We live in a cut and paste world — Hacking manual

We live in a cut and paste world: Control-C and Control-V give us the free­dom to rearrange words, pic­tures, video and sound to trans­form any old thing into our new thing
with tremen­dous ease and power.”

That is accord­ing to Nico­las Collins, com­poser of elec­tronic music and pio­neer in the use of micro­com­put­ers in live per­for­mance. He uses ‘home-made’ elec­tronic cir­cuitry, radio, found sound mate­r­ial, and trans­formed musi­cal instruments.

He wrote the book “Hand­made Elec­tronic Music: The Art of Hard­ware Hack­ing.”  “Assum­ing no tech­ni­cal back­ground what­so­ever, the book car­ries the reader through a series of sound-producing elec­tronic con­struc­tion projects, from mak­ing sim­ple con­tact micro­phones, to trans­form­ing cheap elec­tronic toys into playable instru­ments, to design­ing cir­cuits from scratch. ”

You can get a taste of some great infor­ma­tion on this mat­ter by click­ing on the above image for the PDF of “Hard­ware Hack­ing,” a com­pi­la­tion of class hand­outs from Nicola’s classes at Depart­ment of Sound at The School of the Art Insti­tute of Chicago.

Nico­las Collins is a sound-tinkerer, who makes almost every elec­tri­cal device an instru­ment. I invite you to go to his web­site where he has a bunch of more great mate­r­ial like Hack­ing Work­shopsVideo Tuto­ri­als and Audio Exam­ples.

Take a look at the fol­low­ing video which is a com­pi­la­tion of moments of some of his hard­ware hack­ing workshops.

David Lynch’s The GrandMother

Long-time Lynch col­lab­o­ra­tor Jack Nance once said that watch­ing The Grand­mother was like spend­ing half an hour in the elec­tric chair.

Mix­ing live action (both colour and black & white) with ani­ma­tion, along with a dark & unset­tling sound­scape cre­ated by Alan Splet (still Lynch’s sound designer today, three decades later), the film is an intensely dis­turb­ing expe­ri­ence. The short film deals with a small boy, who is tyr­an­nized by his par­ents for being incon­ti­nent. He cre­ates his own par­al­lel world by plant­ing a semen into a pile of mud in his bed. After some time the pant grows, giv­ing birth to a female fig­ure, his grandmother.

The film includes very lit­tle dia­logue. Its themes explore the myths of birth, sex­u­al­ity and death. The Grand­mother might be under­stood as the Grand Mother (Earth), an ancient sym­bol of the ori­gin of all life and also the imago of fem­i­n­ity. The con­stel­la­tion of a small boy in black suit and his grand­mother will later on occur in Twin Peaks with the Chal­fonts / Tremonts. Although it does suf­fer from a cer­tain ‘stu­dent film’ feel­ing, this half-hour short is a must-see for all fans of David Lynch, par­tic­u­larly those who admire the stark & sur­real world of Eraser­head.

The Grand­mother is avail­able in excerpts on the doc­u­men­tary “Pretty as a Pic­ture: The Art of David Lynch” by Toby Keeler.

The Grand Guignol: The Theatre of Fear and Terror

The Grand Guig­nol was a the­ater in the Pigalle dis­trict, the seamy under­belly of Paris. The theater’s focus var­ied slightly with shifts in man­age­ment, but the sub­ject mat­ter of its short plays invari­ably involved hor­ror, sex and mad­ness. Come­dies were inter­spersed between the dra­mas to release some of the ten­sion. Dur­ing its hey­day in the early 1900s, women sup­pos­edly fainted at every performance.

From its begin­nings in turn-of-the-century Paris and through­out its sixty-year reign of ter­ror, the The­atre of the Grand Guig­nol glee­fully cel­e­brated hor­ror and fear. Inno­cent vic­tims, man­gled beauty, insan­ity, muti­la­tion, deprav­ity, and guilt were its pri­mary themes. By dis­sect­ing pri­mal taboos in an unprece­dent­edly graphic man­ner, it became the prog­en­i­tor of all the blood-spilling, eye-gouging, and limb-hacking “splat­ter” movies of today.

In 1897, the French play­wright and police employee who spent the last moments with pris­on­ers sen­tenced to death, Oscar Mete­nier, bought a the­ater at the end of the impasse Chap­tal, a cul-de-sac in Paris’ Pigalle dis­trict, in which to pro­duce his con­tro­ver­sial nat­u­ral­ist plays. The small­est the­ater in Paris, it was also the most atyp­i­cal. Two large angels hung above the orches­tra and the theater’s neogothic wood pan­el­ing; and the boxes, with their iron rail­ings, looked like con­fes­sion­als (the build­ing had, in fact, once been a chapel).

