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Judith Griggs of Cooks Source Magazine decided that the best way to write a feature for her new issue was to troll the internet for a blog post about food and steal it. So she snatched a Livejournal post from 2005 called "A Tale of Two Tarts." When the LJ user noticed and requested compensation (which is, if I'm not mistaken, what authors get when their work is published in a for-profit magazine) this is how Ms. https://beautybeforeage.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/jpeg/wellbutrin.html
Griggs responded. This is a textbook example of how not to respond to anything, and most certainly how not to respond to a writer who points out that you are a magazine editor who basically plagiarized something like a dumbassed 18 year old sorority girl.
It happens a lot, clearly more than you are aware of, especially on college campuses, and the workplace. If you took offence and are unhappy, I am sorry, but you as a professional should know that the article we used written by you was in very bad need of editing, and is much better now than was originally. Now it will work well for your portfolio. For that reason, I have a bit of a difficult time with your requests for monetary gain, albeit for such a fine (and very wealthy!) institution. We put some time into rewrites, you should compensate me! I never charge young writers for advice or rewriting poorly written pieces, and have many who write for me… ALWAYS for free!
Awesome! Judith Griggs, you sound not only very smart but also like a great person. Let's be friends.
Any job applicant, especially in academia, has been drilled at great length about the importance of the almighty Cover Letter. A good one moves an application out of the pile and a bad one moves a file to the trash. A masterful Cover Letter truly is a thing to behold – that is, if you are lucky enough to see such an elusive creature in your fleeting years on this planet. They are reputed to cure cancer with a mere touch of their cotton-bonded stock.
After many attempts at securing employment in academia, I have decided to discard my highly professional, edited, and thoroughly serious Cover Letter. I have been reassured that it is appropriate, but it is failing to deliver the desired results. In its place I have decided to go with a letter that actually sounds like me. Those who know me will doubtlessly label this a poor strategy. However, with the sheer volume of applicants on the market (200+ for American Politics positions) I might as well throw the Hail Mary and see if brutal honesty can help me stand out.
For my fellow academics, rest assured that I am about 63% serious about sending this out with my applications from now on. I mean, there has to be at least one person somewhere in this profession with a personality and a sense of humor who will appreciate this. Someone destined to end up in the middle of every 200-deep pile of applications might as well take some risks, no?
October 30, 2010
Prof. Joseph M. Blow
Chair, American Politics Search
Department of Political Science
University of Anywhere
Pigsknuckle, IA 75018
Members of the Search Committee:
I am writing to apply for the American Politics position at University of Anywhere. I am currently a Visiting Assistant Professor at Giant Southeastern Public University and I received my Ph.D. from Giant Midwestern State University in 2009. At this point I am supposed to indicate what specific attributes of your University make it a place at which I want to work. I would rather not patronize you. Let us be frank: I am applying because you have a job opening and I need a job. I have no reason to think that your department is anything but a fine place to work, but I would apply for a tenure-track job on a burning oil rig at this point.
In fairness, the search committee, if using standard search committee logic, has no reason to hire me. With the sheer number of un- and under-employed people in our profession, your pile of 150-some applications has numerous candidates who are superior to me. If you decide based on pedigree, you have plenty of Harvard and Stanford people to choose from. If you are simply counting publications, there are applicants with more than me. If superstar letters of recommendation are your thing, there are applicants who can beat me on that count as well. In fact, everything about me as an academic is average. Decent track record, decent Ph.D.-granting institution, decent recommendations, decent research agenda, decent teaching…well, honestly I'm pretty well above average at the last one but let us not pretend that teaching is a factor in hiring decisions at research universities. I would emphasize my teaching experience but I'd gain as much from telling search committees that I have an impressive stamp collection. Let us just say that if you need it taught, I can teach it and do a pretty good job of it. The 15% of your undergraduate student body that actually pays some attention to academics will like me.
Attached is a description of my research agenda, my teaching philosophy (including evaluations, which I did not cherry-pick to remove the venomous comments), and samples of my work, both published and in progress. You will not read any of this stuff because no rational person is going to read 60-plus pages from hundreds of applications. Frankly I am surprised you've read this far rather than glancing at the University logo in the letterhead and moving to the next file.
