I know books are supposed to be old media, but there’s something that feels futuristic about holding this one. It’s imperfect, disposable, personal. I can scribble on it and dog-ear it, and read it lying down. It cost around $10 and arrived in less than a week.
→ Emmet Connolly printed the web: Instapaper
In the process of pasteurizing, juice is heated and stripped of oxygen, a process called deaeration, so it doesn’t oxidize. Then it’s put in huge storage tanks where it can be kept for upwards of a year. It gets stripped of flavor-providing chemicals, which are volatile. When it’s ready for packaging, companies such as Tropicana hire flavor companies such as Firmenich to engineer flavor packs to make it taste fresh.
→ You can stop shelling out for that “not from concentrate” juice now. Q&A with Alissa Hamilton.
→ Good use of multiple exposures and merging of images: Peter Funch
→ Designers, photographers and a whole other bunch of neat people: Design Industry News & Discussion.
→ In Swedish: Stipendier från Publicistklubben
→ Also in Swedish: Stipendier från Svenska Fotografers Förbund.
→ Illustrator Daniel Dociu: Futuristic cityscapes.
→ BLDGBLOG interviews Daniel Dociu: Game/Space.
→ Warning Signs of Covert Eavesdropping or Bugging.
Many things in the world have not been named; and many things, even if they have been named, have never been described. One of these is the sensibility — unmistakably modern, a variant of sophistication but hardly identical with it — that goes by the cult name of “Camp.”
→ Susan Sontag, Notes on Camp.
A couple of hours passed. “Then, after I got a sandwich and came out of the store—da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da! ” Gravy told me later, mimicking the sound of gunfire. “The only thing I remember is falling, and knowing that I’m shot—just don’t know where. It’s not like, when you get shot, ‘Oh, I got shot here.’ Nah. You know you hit, so your mind frame is—you pumped, your adrenaline is going. I reach my hand over, and I see I’m bleeding.
→ The New Yorker: Ben McGrath, Where hip-hop lives.
For those who know, this is the open secret: War is exciting. Sometimes I was in awe of this, and sometimes I felt low and mean for loving it, but I loved it still. Even in its quiet moments, war is brighter, louder, brasher, more fun, more tragic, more wasteful. More. More of everything. And even then I knew I would someday miss it, this life so strange. Today the war has distilled to moments and feelings, and somewhere in these memories is the reason for the wistfulness.
→ Esquire: Brian Mockenhaupt, I miss Iraq. I miss my gun. I miss my war.
That was in the Year of Our Lord nineteen hundred and ninety-three. And then, the Years of Our Lord passed. I went to bed every night looking at that shot, I woke up every morning looking at that shot, every single day. For over 10 years.
→ Terry Rosso: Lens Magic.
