Good job state!

I have previously written about the necessity of protecting property rights- that being a result of man’s will and mind and labour- and how the guarantee and the recognition of such rights is not only a constitutional mandate but in the vein of Locke, an integral natural right as well. As such, I would like to give mad props to the United Supreme Court (with the exception of Justice Sandra Day O’ Connor and other dissenters – I specifically mention the great lady for this rather brave, valiant and well-measured defence of property rights and private ownership- http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Kelo_v._New_London/Dissent_O’Connor) and the State of Connecticut, more notably the city of  New  London, for utterly, completely, and thoroughly maiming and butchering such a right for the appeasement of populist sentiments and the vagueness of the “common good” and “public use”- really. Good job!

For the uninformed, Kelo v. New London was a distinctly novel concept in the already absurd realm of eminent domain, so far as it involved the transfer of ownership from one private owner to another, as long as such an action would fall under “public use” that would result in the “common good”. In this instance, the state may award a private entity the ownership and possession of real property of another if it could be proven that economic growth and development would benefit the community as a whole, regardless of the established legal validity on the original owner’s claim or more importantly, the choice of the original owners themselves (whether or not to participate). As such, homeowners in New London were duly and legally (according to the Supreme Court) deprived of their residence so that Pfizer may establish offices and facilities that would create jobs and promote income in the area.

Good job state! That’s a great thing right?

Except four years later, this is what happened:

http://www.washingtonexaminer.com/opinion/blogs/beltway-confidential/Pfizer-abandons-site-of-infamous-Kelo-eminent-domain-taking-69580497.html

And this:

http://www.cato-at-liberty.org/2009/11/09/taking-land-for-public-uselessness/

Thus, all in all, I would like to congratulate the state for realising the tax revenues it sought, creating jobs for people around the area, and still, having those individuals and their families keep their homes.

Except none of those happened.

So good job state!

(Articles copyrighted and owned by their respective authors and publishers).

Certainly, the fall of the Berlin Wall, was a watershed moment in the history of man. Perhaps as a myth, perhaps as a legend, it arguably served as the climax of the Cold War- the occasion by which willful resistance and fate and circumstance all joined together to achieve and earn freedom against statist and Marxist-Leninist tyranny. Against the bleak backdrop of winter and societal suffocation, the rush of individuals across the border was crossing the post- modern Rubicon, resulting in the inevitable and deserved- as with most totalitarian and collectivist regimes- collapse of the Soviet Empire.

As such, given the gravity of the situation, this post would probably be gauche and maladroit , considering its levity despite its brevity. I do not wish to offend. However, as this involves a rare conglomeration of unintentional comedy (Member’s Only Jacket PLUS illumination? Check. Keyboard scarf? Check. Permed mullet PLUS white afro? Check. And that’s not what the clip is about even…), I feel that such humour can be forgiven and allowed even.

Accordingly, as we remember the past with respect and reverence, we take a brief respite to laugh…

The Empire State Strikes Back!!!

I’ve been rather busy the past few days: I spent all hallow’s eve dressed up as Don Draper and/or Chuck Bass (depending on how you viewed my particular sophistication of inebriation and/or debauchery that night) along the streets and boulevards of  a dimly, unnamed city. It was much like any other city and any other night, but it was my city, it was my night. This was duly followed by a 12-hour Guy Fawkes sports viewing marathon, ably aided by anonymous regulated substances- better living through chemistry!- and a feeble attempt to organise whatever shards of lucid thought I had left into digital papyrus. It was somewhat of a bittersweet endeavour, appropriately helped by imbibing Victoria Bitter (just an awesome, proper beverage mind! Doesn’t taste like pissantly pants American supermarket beers but it doesn’t go Soviet on you either-tastes great even when it goes warm and you’re too arsed to get ice cubes nor does it hammer and kick you in the head the next morning with a truly, truly painful hangover and an unknown female bedmate…anyway); the Reds drew with Lyonnais and the great Bosphorus Rafa Benitez was then heaped with more undeserved pressure and criticism from the ignorant media and worse, so-called Liverpool fans who buy into what pundits spit-out.  Good thing however, was that the Yankees, after 9 long fucking years, won their 27th World Series Championship- 9 years for redemption, 9 years to get back to greatness. Very happy for the Core of Four, for A-rod, for Hideki, for my home. The Empire State Strikes Back!!! Start spreading the news, big lights will inspire you, it’s up to you, NEW YORK, NEW YORK!!!

