tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36882581831305437782024-03-14T00:11:10.877-07:00OBSELIDIAThe world around us is disappearing. What is becoming obsolete? Can we record it for posterity? I used to sell encyclopedias door-to-door. Now I'm writing my own: welcome to The Obselidia, Encyclopedia of Obsolete ThingsLonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-35348205144466897202009-11-28T20:11:00.000-08:002009-11-28T20:12:04.010-08:00The Demise of Bookstores<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, sans-serif, helvetica; font-size: 11px; ">My life would not be what it is without the bookstores that I have loved.<div><br /></div><div>I just read another article about the demise of bookstores, and my heart sunk a little deeper. Even though the author is attempting to cast the story in a positive light, the fact is, bookstores are on the seriously endangered list.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the past few years, here in Los Angeles, I have seen many of my favorite book haunts disappear. A funny thing: as many of you know, I go out and interview people who work in jobs that I think could be endangered (photo processing shops, record stores, video stores, etc). Most people are very helpful and want to be interviewed, to talk about thier business and why it matters.</div><div><br /></div><div>Earlier this year, I decided I had to interview a bookseller.</div><div><br /></div><div>I first approached a lady who owned and ran a delightful second-hand bookstore on Santa Monica Blvd. When I first spoke to her, and told her about my project, she opened up in a candid way. She told me her bookstore had been there since 1969 (ancient by Santa Monica standards) and that she had owned it since 1997. Fighting back tears, she said that she had never foreseen a time when bookstores <i>as a species</i> would be fighting for survival. I asked if I could come back and record her thoughts and she said: sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just before our scheduled interview, she called to say that she couldn't do it after all. She said she felt it was wrong of her to align herself with the idea that bookstores were obsolete. I explained that my intention was to help save the <i>species </i>of bookstores by highlighting their plight, but I understood her position.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few months later (and after three - <i>yes three!</i> - more book sellers had turned down my request for an interview for the same reason), I found myself in a cafe on Santa Monica Blve after viewing the most recent Dardennes brothers' film at the Royal Cinema. As I was drinking my coffee and contemplating the film, my attention was caught by a FOR RENT sign across the street.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her bookstore was gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Empty.</div><div><br /></div><div>What had been stacked to the rafters with intrigue and knowledge, was now just a dusty empty shell.</div><div><br /></div><div>My heart was broken.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know about you, but the bookstores I grew up in were my home and my refuge, a place of constant discovery. A place where the world grew for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>My heart breaks. Every time a bookstore closes. My heart breaks.</div><div><br /></div><div>I urge you if you feel as I do - to find the closest bookstore to your home (preferably an independent one) - and to go there and buy a book. Or buy five!</div><div><br /></div><div>If we want them to survive, we have to take action now. There's no time to waste. They're dying before our eyes. Buy a book, talk to the bookseller. If you want her to be there five years for now, if you want your child to have the joy of discovering literature in their own private and wonderful journey, go to a bookstore today and spend some money.</div><div><br /></div><div>Otherwise, truly...it might be too late.</div><div><br /></div></span>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-5150223000230590852009-10-05T11:28:00.000-07:002009-10-05T11:51:01.805-07:00One More Thing...Sometime ago, I said I would never write another blog here, and redirected you, my dear reader to my Myspace page.<div><br /></div><div>(I can't believe I even have a Myspace page, that I even know what that is. The shame of trying to be modern...)</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, slowly over time I have come to feel that there is a greater dignity in the format of the old-fashioned blog. And so I return.</div><div><br /></div><div>Part of the reason for my posting here today is that I have just had the opportunity to watch a movie based on me and my endeavors. </div><div><br /></div><div>The motion picture is called Obselidia, and some of you may recall my mentioning something of it a couple of years ago. When Ms. Bell, the writer/director of the movie, first approached me, I rather thought it was a joke. Or at least a passing fancy, that would whither on the vine before turning into wine. And yet last night, she showed what she has made.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is as yet unfinished, but already, to my surprise, just like a real film.