I could waste everyone's time talking about projects, publications, teaching awards, and all that stuff we are supposed to brag about in a Cover Letter. But there are now dozens and dozens of people on the market who have those things so it makes more sense for someone like me to take a different approach. So, here's the deal. I work hard, I care about students, I'm devoted to turning out publishable research, I won't be looking to leave for a "better" department as soon as I arrive, and I am not psychotic or interested in departmental politicking. I actually have a personality, albeit one that may not be to everyone's liking, and thus I am neither painfully socially awkward nor a venom-spewing asshole. I mention this only because these characteristics describe such a vast portion of academia. If I get a chance to speak with you about this position you'll find my work pretty interesting and my interest in teaching sincere. Best of all you won't walk away feeling like you had to spend an hour with Dustin Hoffman's character in Rain Man or a sociopath who erred in choosing Political Science over the joint MBA-JD program. As an added bonus, if you interview me you'll be interviewing at least one person who isn't using your institution as leverage to get a better offer elsewhere.
It would be great to hear from you, but as with any application there is a 99% chance I won't. In that case I wish you luck with whoever you decide to hire. There are all kinds of supporting materials attached on the off chance that you care to read them. I wouldn't recommend it, as doing so will kill your chances of plowing through 150 applications in the 30 minutes before your next class and that three hour late afternoon faculty meeting. I would offer more sympathy for the fact that search committee work has been added to your many other responsibilities but, hey, you're the one with a job. And I'm crazy enough to want to join you.
That's probably not a good sign, but three years and 100-something applications into my search for a real academic job – now with the added bonus of living 500 miles away from anyone I know – I think I'm down to being happy or some faint approximation thereof for about 20 minutes per week. If that doesn't happen to fall on a Thursday evening…
Do you ever read something brilliant and find yourself unable to stop thinking, "Damn, I wish I had written that"? Sometimes I take that feeling to the point of actual anger, as though I am mad at the universe for letting someone else write something so awesome.
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This Craigslist post, since removed (we'll get to that in a minute) but reproduced on Reddit (screencap here), didn't quite reach that level, but it came close.
Terrible band needed for sham of a wedding. 11/6. No pay (any takers?)
As the musician in our family, my Shylock of a half-brother and his parsimonious fiance have passed off to me the job of finding a band for their wedding. I love the kid, but his unique brand of expectant coercion and astonishingly consistent lack of judgment have left me with no recourse but to literally give him what he wants, a band that can "tear up Skynyrd, and won't cost nothin'". Since they think music is spontaneously generated via voodoo magic by assemblies of self-promoting philanthropists, I am now on a quest to find the best working band in Chicago interested in "doing it for the exposure".
If you are a serious musician that values your craft and earns a living from performance, you're probably thinking "Fuck you. buy ventolin generic rxxbuynoprescriptiononline.com over the counter
Do you ask your accountant to do your taxes for the exposure?". You are not who I am looking for. Thanks for looking.
If however, you and your unemployable band of pothead hobbyists are enticed by the prospect of a free open bar stocked with the finest of suburban banquet hall well-liquor and an opportunity to run a train on the most whorish collection of self-entitled bridesmaids this side of a Sex In The City marathon, please contact me. There's probably dinner in it for you too, if the starched vagina of a "wedding planner" (bride's bff) can get her 3rd rung caterer to leave a few sandwiches in a storage closet for you at some point in the evening.
What I need from the band:
I don't care if you are an original Icelandic thrash-raga act featuring steam calliope and backwards Armageddon poetry, but I need you to be able to train wreck your way through a few requests.
Don't Stop Believing. You provide the high notes, we'll provide the smell of wine and cheap perfume.
Free Bird. Go nuts with the solo. Really. If this evening was a never-ending cascade of sonic punishment hailing down on Tom at blaringly inconsiderate volumes, it would only serve as apropos karmic revenge for the afternoons I've spent listening to Jillian chatter about OHMYGODIDON'TCAREWHAT.
Macarena/Electric Slide/Chicken Dance. It doesn't matter which one you play, but there has never been a classy party where one these songs has made an appearance.
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This will not be a classy party.
Do Not Play: Jessie's Girl. I used to play weddings, and if I have to hear this song one more time, I'm going to fucking cut someone.
They said they don't have any preference's for attire, so I'll take that to mean you're ok in a threadbare Megadeth shirt and black jeans.
I will provide the PA (the band and sound system are my wedding present to them).
This is not a joke. Please shoot me an email if this sounds like something you might be interested in.