Those things aside, here are two great articles from Slate.com for weekend reading- the first is about the pandering done by Republicans to the populist insanity done by the misinformed/uninformed. As much as  I have characterised Democrats for lacking courage and worse, participating in shameful acts of appeasement, fault and scorn must be given to a lot of Republicans for catering to these idiots, led by those loudmouth, ethos/pathos loving, fear-mongering retards over at some network, who have completely seceded from reason and sense (Yes. That was an Ad hominem, Eminem).

The second article devotes its effort towards a discussion of the reasons behind the fall of the Berlin Wall, its symbolism, mythology and subsequent effects throughout post-Soviet Europe.

http://www.slate.com/id/2234724/

http://www.slate.com/id/2234101/

Enjoy.

(All articles are copyrighted and owned by their authors and Slate.com)

In honour of halloween, if I am arsed by then, I will go paint the town red dressed as the Victorian Disraeli. Or Byron. That in mind, here’s a theme song for the weekend from Brixton house duo, Basement Jaxx, from their latest album “Scars”. It’s their latest single, “My Turn” featuring Dev ‘Lightspeed Champion’ Hynes in a mindblowing, aural and visual explosion of a video helmed by Tomek Ducki.

Don’t you just love hearts and labourer bears darling?

This is a very well-written, rather poignant piece about what is arguably, my most favourite piece of machinery in the world.

Save the Planet: Drive a Porsche

How a classic car can be greener than your Prius.

By Joe EatonPosted Wednesday, Oct. 28, 2009, at 3:24 PM ET

It’s an unseasonably cool day in August, and I’m screaming down a twisty, two-lane road nestled in the driver’s seat of a silver 1966 Porsche 911. The Porsche’s owner is riding shotgun, shirt collar popped, trying to look nonchalant as I bring the revs up and shift into third. The trees blur.

“There are speed cameras up here,” he says. “You might want to slow it down.”

He’s right, and not just because of the cameras. While it’s tempting to let the Porsche climb past 80, you catch more of a used car’s flaws driving at slower speeds, when the wind and engine noise can’t mask the clunks, rattles, and shakes.

Judged with the cool logic of pragmatic transportation, the toad-shaped rocket I’m test-driving is a terrible option. It’s finicky and expensive to fix, and it spews carbon like a coal-fired power plant. It has lap seatbelts with no airbags and weighs less than one-third of a Chevy Tahoe—a head-on crash is a game-ender. Yet it’s stunningly beautiful and exactly what I’m searching for. I’ve drooled over the Porsche 911 since I was 10. Finally, I’ve found a way to fit the car into my lifestyle.

In spring 2007, my wife and I sold our Volvo and committed to public transportation. Since then, it’s been no traffic jams, no mechanics, no gasoline, and no insurance bills. With the money we saved, I started a “hot rod” bank account dedicated to making driving fun. Public transportation is paying for my Porsche.

I log 20,000 miles a year commuting from my home in Baltimore to my job in Washington, D.C. I travel by train and subway. Fares (plus vacation rental cars, bus tickets, bicycle tires, and the occasional taxi) set me back around $3,100 a year—$6,000 less than Camry man. I stash the savings in my Porsche fund.

Like many Americans, I love to get out and drive. But in and around major cities, “driving” usually means idling in traffic while trapped in cars as utilitarian and uninspiring as washing machines. It’s soul-sucking and dirty. It’s also expensive. According to AAA, if I were to commute 20,000 miles in a Toyota Camry, I would burn through $9,100 a year in fuel and ownership costs that include insurance, maintenance, and depreciation. If a dash gauge measured money per mile, the needle would be pegged at 45.5 cents. And, according to Department of Transportation statistics, that much commuting would release more than 15,000 pounds of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. A Prius cuts that almost in half—a green boost for sure, but nothing compared with pairing public transportation with weekend joy rides in a classic car.

Like many former teenage hot rodders, the cool quotient of my cars dropped as my education and career aspirations rose. I grew up in the 1980s, in a town an hour northeast of Detroit. At 16, I cruised the downtown loop on Saturday nights in a 1960 Chevy pickup my father and I painted red. Next came a 1963 Chevy Nova. At graduation, I drove a 1966 Plymouth Belvedere with 440 cubic inches under the hood and a posi-traction rear end—one of the fastest cars among many fast cars in my class. I loved these cars and think of them fondly, like high-school girlfriends, though each left me stranded on the side of the road too many times to count.

The collapse to generic wheels began when I sold the Plymouth for college tuition. It continued for the next 17 years through a haze of Volkswagens, Subarus, and a particularly horrible light-blue Chevy Cavalier. After we married, my wife and I owned two Volvos, both wagon-model icons of safe, dependable, vanilla transportation. The fine rumble of classic car exhaust continued to turn my head, but a gas guzzler didn’t fit my lifestyle.

