To create each intriguing scene, Taras identified and photographed locations where the many memorable events took place. Using photo manipulation, he blended the past with the present, bringing the old to the surface with the new.
In 1992, Russia generously gave the already crumbling buildings and polluted, explosive-riddled land to the Czech government, claiming that the value of this piece of real estate would make up for the cost of cleaning it. It seems the Czechs had little choice but to accept.
While I’m logged in here, I’d like to blatantly promote a project I worked on recently that I think is cool:
It’s a job-interview guide for military veterans and their partners, and though I didn’t read every word while I was working on it (I designed and coded the e-books and designed and typeset the print edition (not the covers)), I got the impression that it’s practical and well thought-out.
And it’s free to download in lots of formats (there are versions with video and versions without), or to view on the Web. Free, FREE, FREE!
So if you are a veteran (thank you!), please have a look; if you know some, pass it along.
And if you see any typos or formatting errors, drop me a note. I can fix those!
A tribute to those brave folk who just said, “No.” Courtesy of e.e. cummings.
i sing of Olaf glad and big
whose warmest heart recoiled at war:
a conscientious object-or
My occasional annual Armistice Day commemoration.
Charlotte Bradshaw (1893-1920) was my great grandfather’s sister or put another way, my grandmother’s aunt. She was a nurse in Bradford during the first World War and had an autograph book, most of the entries were collected at the end of 1916 and the start of 1917. After the war she traveled to Australia on account of having weak lungs, she got homesick there and returned to England where she died of TB. There are a few entries here from that return journey. My father, Jim, recently had Charlotte’s autograph book scanned and we have worked together to make this website to commemorate her and the soldiers she treated.
“It’s not like fucking Lana Del Rey carved an upside down cross on her cheek and defecated all over herself on stage at fucking Bonnaroo.”
Bradford Cox clarifies “details from yesterday’s news story regarding the events of his recent Minneapolis show, at which he responded to a heckler’s request for the Knack’s ‘My Sharona’ with an improvised, hour-long rendition.”
(Thanks to Pete Ashton for the update.)
I added this to the bottom of Casey’s marmot tweet-ucation post, but I felt it deserved its own: Teju Cole on what connects Downton Abbey, the IMF, Drones, and Virgin’s Upper Class
War correspondent Marie Colvin was a swashbuckler long before the black eyepatch. She performed daring feats for a living, then partied like a rockstar. She collected men easily and left them behind. A woman told me once that the French people in the Paris bureau could not understand Marie, “in French or English. Because of the New Jersey accent.” The remark puzzled me. Marie did not have an accent. She was a fast talker, and in the days before she contributed broadcast reports was something of a mumbler. I know now she was in a hurry. She had only a few years and was rushing toward her fate.
In fact, the story goes that when chided about her smoking habit, she insisted tobacco would not be the thing that got her in the end.
Lou Carr predicted Marie wouldn’t last as a foreign correspondent. He said she would end up back in Oyster Bay, married and driving around a station wagon loaded with kids. He was wrong. But maybe that’s where Marie is headed, across the way, with the 2-year-old boy whose so quiet death broke her heart a few hours before she joined him.