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I’ve been a big fan of animation shorts since I was a kid. My mom would grab my brother and I and head to the local university’s student center, which showed many animation festivals in between the standard artsy and independent film fare. The animation shorts at that time came heavily from Canada (whose film board seems to do a better than average job of funding animation) but were varied, of several different languages and styles, and certainly not all rated G. I was lucky (as I now see it) to have parents who shared lots of art and media with me, with a focus on figuring out what was neat about each piece.

I have hungered for good animation shorts ever since, and will join the hipster-ish cry for more independent pieces, things that reflect individual creators and concepts, instead of a future marketing plan. A short is a lovely way to explore a new art medium like animation and requires good storytelling for it to make it out into the world at large.

Lately, I’ve come across two animation bits that I really like. One old, one new – and both using stop-motion techniques, one of my favorite kinds of animation.

Cheburashka is an adorable “creature unknown to mankind” whose name comes from his tendency to “topple” over. Produced in the late 1960s and early 1970s as a handful of shorts starring him and his crocodile friend Gena, they get into adventures together that bring out the strange and adorable in Soviet Russia. It is surreal to watch Gena fix a corporation’s big oil leak into a river and Cheburashka pine for the opportunity to be a Pioneer (very similar to American Cub Scouts).

This youtube user has been kind enough to subtitle most of the episodes in English here.

The newer animation short is from a Canadian (yep, lots of animators up there it seems) who has been playing with his toys for a long time. This short in particular makes the anthropomorphization of a popular 1980s toy seamless. The music works well too – I look forward to other non-Transformers shorts from him.

It’s so nice to discover new animation bits. Post more in the comments if you’ve seen some neat ones lately.

On Wednesday of last week, a former grad student was in touch with some friends from Russia. Their summer job lined up in the U.S. had fallen through, but they had received a call from a guy who told them to take a bus from D.C. to New York – to meet him at a club at midnight to get jobs as hostesses.

Any alarms going off yet? Luckily for these two Russian girls, their friend did suspect something fishy – and even from a road trip through Wyoming, he called upon help at Metafilter to work on preventing what sounded like a textbook case of human trafficking.

The full thread of what happened is here. It’s pretty long, but a breathless read if you have the time. There’s a good summary from Mother Jones magazine, and it may still be unfolding as the authorities did get involved.

It blows my mind that even rational people in reach of good technology, transportation and friends can be lured into this trap. Slavery is more rampant now than it was 300 years ago, it is just couched in more convoluted terms of owing money for room and board, or being “taken care of” instead of being a burden to the family. From wikipedia,

“The organization Anti-Slavery International defines slavery as “forced labour.” By this definition there are approximately 27 million slaves in the world today, more than at any point in history and more than twice as many as all African slaves who survived being taken to the Americas in the Atlantic slave trade.”

It is relieving to see how in this case how many strangers worked together so quickly (over a 24 hour period, practically) to keep these girls from falling into a bad, bad situation. And knowing both what this looks like (job offers fall through, then once the targets arrive in the U.S., a meeting is set for a job that doesn’t seem like something that would need to recruit employees from abroad); and who are some helpful sources (Polaris Project is recommended here) is information I’m glad to pass along.

Looking good, Jana!

So here’s a mohawk question: let’s say I intend to be fewer than 200 miles from the Gulf Coast in three weeks, happily dispensing mohawks to those who ask. Do you think 10-20 mohawk leftovers would be enough to send to Gulf Coast relief efforts in which hair is being collected to make hair booms to help with the oil spill? Discuss.

Tuesday I got to see one of my favorite bands live: Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings. Unfortunately, it was not a full show – just about 7 songs and discussion for a taping of a radio show, but the band lit up the stage, and Ms. Jones shimmied her way through the power packed songs. If you haven’t checked them out yet, there are snippets to listen to at Daptone Records, and they have a new album out next month. Turns out, after leaving town, they headed to Austin, where a music critic more eloquent than I says:

“Fifty-something Jones was a session soul singer turned Riker’s Island Corrections Officer, until new vintage act the Dap Kings reanimated her career in 2001. With her latest LP of new material, I Learned the Hard Way, just weeks from releasing to what will be very positive reviews, the nine-piece was on fire at SXSW, playing triple and quadruple the number of events of any other band. The 1 a.m. performance was Jones’ third of the day, and she still went at it with more tenacity than any rested indie band. Title track “I Learned the Hard Way” is pure dynamite live, an original, daringly structured track that feels as if it was beamed directly out of the late Sixties. The structure is so tricky the band flubbed one of the transitions — likely a consequence of exhaustion — but recovered gracefully. Up-close, it’s apparent that the Dap-Kings have an entire grammar of eye contact at their disposal. They are the pinnacle of the profession and they simply could not be frazzled as Jones shimmied, cajoled, and howled her way deeper into a late-career renaissance defined by winning over new fans one stunned soul at a time.”

