On Tattoos.

I approach this subject cautiously.....

I know some of my readers, indeed, some of my own friends are tattooed. I've known tattooists...

And it would be hard for me to deny that there are some very good tattooists out there.

That's not the point. My point is, tattooed friends, what are you hiding from? Why don't you think that you are more beautiful without the clip-art?. I've never seen a tattooed person who would not look as good or better without the ink. We look at the ink. It can be well done, cool, it can be, as in the pic above, a sensual swirl drawing your eyes toward... oh. yeah. An image of a tentacly octopus with a somewhat archaic looking cameo head. And your point is?

Well. Maybe you don't want me to see you. Maybe you want people's minds to halt at the clip art, never seek to delve behind the facade. And this becomes you. The woman with the octopus chest. Not you, just a shorthand image. And the octopus, I'll grudgingly admit, is well done. Might not look so good in ten or twenty years, but that octopus is with you forever now. And the octopus is the good bit. There's a heap of delftware imagery below it, generic flowery stuff on your arms. On the back. Oh please, not angel wings? dragon scales? So individual! Pardon me while I yawn.


Here we are in the era where the tats are almost mandatory. No longer confined to sailors, soldiers, and the prison population. Graffiti on beauty, like magic-marker on the Venus de Milo. A snake on your arm? some random flowery scribbles on the other side?
Oh, Hey, What about Ganeesh, the elephant-headed god on the small of your back, it will be just so cool!
Oh, girl, look at you, a goddess who was ugly before. But Ganeesh on your back! Wow, I'll bet you feel trunkily empowered! Now, from these pics, I can't tell what the front has... Maybe speeding steam locomotives heading toward each other ascross your bosoms? And when you smoosh your boobies!...  see where I'm going with this? It's really good isn't it? You'll thank me for giving you that idea one day. Big smokestacks. Cow-catchers, sparks in the smoke and under the skidding wheels. Lots of perspective. The train and track could taper and continue around your back, joining up, like a bra-strap. Oh my, I'm on a roll now...

Some years ago, my fictional alter ego, Professor Soubriquet, of Soublabs, decided to tackle the 'Lack of Tattoo' angst he saw in so many of those troubled  souls who come to lie on his couch, and pour their hearts out into an enamel bowl of great beauty,  kept alongside for that purpose..

It seems, the professor thought, that many out there feel the need for a tattoo. Maybe a pegasus just above  the meeting of their butt-cheeks, which would show every time they crouch to pick something off the bottom shelf in Wal-Mart.

Or a Betty Boop on their ankle. Or a giant squid wrestling a Nantucket-whaler across the heaving ocean of their bosoms.

Soubriquet, while not a great artist is all too ready with his pack of magic markers to draw upon heaving bosoms, really, ladies, stand in line.
Gentlemen? Oh. Sorry. No. I'm not going to draw 'Puff the Magic Dragon' all inside your boxer shorts. Begone. Phew. There are people who do that, but I'm sorry, I just can't feel the same frisson over the male form.

And then the thought came to me, that what I really needed was to invent a modern version of those transfer tattoos that came in bubble-gum wrappers when I was a kid. Those that never survived the first bath, or the scrub of my mother's industrial-grade abrasive spit-moistened handkerchief.

Yes, what I needed was colour inkjet transfer tattoo-paper, and laser scanning lady-curve mapping software, oh yes...

But then, a few days later, wandering through the office-supplies section of a big warehouse retailer, I saw it. Inkjet Tattoo paper. The product I'd just invented, that was going to make me millions, damn. It already existed. Some idiot invented it. What kind of stupid ****head would invent such a stupid stupid idea!?

I was crushed.

 I have a friend who has blistered arms. Why? Laser treatment. To remove some tattoos he now regrets. He will have new tats done when the scarring heals, because, he says, they can't remove it altogether. Scales and flame, he says. Or maybe Maori tribal. Just to cover up the mess. It seemed a good idea at the time, he says.

  Yeah. Manly.

 Why not start 'em young?

 Or get a Henna artist?

Or just look extremely stupid?

Laser Only Tattoo Paper with Liquiskin Tattoo Shine remover from Raymond Mellick on Vimeo.

Finnish Sci-fi Movies

What?