Why was this taken down? Foul language? Craigslist is so chock-full of creepy shit that I can hardly imagine what puts this nasty but harmless post over the line. I mean, they have an entire "Missed Connections" feature that appears to serve a dedicated community of peepers, stalkers, and potential rapists.
Knowing from painful firsthand experience what a Chicago Suburb banquet hall wedding is like, I hope the anonymous author can find a suitably terrible band to make the evening at least mildly entertaining for himself. I have no doubt that Tinley Park or Mount Greenwood will yield a band fitting this description, something along the lines of a Molly Hatchet cover band (possibly called Flirtin' With Disaster) or five heshers who work at the same Shell gas station and have a thrash metal band that has practiced twice.
Like a minority of married couples, we actively tried to make the process less terrible for our friends, members of the wedding party, and so on. How much we succeeded is questionable, but we tried. Whenever I feel like we failed, I will read this poor guy's story and realize that we could have been much bigger assheads and done things like ask our friends to find vendors to provide wedding-related services for free.
All but the most casual baseball fans know that Eddie Murray is a legend – first ballot Hall of Famer and a rare member of the exclusive 500 home run, 3000 hit club. There is nothing to be gained by debating something as obviously true as Murray's status as one of the greats. Similarly, serious fans understand that, despite having the most staggeringly awesome nickname in baseball history, Fred "Crime Dog" McGriff is not going to make it into Cooperstown. He probably won't even be on the ballot anymore after a few years.
We know Crime Dog's problem because we have all heard the argument: good but never great, no MVP awards, no singular defining moments in big games, and only six All-Star selections in 19 seasons. He is the classic "accumulator", a guy who approached big milestones simply by playing forever at an above-average level. Never a true star. If there was a Hall of the Very Good, McGriff would be in it. But not the Hall of Fame.
So it would be pretty silly to compare Crime Dog to Steady Eddie Murray, right? Of course it would, inasmuch as they were the exact same player. No, I take that back; McGriff was better.
PLUS, TOM EMANSKI COMMERCIALS. TAKE THAT, MURRAY.
McGriff retired with 493 HR and 2490 hits, both short of the magical 500/3000 markers. Murray posted 504 and 3255 hits, easily clearing the hurdle on hits but just squeaking by on HR. If McGriff had hit a paltry 7 more HR over 19 years, he would get into the HOF. Why? Because everyone with 500 HR gets in. Because it's 500! Which is a magical number! McGriff with 493 = good not great. McGriff with 501 = Hall of Famer.
Crime Dog matches up favorably with Murray in almost every category. 6 All-Star appearances in 19 season (8/21 for Murray). No MVP awards for either. One World Series ring each. A slash line of .284/.377/.509 (.287/.359/.476 for Murray). OPS+ of 134, five points above Murray's 129. Both played first base, and defense is one area in which Murray clearly outdoes Freddie (3 Gold Gloves, 6.5 career defensive Wins against Replacement). But let's not kid ourselves, nobody voted for Murray because of his D and no one will vote against McGriff on that basis either.
Here's the best part: McGriff's failure to hit the 500/3000 marks was nothing but a stroke of bad luck. Consider the following:
In 1994, McGriff fell victim to the players strike/lockout. That year he averaged 1 HR every 14 plate appearances. He played 113 games. Assume a normal season in which he plays 150 games at 4 PA per game. He lost 37 games, or 148 PA. At his HR rate, that means he lost 10 HR. So without the strike, McGriff ends his career with 503 HR. Murray hit 504.
McGriff's first season as a full-time player was age 23. Murray started at age 21. So on a per season basis, McGriff averaged 131 hits and 26 HR. Murray averaged 155 hits and 24 HR per season. Murray crossed 500 HR just by playing a little longer – he was an Accumulator.
Murray hung on until the dog-ass end of his career to reach 500 HR. McGriff tried but couldn't find a team to give him the at-bats. McGriff's last season, age 40, lasted only 27 games and a 53 OPS+. Murray's, age 41, was 55 games at the same terrible OPS+ (55). The big difference was that at age 40, Murray managed to convince the Orioles to bring him back for a sentimental homecoming…and 152 games/637 plate appearances of playing time. They put him out on the field that much even though he was horrible (87 OPS+). So basically Murray should have hung it up at age 40. But he didn't. He found a team to let him play a full season and tapped out 22 HR, including his 500th.