From David Downs review

BTW – “I Learned the Hard Way” was first performed live at the show I was at Tuesday. Go Dap Kings!

Last Sunday we got up early for the mandatory garden meeting. In an established garden like this, there is a lot of structure, or at least, lots of leaders in fleece with rules about a lot of things. (Yes, I am a little bitter that cane fruit are verboten, since I think a Marionberry bush would be a great addition, especially to counter the aggressive hops from last year – but I guess that won’t happen here.)

We did have the opportunity to share what we do know with some brand new gardeners (70 new across the city). Namely, that installing drip irrigation is both easier and cheaper than you might think given the city’s rebate program. And I did get to ask about peonies, the other long-term investment plant I’m considering. Peonies and ants go together like any symbiotic partnership, and I’m not sure what the ants will mean for the rest of my garden. However, I didn’t hear any warnings – just explanations about planting depths for peonies – so I think I’ll be going for it. And as the sky seems to indicate snow again for tonight, I’ll just have to type up my notes for what I hope to have bursting in green in the garden in another couple months.

So, having acquired a bundt pan from a thrift store, and my grandmother’s mixer (I am not a baker good enough to automatically deserve it, but I do OK, and hope to improve my skills through the kind inheritance); I wanted to make good pound cake. My mother has always made excellent pound cake – the kind that comes out on a clean platter for simple consumption by guests – it usually needs no more than sliced strawberries, and stands up on its own when my family eats slices later that night, or the next day, or whenever no one else is looking.

However, Alton Brown made a strong argument for some purity in preparation, so I first tried his recipe. Verdict? NOT the correct pound cake. It turned out with essentially no golden brown crust of baked sugar, and dried out very quickly, with a crumb that didn’t hold up to a fork. Next, I tried my mother’s recipe (below). Screw purity. This cake was very close to the real thing – moist crumb, golden-ish crust, delicious flavor that needed nothing at all, apparently, since most if it is now gone.

As a scientist, however, it bugs me that I still haven’t achieved the truly golden brown crust I remember from childhood. I highly suspect that either my oven conditions or the pan I use are causing the issue. This pan in particular is a heavy pan, with a non-stick coating that makes it quite simple to de-pan cakes, but since the last chocolate cake made in this pan also had no good “crust”, I think it’s preventing heat accumulation at the surface that would create the higher density at the edge. Next experiment is to use my mother’s pan, which while heavy, does not have a non-stick coating. Any other suggestions are welcome for Trial #3 of Perfect Pound Cake, too…

COLD OVEN POUND CAKE

1/2 cup or 1 stick butter

1/2 cup shortening*

3 cups sugar (reduce 3 tablespoons.)

3 1/2 cups flour

5 large eggs (or 6 medium or 7 small)

1/2-teaspoon baking powder

1/4-teaspoon salt

1-cup milk

1-teaspoon vanilla and lemon extract

Cream butter and shortening.

Add sugar gradually.

Add eggs one at a time.

Mix dry ingredients together separately.

Add dry ingredients alternately with milk.

Add vanilla and lemon extract.

Bake in a heavily greased (with shortening), floured Bundt pan at 325° until golden brown, approximately 1 hour.  Let cake cool in pan 15 minutes.  Then turn upside down on plate.

*It is now possible to find shortening that is: trans fat free, vegetarian, and butter flavored. Not such a bad deal to get the correct cake.

So here’s a mystery. Yesterday I received a friend-like request from someone clearly using a pseudonym. I inquired back, asking how we know each other, and this is the message I got back:

“No, I dinged your car the other day.  Are we still cool?”

Um, WHAT? I haven’t (to my knowledge) been in any accidents in a long time, I don’t know who this person is, how they found me, how we know each other, or whether it was truly my car that was dinged (in full disclosure, my car has had a couple of dings on it, primarily before I bought it. I bought the car when two Subarus in a row were totalled, and I wanted a car I wouldn’t care about the third time. Thus, that is the car that has stuck around. It has done me the favor of running without complain through long commutes, at 38 mpg most of the time, so I can’t complain…but it’s not what you’d call pristine.)

