We used to run this town

Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.07.12From City Lab:

Once ubiquitous in bustling metropolises like New York City, payphones have been cast aside as relics of a tethered time. In the rare instances that we walk past one, we don’t even bat an eye. We barely look up from the sleeker, shinier devices that made them obsolete.

And, well, payphones have something to say about that. “You don’t want to use us anymore? Fine. But do you even see us anymore?”

That comes from “Dead Ringer,” a four-minute film by directors Alex Kliment,  Dana O’Keefe, and Michael Tucker that premiered earlier this month at the Tribeca Film Festival and was featured online Tuesday by the New Yorker. Against the backdrop of a somber, jazzy tune, one of New York City’s four remaining phone booths narrates its disdain for how invisible payphones have become, despite everything they’ve done for society.

You can watch the short film here.
Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.07.18 Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.06.12Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.06.07Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.06.01Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.05.58Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.05.54 Screenshot 2016-04-29 22.07.26

We used to run this town

Fallen Astronaut

1280px-Fallen_Astronaut

I’d never heard of this until today:

Prior to his Apollo 15 lunar mission, astronaut David Scott met Belgian painter and printmaker Paul Van Hoeydonck at a dinner party. It was there agreed that Van Hoeydonck would create a small statuette for Scott to place on the Moon, though their recollections of the details disagree. Scott’s purpose was to commemorate those astronauts and cosmonauts who had lost their lives in the furtherance of space exploration, and he designed and separately made a plaque listing fourteen American and Soviet names. Van Hoeydonck was given a set of design specifications: the sculpture was to be lightweight but sturdy, capable of withstanding the temperature extremes of the Moon; it could not be identifiably male or female, nor of any identifiable ethnic group. According to Scott, it was agreed Van Hoeydonck’s name would not be made public, to avoid the commercial exploitation of the US government’s space program. Scott kept the agreement secret from NASA management prior to the mission, smuggling the statue aboard his spacecraft.

During the Apollo 15 mission, near the completion of his work on the lunar surface on August 1, 1971, Scott secretly placed the Fallen Astronaut on the Moon, along with a plaque bearing the names of eight American astronauts and six Soviet cosmonauts who had died in service:

Scott photographed the memorial, but waited for a post-mission press conference to publicly disclose its existence.

Slate wrote a great piece on this story.

Fallen Astronaut

John Speed vs Google Maps

Map of Lancashire, 1610, by John Speed
Map of Lancashire, 1610, by John Speed

In the age of Google Maps, everywhere can start to look the same. So it’s interesting to see historical maps of familiar places. The map above is of Lancashire, where I live, and it was produced by John Speed more than 400 years ago. The one below is the same view using Google Maps this year. Of course, it’s not a fair comparison. I can’t gesture to zoom in, drop into Street View, or expand out with Google Earth, on the John Speed version. But still, I know which one I prefer to explore from this perspective.

It’s also interesting to note that in 1610, of all the places in North West England, Lancaster deserved the box out showing the town centre.

Lancashire, Google Maps, 2016
Lancashire, Google Maps, 2016
John Speed vs Google Maps

Open ocean and hidden knowledge

ocean
The Jitdam Kapeel. MARK PETERSON / REDUX, FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES

By Kim Tingley in the New York Times:

In the 16th century, Ferdinand Magellan, searching for a new route to the nutmeg and cloves of the Spice Islands, sailed through the Pacific Ocean and named it ‘‘the peaceful sea’’ before he was stabbed to death in the Philippines. Only 18 of his 270 men survived the trip. When subsequent explorers, despite similar travails, managed to make landfall on the countless islands sprinkled across this expanse, they were surprised to find inhabitants with nary a galleon, compass or chart. God had created them there, the explorers hypothesized, or perhaps the islands were the remains of a sunken continent. As late as the 1960s, Western scholars still insisted that indigenous methods of navigating by stars, sun, wind and waves were not nearly accurate enough, nor indigenous boats seaworthy enough, to have reached these tiny habitats on purpose.

Archaeological and DNA evidence (and replica voyages) have since proved that the Pacific islands were settled intentionally — by descendants of the first humans to venture out of sight of land, beginning some 60,000 years ago, from Southeast Asia to the Solomon Islands. They reached the Marshall Islands about 2,000 years ago. The geography of the archipelago that made wave-piloting possible also made it indispensable as the sole means of collecting food, trading goods, waging war and locating unrelated sexual partners. Chiefs threatened to kill anyone who revealed navigational knowledge without permission. In order to become a ri-meto, you had to be trained by a ri-meto and then pass a voyaging test, devised by your chief, on the first try. As colonizers from Europe introduced easier ways to get around, the training of ri-metos declined and became restricted primarily to an outlying atoll called Rongelap, where a shallow circular reef, set between ocean and lagoon, became the site of a small wave-piloting school.

Read the story here.

Open ocean and hidden knowledge