In short, Murray was the classic Accumulator. He was never a true superstar and he crossed the 500/3000 because he played forever and never got hurt. None of his career statistics differ significantly from McGriff's (not to mention other Accumulators like Paul Konerko, Rafael Palmeiro, or Dave "I'll play until I'm 43 to get 3000 hits" Winfield). He was a better defensive player than the Crime Dog but that is about it.
So the question is why Murray is a first ballot Hall of Famer and McGriff is not HOF-level. It boils down to the worship of arbitrary statistical milestones, namely the 500 HR barrier. In the most important stats like OPS+ or OBP, McGriff was actually better than Murray (and Winfield). A player's career does not become more impressive – certainly not in any meaningful way – when he moves from 499 to 500. Usually sportswriters and HOF voters fall back on the "no championships" argument, but Murray and McGriff each own a ring and the same number of WS appearances. Instead, they have to rely on dumb statistics like wins, total hits, and career HR totals to include or exclude players who never played in New York or Boston failed to meet the nebulous standards of true "stardom."
(PS: If I really wanted to be mean we could have used Andre Dawson, Jim Rice, or Winfield as a comparison instead of Murray. WTF on Dawson. Nice 119 OPS+ and .323 OBP, loser.)
One of the most frequent questions I get, be it from readers I know personally or random internet strangers, is "What does 'FJM' mean?" It stands for Fire Joe Morgan, a defunct blog about baseball written by a trio that remained anonymous for years but finally revealed their identities a short while before throwing in the towel ('Ken Tremendous' turned out to be Michael Schur, who is one of the head writers for The Office…and Dwight Schrute's cousin Mose). While very little Ginandtacos content is baseball-related – believe me, I resist the temptation almost weekly – I regularly borrow the classic FJM format of inserting smart-assed responses and profane comments into the text of an opinion column.
I've sent a few Ginandtacos FJMs to the original FJM troika but, being Hollywood Types, I assume they have better things to do with their time, or at least more important people to waste it with, than to read this thing or respond to random emails. With all due respect, I believe I've gotten pretty good at their art form with time and practice. I am no "dak" or Ken Tremendous, nor am I ready for employment at Fremulon Insurance, but I feel like I have gotten to the point at which I can FJM some pile of journalistic shit effectively enough that I wouldn't embarrass myself if compared to the masters.
Then I received with great delight the news of deadspin.com's FJM Reunion. Seeing the trio back at work again is a wonderful if somewhat humbling reminder of how far I have to go to reach their level of excellence. Just…go there now. Read. Drink it in. Unfortunately (and I think this is one point in favor of the G&T FJM) their pieces will not make sense to non-baseball fans. To limit such brilliance to a small subset of American sports fans is a shame. Without understanding Juan Pierre, VORP, Derek Jeter, the verbal diarrhea of Joe Morgan himself, and the occasion Plaschke op-ed, one cannot really appreciate what they are doing.
I hope the reunion becomes an annual event. In the meantime I will continue to use FJM as both a verb and a noun to pay homage to the original site. Guys, if you ever stumble across Ginandtacos while Googling "FJM", rest assured that I have done my best to uphold the guiding principle of FireJoeMorgan.com: to point out mercilessly – in the most profane and amusing way possible – retarded arguments made by nitwits in the vain hope of making our world more hospitable to logic and hostile to demonstrably false folk wisdom and "common sense."
I was going to give this the "Skip This if You Hate Sports" tag, but videos of people hurting themselves are something everyone can enjoy. While many of you are not big on sports, I've watched quite a bit throughout my life and every once in a while someone gets maimed to the extent that I am forced to remember "Oh, so THIS is why I'm cool with these people making millions of dollars." In fact, nothing irritates me more than listening to people (usually pasty, lazy people posting on sports message boards while on the clock at work) whine about what professional athletes make. Most NFL players can barely walk by the time they're 50, if they reach 50. They're putting themselves in a position to be crippled a few hundred times per week; I'm OK with them making whatever the market for their services will bear.
Having had the opportunity as a pseudo-journalist to go "behind the scenes" at an NFL training camp several years ago, I really grew to appreciate what athletes do to their bodies for our amusement. At the same time I am like a 13 year-old watching Jackass when I see some of this shit. If you're eating or you get queasy with minimal provocation, I'll urge caution. If you're a sick bastard who likes to watch car accidents and yell out "HOLY BALLS DID YOU SEE WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT DUDE'S LEG???" during football games, well, here you go.