So what am I doing now? I discovered that this person runs a pirate radio show 6-8pm on Saturdays, so I am listening in, trying to identify the voices. Ironically, I discovered this station just this week on my own, when the signal was so strong as I came up to my building that it blocked out the other station I was listening to. In general, I’m liking the music on weeknights, but it’s hard not to imagine that perhaps a neighbor in my building a) runs the radio station and b) dinged my car and c) is hoping the anonymous technique will keep me from reacting strongly.

Still can’t recognize the voice – two men, one married, they like Ladytron. Need more clues. Who dings your car and friends you to let you know? Totally perplexing week.

UPDATE: So this person doesn’t know me, just put out a joke and wants to promote their pirate radio show. For what it’s worth, the programming on the weekdays is pretty good.

Last late summer, I was in the market for a new bed. I have been sleeping on a very thick and sturdy futon that I have owned for the last 12 years. Before that, it had a long life as a bed for a friend who was coming out in San Francisco. (Who is now wanting to become a Catholic monk, but that’s another story). So, even if it is suitably thick, firm, and good for another decade, I think it’s time for a new bed.

The problem arose when in the maze that is Ikea in Utah; I was overwhelmed with choices, all of which I didn’t like. I could find a mattress I liked, a slat set I liked, box springs I liked, but all the beds were…well, if you’ve been there you’ve seen the homage to Swedish design that left me with lots of light or black wood designs that were all very low to the ground. I am ready for a grown-up bed, preferably one as high as a fancy hotel bed, with high thread count sheets to match. Luckily, my frustration was met with a suggestion from Sam: “Well, we could make our own bed.” I hadn’t considered this. I assumed it took knowledge only a carpenter with a pencil permanently mounted behind the ear could do. But turns out, beds can be made by people with an eye for measurement and knowledge of where to get high quality fasteners. (check and check).

Of course, after purchasing the slats and mattress, strapping them to the top of our solar trailer and bringing it back through the winds of Wyoming to home; the proposed September/October project is still in design phase. But here is what has been done so far:

• Picked out a baltic birch plywood that has “a large number of thin, void-free plys”


• Picked out and tested a dark stain


• Drawn up some preliminary designs, inspired by this box:


• Determined a bed height desired of 28-29 inches


• Used Sketch-Up and Illustrator to determine the cut pattern for the different pieces of the bed


• Tested these preliminary designs on the CNC Router “Findy”, to ensure a depth that allows the light wood to show through the stain but doesn’t weaken the wood

We’re not done, obviously, but we need to finish determining the pattern and putting it into software, since the order of assembly goes: stain, cut pattern, cut pieces, sand, polish, and assemble. But hopefully it is finished in next month or two, and I get my new bed. Project time…

Over the last couple of months, I’ve been seeking out specifically themed films and shorts to create programs to show to friends. The first, an informal animation collection, required a lot more time than I expected, but was completely worth the result. More than a dozen shorts, demonstrating a variety of styles and stories. (No exchange of monies here, just what I paid to own the pieces).

Since then, I am helping to plan the warehouse’s blowout NYE bash. Our theme is that of a Speakeasy, leaving lots of creative options for decoration, costumes, activities, and drinks. It roughly parallels our journey from a start-up art cooperative to a more and more organized non-profit entity – an exciting process, of course. However, living out tales of prohibition and gangsters is more exciting, at least on a temporary basis. For the event, it was requested we have some visuals – something reminiscent of the 1920s. A friend who has experience both with lots of films and going non-profit warned me extensively about showing only materials that would not violate copyright with our private party status. Luckily, he also recommended archive.org, a website full of public domain films and music, complete with thumbnails to preview images and user reviews. Within a couple hours, I had tracked down old Betty Boop cartoons where Betty mimics both FDR and Herbert Hoover, and has visions of a mug of beer (not too subtle for the time). I found newsreels proclaiming the end of Prohibition, with footage of raids with men destroying barrels of whiskey with axes in the street. There were films both silent and talking covering scenes in nightclubs and speakeasies, with plenty of gangster and gambling action, and Felix the Cat cartoons where Felix learns about moonshine and quite enjoys it. A few days later, I have close to six hours of public domain and creative commons media (open copyright) ready to go for our gig. It’s pleasing to be able to find films like these and know they can be shown at an event to create atmosphere without running afoul of legal rights, even in creating a party specifically about law breakers 90 years ago.