</div><div><br /></div><div>I must confess though, that it is a very strange sensation to see oneself depicted in this manner. Am I so awkward? Am I so strange? Am I so good-looking? Well, I can easily answer the last question, and the answer is no. In fine Hollywood tradition (despite the film being independent), the lead actor, Mr Michael Piccirilli, bears little resemblance to me indeed. He did borrow some of my clothes and my mannerisms, true. Yet, in real life, I confess that I am a little more plain to behold, and I think a little more honest.</div><div><br /></div><div>And the story itself bears little resemblance to my real life. I confess that I have met a few cinema projectionists along the way, but none called Sophie, and certainly none with whom I have traveled to the desert. Indeed, it is true that I have never been to the desert region known as Death Valley at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>And yet, I believe there is a charm to the story, and to the liberties taken with my life. For though the plot is a fantasy, perhaps the intention mirrors mine. And what is that intention?</div><div><br /></div><div>To allow people to see once and for all what we are losing in our mindless quest for progress, and in seeing this, to stop, to know what is worth saving - and to save it. For all generations to come.</div><div><br /></div><div>And a film with that intention gets my seal approval, even if the character based on my does wear a pair of eye-glasses that I wouldn't consider in a thousand years. I'd rather walk blind.</div><div><br /></div><div>PS. should you wish to take a look, there is a website for the movie <a href="http://www.obselidiathemovie.com/">here</a>. Please send me your thoughts on it.</div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-24960400503317289732008-12-18T19:50:00.000-08:002008-12-18T19:56:19.576-08:00Are blogs obsolete?The question arises, naturally, as I make the choice now to continue these notes on my newly anointed Myspace page.<div><br /></div><div>Haha, George has a Myspace page. Does that seem like an absurdity? Perhaps. But you know, although some people like to imagine that I'm a luddite beyond hope, in truth, I'm more of a luddite with hope. I don't fear technology (well, some of it I do, as would any sentient being). But I do fear losing the things that really matter and that give our lives texture and value and meaning.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, should you be reading this, and should you have read any of my blog so far, and should you, by chance, have any desire to continue this story...from henceforth you'll find my ruminations at www.myspace.com/obselidia.</div><div><br /></div><div>Blessings to all.</div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-68073489271208289942008-10-30T16:15:00.000-07:002008-10-30T16:48:06.584-07:00Morse Key and Telegrapher's Paralysis<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsFntY5gWMfE1QY3iExSIjMnEQ6tMupe2x6eNLjcjiN7GqAzzm_LA4NE02yUL-EZ8cNjxOaJ73lFN-Va5XP_B24kHfbcALAqoxHTaED40MkvldQhbo9pAnKaDGhEou8yG1FI74D5mjD97/s1600-h/morsekey2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 208px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsFntY5gWMfE1QY3iExSIjMnEQ6tMupe2x6eNLjcjiN7GqAzzm_LA4NE02yUL-EZ8cNjxOaJ73lFN-Va5XP_B24kHfbcALAqoxHTaED40MkvldQhbo9pAnKaDGhEou8yG1FI74D5mjD97/s320/morsekey2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263091654510416626" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PIuQtEl-Z68fyR-9MX1odgG2yDbxI7e_fgR_Z-UPKn2gpCxweldq86A5UD4BTf3piDT0EqVYypPnWdCBCYy915VeAo3vwb1ZBNrdeYQvGLAlsXaTXytbjT43sOJb2kKFoHWfl5KMA1LG/s1600-h/morse+key.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 202px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-PIuQtEl-Z68fyR-9MX1odgG2yDbxI7e_fgR_Z-UPKn2gpCxweldq86A5UD4BTf3piDT0EqVYypPnWdCBCYy915VeAo3vwb1ZBNrdeYQvGLAlsXaTXytbjT43sOJb2kKFoHWfl5KMA1LG/s320/morse+key.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263091651101285330" /></a><div><br /></div><div>We think that getting Repetitive Strain Injury from using a mouse all day is a new thing. Maybe not so.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mid last century, there was an affliction known as Telegrapher's Paralysis (also known as Glass Arm). Like RSI, it was common among telegraph key operators who would frequently be called on to transmit up to 20 words per minute by rapidly pressing the Morse key.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess the term "Telegrapher's Paralysis" is obsolete, though it might perhaps be argued that the ailment is not, it's merely caused by a different technology.</div><div><br /></div><div>In any case, there can be no doubt that morse key and telegraphy is obsolete. And I don't know about you, but I think it's rather sad that kids today will never know the thrill of receiving a telegram, except by watching old movies. </div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite telegram scene is probably in It's a Wonderful Life, right at the end when Sam Wainwright cables to tell George Bailey that he'll cover him the money he needs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Would it be the same if it was read from an email?</div><div><br /></div><div>I doubt it...for a start, you'd lose the "stops" (if you get what I mean), as well as the sense of important urgency.</div><div><br /></div><div>I mean that was the thing about a telegram - they were only sent at momentous occasions in people's lives: births, deaths, and (in George Bailey's case) bail-outs. In these days of Twitter it seems we constantly telegraph each other such trivia (hey, I'm watching a TV show! Eating cornflakes for breakfast!), that the truly important moments are lost in the mix. If we highlight every word on a page, how will we know which ones really matter?