to the dreaded "4:00," there to remind me that, no, I won't get right back to sleep, and yes, the entire rest of the day is a is going to be an unqualified wash, I'll know where to turn.
Jack Nitzsche was a legend in his own time; an arranger, producer, songwriter, and Academy Award-winning composer. His disparate discography includes collaborations with Phil Spector, the iconic 1966 Batman theme, titles by The Rolling Stones, Doris Day, Ike & Tina Turner, The Monkees, Glen Campbell, and the Ronettes, as well as several film soundtracks, including Performance, The Exorcist, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and An Officer and a Gentleman. But one of his earliest known arrangements was for a song so unlistenable it isn't even named on any of his published discographies.
The title dates from 1963, when a hit song that doubled as a dance craze was the holy grail of the Top 10. But not even the hand of Jack Nitzsche could get this eminently abrasive earworm, "The Fuddy Duddy Walk" by The Entertainers, to join the ranks of "The Twist," "The Mashed Potato," or "The Watusi." "The Fuddy Duddy Walk" is more like proto-punk dance craze anarchy, and it's not hard to imagine a crowd of pencil-skirted and flat-topped teens covering their ears in buzzkill horror, stampeding from the dance floor and fighting their way to the nearest exit. It's an aural assault strictly for music masochists, with a nearly unintelligible vocal that codes neither male or female, rock or soul, black or white. Just sweetly painful.
The Rialto Report is a podcast series and digital library that archives oral histories, images, magazines and books covering the golden age of the adult film industry in New York, from the early-1960s to the mid-1980s. It's the project of adult film historians Ashley West and April Hall, both of whom served as consultants for HBO's The Deuce.
Their podcast interviews are in-depth, intimate, and unrivaled, featuring some of the industry's biggest and most influential names of the era; Seka, George Payne, Candy Samples, Hyapatia Lee, Jerry Butler, Candida Royalle, and Uschi Digard are among other well-and-lesser-known performers and industry stakeholders featured throughout the series.
Certainly, this "golden age" wasn't exactly golden for all involved. Many performers—both women and men—were exploited, underpaid, mistreated, abused, or worse, and the Rialto Report doesn't sugarcoat. Their interviews pull no punches and never miss an opportunity, allowing their subjects the space to share their perspectives and tell their own stories—many of them surprising, some of them shocking, all of them intriguing—bringing listeners to the inside of an opaque industry during New York's epoch of the X-rated.
It was the early 1980s; MTV was in its infancy, the New Music scene was beginning to hit national airwaves, and Josie Cotton was having a moment. She had an international hit with the infamous Johnny Are You Queer (decried by some as homophobic and banned in Amsterdam, but also simultaneously embraced as an anthem played in heavy rotation at Pride parades), brought her inimitable style to the 1983 movie Valley Girl, and was making charts with the marginal hits He Could Be the One, and with the early music video, Jimmy Loves Maryann.
Just before she was to complete what would have been her third album, Cotton was dropped by her label, Elektra records. She finished the album nonetheless, but later chose to step back from the music industry altogether, and the tracks were packed away, divided, and lost in storage.
Although less-visible than her contemporaries of the L.A. music scene (Josie Cotton is the invention of Kathleen Josey, who is rumored to be a Texas oil heiress whose grandfather was a business partner of J. Paul Getty), Cotton remained a prolific songwriter and singer, releasing several excellent albums over the years, adeptly exploring a variety of genres and reinventing herself with each project, but on independent labels and without much hoopla. A lot of her later work is top notch: Rabbit Hole, Beautiful But Deadly from Movie Disaster Music. See The New Hong Kong, If a Lie Was Love, All I Can See is the Face of Bruce Lee, Super 8 from Pussycat Babylon, and her inspired, under-the-radar collection of exploitation movie themes, Invasion of the B-Girls.
Josie Cotton's lost third album was resurrected from storage after she was approached by a Stranger Things soundtrack query from Netflix, in search of unreleased music of the mid-1980s. She was inspired enough to revisit the tapes and mix the tracks; it's more than three decades late, but Everything is Oh Yeah is, in fact, a new album, circa 1985. It's both a time capsule and a time-travel fantasy, featuring contributions from early punk rock legend Geza X (The Dead Kennedys' Holiday in Cambodia, et al.), and the Stray Cats' Brian Setzer. Bouncing from new wave to surf to girl group to neo-rockabilly, there are some fun, mid-'80s gems in here for sure—and even a Beatles and a Ramones cover.
The first-ever release of 1985's Everything is Oh Yeah (above) coincided with the debut of her latest video, Ukrainian Cowboy:
Truly inspired is a maker who can turn a rodent infestation into a crafting opportunity, but if you've got a sharp knife, a steady hand, a strong constitution, don't believe in karma, aren't concerned about hantavirus pulmonary syndrome or hemorrhagic fever—and don't mind being dismissed as a psychopath—crafting with mice could keep you busy every rainy afternoon for the rest of your life.
This how-to dates from the early 1930s as The Great Depression still cast its shadow, and for makers this meant making the most of what they had at hand. So, if life gives you rodents, make bookends – or a chess set. Or a pair of salt-and-pepper shakers. Embellish your dungarees with funky furry appliqué. And there's no rule that says you have to stick exclusively to mice. Sundry vermin, small ailing pets, and bats or birds that inadvertently fly in through an open window and can't escape are fair game too. Does your neighbor have an annoying little dog with an incessant bark that keeps you up at night? If the dog moves slowly, is easy to catch, or can be quietly lured from its yard with a slice of baloney, you can solve your problem and procure a novelty table lamp at the same time. If you've got a possum going through your garbage, a family of squirrels taking up digs in your attic, or a litter of feral kittens that somehow made their way into your basement, understand that these critters are not problems, but creative opportunities. And free art supplies! As the indigenous people of North America efficiently used every part of the buffalo, no part of your rodent need go to waste either; bones can add valuable phosphorus to your garden soil and the guts can be dried on a windowsill for use later. You'll think of something.