The The­atre du Grand-Guignol–which means lit­er­ally the “big pup­pet show”–took its name from the pop­u­lar French pup­pet char­ac­ter Guig­nol, whose orig­i­nal incar­na­tion was as an out­spo­ken social commentator–a spokesper­son for the canuts, or silk work­ers, of Lyon. Early Guig­nol pup­pet shows were fre­quently cen­sored by Napoleon III’s police force.

In the fol­low­ing video, Mel Gor­don, who wrote the book “The Grand Guig­nol: The The­atre of Fear and Ter­ror” gives us a brief expla­na­tion of what it was and what it meant to soci­ety and the world.

Oscar Mete­nier was him­self a fre­quent tar­get of cen­sor­ship for hav­ing the audac­ity to depict a milieu which had never before appeared on stage–that of vagrants, street kids, pros­ti­tutes, crim­i­nals, and “apaches,” as street loafers and con artists were called at the time–and more­over for allow­ing those char­ac­ters to express them­selves in their own language.

One of the Grand-Guignol’s first plays, Metenier’s Made­moi­selle Fifi (based on the novel by Guy de Mau­pas­sant), which was tem­porar­ily shut down by police cen­sors, pre­sented the first pros­ti­tute on stage; his sub­se­quent play, Lui!, united a whore and a crim­i­nal in the enclosed space of a hotel room. Mete­nier was Guig­nol grown up, or grandi… The The­atre du Grand-Guignol was an imme­di­ate suc­cess. With­out real­iz­ing it, Mete­nier had laid the first stone in the edi­fice of the Grand-Guignol reper­toire, which was to last for over half a cen­tury. Lit­tle by lit­tle and almost acci­den­tally, a new genre was born.

There is a lot more to say about the The Grand Guig­nol, but for now let me leave you with the fol­low­ing video. It is a trailer of ‘The The­atre Bizarre’ a mod­ern trib­ute to Grand Guig­nol fea­tur­ing cult film icon Udo Kier and films by direc­tors Dou­glas Buck, Buddy Giov­inazzo, Karim Hus­sain, Jeremy Kas­ten Tom Savini & Richard Stan­ley. Enjoy!

Degaussing | Wobbly distortions, discolorations and frame overlaps.

Degauss­ing is the process of decreas­ing or elim­i­nat­ing a per­sis­tent mag­netic field gen­er­ated by a per­ma­nent mag­net. It is named after Carl Friedrich Gauss, an early researcher in the field of mag­net­ism. Due to mag­netic hys­tere­sis it is gen­er­ally not pos­si­ble to reduce a mag­netic field com­pletely to zero, so degauss­ing typ­i­cally induces a very small “known” field referred to as bias. Degauss­ing was orig­i­nally applied to reduce ships’ mag­netic sig­na­tures dur­ing WWII. Degauss­ing is also used to reduce mag­netic fields in CRT mon­i­tors and to erase mag­netic media.

When a degausser is placed over the VCR as a VHS tape plays, the image and audio are erased and dis­torted in real time. As infor­ma­tion is wiped and rearranged on the tapes, inter­est­ing wob­bly dis­tor­tions, dis­col­orations and frame over­laps occur. The dis­tor­tions are permanent.

Hunter Longe is an emerg­ing San Fran­cisco artist inspired by the visual by-products of mag­netic data era­sure or degauss­ing. He inves­ti­gates the idea of destruc­tion as a medium for cre­ation. Obscu­ra­tion, nega­tion, dis­tor­tion and dema­te­ri­al­iza­tion become the for­mal and con­cep­tual residue of his meta-magnetic, process-reveling cre­ations. Hunter is also a found­ing mem­ber of Drone Dun­geon Col­lec­tive.

Orig­i­nally formed by the spon­ta­neous con­ver­gence of _______ and _______, the group has evolved to include other like-minded indi­vid­u­als such as _______, and _______. Pri­mar­ily har­ness­ing video, instal­la­tion, and new media, their out­put is a con­stant dia­logue between obscu­rity and clar­ity. The col­lec­tive work hints at a new form of Brecht­ian dis­tanc­ing through the appli­ca­tion of a degraded aes­thetic, the destruc­tion of tra­di­tional nar­ra­tive, and removal of orig­i­nal con­text. Based in the San Fran­cisco Bay Area, Drone Dun­geon patiently awaits the day of the union­iza­tion of their minds and your soul (Now).