It’s bizarre to reflect on what life was like for a country banning liquor production. December 31st, 1919 saw lots of private, undisclosed-location parties where people boozed up as much as possible before the January 16th, 1920 start of Prohibition. And yet, when Prohibition was headed for repeal, liquor prices countrywide dropped a full year before becoming legal again, just due to the change in expected market. I can imagine citizens easing off their stockpiles with legal alcohol on the horizon. It’s interesting to think whether this would happen with any other currently illegal drug – though nothing quite compares in terms of widespead legality the world around like alcohol.

Hopefully, tomorrow night will go something like this:

On January 16, 1920, Prohibition began. Only four days after, the 50-50 Club opened in New York City, becoming the first of some 30,000-100,000 speakeasies to operate in that city alone during the “Great Experiment.” The protocol was simple: Knock on a friendly (anonymous) door, give a pre-arranged password, and be permitted to enter. To order, one would “speak easily” (that is, in a quiet tone), and then be served a teacup of gin or whiskey that would either be the “real McCoy” or had just been mixed in someone’s bathtub, depending on the connection and the reliability of the bar owner.”

from “Joe Sent Me” by Dave Sikula

I for one, will be glad to break into a bottle of champagne tomorrow night – and have a sober driver cart me home eventually. And I won’t even have to hide my bubbly in a teacup.

It’s a week from Thanksgiving, but we are still eeking out the last of the fresh summer produce. I hate to see it dwindle away, so even the bowl of last-ripening tomatoes from the garden, even those turning a bit wrinkly, were used this week along with the leeks that grew slowly in the shadow of those tomatoes. Luckily, we found an excellent recipe for using lots of tomatoes quickly – it will tolerate canned tomatoes, but is well improved by homegrown ones, and fits well with the occasionally snowy weather lately.

Fresh Tomato Tiny Pasta Soup

• 1 tablespoon olive oil


• 1/2 to 1 cup alliums (onions are fine, we used the last of the garden leeks this time)


• 1-2 cloves garlic, minced


• 3 pounds (yes, pounds – or use 4 14.5 oz. cans of diced tomatoes) fresh tomatoes, coarsely chopped


• 3 cups vegetable broth


• 1 tablespoon minced fresh or frozen basil


• 1 tablespoon minced fresh or frozen marjoram


• 1 tablespoon minced fresh or frozen oregano


• 1/2 teaspoon black pepper


• 3/4 cup uncooked tiny bowtie pasta, rosamarina, tiny stars, or other tiny pasta


• 1/2 cup (2 ounces) shredded mozzarella cheese

Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add alliums and garlic (technically also an allium); cook and stir until alliums are tender. Add tomatoes, broth, basil, marjoram, oregano and black pepper.

Bring to a boil; reduce heat. Cover; simmer 25 minutes. Remove from heat; cool slightly.

Puree tomato mixture in a food processor or blender in batches. Return to saucepan; bring to a boil. Add pasta; cook 7 to 9 minutes or until tender. Transfer to serving bowls. Sprinkle with mozzarella cheese. (8 servings-ish).

Yum. The last of the garden now consists of some brave lettuce and a handful of carrots, resting comfortably in the ground (easier than constructing a root cellar in a basement apartment). But we do have many jars of pickled green tomatoes, so even if a blizzard caused us to lose power, I suppose we’d be eating garden goods still. I have a feeling the soup is more satisfying than the pickled green tomatoes, though.

Early this morning, I heard a terrible sound from the toilet like a monster blowing bubbles as he rises to the surface. Falling back asleep, I heard a sharp crack: the futon I had fallen asleep on the night before was breaking underneath me, and collapsed on one end as I stumbled off of it. When I got to the bathroom, it turned out that both the toilet and the tub had overflowed, with a half inch of water across the entire floor.  And at breakfast, an angry white cat paced the windows, mewing to be let in and pushing at the edges, all while I’m rushing out the door for an engineering meeting.

The cat has since disappeared, the futon has been completely repaired, and the apartment fix-it dude scratched his head about the backed up drains and blamed the city’s street construction project a block away.