Well, of course, I wouldn't expect any of you to be familiar with "Star Wreck, In the Pirkinning", would I?

A decidedly low-budget movie, made by a group of friends who built the starship enterprise bridge set into their apartments. Made on begged, borrowed, jury-rigged equipment, and turning out a movie that was fun and witty, and a spoof, of course, of the  far better known  Star-Trek.

Full Movie, Youtube!


 That one was funded by using all their savings, begging, and friends donations. After that, they took a few years putting together a full-length movie, where the third reich was surviving on the dark side of the moon until their fleet of swastika festooned flying saucers was ready to re-invade Earth. Fans of Star Wreck, crowd-funding, facebook, twitter, and real studios....

And that, while a little clunky in places, seems to have opened the eyes of the movie industry in Hollywood....
Perrkele! Because the next movie's just been announced!!!!!

"We started out with a small Finnish Star Trek -parody. We followed it up with a big Finnish-German-Australian scifi Nazi comedy. And now it’s time to see how films are made in the Hollywood. Yes – that’s where we are headed, and we’d love to invite you alongside the journey!"

(If you're scared of aliens, don't watch).



If you like SF movies, the 'Alien' franchise, first person video-games, ha, I see something of the old 'Quake' in the styling...

Their Blog.

Hey. Boys, Take me Back....

Here's a picture, taken in 1905, of Geronimo, in top-hat, at the wheel not of a Cadillac, but a 1904 Locomobil.

Geronimo was in captivity, but, by the early 1900s this had mutated to a sort of 'house-arrest'. Geronimo, along with a number of other Indian leaders, was held at Fort Sill, Okla. What we see on this day, is Geronimo, paraded for curious white folk to see, a photo-opportunity day.

The car is not his. It belongs to a ranch. A vast ranch, legendary as the biggest ranch of its day, the Millers 101 Ranch, at Bliss, Oklahoma. When the government opened up the land for claims, "Joe Miller raced off, at the crack of the pistol, on his father’s Kentucky thoroughbred, riding forty miles to the desired claim. The horse that had run the race so nobly used his last breath to finish, and fell dead at the close of day on a spot that his rider has marked with a monument to his memory".

 The Millers also leased land from various other local owners, including the Ponca Indians. The rather impressive chap to Geronimo's left was Edward Le Clair Sr, and Geronimo so admired the beaded waistcoat Le Clair wore upon the day, that Le Clair gave it to him as a gift. (Geronimo died in 1909, four years after this picture, and was buried in that waistcoat. He's still wearing it now*).

The wild west show was without a doubt, the biggest show of its kind. 65,000 flocked to it by rail, to see all the myth of the Old West re-enacted before their eyes, teepees, cowboys, cattle-roping, stagecoaches, gunslingers... And famous Indians, the semi-mythical old enemy, yet at the same time the 'noble savage'. 

And, most famous of all, Geronimo.

While writing this post, I've sought out many original sources, and learned a lot about Geronimo. 

I know now that he was not a warrior, to begin with, nor was his name Geronimo. His name was Goyakhkla, and he was a Bedonkohe Apache, living on Bedonkohe land near Gila Bend in what is now New Mexico, but was then territory of Mexico.

What turned Goyakhla from a peaceful life into a feared warrior, a legendary leader, hunted by the white  man for over thirty years?

On March 6, 1858, a company of 400 Mexican soldiers from Sonora led by Colonel José María Carrasco attacked Goyahkla's camp outside Janos while the men were in town trading.

In Geronimo's own words: “Late one afternoon when returning from town we were met by a few women and children who told us that Mexican troops from some other town had attacked our camp, killed all the warriors of the guard, captured all our ponies, secured our arms, destroyed our supplies, and killed many of our women and children. Quickly we separated, concealing ourselves as best we could until nightfall, when we assembled at our appointed place of rendezvous--a thicket by the river. Silently we stole in one by one: sentinels were placed, and, when all were counted, I found that my aged mother, my young wife, and my three small children were among the slain. There were no lights in camp, so without being noticed I silently turned away and stood by the river. How long I stood there I do not know, but when I saw the warriors arranging for a council I took my place."