</div><div><br /></div><div>And I guess that's what a telegram did. Highlighted the moment - and every word counted.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-9432555866894638122008-10-28T22:29:00.000-07:002008-10-28T22:46:34.150-07:00a movie about me?A very strange thing just happened to me today.<div><br /></div><div>I was working, as per usual, at the library, and a woman started telling me about her laptop and how though it was only four years old, it had become obsolete. She was disgusted about this, angry even, and somehow I ended up telling her about my encyclopedia.</div><div><br /></div><div>Too sympathetically perhaps because then I discovered:</div><div><br /></div><div>She's a writer, a kind of strange lady...from Scotland, of all places. And she now wants to write a movie about me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Is it a good idea for me to co-operate? I honestly do not know. On one hand, it may help my Obselidic endeavour. I'm sure it would. As they say, no publicity is bad publicity. But I feel wary. I have a feeling she's of the "don't let the truth get in the way of a good story" field of film-making. Though you know...maybe in this case that would be a good thing. </div><div><br /></div><div>After all, what is the blockbuster to date? A man rants, never raves; he catalogues, writes, collects, and dreams. It's not exactly popcorn dark knight hoo-ha heaven. Just day to day life...a sequence of events with no beginning, no middle, no hero and no end. </div><div><br /></div><div>Welcome to my life, Diane, my real life. One may think it romantic, a last stand against the disappearance of everything we think matters. But it's not. It's just what I have to do. Like opening a tin of tuna for my cat. Not good or bad, not interesting or dull, just what it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>And if you want to make a movie out of this?? </div><div><br /></div><div>Good luck.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-2581605646100272712008-10-07T10:20:00.001-07:002008-10-07T10:28:39.555-07:00The Protein Called LoveI've been thinking about this a lot recently. What are feelings? Can feelings become obsolete?<div><br /></div><div>I know, we're launching into the realm of metaphysical esoterica, but consider it for a moment. </div><div><br /></div><div>There is a theory that love is merely an illusionary state, created by an increase in certain proteins in the body, in order to encourage the procreation of the species. It's like your body creates a mental trance with these proteins so that you won't listen to logic and reason - at least not until the propagation is done. Then the proteins decrease, and it's "see you in the divorce court".</div><div><br /></div><div>Given that hypothesis, wouldn't it then be fair to say that if physical contact is no longer necessary for procreation - well, isn't then love obsolete?</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, saying love is obsolete would suggest that "love" even existed in the first place, when in truth what we've been talking about when we say "love" is actually a protein. So to be precise: the protein called love, that's what's obsolete.</div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-8121738012459621412008-09-09T20:40:00.000-07:002008-09-09T20:47:07.053-07:00the kindness of strangersSince I started this project, something that has amazed me is how much people are willing to help. Everyday, I phone up all kinds of folk - record store owners, typists, watchmakers, photo-developers - and ask them if I could interview them for the Obselidia.<div><br /></div><div>And unbelievably, they (9 times out of 10) say yes.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know if it's motivated by the desire to help me, or if it's because they too want their work recorded before it's gone. Maybe it's because no one has ever asked them what they have spent many years of their adult lives engaged in (sometimes not even their own spouse) and they're happy to have the chance to share.</div><div><br /></div><div>In any case, right here, right now, I just want to thank everyone who's helped me so far. We're recording the world as it disappears, and I believe future generations will be grateful for this history.</div><div><br /></div><div>And thanks especially to Sophie, the cinema projectionist, who has promised to share all the secrets of that world with me tomorrow night.</div><div><br /></div><div>The kindness of strangers is a wondrous thing. May it never be obsolete...</div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-71772995195307516502008-09-08T11:27:00.000-07:002008-09-08T11:34:46.558-07:00The Cinema ProjectionistI went to the movies this past weekend to see Elegy, and the beginning of the first reel was a little out of focus. The audience mumbled and grumbled and then started calling out to the projectionist - who quickly fixed his error.<div><br /></div><div>This got me thinking about cinema projectionists. They're not obsolete - not yet, but I guess their days are truly numbered.