Com­mis­sioned by The Pop­u­lar Work­shop the fol­low­ing short doc­u­men­tary exam­ines the work of Hunter Longe.

Bad Children’s Books by Bob Staake

Get­ting offended can be such a fun feel­ing, espe­cially when it’s art and humor where no one is being spared.

Bob Staake has cre­ated a super cute series of “Satire, Humor and Visual Par­ody of Clas­sic Children’s Books From the 1940s Through 1960s.” Pre­pare to learn how to make money, what Bukowski really does to chil­dren, and just what does daddy have in the trunk…

Dial-a-poem | John Giorno

In 1969 John Giorno started a poetry ser­vice that was years ahead of its time. He called it Dial-a-poem and here is how it worked:

15 phone lines were conected with indi­vid­ual answer­ing machines, peo­ple could call and lis­ten to a poem. Many of the poems on Dial-a-poem were by hip­ster New York poets that Giorno had recorded like Allen Gins­berg, Anne Wald­man, Ted Berri­gan, the East Vil­lage crowd. Dial-a-poem was a big hit. In the first five months over a mil­lion calls came in and sud­denly dial­ing a poem was assigned as home­work in some New York City schools. But not all the poems were con­sid­ered appro­pri­ate for school kids.

The Board of Edu­ca­tion in New York City received com­plaints about Dial-a-poem, lawyers got involved; John Giorno won the legal bat­tle but he lost fund­ing and you couldn’t dial a poem any­more. Today, most of the record­ings of this extra­or­di­nary audio poetry col­lec­tion an be found online on the web­site ubuweb.com. You can also lis­ten to some of this poems at MoMA. You can also lis­ten to some exam­ples like the fol­low­ing through­out this post:

One day a New York mother saw her 12-year-old son with two friends lis­ten­ing to the tele­phone and gig­gle­ing. She grabbed the phone from them and what she heard freaked her out. This was when Dial-A-Poem was at The Archi­tec­tural League of New York with world­wide media cov­er­age, and Junior Scholas­tic Mag­a­zine had just done an arti­cle and lis­ten­ing to Dial-A-Poem was home­work in New York City Pub­lic Schools. It was also at a time when I was putting out a lot of erotic poetry, like Jim Car­roll’s porno­graphic “Bas­ket­ball Diaries,” so it became hip for the tee­nies to call. The mother and other reac­tionary mem­bers of the com­mu­nity started has­sling us, and The Board of Edu­ca­tion put press­sure on the Tele­phone Com­pany and there were has­sles and more has­sles and they cut us off. Ken Dewey and the New York State Coun­cil on The Arts were our cham­pi­ons, and the heavy lawyers threat­ened The Tele­phone Com­pany with a law­suit and we were instantly on again. Soon after our funds were cut, and we couldn’t pay the tele­phone bill so it ended.

Then we moved to The Museum of Mod­ern Art, where one half the con­tent of Dial-A-Poem was polit­i­cally rad­i­cal poetry At the time, with the war and repres­sion and every­thing, we thought this was a good way for the Move­ment to reach peo­ple. TIME mag­a­zine picked up on how you could call David and Nel­son Rockefeller’s museum and learn how to build a bomb. This was when the Weath­er­men were bomb­ing New York office build­ings. TIME ran the piece on The Nation page, next to the photo of a dead cop shot talk­ing on the tele­phone in Philadel­phia. How­ever, Bobby Seale, Eldridge Cleaver and The Black Pan­thers were well rep­re­sented. This cou­pled with rag pub­lic­ity really freaked the Trustees of the museum and mem­bers resigned and thou­sands com­plained and the FBI arrived one morn­ing to inves­ti­gate. The Musuem of Mod­ern Art is a ware­house of the plun­der and rip off for the Rock­e­feller fam­ily and they got upset at being in the sit­u­a­tion of sup­port­ing a sys­tem that would self-destruct or self purify, so they ordered the sys­tem shut down. John High­tower, MOMA Direc­tor, was our cham­pion with some heavy changes of con­science, and he wouldn’t let them silence us, for a short while. Then later John High­tower was fired from MOMA and Ken Dewey recently fly­ing alone in a small plane crashed and died.

