Pervez Amirali Hoodbhoy gives us a fascinating overview of Islam's long and variable engagement with science. "The question I want to pose—perhaps as much to myself as to anyone else—is this: With well over a billion Muslims and extensive material resources, why is the Islamic world disengaged from science and the process of creating new knowledge?"
It's a good thing I did my listening before the Mets' tragic loss because, afterwards, <i>everything</i> sounded horrible. I started with the brilliant Arsenio Rodriguez composition, "A Bailar Mi Bomba," off of Roberto Roena's outstanding <i>Lucky 7</i>. When I listen to this song, my head bobs about like mad and my shoulders shake like maracas, I come up with desperate ideas about trading in my guitar amplifier for a conga set and a cowbell, I consider saying goodbye to everything and moving away to Puerto Rico. It's that kind of song.
Tom Mitchelson spent a week, guided by a small bunch of female friends, attempting to experience "the thoughts, anxieties and simple daily tasks of a 21<SUP>st</SUP>-century woman."
Or we'll force you to listen to Mick Jagger solo albums.
Or up—a timeline portraying various "future history" events depicted in SF novels and films.
In some of the standard histories, jazz went to hell in the 1970s—first losing its structure to the avant-garde, then losing its harmony and rhythm to rock-funk fusion—before recovering its senses and sensibility in the ‘80s, thanks mainly to Wynton Marsalis. As with most myths, there’s a little bit of truth to this chronicle; things did take a bumpy turn in the ‘70s (though some of the avant-garde and the fusion was a lot more interesting than the broad-brush detractors would have you believe). But the revival of melody, structure, beauty and wit was hardly the doings of Mr. Marsalis. A movement was well afoot—the critic Gary Giddins called it “neo-classicism”—a few years before the young trumpeter moved from New Orleans to New York. Many other, somewhat older musicians had already been making their ways to “the jazz tradition” through the path of the avant-garde. It was on that anti-traditional road that they found their voices; so when they shifted course, they had something distinctive to say. They breathed life into the music of old and so, ironically, embodied the creative impulses at the heart of jazz with far greater fidelity than those who solemnly recited the phrasebooks of Pops, Bird, and Miles.
I sat, quietly, in the dirty seat, empty bottles of beer and peanut shells at my feet. My throat was sore from shouting chants and pleas, my hands bruised from fruitless rooting. <i>How could this have happened?</i> As the stadium emptied out, leaving behind only rows of orange and blue paint, an painful truth sank in: This is how it ends.
The Beeb has an animated "front line" Western Front feature. Its only weakness is that it is antiseptic, which <I>that</I> war was definitely not.
Play "Match the kink to the rock star" with Pamela Des Barres.
Gareth Rees calculates that the British archers at Agincourt might have rained 50,000 arrows a minute for a solid eight minutes onto the French. So if you were snorting derisively at the title's combination of "medieval" and "physics," consider this: Agincourt was, essentially, the first battle where conventional cavalry tactics met the equivalent of the machine gun.