Jack Kerouac’s Naval Reserve Enlistment Mugshot, 1943

kerouac mugshot

In the sum­mer of 1942, Jack Ker­ouac fol­lowed in the foot­steps of Joseph Con­rad and Eugene O’Neill and went to sea. After drop­ping out of Colum­bia Uni­ver­si­ty the pre­vi­ous Fall, the 20-year-old Ker­ouac signed up for the mer­chant marine and shipped out aboard the U.S. Army Trans­port ship Dorch­ester.

Although World War II had bro­ken out at about the time of his depar­ture from Colum­bia, Ker­ouac’s motives for going to sea were more per­son­al than patri­ot­ic. “My moth­er is very wor­ried over my hav­ing joined the Mer­chant Marine,” Ker­ouac wrote in his jour­nal at the time, “but I need mon­ey for col­lege, I need adven­ture, of a sort (the real adven­ture of rot­ting wharves and seag­ulls, winey waters and ships, ports, cities, and faces & voic­es); and I want to study more of the earth, not out of books, but from direct expe­ri­ence.”

In Octo­ber of 1942, after com­plet­ing a voy­age to and from an Army com­mand base in Green­land (which he would lat­er write about in Van­i­ty of Dulu­oz), Ker­ouac left the mer­chant marine and returned to Colum­bia. That was lucky, because most of the Dorch­ester’s crew–more than 600 men–died three months lat­er when the ship was tor­pe­doed by a Ger­man U‑boat. But the rest­less Ker­ouac last­ed only a month at Colum­bia before drop­ping out again and mak­ing plans to return to sea. In Decem­ber of 1942 he enlist­ed in the U.S. Naval Reserve. He want­ed to join the Naval Air Force, but failed an apti­tude test. So on Feb­ru­ary 26, 1943 he was sent to the Naval Train­ing Sta­tion in New­port, Rhode Island. That’s appar­ent­ly when the pho­to­graph above was tak­en of the young Ker­ouac with his mil­i­tary hair­cut. It would have been right around the time of his 21st birth­day.

Ker­ouac last­ed only 10 days in boot camp. As Miri­am Klie­man writes at the Nation­al Archives, “The qual­i­ties that made On the Road a huge suc­cess and Ker­ouac a pow­er­ful sto­ry­teller, guide, and lit­er­ary icon are the same ones that ren­dered him remark­ably unsuit­able for the mil­i­tary: inde­pen­dence, cre­ativ­i­ty, impul­siv­i­ty, sen­su­al­i­ty, and reck­less­ness.” Accord­ing to files released by the gov­ern­ment in 2005, Naval doc­tors at New­port found Ker­ouac to be “rest­less, apa­thet­ic, seclu­sive” and deter­mined that he was men­tal­ly unfit for ser­vice, writ­ing that “neu­ropsy­chi­atric exam­i­na­tion dis­closed audi­to­ry hal­lu­ci­na­tions, ideas of ref­er­ence and sui­cide, and a ram­bling, grandiose, philo­soph­i­cal man­ner.” He was sent to the Naval Hos­pi­tal in Bethes­da Mary­land and even­tu­al­ly dis­charged.

For more on Ker­ouac’s brief adven­ture in the Navy, read Kleiman’s Arti­cle, “Hit the Road, Jack! Ker­ouac Enlist­ed in the U.S. Navy But was Found ‘Unfit for Ser­vice’ ”

Relat­ed con­tent:

Jack Ker­ouac Reads from On the Road, 1959

Jack Ker­ouac’s 30 Rev­e­la­tions for Writ­ing Mod­ern Prose

How “Space Oddity” Launched David Bowie to Stardom: Watch the Original Music Video From 1969