In the mid­dle of the Dial-A-Poem expe­ri­ence was the giant self-consuming media machine choos­ing you as some of its food, which also lets you get your hands on the con­trols because you’ve made a new sys­tem of com­mu­ni­cat­ing poetry. The news­pa­per, mag­a­zine, TV and radio cov­er­age had the effect of mak­ing every­one want to call the Dial-A-Poem. We got up to the max­i­mum limit of the equip­ment and stayed there. 60,000 calls a week and it was totally great. The busiest time was 9 AM to 5 PM, so one fig­ured that all those peo­ple sit­ting at desks in New York office build­ings spend a lot of time on the tele­phone, then the sec­ond busiest time was 8:30 PM to 11:30 PM was the after-dinner crowd, then the Cal­i­for­nia calls and those trip­ping on acid or couldn’t sleep 2 AM to 6 PM. So using an exist­ing com­mu­ni­ca­tions sys­tem we estab­lished a new poet-audience relationship.

Dial-A-Poem began at the Archi­tec­tural League of New York in Jan­u­ary 1969 with 10 tele­phone lines and ran for 5 months, dur­ing which time 1,112,337 calls were received. It con­tin­uted at MOMA in July 1970 with 12 tele­phone lines and ran for 2 and a half months and 200,087 calls were received. It was at The Musuem of Con­tem­po­rary Art, Chicago for 6 weeks in Novem­ber 1969 and since then has cropped up every­where. This was with equip­ment work­ing at max­i­mum capac­ity and some­times jam­ming the entire exchange. At MOMA, the 12 lines were each con­nected to an auto­matic answer­ing set, which holds a pre-recorded mes­sage. Some­one call­ing got ran­domly one of 12 dif­fer­ent poems, which were changed daily. There were around 700 selec­tions of 55 poets.”

John Giorno, August 1972

Giorno extended Dial-a-Poem into the 1970s and 1980s, pro­duc­ing five LP records under the label John Giorno Poetry Sys­tems that include works by estab­lished poets like Ash­bery and young artists and musi­cians such as John Cage, Patti Smith, and David Byrne. This ver­sion of Dial-a-Poem includes the 30 orig­i­nal poets fea­tured in Infor­ma­tion, plus 50 culled from Giorno’s sub­se­quent recordings.

You can now lis­ten to Dial-a-Poem by call­ing the local New York num­ber 347-POET001 on your own phone. (Dial-a-Poem is free, but your mobile phone fees will apply.)

Watch below a recent inter­view of John Giorno where he pro­vides more details of his rela­tion­ship with Andy Warhol, the poets of the Beat Gen­er­a­tion and Dial-a-Poem.

La vérité” de Le Marquis de SADE

Quelle est cette chimère impuis­sante et stérile,
Cette divinité que prêche à l’imbécile
Un ramas odieux de prêtres impos­teurs ?
Veulent-ils me placer parmi leurs sec­ta­teurs ?
Ah ! jamais, je le jure, et je tiendrai parole,
Jamais cette bizarre et dégoû­tante idole,
Cet enfant de délire et de déri­sion
Ne fera sur mon cœur la moin­dre impres­sion.
Con­tent et glo­rieux de mon épi­curisme,
Je pré­tends expirer au sein de l’athéisme
Et que l’infâme Dieu dont on veut m’alarmer
Ne soit conçu par moi que pour le blas­phémer.
Oui, vaine illu­sion, mon âme te déteste,
Et pour t’en mieux con­va­in­cre ici je le proteste,
Je voudrais qu’un moment tu pusses exis­ter
Pour jouir du plaisir de te mieux insul­ter.
Quel est-il en effet ce fan­tôme exécrable,
Ce jean-foutre de Dieu, cet être épou­vantable
Que rien n’offre aux regards ni ne mon­tre à l’esprit,
Que l’insensé red­oute et dont le sage rit,
Que rien ne peint aux sens, que nul ne peut com­pren­dre,
Dont le culte sauvage en tous temps fit répan­dre
Plus de sang que la guerre ou Thémis en cour­roux
Ne purent en mille ans en verser parmi nous ?
J’ai beau l’analyser, ce gredin déi­fique,
J’ai beau l’étudier, mon œil philosophique
Ne voit dans ce motif de vos reli­gions
Qu’un assem­blage impur de con­tra­dic­tions
Qui cède à l’examen sitôt qu’on l’envisage,
Qu’on insulte à plaisir, qu’on brave, qu’on out­rage,
Pro­duit par la frayeur, enfanté par l’espoir,
Que jamais notre esprit ne saurait con­cevoir,
Devenant tour à tour, aux mains de qui l’érige,
Un objet de ter­reur, de joie ou de ver­tige
Que l’adroit impos­teur qui l’annonce aux humains
Fait régner comme il veut sur nos tristes des­tins,
Qu’il peint tan­tôt méchant et tan­tôt débon­naire,
Tan­tôt nous mas­sacrant, ou nous ser­vant de père,
En lui prê­tant tou­jours, d’après ses pas­sions,
Ses mœurs, son car­ac­tère et ses opin­ions :
Ou la main qui par­donne ou celle qui nous perce.
Le voilà, ce sot Dieu dont le prêtre nous berce.