A non-skeptic would blame a poltergeist, but really, what would a poltergeist achieve by harassing in this manner? I’m not afraid of the cat, I knew the futon would need fixing soon, and living in a low-level apartment means plumbing issues on occasion, even if it regulates temperature nicely. Perhaps the coincidences merely push me away from musing about going for the first-time homeowner tax credit…it’s nice to call a dude when your bathroom floods and you have to go to a meeting ASAP. So if a poltergeist exists, it’d have to be a liberatarian conservative, annoyed by swedish furniture, energy efficient sublevel apartments and governments handing out tax credits for simply buying a home. Hmm. I think I’ve strayed further from the believable with this plan. Maybe “stuff breaks” is a more accurate theory.

They’re all related. Sort of.

We had an early frost here – meaning a busy twilight in the garden as everyone hurried to wrap sturdy plants in fabric, cut down weaker plants for the compost pile, and harvest everything possible for a bounty that seemed premature. I felt like I was preparing for a war to hustle among the other quiet and somber gardeners, passing plots that would not survive the night with what I could carry. We did take in ~100 tomatoes, still on big chunks of vine to drape all over the house – a trick I learned from my dad to keep the tomatoes ripening into the autumn. All the basil has been processed with olive oil and put in the freezer, we’ve pickled green tomatoes and brussel sprouts, have a crisper full of bell peppers that never quite reached the promised orange or purple colors, and paper bags full of onions and potatoes. These are all good things, of course.

But an early frost is so frustrating – it feels like a statistical aberration, like losing $500 at the slot machines in your first 20 minutes. Given all the averages, shouldn’t we get a couple more weeks to ripen the crops, enjoy fresh herbs, and maybe coax a few more marigolds and nasturtiums in the shorter days? Apparently not. Nature isn’t into observing averages on a regular basis.

Statistics is a huge (and not displeasing) part of my life right now, given that my new position involves drawing up experiments and checking them for accuracy by comparing their values to previous tests. It is a bizarre thing to realize that when I took engineering statistics in college, apparently it wasn’t the statistics I hated. It was our professor, and the 8am start time of the class (which I think I would still hate now). I’m glad to draw up fancy spreadsheets showing my colleagues with less experience that yep, my chemical concoctions are accurate and precise. Take that, Kompala!

Statistics is something that Sam struggles a little more with. A weekend in Blackhawk where admittedly I expected the odds to be against all visitors, cost Sam $120. The majority of that was for a practice run at poker, something he’s been working on – but like the friends who came with us there are many good poker players who show up at casinos on weekends to take money from those still learning. I respect statistics over skill at corporations that are very good at both, so I played slot machines for 20 minutes, and stopped once I had a $5 profit. Statistics would show a curve of winnings in any casino game that takes relatively little skill, and most of the curve would have me at a loss – so I walked away happy.

While fighting off the flies became exhausting the first day, it was more than a week before he fully realized the boy was never coming back.

Around 8am, most mornings, I look out the window by my desk to see a strange sight. A guy, dressed usually in non-descript shorts and t-shirt, trudges by carrying a plastic girl doll (like the one you dress up in the same clothes as your daughter) about 2 feet in length by it’s foot. Here’s what I know:

• It is always one of two guys, who work at a nearby warehouse that sells framed art to doctor’s and other professional offices.


• The doll is, shall we say, abused. The hair is matted and looks like it might have been burned, and there are marks all over it from shoes and some sort of violence.


• The guy isn’t running, but isn’t moving slowly – like it’s something he has to do but wants to get it over with.


• The doll wears a similarly abused lace thong (no, I didn’t previously know thongs were made in doll size either).


• The doll is always carried by a foot, like a kid holding a safety blanket.


• The doll lives on a  shelf in the warehouse the guys work at when not performing this lap.


•  While the employees at the framed art warehouse regularly have pep talks in the parking lot, we never see an interaction prior to the trip around both of our buildings.


• The shipping manager and myself are the only ones to have seen this, as far as I know – since we get there earliest in the morning.

Last week, something changed. The bigger of the two guys strode by with the doll wearing no shoes on his stockinged feet, and a construction helmet.

So WHAT IS GOING ON?

OK, I’ve already admitted, along with the shipping manager, that we don’t actually want to know. We suspect it is a punishment doled out on the employee with the lowest sales – some kind of punishment/motivation for working harder for your commission. But seriously, why did the doll have to be abused to create this situation?

I suspect I will never know.