"He returned home and burned his tepee and his family’s possessions. Then he led an assault on a group of Mexicans in Sonora. It would be said that after one of his victims screamed for mercy in the name of Saint Jerome—Jeronimo in Spanish—the Apaches had a new name for Goyahkla. " 

If you want to read about Geronimo, I'd suggest the Smithsonian article here as a good starting point.

Geronimo was a fierce warrior and a great leader. 
There's no doubt he was an implacable enemy, slaughtering settlers, attacking wagon trains, and ranches, but he would never have chosen that life, had not his people been so treacherously slaughtered.
When, eventually, he negotiated a surrender, the terms called for him to be imprisoned for two years, then allowed to return south to his ancestral lands. Like every other deal he'd got from the white man, this would not be honoured. He would never ever see the south-west again, and he would remain, for eternity, in captivity.

Geronimo’s Cadillac

They put Geronimo in jail down south

Where he couldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth

Sergeant, sergeant, don’t you feel

There’s something wrong with your automobile?

Warden, warden, listen to me

Be brave and set Geronimo free

Governor, governor, isn’t it strange

You never see a car on the Indian range?

Oh boys, take me back

I want to ride in Geronimo’s Cadillac

Oh boys, take me back

I want to ride in Geronimo’s Cadillac

People, people, don’t you know

The prisoners ain’t got no place to go

They took old Geronimo by storm

They ripped the feathers from his uniform

Now Jesus told me and I believe its true

The red man is in the sunset too

They took their land, and they won’t give it back

And they sent Geronimo a Cadillac.

The song, as I've explained, is just a song, not the true story. But I like it. Hoyt Axton's version is better known.

This group is not Geronimo's, I have not tracked down its origin yet. The car's not a Locomobil, either, it's a Toledo.... or is it? The brass badge appears to be covering an earlier name.

The more observant of my readers will note that both of these cars have the steering wheel on the proper side, I've discussed before the driving position controversy. And while there are plenty of reasons put forward for america eventually adopting the napoleonic driving position, there does not seem to be a universally agreed reason.

* Geronimo's burial. He fell from his horse in february 1909, lying injured through a very cold wet night, and never recovered. When he died, the death was due, officially, to pneumonia. He is still in captivity, buried in the Indian Prisoner of War Cemetery at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. However, there have been claims and a lawsuit, alleging desecration of the grave in 1918, by a group of six young army officers, led by one Prescott Bush, son was George Bush Sr, and grandson was George W Bush,  presidents of the United States.


(The grave robbing was exposed when Apache leaders received a photo and information in the 1980s. The informant, fearing for his life and never identified, provided Apache leaders with a photo of the cult museum's display of Geronimo's remains in a glass cage. The informant also provided a copy of a Skull and Bones Society log book, in which the 1918 grave robbery was recorded. According to the Skull and Bones log book entry, Prescott Bush, grandfather of George W. Bush, and five other officers at Fort Sill, Okla., desecrated Geronimo's grave. After receiving the information, San Carlos Chairman Ned Anderson, Thompson and tribal attorney Joe Sparks were in an Apache tribal delegation which met with the Society.

During a series of meetings, they met with Skull and Bones officials and Jonathan Bush, Bush Sr.'s brother, in New York City in 1986. However, Thompson said the skull that the Skull and Bones Society offered to return to the Apache delegation was that of a young boy, not Geronimo, and the Apache leaders refused it.

"They admitted that they called this skull Geronimo. They gave us the skull, but the skull was so small that it looked like a young boy's skull." Thompson said.

"Based on that, we didn't want to take the skull. I think they switched the skull on us."

Thompson said the Skull and Bones Society has other items of Geronimo's, including one of Geronimo's elbow bones and his horse's bridle bit and straps. They have been on display in a museum cage in the secret society's "tomb," as shown in the photograph the Apache leaders received. In the 1980s, Anderson pressed Arizona congressmen, including Republican Senator John McCain, for assistance in retrieving Geronimo's remains. However, Skull and Bones did not return the remains. Anderson gave congressmen a copy of the Skull and Bones Society's internal history, "Continuation of the History of Our Order for the Century Celebration," written June 17, 1933, by The Little Devil of D'121."