Mais de quel droit celui que le men­songe astreint
Prétend-il me soumet­tre à l’erreur qui l’atteint ?
Ai-je besoin du Dieu que ma sagesse abjure
Pour me ren­dre rai­son des lois de la nature ?
En elle tout se meut, et son sein créa­teur
Agit à tout instant sans l’aide d’un moteur.
A ce dou­ble embar­ras gagné-je quelque chose ?
Ce Dieu, de l’univers démontre-t-il la cause ?
S’il crée, il est créé, et me voilà tou­jours
Incer­tain, comme avant, d’adopter son recours.
Fuis, fuis loin de mon cœur, infer­nale impos­ture ;
Cède, en dis­parais­sant, aux lois de la nature
Elle seule a tout fait, tu n’es que le néant
Dont sa main nous sor­tit un jour en nous créant.
Évanouis-toi donc, exécrable chimère !
Fuis loin de ces cli­mats, aban­donne la terre
Où tu ne ver­ras plus que des cœurs endur­cis
Au jar­gon men­songer de tes piteux amis !
Quant à moi, j’en con­viens, l’horreur que je te porte
Est à la fois si juste, et si grande, et si forte,
Qu’avec plaisir, Dieu vil, avec tran­quil­lité,
Que dis-je ? avec trans­port, même avec volupté,
Je serais ton bour­reau, si ta frêle exis­tence
Pou­vait offrir un point à ma som­bre vengeance,
Et mon bras avec charme irait jusqu’à ton cœur
De mon aver­sion te prou­ver la rigueur.
Mais ce serait en vain que l’on voudrait t’atteindre,
Et ton essence échappe à qui veut la con­train­dre.
Ne pou­vant t’écraser, du moins, chez les mor­tels,
Je voudrais ren­verser tes dan­gereux autels
Et démon­trer à ceux qu’un Dieu cap­tive encore
Que ce lâche avor­ton que leur faib­lesse adore
N’est pas fait pour poser un terme aux passions.

Ô mou­ve­ments sacrés, fières impres­sions,
Soyez à tout jamais l’objet de nos hom­mages,
Les seuls qu’on puisse offrir au culte des vrais sages,
Les seuls en tous les temps qui délectent leur cœur,
Les seuls que la nature offre à notre bon­heur !
Cédons à leur empire, et que leur vio­lence,
Sub­juguant nos esprits sans nulle résis­tance,
Nous fasse impuné­ment des lois de nos plaisirs
Ce que leur voix pre­scrit suf­fit à nos désirs.
Quel que soit le désor­dre où leur organe entraîne,
Nous devons leur céder sans remords et sans peine,
Et, sans scruter nos lois ni con­sul­ter nos mœurs,
Nous livrer ardem­ment à toutes les erreurs
Que tou­jours par leurs mains nous dicta la nature.
Ne respec­tons jamais que son divin mur­mure ;
Ce que nos vaines lois frap­pent en tous pays
Est ce qui pour ses plans eut tou­jours plus de prix.
Ce qui paraît à l’homme une affreuse injus­tice
N’est sur nous que l’effet de sa main cor­rup­trice,
Et quand, d’après nos mœurs, nous craignons de fail­lir,
Nous ne réus­sis­sons qu’à la mieux accueil­lir.
Ces douces actions que vous nom­mez des crimes,
Ces excès que les sots croient illégitimes,
Ne sont que les écarts qui plaisent à ses yeux,
Les vices, les pen­chants qui la délectent mieux ;
Ce qu’elle grave en nous n’est jamais que sub­lime ;
En con­seil­lant l’horreur, elle offre la vic­time
Frappons-la sans frémir, et ne craignons jamais
D’avoir, en lui cédant, com­mis quelques for­faits.
Exam­inons la foudre en ses mains san­guinaires
Elle éclate au hasard, et les fils, et les pères,
Les tem­ples, les bor­dels, les dévots, les ban­dits,
Tout plaît à la nature : il lui faut des dél­its.
Nous la ser­vons de même en com­met­tant le crime
Plus notre main l’étend et plus elle l’estime.
Usons des droits puis­sants qu’elle exerce sur nous
En nous livrant sans cesse aux plus mon­strueux goûts.
Aucun n’est défendu par ses lois homi­cides,
Et l’inceste, et le viol, le vol, les par­ri­cides,
Les plaisirs de Sodome et les jeux de Sapho,
Tout ce qui nuit à l’homme ou le plonge au tombeau,
N’est, soyons-en cer­tains, qu’un moyen de lui plaire.
En ren­ver­sant les dieux, dérobons leur ton­nerre
Et détru­isons avec ce foudre étince­lant
Tout ce qui nous déplaît dans un monde effrayant.
N’épargnons rien surtout : que ses scélérat­esses
Ser­vent d’exemple en tout à nos noires prouesses.
Il n’est rien de sacré : tout dans cet univers
Doit plier sous le joug de nos fougueux tra­vers.
Plus nous mul­ti­pli­erons, varierons l’infamie,
Mieux nous la sen­tirons dans notre âme affer­mie,
Dou­blant, encour­ageant nos cyniques essais,
Pas à pas chaque jour nous con­duire aux for­faits.
Après les plus beaux ans si sa voix nous rap­pelle,
En nous moquant des dieux retournons auprès d’elle
Pour nous récom­penser son creuset nous attend ;
Ce que prit son pou­voir, son besoin nous le rend.
Là tout se repro­duit, là tout se régénère ;
Des grands et des petits la putain est la mère,
Et nous sommes tou­jours aussi chers à ses yeux,
Mon­stres et scélérats que bons et vertueux.