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember watching a movie by Hungarian art master Bela Tarr and half way through this epic black and white opus about a whale and an insane asylum the projectionist accidentally (I assume, though I wondered if it was deliberate sabotage) played the wrong reel. It wasn't the wrong reel from the right movie - it was something completely different, psychedelic technicolor, a beach, a family. I have no idea what it was, but it woke up every sleeping member of the audience, that's for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've always like the idea that there's someone up there, lovingly playing the movie to the audience, making sure they see the movie they've paid to see in the best possible light. And never getting any thanks or recognition for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I guess, I want to thank them now. For all their work. They won't be forgotten.</div><div> </div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-19360252713388402442008-09-04T13:43:00.000-07:002008-09-04T13:55:26.608-07:00Lonesome GeorgeI just found out - George may not be as lonesome as was previously thought.<div><br /></div><div>Believed to be the last of his species (the Pinta Island Tortoise, subspecies <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Geochelone nigra abingdoni</span>) - it is now thought that George is going to be a Dad! The mother is of a different subspecies and it won't be known for a few more months whether the eggs are viable or not...but what hope this gives my heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even if the eggs aren't viable, I'm just happy to know he's not all alone. It can't be easy being the last of your species (trust me, as an ex-door-to-door salesman of encyclopedias I have some idea...), so to know there is some sympathetic creature there, giving him company, it means a lot to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Though maybe, I'll have to find a new blogger's name for myself. Daddy George just wouldn't fit.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-73504951178434527072008-07-29T15:37:00.000-07:002008-07-29T15:44:25.288-07:00so little timeI haven't written for a long time.<div><br /></div><div>Believe me, I know it's not important. I'm writing to an empty space. I'm aware of that. No one's listening. So I'll just say what I want to say and be done with it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm curious about time and intention.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I started this blog, I thought I'd write an entry every day. Easy I thought, 10-15 minutes a day. And now six months have passed and I haven't written a word.</div><div><br /></div><div>The good news is: I've been working a lot on the real Obselidia and it's coming along nicely. You wouldn't believe some of the people I've met and things that I've discovered. My theory that the list of what WAS is greater than the list of what IS seems to be true. Which of course means that my undertaking was far greater than I first imagined. So I've kind of narrowed it down, and I've broken it down to sub-headings of obsolete things, so rather than just an A-Z of all items, there are articles on categories of things that become obsolete (ie. AUDIO TECHNOLOGY is one, OCCUPATIONS is another). As ever, just on the off chance that someone is actually reading this, all suggestions are as welcome as ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>So now I'm returning to this blog in a different spirit, it's true spirit, a place just to share what's on my mind, when I have time to share it. Even if I'm just sharing it with myself.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-74773710399291503692008-01-15T13:23:00.000-08:002008-01-15T13:32:22.092-08:00Game & Watch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBR3_SxIgjy43hpAUKTne9mnDOoW1nwhZ10zje8f2BnyUs2ySPukqgVAuX1DqRe-GtixGVMG75Pwe4rcDzwabgO2GqsXbPsFN0Jdq6abdvyfl-EUV8VIOjYxtgoNaQfBSPSg0gUZTTJu2K/s1600-h/firegame.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBR3_SxIgjy43hpAUKTne9mnDOoW1nwhZ10zje8f2BnyUs2ySPukqgVAuX1DqRe-GtixGVMG75Pwe4rcDzwabgO2GqsXbPsFN0Jdq6abdvyfl-EUV8VIOjYxtgoNaQfBSPSg0gUZTTJu2K/s320/firegame.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155818244106726866" /></a><br />Does anyone else remember these?<div> </div><div><br /><div> </div><div>I was probably eleven years old when I got my first one (Fire, should you ask), and it seemed like the coolest thing on earth.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>After that I got Vermin, and later the mighty Donkey Kong.</div><div><br /></div><div>I remember that my dad went from thinking it was great (it kept me quiet) to terrible (I never wanted to do anything else). Not that different from kids with their x-boxes today.</div><div><br /></div><div>These are obsolete because now no one would carry around a console that only allowed them to play a single game - never mind a single game with such simple graphics and rules! All you can actually do is move the guys with saving sheet to the left or the right. </div><div><br /></div><div>Simple games, single games. Obsolete. These will definitely get an entry in the Obselidia.</div></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-20528926297971652622008-01-12T07:27:00.000-08:002008-10-28T23:02:08.156-07:00Before they disappearWhy a blog? I've been asking myself this question for the last couple of weeks. The Obselidia is such a mammoth undertaking, far bigger than I had first imagined - and it consumes much of my time. I've realized a large part of my job with it is to record things before they disappear. Why wait until it's gone and write about it in retrospect, when you can catalogue the last of the species, so to speak? <div><br /></div><div>So, much of my time is spent tracking down things (particularly people) and getting to know what they do, before it's forgotten.