happiness comes from good coffee

i have been buried beneath a pile of paper for days, but emerged briefly for a cup of coffee last friday morning. on the table for show and tell was the kodawari coffee issue of brutus*, another reminder (as if we needed one) that in the elaboration, codification, production, and reproduction of nuance and detail the japanese yield to no-one.

*(more)

does not compute

the cynic says this email from patagonia is a cunning form of marketing misdirection. i have resisted all of cyber monday's blandishments so far.

dumb ways to die

update: an official karaoke version! it is imperative that you watch this instructive informational video which incidentally demonstrates that good work continues to come out of mccann.

it doesn't hurt to ask

i made two of these on my last day at the ranch, using some apparently nearly pure copper sheet retrieved from the garbage can in the metal shop. the other one says: "eat your vegetables."

on the street

just north of st. marks, to be precise. someone took some trouble here and did not succumb to the false allure of uniform spacing.

pithy

this summarises most of my feelings about cars and bicycles, though it leaves out the grim frustrations of parking in crowded cities, motorists who don't look when they open their doors or make turns, the particularly dispiriting nature of bicycling in wintry mix, and the gloom of car insurance and deductibles.

[found thanks to david neale, who is very cool*]

* did you click on the link and think "wtf?" don't fret: it is a feature not a bug. david neale is an australian jeweler and that is some item of personal adornment in the shape of a slice of rye. it is also available in danish.

things

Few people are interested in things, except the mechanics who like engines. They are more interested in themselves and humanity, and theories, and emotions. I suppose quite a large percentage of people would not be able to name a grain of wheat from a grain of oats, or perhaps even a blackbird from a rook. Our ancestors of the nineteenth century grew up with things, so that they were real to them and had a sort of comfortable companionship now lost. That is why their things are so often more individual than ours. An old hobby-horse, turned up in an attic, will sometimes be so real that it is a piece of art, and clamours to be put on show in the hall downstairs. Not so the mass-produced Dobbin of to-day.

t.h. white, england have my bones.

the bee's knees

carl b. oxley III at the eastern market recycling station.