Yeah that’s America. God’s glory. God Bless.

Time for something small. Because maybe Big isn’t the new Black. Maybe Big takes up too much damned space. What about what fits? How about enough?

They say gasoline in the United States is over 4 dollars per gallon. Good. I hope it goes to 6. Still a bargain for the energy equivalent of 500 hours of human work. Or when you consider that most of Europe already pays 8. The winds of climate change are tickling the chimes hanging from the awning of a house somewhere in the Missouri suburbs. And if the ringing has garnered the attention of the homeowner, is not because of Al Gore’s movie or Hollywood’s finest on parade. The catalyst for environmental change comes from economic self interest. Not “us” – me.

Americans have already spent half a trillion dollars on the Biggest boondoggle of a generation: the war in Iraq. Imagine for a moment, if you will, that kind of financial investment directed toward a well-researched energy policy. In my fantasy I envision my future hat, striking and stylish, providing both shade for my eyes and enough collected solar energy to propel my future middle-aged ass through the streets of Soho in the rain.

Time for something small. Time for something that fits. Because Big is clearly not sustainable when it is the thing everyone craves. And as I read an article in the Wall Street Journal that details how Hollywood has licensed the movie rights to board games, such as Monopoly, from toy-maker Hasbro for a new nauseating string of sequels and prequels, I am reminded that we have lost our grip on the one Big of any consequence or value: Big ideas.

Update: I noticed that WordPress listed a previous article of mine about a big fish under “similar posts”. I assure you that the irony is not lost on me.

Venice appears to float atop an impossibly vast lagoon, drenched in salty air and gelato. The city is a maze of cobblestone corridors and foot bridges, utterly unnavigable in the late evening after the crowds have returned to their hotel rooms and the storefronts are secured with heavy metal shutters.

On the banks of the canal Rio dei Mendicanti, opposite the Scuola Grande di San Marco (today the city’s hospital), English and Spanish speakers sit on the dark steps of the canal crossing beneath a public telephone sign. The voice of an American jazz singer from my Grandmother’s youth lifts above the soft chatter and into the warm night air. Golden light from the wine bar spills from an open doorway where the barmaid pours house red into deciliter glasses for a half Euro.

Venice does not really exist. Not as a city; not the kind of city that I have lived in or visited in former travels. Venice is a romantic memory of the past preserved in brick and brown stucco: a flotilla of opulence that emerged in layers from the salty backwash of the Adriatic Sea as ancient Italians sought refuge from marauding hordes. Centuries passed before she would rule the waters from Croatia to Crete, lining temples in marble and the pillaged relics of the orient, enriched through conquest and control of the lucrative trade route to India.

Time and Empire have an acrimonious relationship, and eventually the city fell – again and again – finally to Napoleon’s army, ever so keen to violently spread the ideals of the French Revolution, they banished the Doges from their palace above Piazza San Marco.

Modern travelers to Venice find a museum without markers. A city without industry. Unlike Europe’s other treasures, Venice was spared from the bombs of the Second War due to functional irrelevance. As I pass through the mass of sunburnt spectators and marvel at the exquisite work of Renaissance artists and Baroque architects, I try and brush aside the nagging sensation that I am in a sort of Disneyland for refined adults. The facade of Venice is preserved (after the last devastating flood by a gift from the United Nations) but the soul of the city departed with the last Doge.

Livingston’s project begins on March 31, 1979 with the foreshorten profiles of two anonymous women speaking to a person beyond the view of the lens. Through the next eighteen years he compiles a story of his life in frames: evenings with friends, strangers, travel, televised deaths of note, accolades, and more frequently: glimpses of the mundane. The warm and muted hues of old Polaroids connote childhood for people of my generation and the elusive shadows of the world immediately before existence, when parents were young adults exploring the world in the ways that are seldom revealed to their children. The flavors of grey-blue skies and eggshell white lends itself to the allure and mystery of Livingston’s catalog. James Livingston has perhaps crafted the precursor to the weblog in the textured form of an ancestor’s quilt.

I discovered this project on Mental Floss several months ago; an article by Chris Higgins reveals some of the mysteries behind the collection, though after viewing the photographs for myself, I find Higgin’s researched account as something of a spoiler.

Link

Now if they only allowed searching by Creative Commons licensing, this could be even more practical for web and print designers.

Tag Galaxy

Compared to the bustle of Old Prague, the maze of dusty trails that wind through the woods is a welcome retreat. Gurgling streams descend the canyons as they make their connection to the river bed in the valley below. The leaved canopy echos the hullabaloo of a thousand birds. The sunlight plays in golden patches along the ground and illuminates the path ahead.

Occasionally one may chance upon a cabin tucked away behind the brush. A man is chopping wood in his garden while nearby a group of friends sit at a table enjoying a midday conversation over a bottle of wine. Those who venture into the woods forget that they are on a hillside above a capital city and come to believe that they have entered the pages of a fable.

Of course your storybook walk might seem all the more outlandish when a twenty-foot-tall giant iron sheep is gazing at you from a clearing. You have interrupted his meal and iron sheep are know to be fairly territorial. A word of advice: proceed slowly with caution, trying not to make eye contact.

Eventually the beast will return to grazing and forget all about your presence.

The hills above Prague have as much mystique to offer as the city itself. The fact that the forrest is so accessible and also lightly traveled, makes it the hidden gem of the city – an escape from tour groups and trinket peddlers. I will have to make sure that this secluded garden remains a local secret.

via DRAWN!

I do not consider myself a zealous patriot, but I think I’m going to be rooting for Beard Team USA in 2009. Here is our official logo:

Among the perineal favorites is Franz Mitterhauser, of Austria, taking top honors for his formidable Imperial Mustache (bottom left). Hailing from Istanbul, Turkey, Memili Rüstüoglu is a strong contender in the Freestyle Mustache category with the world’s longest mustache. (second from bottom)

link: World Beard Chapionships

In other beardly news, beard enthusiast Jon Dyer is on a quest to grow each type of beard in the catalog of known beard types. Jon grows a beard each Fall and shaves it in Spring after the harsh Winter has passed.

He offers some advice to would-be beard growers. From his FAQ:

When I grow a beard, it looks like crap.

“You know your favorite shirt that you keep inexplicably finding in or near the trash? That makes you look like crap, too. But you wear it, don’t you? Do you know why? Because in some instances feeling good should supersede looking good… When are you going to stop worrying about how you look and start worrying about how you feel?”

Jon Dyer and his Balbo beard.

Beards make you look old.

“I agree. People misjudge my age by 10 years when I grow one. What they also seem to do is assume that I know what I’m talking about or that I’m qualified to give them advice. In these situations, I find that pensively tugging on your beard and waiting for them to answer their own questions works best.”

Here are some wonderful pink blossoms in early spring on the north side of the Vltava River.