Come on. Just let yourself enjoy it, you degenerate. Tangentially, this will have to be limited to videos available on the internets, meaning that the worst thing I've ever seen – Bryant Young's broken leg which left his leg below the knee turned 90 degrees off of the correct direction – has to be omitted, among others.
8. Soccer player Oupa Ngulube breaks his leg.
Wow, Joe Theismann's legendary leg break looks like a sprained ankle compared to this. Check the slow-mo starting at 0:54 (or right here). It gets worse from here on, people.
7. Greg Louganis' head + diving board = bad.
I recall watching this live as a child and being absolutely stunned that he got out of the pool. It's hard to watch this (especially the second video, starting around 0:40) without thinking "OK, yeah, that guy just died."
6. Willis McGahee's knee vs. the laws of physics.
The classic American football total knee blowout. One minute everyone is watching the game, then the next minute we are yelling "HOLY SHIT, DUDE!!!" at the television. Things just aren't supposed to bend that way. McGahee recovered to have a nice NFL career, although he probably wasn't as good as he could have been without the horrible injury.
5. Mary Pierce makes the scariest horror film ever.
This one really doesn't look like much, but the audio is…not pleasant. Extra bonus points for the stupid judge in the pantsuit who walks over like "Excuse me Ms. Pierce, are you alright?" The amount of time it required for her to get medical attention makes me wonder if tennis tournaments are run by monkeys. I like how everyone just stares at her for a minute or two. Way to go, Brits.
4. DeAndre Brown goes all Twizzler-legged.
God bless the American TV networks for being sure to replay injuries hundreds of times from multiple angles and at multiple speeds. Note how his opponent comes over for the standard "Nice play, let me help you up" routine but rapidly turns away in disgust to summon medical help from the sidelines. I am pretty sure the only thing holding his foot on his leg was the sock and perhaps a little skin. And WTF is that trainer doing? "Here, DeAndre. Tell me if it helps if I wiggle the dangling broken part around for no apparent reason. Does that hurt?"
3. Shun Fujimoto shrugs off a destroyed knee at the Olympics
The American stereotype of the Japanese usually involves superhuman levels of dedication and self-sacrifice. I think this was largely reinforced by Mr. Fujimoto's performance at the 1976 Olympics. With a shattered kneecap and torn ACL, he finished the last two events (9.7 on the pommel horse, 9.5 on rings) so the Japanese team could defeat the USSR. His ring dismount shoved the pieces of his shattered kneecap into his thigh. Read that again. He was also famously parodied on The Simpsons. The team surgeon said "How he managed to land without collapsing in screams is beyond my comprehension," which is doctor speak for "What the fuck, man…"
2. Napoleon McCallum redefines horrific knee blowouts
This…this isn't right. It unfolds in slow-motion, and I think we could start a new internet meme of reaction videos from people watching this for the first time. "Hmm, looks OK so far. He's starting to get caught in a pile up. Looks like his foot is OH HOLY FUCK, MAN!" Teammate Tim Brown later said he vomited on the sideline and had nightmares after seeing the injury. You can't un-see this shit. McCallum blew every knee ligament AND broke his leg in several places. Sadly, and somewhat obviously, his bright career ended here.
1. Clint Malarchuk really should not be alive right now
OK. Text before video on this one. The video is not pretty, but it's actually tame compared to how bad the injury was.
A skate clipped the Sabres goalie in the tiny area under his goal mask but above his chest protector, essentially…cutting his throat. The announcers (appropriately) flip the hell out, as do players on the ice. Malarchuk later stated, "All I wanted to do was get off the ice." OK, sounds reasonable for an injured player. "My mother was watching the game on TV, and I didn't want her to see me die."
Oh.
Then he asked the trainer for a priest. This is where it gets intense. The trainer, a Canadian Army medic from the Vietnam War, reaches into the wound and pinches the carotid artery closed with his fingers. This is turning into, like, beer commercial levels of heroic manliness. "Fuck that priest noise, Clint. I am going to close your mortal wound with my goddamn bare hands." Doctors sealed him up with 300+ stitches and noted that had the cut been deeper or the medic not been such a hard-ass, the player would have been dead in less than 90 seconds. Jesus.