</div><div><br /></div><div>It' s not always easy, what I'm doing. And I guess that's why I decided to start this blog. Besides from my neighbor Mitch, I don't see too many people, and maybe I just wanted a place where I could sound off about whatever is going on.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just reflect on this task that I have undertaken, share the highs and lows. </div><div><br /></div><div>Before they disappear.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-1866520237782022572008-01-09T08:37:00.000-08:002008-01-10T13:24:20.765-08:00R.I.P. Eduardo GonzalesYou may have noticed that this is my first blog post in a couple of weeks. I didn't mean to abandon this, just circumstances arose and writing felt beyond the realm of possibility.<div> </div><div><br /></div><div>You see, my old man passed away two days before Christmas. It wasn't entirely a surprise - he'd had two heart attacks earlier in the year, but still...</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps it's no coincidence that I started this project when I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>My Dad was the last of his kind: a real gentleman, full of manners and style. He was born in Mexico City to a Polish Jewish mother and a Mexican shoemaker who relocated to Los Angeles when he was still a baby. Perhaps because of his immigrant heritage, and perhaps because of his nature, he was hard-working and always eager to prove himself, but equally he was drawn to glamour and pizzazz.</div><div><br /></div><div>He worked, as much as he could, as a piano player. He had some success in the fifties and sixties, playing with a studio band, and even wrote a couple of numbers that you might recognize. It was the royalties from these that kept him going when in later years, he just didn't get the gigs.</div><div><br /></div><div>In his last years, he suffered from ill-health that wore down his spirit. He would frequently say there was nothing left for him in this world except the grave. I know the feeling, and I've lived only half the time he did.</div><div><br /></div><div>He loved jazz, he loved a good taco, he loved beautiful women. He always dressed well. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I wondered how he wound up with a son like me. I know he did too...</div><div><br /></div><div>Dad, I'm going to miss you.</div><div> <br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-3566939236071582482007-12-20T15:40:00.000-08:002008-01-09T08:37:50.374-08:00My mother's nose<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIrGA7ldVePFaulomH873LEHVDLENkbe3dhl1jeCapTAva1Pz7MouEEI9z89xuOzpYge2UFj-Z8vFEvQg9Ahya_JINjMOMGQ6otbyw9LuspjyWgRz-_10VCipUewGqxrpUQB40ebcTvei/s1600-h/screenshot_01.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIrGA7ldVePFaulomH873LEHVDLENkbe3dhl1jeCapTAva1Pz7MouEEI9z89xuOzpYge2UFj-Z8vFEvQg9Ahya_JINjMOMGQ6otbyw9LuspjyWgRz-_10VCipUewGqxrpUQB40ebcTvei/s320/screenshot_01.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5146208813127675330" /></a><div><div> At a party I went to last night, I noticed that out of some 40 people, I don't think there wasn't a single woman there who hadn't had some kind of cosmetic surgical "work" done: nose, eyes, lips, skin, "womanly" areas ... nothing seems sacred.<br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>It seems like EVERYTHING is ground for improvement -whether it actually needs fixing or not. Until you resemble some fresh out of the plastic surgeon's box idea of what a woman should be, you don't stop handing him the cash and having more "work" done. </div><div><br /></div><div>Seeing these women, and thinking about their "work" - well, it got me to thinking about my mother and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">her</span> nose.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>My mom, God bless her soul, died when I was ten (at which case I had to go live with my Dad, should you ask). Now my mom came from Oklahoma originally, a family of show people who used to travel round the dust bowl putting on entertainments. And you know, she was quite a looker.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>But, for sure: she had a nose. She was Italian by descent, and she had a delightful, beautiful, uncompromising nose. Roman, they call it politely.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>When she first came to L.A., back in the 1950's, her agent told her to "get it fixed". She told him to go fix himself. She never became a movie star. He became one of the most successful talent agents in Hollywood ever. Fixers like him have grown in strength ever since. Women like her continue to disappear. I ask you now: which would you prefer to have in the world? Just a thought, just a wonder...</div><div><br /></div><div>Are roman noses obsolete?<br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>I never see them now. Jeez, don't think I'm a sicko, fixed on my mom, but you know: she was a fine strong looking woman. And now all I see are women with little button noses, ski jumps so narrow, you'd need to be a flea snowboarder to leap off them...</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope I'm wrong about this. That LA is just an extreme that doesn't represent the general reality, and if so let's me know.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>But here, at the edge of the Pacific, it seems the genetic strain that typified women who cared more about their integrity than their perceived success, women who knew how they lived was more important than how they looked, women who would have the courage to hang out with a geek like me...