Turning living things that dart into tiny holes and quickly disappear into the darkness under your kitchen sink into "bookends, candle sconces, and so on…" requires quick reflexes, and mice aren't a crafting medium for the novice; if you've ever killed one in a trap and neglected to dispose of the carcass after a few balmy summer days, then you know what the home of someone who crafts with mouse pelts might smell like if they aren't a proficient home taxidermist. Maker beware.
Safe to assume the head hunter in this application is not a white-collar employment recruiter, but a member of some ambiguously exotic indigenous tribe who takes no prisoners; either claiming the heads of his victims prior to a meal of human flesh, or as a souvenir of a victorious battle. What's not entirely clear, however, is whether we're looking at the head of the hunter or the hunted – but for the maker compelled to repurpose their cottage cheese container with absolutely no regard for anthropological accuracy or concern for offending their head hunter friends, this how-to circa 1967 enhances one's kitchen with an adorable googly-eyed man-eating killer who's also a useful countertop accessory, if you happen to use a lot of string. And he's even sporting a decorative humerus bone harvested from one of his unfortunate combatants.
Why was head hunting chosen as a theme for a kitchen item? Is it the association of the cutting, cooking, and eating of meat, or does it have something to do with the illusion created by the string hanging from his mouth? Is it supposed to look like this endearing savage is salivating over his next human meal? Testing al dente vermicelli? Removing a tapeworm? Other blanks that need filling: the full story behind that bone in his hair, and whether or not he knows anything about the disappearance of Michael Rockefeller.
Indigenous-looking brown-skinned people inspired many a mass-produced knickknack through the early-to-mid 20th Century. Cookie jars and salt & pepper shakers celebrated cultural diversity in colorful – but not entirely flattering – cliché. Caricatures of scrappy-looking Caribbeans adorned cocktail glassware and were shaped into bottles of rum, while Chinese rice field workers and jug-carrying Nubians made for stylish TV lamps, bookends, and planters; The sombrero and serape-draped Mexican was seen dozing beneath many a cactus in a variety of dust-catching figurines and functional forms. The Head Hunter String Holder is a lowbrow DIY strain of that genre, and one of its last stops, squeezed from the final gasps of this ethno-human-novelty era of racist tchotchkes.
Exotic tribal folks skewed considerably less adorable when seen clubbing pigs for a five-year feast in the grindhouse-vérité cinema of the early 1960s that began with Mondo Cane. Cannibal exploitation films like Ultimo Mondo Cannibale (1977) and The Man from Deep River (1972) didn't help matters either, sensationalizing the realities of the primitive in lurid, living color. Not nearly as cute or well-groomed as their cartoon counterparts — and less conducive to a kitchen motif than previously thought — the live-action head hunters of R-rated movies effectively killed off mid-century primitive preciousness by the late 1970s. Even the glitter-flecked pipe cleaner hoop earrings, as suggested in the instructions for the head hunter here, do little to redeem his impish appeal.
All boys love guns, so what kid wouldn't want a motorized shooting gallery right in his own living room? It's "just like the large ones at penny arcades," says this how-to from 1959, but this project comes with added value: as the maker, you'll have the bonus of being the coolest dad on the block, because your son will be the envy of all his friends. You'll also have the private satisfaction of knowing that you've trumped every other dad in the neighborhood and made them all feel like failures who don't do cool things like build motorized shooting galleries for their kids. That's a lot for a single DIY project to deliver.
This was a more innocent time in America — save the Cold War and the constant threat of a nuclear bomb — when people were a lot less freaked out about kids using BB rifles in the home. It was the late-1950s; almost a century since a U.S. President had caught a bullet, and it was a more trusting era, when the notion of bringing firearms to school and spraying students and faculty with gunfire would have been considered extreme. In mid-century America, no one was prattling on about kids becoming desensitized to violence because they spent a couple hours after school knocking off plywood squirrels with an air rifle.
The Coolest Dad on the Block doesn't come by his title without considerable elbow grease, however. Building the guts of a motorized shooting gallery is not something that happens quickly — and if you aren't proficient with a soldering gun or have the patience for rivets you might as well forget it. How many weeknights will you lose cutting and painting silhouettes of rabbits, ducks, and squirrels? All depends on how good you are with a jigsaw. It might seem like a lot of work, but once your kid grabs hold of his rifle and you flip that switch, those first twenty or thirty minutes before that kid gets bored are going to be proud ones. But even if the novelty lasts for as long as a few afternoons, it's likely that you'll have put more hours into that shooting gallery than he will. Might be easier — and definitely quicker — to just go luddite and shoot at real animals.
The fun of aiming at the same, tired, rotating vermin figures is bound to wear off sooner or later, and an adolescent will likely move onto other youthful pastimes like sticking firecrackers up cats' butts, smoking cigarettes, and breaking windows; it would still be four more decades before a tween could pummel a prostitute into a bloody pulp, shoot her in the head, and set her on fire courtesy of Grand Theft Auto. It might be said that the CGI prostitutes of one generation are simply the analog plywood Squirrels of another, but kids today have it all: pipe bombs and cop killing, hostage torturing, they even get to watch blood pool beneath the bodies of their victims after a sniping spree and experience the soulless rush of hooker sex, all sourced from a joystick without leaving the sofa. A kid of the late-1950s could only dream of that kind of fun.