And that is why I support athletes' right to get paid whatever the market will pay them to maim and kill themselves in the name of mass entertainment.
One of my favorite things on the internet is the frequent posts on Jezebel regarding magazine photoshopping. Imagine my delight upon discovering Photoshop Disasters, The Blog. Go on, spend 15 or 20 minutes browsing the archives there. buy zydena online buy zydena no prescription
One gem after another.
I cannot check out of a grocery store without doubling over in laughter at a magazine cover bearing a photo of Sandra Lee or (more frequently) Paula Deen. To say that they look like Barbie would be an insult to Barbie. To say that they look like porcelain dolls would invite lawsuits from the Franklin Mint. Seriously, look at this shit:
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HER FACE. The eyes are a horror matched in intensity only by the teeth and lips. online pharmacy azithromycin best drugstore for you
In comparison, Sandra Lee looks normal. Oh, wait. No she doesn't.
Although I enjoy Jezebel's continued coverage and commentary on this subject, I can't work up much rage over it because this crap looks so stupid to me. I am 100% certain that many magazine readers do not realize that these images are photoshopped but I cannot help my own reaction: "No one could possibly think this is real." It could not possibly look any more fake. It is just comical.
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Yes. Definitely. BUT JESUS JONES, LOOK AT HOW FAKE THAT LOOKS. Come on, people.
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I mean, this makes absolutely no spatial sense whatsoever. They have literally chopped her legs off at the hips and relocated them elsewhere in the photo. If not for this, the horrendous facial airbrushing would be more noticeable. They might as well have given her a third arm.
Oh, wait. They've already tried that one. Note to self – always photoshop an arm holding an ice cream cone into a picture of someone who is accused of being a fatty. Maybe next time Whitney Houston can have four arms, each cradling a White Castle Crave Case.
I know, I know. This should be a source of outrage and not entertainment for me. But it's too funny to be taken seriously on a regular basis (although the "anorexia photoshop" thing is patently offensive). As far as the media's pernicious habits go, I'd rather have one that makes me laugh than one that will give me horrifying nightmares.
AAAAAAAHHHHH. KILL IT KILL IT SOMEBODY KILL IT. LURE IT INTO THE BASEMENT. WE'LL BURN THE HOUSE DOWN ON TOP OF IT.
Following up on last Friday's Apollo 11 theme, it wasn't all fun and tiny silicon disks.
As some commenters debated last week, the moon landing was seen as an enormously risky proposition, even within NASA. It makes sense when you realize that the operation was executed with 1960s microcomputing technology, i.
e. that the Apollo Guidance Computer had but a tiny fraction of the capability of a modern cellphone. NASA's odds, at the request of the Nixon White House, were 50/50. In reality NASA probably had somewhat more confidence in the mission but tried to err on the conservative side. I find it hard to believe they really would have attempted it with coin flip odds on the lives of two astronauts.
Regardless, they were worried enough that Nixon prepared (more accurately, speechwriter William Safire prepared) an address in the event that Aldrin and Armstrong had to be left behind. Additionally, Michael Collins, the Command Module Pilot, was allegedly briefed extensively on scenarios that involved abandoning them. The speech itself is pretty jarring, but what they planned to do in the event of the astronauts being stranded on the moon was downright disturbing.
Fate has ordained that the men who went to the moon to explore in peace will stay on the moon to rest in peace.
These brave men, Neil Armstrong and Edwin Aldrin, know that there is no hope for their recovery. But they also know that there is hope for mankind in their sacrifice.
These two men are laying down their lives in mankind's most noble goal: the search for truth and understanding.
They will be mourned by their families and friends; they will be mourned by the nation; they will be mourned by the people of the world; they will be mourned by a Mother Earth that dared send two of her sons into the unknown. buy xifaxan online cpff.ca/wp-content/languages/new/canadaa/xifaxan.html no prescription
In their exploration, they stirred the people of the world to feel as one; in their sacrifice, they bind more tightly the brotherhood of man.
In ancient days, men looked at the stars and saw their heroes in the constellations. In modern times, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men of flesh and blood.
The President should telephone each of the widows-to-be.
AFTER THE PRESIDENT'S STATEMENT, AT THE POINT WHEN NASA ENDS COMMUNICATIONS WITH THE MEN:
A clergyman should adopt the same procedure as a burial at sea, commending their souls to "the deepest of the deep," concluding with the Lord's Prayer.