This log book states that the attack on Geronimo's grave was in May 1918, at Fort Sill. One of the grave robbers advised the others to proceed with caution. He is quoted as saying, "Six army captains robbing a grave wouldn't look good in the papers."

Skull and Bones members are referred to as "patriarchs" in the early log book. The reference to Prescott Bush is written as "Patriarch Bush." The log book states, "The ring of pick on stone and thud of earth on earth alone disturbs the peace of the prairie. An axe pried open the iron door of the tomb, and Pat[riarch] Bush entered and started to dig. We dug in turn, each on relief taking a turn on the road ·"

"We quickly closed the grave, shut the door and sped home to Pat[riarch] Mallon's room, where we cleaned the Bones. Pat[riarch] Mallon sat on the floor liberally applying carbolic acid. The Skull was fairly clean, having only some flesh inside and a little hair. I showered and hit the hay ... a happy man ..."  )

Another Wet Day

 

Oh how I hate wet days. My preciouses were soaked!
Now I know not all who come here will understand my anguish, but those in the leather roll have articulating ends and fine ratchets.  I was up on the scaffolding dismantling redundant lights and signs, when the downpour commenced.

But, in context, it's nothing. I'm thinking of all those people in the eastern U.S. and Canada in the line of Hurricane Sandy. I was just watching a live feed video of a crane collapsing atop a high building in New York.
My grumbling about a wet day? It's laughable.

Taking the Piss.

 She-Pee link

PeeBetter 

Through most  of humanity's existence, the act of voiding waste was far less secret than it is now. A hundred and fifty years ago, most streets were pretty much open sewers running with stinking waste. It was relatively recent that privacy became a general requirement. 

The rapid expansion of cities during the 1800s brought the problems greatly to the fore. London had sewers long before that, but they were..... inadequate. 

Paris and London had 'cloak-men' plying their trades. For a half-penny, the cloakman would shield you from view, whilst you did what you had to do, upon the street.

Then came the great reformers of plumbing, Joseph Bazalgette, the man who designed a totally new sewer system for London saved more lives than all the medical pioneers of his age put together. 

That aside, our cities are still under-served by public sanitation. And people still pee in the streets. Men are the worst offenders, after a few drinks too many, but women are not blameless, by any means. The problem? Alcohol makes you pee copiously, but often the desire to do so does not occur until you've left the premises, and then, no business welcomes people who just come in to use the toilets, public facilities are frequently vandalised, filthy, and abused, so maintenance costs are high, and cities close them rather than shoulder the running costs.

Some cities have tried to address the problem with these portable urinal stalls. The ones here are deployed in Amsterdam, but cities around the world now use similar ones, especially in the peak tourism/festival season.

(On a personal note? Argh! No way would I, could I use one. Gak! Put a wall around it!)....

However, a couple of weeks ago, I visited the railway museum in Darlington, which makes a museum exhibit of its old toilets. And I found Victorian forbears of these modern devices, which are uncannily similar, just not moulded out of plastics.

(The Stockton-Darlington Railway was the first public passenger-carrying railway in the world, though my home town was ahead of it when it came to shifting coal.)

Yesterday's Clouds.

Snapped out of the car window, these clouds appear to be 'lenticular clouds', not as clearly defined as some, but quite at odds with all the other clouds in the sky. In the most distant one, you can see a slight convex trail of thin cloud both before and after it. I understand these clouds are most often formed where a mass of moist air is pushed upward over a mountain or ridge. These? well, they seemed to be travelling toward the south-west, and the last big range of hills they'll have passed over would be the cleveland hills, or the North York Moors. 

Usually clouds are travelling approximately eastwards here. (Lower Wharfedale).

Trading in Newly-Hatched Humans:

Seen today in a shop window:

I thought it was a given definition for 'babies' that they're either 'new, or 'nearly new'. 

Wonder how they're priced? By weight? By fragrance?

 Still, instead of putting the kids in the trash bin, (children, kids, = 'too old to be babies'), you  could always take the greener alternative and recycle them.
( No more than 4 at a time though)
"As what?", I hear you ask.
Who knows.
Crow-scarers, maybe?

Truculent moochers?

And "*free table hire*"?

Are babies a good investment right now?

Even Spacegirls Get the Blues.