</div><div><br /></div><div>I hate to say it, but....</div><div>Those women are ob-<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">suh</span>-<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">leet</span>. </div></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-53876048246199267312007-12-17T22:09:00.000-08:002007-12-17T22:16:00.541-08:00Walkman This Way...<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVA9-O1HeM42-KdiM0wlnkiZLVgH68lv923cU6r_ncwlZUb7NIeVb3VufHlrE_4DJjqSkgzBXrYYMB66ly9xSmGvFU2LNzz_6hoKsD0yc7nCXelH4TbOSMfadFgihCOqeUkPNnNhSNDtmA/s1600-h/walkman.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVA9-O1HeM42-KdiM0wlnkiZLVgH68lv923cU6r_ncwlZUb7NIeVb3VufHlrE_4DJjqSkgzBXrYYMB66ly9xSmGvFU2LNzz_6hoKsD0yc7nCXelH4TbOSMfadFgihCOqeUkPNnNhSNDtmA/s320/walkman.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5145191413145994850" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Ah, the Sony Walkman.</div><div><br /></div><div>The height of modernity in 1980. Positively futuristic!</div><div><br /></div><div>Right there in your pocket, a portable stereo. Wow. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do you remember choosing tapes to take with you on vacation? You could fit ten in your carry case and you would oscillate wildly - shall I take Beethoven's fifth or a Flock of Seagulls? Well, if a girl should look inside, I don't want to appear too uncool...</div><div><br /></div><div>And I don't know about you, but I used to spend hours making MIX TAPES, the great precursors to playlists. But I guess that's a whole other entry.</div><div><br /></div><div>Walkman discman ipod - what next??</div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-30696162599701787472007-12-16T14:16:00.000-08:002007-12-16T15:27:04.062-08:00The Way of the Dodo<div> </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9dUF02-CRg1YuA2Zhb2D6tlWSsmkpnYfd7wzy7sftx-xhm8aoiaSXxdrFHU34iZt7mlwKty1aFLL7yCSICPZYUnhaHqAR8QfUFIDOu3WLQ6OMTXf6fGRuZ2yLyYJ21zSqKZ00VFy4vVw/s1600-h/dodo.jpg"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT9dUF02-CRg1YuA2Zhb2D6tlWSsmkpnYfd7wzy7sftx-xhm8aoiaSXxdrFHU34iZt7mlwKty1aFLL7yCSICPZYUnhaHqAR8QfUFIDOu3WLQ6OMTXf6fGRuZ2yLyYJ21zSqKZ00VFy4vVw/s320/dodo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144698857706554962" /></a><br /><div>The dodo bird is the icon of extinction, the holy mother of obsolete species.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>The dodo: three feet tall, unable to fly. Man finds it on the island of Mauritius. This fool bird that has no fear of humans. Easier prey cannot be imagined.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently the meat didn't even taste that good. But who cares? It was easy to catch, and if humans weren't chasing it down, it was the dogs and the pigs and the cats and the rats that the humans brought with them.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>It's extinction through mindlessness.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>The last confirmed sighting was in 1662. Less than a century later, the dodo had gained a mythical status, people uncertain whether it had ever truly existed, or was just a hoax like the jackalope or the Scottish haggis.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Imagine: less than a century for something that was real to be commonly viewed as folklore.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>Will that be the fate of things dying out now? One hundred years hence will people sit around and talk of typewriters and telegrams as though they were a fictional invention, a whimsy of some new wave (circa 2107) author? I wonder.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>But perhaps, that is the function of The Obselidia. </div><div><br /></div><div>To say a holy yes to all that used to be. To say to all: this did exist, this was real. And this is how it was... </div><div> </div><div> </div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-43389833103598723072007-12-15T17:57:00.000-08:002008-10-28T23:00:28.551-07:00Buster's Shoe Repair Store<div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTAqT8-pA4igtqeaqcenr5hESsZbS_AqE5_o2lqLm8N1FB0NKhIa5wK99sLuXX_mw2XONCq3V1WQIVAYelTftw4iqcXmlPmZ6bviXeK2FicWhf3D8ccxXOq-0CYSK17uaAsrFNJ27_rES/s1600-h/JOHN2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeTAqT8-pA4igtqeaqcenr5hESsZbS_AqE5_o2lqLm8N1FB0NKhIa5wK99sLuXX_mw2XONCq3V1WQIVAYelTftw4iqcXmlPmZ6bviXeK2FicWhf3D8ccxXOq-0CYSK17uaAsrFNJ27_rES/s320/JOHN2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144390990155810370" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsFlTrqJhr1KLnD1TcyNUaN-eAduoAveS_VkjwQ0i97me_IdKPP7uYETUj4C1tuUzUnLpYy1BaK9AnAWlykg0pJhyphenhyphen2Fa9PZnETqLhKBKAxV9w4wFpNsiy4lXTuHz1o7XcV11bWu1WOcZe/s1600-h/mail.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsFlTrqJhr1KLnD1TcyNUaN-eAduoAveS_VkjwQ0i97me_IdKPP7uYETUj4C1tuUzUnLpYy1BaK9AnAWlykg0pJhyphenhyphen2Fa9PZnETqLhKBKAxV9w4wFpNsiy4lXTuHz1o7XcV11bWu1WOcZe/s320/mail.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144386824037533218" /></a><br />My neighbor Mitch came knocking on my door today, a little upset.<div><br /><div> </div><div>He'd just been to Buster's Shoe Repair Store on Wilshire and found out they were closing down.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Buster's has been open for over 70 years in that location, with John, the present tenant there for twenty years. Recently the landlord decided he wanted to develop the property (another shopping complex coming our way), so gave John the heave-ho. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Twenty years paying the rent, and the guy gets two months notice. Thanks and goodnight.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Now obviously, shoe repair stores are not about to become obsolete. People will probably always need a new sole (boy was I tempted to write <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">soul...</span>). But you know, I think small, mom-and-pop stores are on their way out.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Who needs them when you can go to Wal-Mart or Costco or whatever and get it all under one roof ?</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>But is that the world we want to live in? Mitch goes into Buster's for a chat more than anything else. He's confined to a wheelchair (and his shoes never touch the ground - so it's not like he needs the service they offer). But he was heartbroken. It's another step in that relentless march towards an homogenized world.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>I suspect kids in the future (who am I kidding? I bet it's true of kids right now...) will read the Obselidia and marvel at these little stores. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">"What? All they did was repair shoes and leather and focus on the thing they were experts at?! No way!"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Yes, way.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Thanks John. Thanks Buster's.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Good luck finding a new place where you can afford the rent and the landlord doesn't kick you out on a greedy whim.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div>And if you want to sign the petition, and help save Buster's, swing by his store on Wilshire while it's still there. You won't find a friendlier place. And you'll be looking at a little piece of history - before it disappears... </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div><div> </div></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-15587427266937538062007-12-14T16:45:00.000-08:002007-12-14T17:34:36.373-08:00Are libraries obsolete?<div>So today, as promised, I went to the library. This is not an uncommon event. I probably average three visits per week to a library, gravitate to them like dust to tchotchkes. </div><div><br /></div><div>As you may know, the library is a place that some people consider to be obsolete. In fact whole papers have been written on this topic, mostly to stop some city from spending millions of dollars building a new one. Check out <a href="http://www.fcpp.org/main/publication_detail_print.php?PubID=489">www.fcpp.org </a>if you don't believe me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today I went to the library on 7th St in Santa Monica, which cost approximately $73 million to build and let me tell you, I think it was worth every penny: that place is busy. It always is. Obsolete? I don't think so. I admit sometimes it's like a day center for the homeless, but maybe they're the only ones who actually have the time to read these days. Which is perhaps why rich people try to convince us they're obsolete, and close the libraries down - my, those poor people with all that time on their hands might read some Marx or Debord and get really pissed off and start demanding some justice. One can only dream... <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>You know, I think the library was always obsolete for the wealthy, as they've always had their own private libraries where they didn't have to rub shoulders or share worn pages with riff-raff like me. And now, it's becoming obsolete for more people, for all those who can afford to have internet at home and buy piles of books from Amazon, and prefer never to leave the comfortable confine of their own home.</div><div><br /></div><div>For everyone else it is still a kind of haven (or a heaven if you are very fond of books).</div><div><br /></div><div>The only place I know of where I can browse the complete set of Oxford English Dictionaries without anyone bothering me. </div><div><br /></div><div>So today I checked out their definition of 'obsolete' and you know, it wasn't too different from what we got online. Though they did have this line: " effaced through atrophy " which I found pretty irresistible (the word <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">atrophy</span> has always had a certain appeal, triumphant wasting, degeneration as a trophy of idleness - trust the OED).</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps libraries will one day be obsolete. The powerful few who want to control knowledge and who has access to it will win.</div><div><br /></div><div>But in the meantime, I think the pubic library can escape a listing in the Obselidia. </div><div><br /></div><div>Don't you?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-82941501789165955322007-12-13T19:26:00.000-08:002007-12-13T19:34:44.077-08:00Amiga Mind Walker<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyYwq7K7UzLxsWqljtl0BuNOGn6Ojn0A_JLK40lYq-BDDLoFXlvVlZlgtIqFehvdazTKmaqC0VV-PJes5dIvTyLjodErYayQt8XaKo6-SVJTE54CHKZggNudbIiq1oTBOREuWuVcOm1IPY/s1600-h/amiga.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyYwq7K7UzLxsWqljtl0BuNOGn6Ojn0A_JLK40lYq-BDDLoFXlvVlZlgtIqFehvdazTKmaqC0VV-PJes5dIvTyLjodErYayQt8XaKo6-SVJTE54CHKZggNudbIiq1oTBOREuWuVcOm1IPY/s320/amiga.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143666620838439362" /></a><br />Amiga was my first computer. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">F</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">riend (</span>curiously feminine)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div><div>And Mind Walker was my first game. It came free with the computer. And boy, did it blow my mind!!</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Does anyone else remember it? <br /></div></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-57509131727564367942007-12-13T15:18:00.000-08:002007-12-13T17:02:52.316-08:00What is Obsolete?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Ob*so*lete [ob-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">suh-</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">leet] </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">adjective</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153); ">1. no longer in general use, or fallen into disuse;</span><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">2. of a discarded or outmoded type; out of date;</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">3. (of a linguistic form) no longer in use, esp., out of use for at least the past century.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">4. effaced by wearing down or away</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">5. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">Biology. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">imperfectly developed or rudimentary in comparison with the corresponding character in other individuals, as of the opposite sex or of a related species.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">[Origin: 1570-80 </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">obsoletus, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">ptp. of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">obsolescere </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);">to fall into disuse]</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 153);"><br /></span></div><div>Okay, so that's what the dictionary says (dictionary.com, since you are asking - I'll check the Oxford when I go to the library tomorrow).</div><div><br /></div><div>For our purposes, the word OBSOLETE is going to cast a wide net, and I will welcome all submissions and suggestions.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't want to get bogged down in a semantic discussion of whether an extinct animal is technically obsolete. If it no longer exists on this fair planet, I think it could be seen as being "of a discarded or outmoded type", or indeed as"imperfectly developed". </div><div><br /></div><div>The aim here, and the aim of Obselidia, is to pay homage to anything that once was, and is no longer.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the coming weeks (who am I kidding? this is going to go on for years...), I'll be uploading examples of things of obsolete things. My hope is that if anyone out there is actually reading this, they may feel compelled to share with me anything they have noticed slipping into Obsolescence, be it a penguin, a running shoe, a travel agent, or a typewriter.</div><div><br /></div><div>Is democracy obsolete? I hope not. And for that reason, I invite you, one and all to participate....</div><div><br /></div><div>Blessings to all,<br /></div><div>George </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3688258183130543778.post-53130324175297243762007-12-12T22:16:00.000-08:002007-12-12T22:28:22.642-08:00The Birth of Obselidia<div>I was born on the last day of the last year before the decade they called the 70's. Back then, writing a diary that the whole world could read and participate in was unthinkable. Science fiction.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>But now, I am living in the future, a world I could not have imagined when I was growing up. There's a lot of great new things: cell phones, internet, xbox, you know...</div><div><br /></div><div>But at the same time:</div><div><br /></div><div>So much that I love and have loved has disappeared. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is my attempt to preserve it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to go door-to-door selling encyclopedias; that occupation is a footnote in history now, shorthand for being a dinosaur. But you know, I still love those damn books. Flicking through the pages wondering about the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I decided: I'm going to make my own Encyclopedia, the Encyclopedia of Obsolete Things - The Obselidia. </div><div><br /></div><div>Occupations, animals, technologies, words...anything that is obsolete will be included. Might even list some endangered species.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like Lonesome George, the last known giant tortoise in the Galapagos Islands.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you have anything you'd like to see in this Encyclopedia, please send me the details. I want to be as thorough as I can. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not to list everything that is, but everything that used to be...</div><div><br /></div><div>And perhaps by observing what we are losing and what we have lost...well, perhaps we'll start to save the things that really matter.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Blessings to all,</div><div>George</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Lonesome Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13575067765039735667noreply@blogger.com4