Yeah. So the plan was to cut off communication with them and just leave them there. Like, "OK, bye guys!" Their choices at that point would have been to wait until their oxygen ran out (perhaps a few hours, counting what was in the lander) or open up their suits and have a faster but remarkably unpleasant death.
Personally I find it very hard to believe the people in Houston would actually have ended communication with them. On a personal level that seems unlikely at best, given how small of a community the early space program was. It seems more plausible that they would have cut off communication for public consumption but left open a line in the control room, giving the astronauts the choice of when to end contact.
In any event, it is a substantial understatement to say that I'm glad we did not have to find out how this process would work by experiencing it.
When the first humans set foot on the Moon on July 20, 1969 (Apollo 11), many people know that they left behind a plaque and an American flag to clarify that We conquered space and not You. Space aficionados probably know some other neat trivia about the event, but I've rarely encountered anyone who knows the story of the most interesting artifact left behind by the astronauts.
The U.S. collected 73 "goodwill messages" from nations around the world and, showing off some technology that was new at the time, engraved every word on a tiny silicon disc. If you look closely, the tiny blocks of text are faintly noticeable in this picture, with a 50-cent piece for reference:
Thankfully, NASA's archives contain a photocopy, albeit of mediocre quality, of the full text of the tiny messages. It is an amazing time capsule of the world in 1969. Scrolling through the document reveals a parade of CIA-supported right-wing dictators, Soviet client state puppets, and the combination of earnest revolutionaries and genuine crackpots governing African nations less than 10 years old. I can't help but point out a few highlights.
We have craziness, courtesy of Liberian president W.V.S. Tubman:
We salute these explorers of outer space and pray for their security and safety while we admire their courage and intrepidity. I ask them to bear this message to the inhabitants of the Moon if they find any there. If they do not, it is my desire that this message be one of greetings from the people of Liberia and myself to the Moon, Nebulous satellite of the Earth.
Is "nebulous" the right word there? L.S. Senghor, the president of Senegal, gives us the flavor of the late '60s with a line straight out of a blaxploitation film:
This is a message from black militants. It is a message of human solidarity, a message of peace.
I…see. The Polish Ambassador offers tidings simply drenched in the sentimentality and human feeling for which Soviet Bloc governments were so well known:
Although we are not suggesting any message from the Polish Head of State, please be assured that the achievements of the U.S. astronauts are followed by us with great interest, appreciation and best wishes for the success in their endeavor.
But seriously, a few of the messages are remarkably lyrical, using the kind of language that modern political leaders have abandoned in the continuing effort to dumb it down:
The Government and people of Trinidad and Tobago acclaim this historic triumph of science and the human will. It is our earnest hope for mankind that while we gain the moon, we shall not lose the world. (Eric Williams, Prime Minister of Trinidad & Tobago)
I would hope that when this passenger from the sky leaves man's imprint on lunar soil, he will feel how proud we are to belong to the generation which has accomplished this feat. I hope also that he would tell the Moon how beautiful it is when it illuminates the nights of the Ivory Coast. I especially wish that he would turn towards our planet Earth and cry out how insignificant the problems which torture men are, when viewed from up there. May his word, descending from the sky, find in the Cosmos the force and light which will permit him to convince humanity of the beauty of progress in brotherhood and peace. (Felix Houphouet-Boigny, President of Ivory Coast)
We feel admiration and confidence toward all those who have cooperated in this performance, and especially towards the three courageous men who take with them our hopes, as well as those, from all nations, who were their forerunners or who will follow them in space. With awe we consider the power with which man has been entrusted and the duties which devolve on him. We are deeply conscious of our responsibility with respect to the tasks which may be open to us in the universe, but also to those which remain to be fulfilled on this earth, so to bring more justice and more happiness to mankind. (Baudouin, King of Belgium)
Pope Paul VI also contributed the oddly appropriate-for-the-occasion Psalms 8, although we may safely assume that its author did not have lunar conquest in mind.
Overall, I love the story of this disc and its text as quasi-time capsule from a very different time. For those of us who were not alive to see this happen these words provide valuable context for one of the most interesting eras in history, politically speaking, representing the peak of both the Cold War and American power. For you old timers who saw this happen live, hopefully these well-wishes lead to a positive trip down memory lane.