If bumper-sticker logic is taken for truth, gas-guzzlers shouldn’t fit any lifestyle. Hot rods, like SUVs, mark the bad politics of the eco-unfriendly. The auto industry, happy to market the sentiment, has responded with fuel-sippers, hybrids, full-on electrics, and promises of even “greener” vehicles. But giving up your Prius and putting a hot rod in the garage may be the best thing you can do for the planet.

Science shows that cutting miles traveled by personal automobile is far more effective at reducing carbon than improving gas mileage. A car entirely unsuitable for daily transportation does just that. Cruising in a hot rod on occasional spirited jaunts is like savoring a real chocolate-chip cookie instead of gorging on a box of low-fats. A little bit won’t hurt you. And it’s good for the soul.

Giving up wheels as daily transportation may seem daunting, but kicking the habit is simple, at least in the city, where access to buses, subways, cabs, and bike paths make car ownership a sign of supreme laziness. On Saturdays, I ride my Trek 2.5 miles to Whole Foods and ferry groceries home in a large hiking backpack. Canned food and other heavy items go on the bottom. Tomatoes and peaches go on top. When it rains or snows, I take the bus.

If this sounds like a hassle, consider my friends with cars—their parking tickets, wheel boots, smashed windows, broken mirrors, and stolen goods. City driving is expensive, frustrating, and dirty. Yet even the most progressive Americans continue to pay the car tax for wheels they do not love.

In Risky Business, Tom Cruise’s character comes of age with the help of a beautiful prostitute and a stunning car. For this rural preteen, the shark-nosed Porsche 928 thatwinds up in Lake Michigan was nearly as exotic as Rebecca De Mornay. And just as far out of reach. In 1983, a base model Porsche 928 cost nearly $40,000, the price of a nice house in my town.

A quarter-century later, however, many former dream cars, the Porsche 928 included, have dropped to the price of a good used minivan. Superb 928s now go for $10,000. A decent example costs half that. When something breaks, however, the fix will be expensive, if you can find a mechanic who remembers how to work on something so old. The struggle to keep a sports car as a daily driver has put many owners smack in the seat of a Hyundai. Classic cars are playthings, not transportation.

Some guys have both. They commute in air-conditioned cocoons with automatic transmissions and keep weekend convertibles under covers in the garage. Most of us, however, have to choose. And most of us make the wrong choice. When my Porsche fails, I’ll rip it apart and fix it. If it sits immobile for a year, I’ll get to work the way I always do—by train.

After two and a half years, my hot rod account holds $15,000. I should probably throw the money down on the S&P 500 or pay off my student loans. Instead, I’ve test-driven vintage Porsches across the mid-Atlantic, spent hours on the phone with owners as far away as Washington state, and missed sleep while trolling the Internet for “the one.”

Sprinting away from the city in the 1966, vent window cracked, it’s decision time. The car is the perfect Porsche for the $16,000 the owner is asking. But that’s cheap for the model, and for good reason. A paint blister above the right rear fender exposes bad bodywork. Rust is bubbling up below the doors. Worse yet, the owner doesn’t know how many miles are on the rebuilt engine.

It’s a beautiful—but deeply flawed—version of my dream car. I pull the car into a subdivision, park, and take the passenger seat. The owner gives me a ride back to the subway. The hot rod fund continues to grow.

http://www.slate.com/id/2233834/pagenum/all/#p2

(Article owned and copyrighted by Slate.com and Joe Eaton)

(Article owned and copyrighted by the Independent and Stephen Foley)

I watched this film yesterday. And the day before. I might just watch it again today- it just edged out Revenge of the Sith for my top five spot of favourite films of all time, alongside the Godfather Trilogy (in case you’re wondering- my list is as follows: (500) Days + the Godfather for tied fifth, Magnolia + Amelie for tied fourth, Lost in Translation, Godard’s Breathless, and my favourite of all time is Casablanca; I’m a sucker for well-told narratives peppered with good lines mind). Anyway, here’s an article from the August LA Times, courtesy of blogger Lisa Fung, including a quirky dance video from the film’s stars that plays a song by She&Him, a band fronted by Zooey Deschanel (who with the talented J. Gordon-Levitt, mesmerises in this simple, odd yet memorable piece). Enjoy.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/culturemonster/2009/08/500-days-of-summer-director-marc-webb-.html

Courtesy of the shit ass Grauniad (I haven’t forgiven them yet for their disrespectful treatment of Rafa Benitez- especially you McCarra- albeit admittedly, they have an astounding Arts section, particularly in the Observer), an article about my favourite band and the nascent yet burgeoning interest in  their music withing the Colonies.