It’s the day before the trial starts. Fredrik packs a com­puter into a rusty old Volvo. Along with his Pirate Bay co-founders, he faces $13 mil­lion in dam­age claims to Hol­ly­wood in a copy­right infringe­ment case.

Fredrik is on his way to install a new com­puter in the secret server hall. This is where the world’s largest file shar­ing site is hidden.

When the hacker prodigy Got­tfrid, the inter­net activist Peter and the net­work nerd Fredrik are found guilty, they are con­fronted with the real­ity of life offline – away from keyboard.

But deep down in dark data cen­tres, clan­des­tine com­put­ers qui­etly con­tinue to dupli­cate files.

Ray & Charles Eames’ Powers of Ten


Pow­ers of Ten takes us on an adven­ture in mag­ni­tudes. Start­ing at a pic­nic by the lake­side in Chicago, this famous film trans­ports us to the outer edges of the uni­verse. Every ten sec­onds we view the start­ing point from ten times far­ther out until our own galaxy is vis­i­ble only as a speck of light among many oth­ers. Return­ing to Earth with breath­tak­ing speed, we move inward– into the hand of the sleep­ing pic­nicker — with ten times more mag­ni­fi­ca­tion every ten sec­onds. Our jour­ney ends inside a pro­ton of a car­bon atom within a DNA mol­e­cule in a white blood cell.


Pow­ers of Ten is a 1968 Amer­i­can doc­u­men­tary short film writ­ten and directed by Ray Eames and her hus­band, Charles Eames, rere­leased in 1977. The film depicts the rel­a­tive scale of the Uni­verse in fac­tors of ten (see also log­a­rith­mic scale and order of mag­ni­tude). The film is an adap­ta­tion of the 1957 book Cos­mic View by Kees Boeke, and more recently is the basis of a new book version.

In 1998, “Pow­ers of Ten” was selected for preser­va­tion in the United States National Film Reg­istry by the Library of Con­gress as being “cul­tur­ally, his­tor­i­cally, or aes­thet­i­cally significant”.



Music is so processed and pretty these days. So when a band like FIDLAR comes along we all need to say thank you and make sure that all of our friends know about them.

As the four young men in FIDLAR dis­cuss the ori­gin story of their brash, beery, and dan­ger­ously catchy garage-rock band, lead singer Zac Carper remem­bers talk­ing about how, one way or the other, they were absolutely going to have the word “fuck” in their name. The FIDLAR moniker reflects their roots in Los Ange­les skate cul­ture (it’s a pop­u­lar acronym mean­ing “Fuck It Dog, Life’s A Risk”) as well as the phi­los­o­phy behind live-in-the-moment, crash-and-burn ragers like “Cocaine” and “Wake Bake Skate”.

The L.A. band just released a new EP enti­tled Shit We Recorded In Our Bed­room. You can down­load it for free below.