Phoenix rising in the US

Phoenix ... from the palais to Caesar's Palace.

They may hail from Versailles but a love of American popular culture has propelled Phoenix to the brink of a very unfrench transatlantic breakthrough, writes Andrew Purcell

Growing up in Versailles, an affluent suburb of Paris, the four boys who would eventually form Phoenix bonded over their love of American pop culture. They adored the movie Risky Business They heard Kenny Rogers on the radio and thought he was cool. They had no interest in French music at all, and instead swapped cassettes of Prince, Lou Reed, Hank Williams and My Bloody Valentine. They paused videotapes of live performances to learn the chords and resolved to write songs in English. Rock stardom would be their ticket out of a cultural backwater that was last fashionable when Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette still lived in the chateau.

“The best thing Versailles gave us is that it made us feel different,” says singer Thomas Mars. “Right from the beginning we knew that we didn’t want to please everybody because we couldn’t relate to anybody.” “We saw all the American shows, the foreign music, with French eyes,” says Guitarist Laurent Brancowitz. “We had a filtered vision of what was going on. So we filled the rest with our fantasies and it shaped our sound.” Not understanding which acts were hip, they borrowed wholesale, lifting a Cars riffs here, a guitar sound from Hall & Oates there. They tried country chord progressions with disco basslines – anything, as long as it wasn’t French.

That affinity with American music may explain why Phoenix are on the verge of succeeding in the US, where so many French bands have failed. Their latest album, Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, entered the iTunes chart at No 2. At their sold-out gigs in New York’s Central Park, tickets were going for double face value outside.

“Before you go on stage, you feel something. It’s electric,” Mars says of playing in America. “When we played Las Vegas, someone told us they’d heard one of our songs blasting in Caesar’s Palace. We feel like we’re part of the culture and it wasn’t like that before.”

Phoenix have returned to the United States again and again, to build a fanbase the old-fashioned way, in half-empty clubs and on college radio. They’ve never performed in Phoenix, Arizona, but they’ve played its twin city, Scottsdale, many times. In Lawrence, Kansas, two girls begged to get on the bus, complaining tearfully that they’d never seen the ocean.

“In America, there is a culture of welcoming musicians,” says Brancowitz. “In France, if you play music you are a Gypsy – they check your ID and your belongings. Even in the midwest, if you say to Grandma that you are playing a gig, she wants to hug you. In France, she will be afraid.”

It took them a decade to be accepted back home. Writing in English led to accusations of selling out and made it harder to get airplay, owing to the Toubon law, which mandates a certain percentage of French-language songs on the radio. Gigs were such shambolic affairs that they were accused of hiring session musicians to play on their discs. But finally, with their fourth album, they have become part of their own culture, too.

Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix, despite the intentional hubris of its name, is an unlikely breakthrough record. The opening track, Lisztomania, is about the hysteria that pianist Franz Liszt caused at his recitals, previously the subject of a Ken Russell film starring Roger Daltrey. The big US radio hit, 1901, apparently concerns the art nouveau movement in Paris, but Mars won’t confirm it. What is certain is that it has an utterly shameless chorus – “it’s 20 minutes ’til last call, you’re going hey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey-ey” – that has ruled college dancefloors all summer. Live, it’s their final encore.

There are at least three towns called Versailles in the United States: in Ohio, Indiana and Kentucky. They all pronounce it Ver-Sales. Despite their enthusiastic embrace of all things American and disdain for their own pop culture, Phoenix are as exotic here as foie gras and socialised medicine. “If we came from Versailles, Kentucky, we would not like bluegrass,” says Brancowitz. “We would think it was backwards music, sung by racists. But we love bluegrass. For us it has very mysterious harmonies.”

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2009/oct/22/phoenix-versailles

(Article copyrighted by author and the Grauniad).

Here’s a little DIY for Halloween, courtesy of Youtube user oddiorecords. Instructions and photographs for neo-Victorian horror included in the link below.

http://www.instructables.com/id/The-Making-of-a-Steampunk-Pumpkin/

Courtesy of ForeignPolicy.Com- Jennifer Burns discusses the popularity of Ayn Rand in India.

(Article copyrighted and owned by author and ForeignPolicy.Com)

Howard Roark In New Delhi

The surprising popularity of a libertarian hero in India.

BY JENNIFER BURNS | NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2009

Consumer spending in the United States may be down, but an interest in Ayn Rand certainly is not. Sales of Rand’s last novel, the vigorously pro-capitalism fable Atlas Shrugged, have seen a huge leap in 2009, briefly outperforming even President Barack Obama’s The Audacity of Hope on Amazon’s best-seller list. Few 1,000-page, half-century-old tomes can claim so much.