It may seem odd to con­tem­plate, but rock titan David Bowie’s rise to fame was a long, frus­trat­ing, stop-and-start affair until he burst onto the inter­na­tion­al scene as Zig­gy Star­dust (though he had some suc­cess with his two pri­or albums, the excel­lent The Man Who Sold the World and Hunky Dory). This is part­ly due to poor man­age­ment, and part­ly due to Bowie’s own dif­fi­cul­ty in find­ing a style that fit his ambi­tions. His first hit, “Space Odd­i­ty,” from his sec­ond, 1969, album of the same name, promised great things. (That record, orig­i­nal­ly called, like his first, just David Bowie, was renamed after the song did the Sev­en­ties equiv­a­lent of viral.) Most peo­ple who grew up with Bowie would tell you the song is a water­shed moment in their dis­cov­ery of pop music’s poten­tial. I recall dis­cov­er­ing Bowie at a young age through “Space Odd­i­ty,” and being giv­en the album on cas­sette as a birth­day present. Like many peo­ple, I was a lit­tle flum­moxed by the record. None of it resem­bles the sin­gle, which isn’t nec­es­sar­i­ly a bad qual­i­ty in gen­er­al, but in this case, it’s hard to know what to make of that strange col­lec­tion of some­times com­ic, Bea­t­les-esque pop frag­ments (“Don’t Sit Down”), some­times cool pro­gres­sive rock (“Janine”), and some­times almost medieval, Judy Collins-like hip­py folk (“Mem­o­ry of a Free Fes­ti­val,” “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud”). I grew to love it, but the album’s eclec­ti­cism did­n’t win many over.

Still, near­ly every­one knows and loves the album ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty.” But like a great deal of Bowie’s ear­ly work, the song exists in an ear­li­er, more ten­ta­tive ver­sion. Ini­tial­ly record­ed short­ly after his first album, 1967’s David Bowie—which Bowie biog­ra­ph­er David Buck­ley called “the vinyl equiv­a­lent of the mad­woman in the attic”—the song end­ed up on an abortive pro­mo­tion­al film com­mis­sioned by Bowie’s pro­duc­er, Ken­neth Pitt. Called Love You Till Tues­day, after the sin­gle from the first album, the film fin­ished shoot­ing in 1969, but didn’t see the light of day until 1984, long after Bowie hit it big.

The film ver­sion of “Space Odd­i­ty” (first video) dif­fers sig­nif­i­cant­ly in sound and vision from the one right above. For one thing, Bowie, who wore a wig for the extent of film­ing because he’d shorn off his hair to audi­tion for a role, looks decid­ed­ly less, well, like a rock star. As “Ground Con­trol,” his Janis Joplin glass­es clash odd­ly with an arty t‑shirt and what looks like a child’s base­ball cap perched atop his wig, both embla­zoned with “GC.” He stands cross-armed and awk­ward, lip synch­ing between space sequences. Of the lat­ter, “Major Tom” parts, one YouTube com­menter quips, “We have no bud­get, no props, only bak­ing foil and corn­flake pack­ets.… Oh well make the video any­way.” Sums things up pret­ty well.

Even more so than those who bought Space Odd­i­ty after hear­ing its name­sake sin­gle, any­one who heard this ear­ly ver­sion, then went and bought Bowie’s first album would have been thor­ough­ly per­plexed. ‘67’s David Bowie is a very strange, though some­times very intrigu­ing, record, large­ly influ­enced by the musi­cal com­e­dy of pop­u­lar Eng­lish enter­tain­er Antho­ny New­ley. Watch the film’s title track (and open­ing sequence), “Love You Till Tues­day” below, with Bowie, in wig and frilly Austin Pow­ers suit, doing some weird Tom Jones thing that just real­ly does­n’t work.

Had Bowie fol­lowed this tra­jec­to­ry, instead of find­ing his voice in the space­rock of his first big sin­gle, it’s pret­ty like­ly no one would have heard from him again. Lucky for us, the young pop star was noth­ing if not per­sis­tent.  And lucky for us, he still is. The 66-year-old Bowie just released his first sin­gle in a decade, the con­tem­pla­tive “Where Are We Now?” with an album, The Next Day, com­ing in March.

Relat­ed Con­tent

The Sto­ry of Zig­gy Star­dust: How David Bowie Cre­at­ed the Char­ac­ter that Made Him Famous

David Bowie Cel­e­brates 66th Birth­day with First New Song in a Decade, Plus Vin­tage Videos

David Bowie’s First Amer­i­can Fan Let­ter And His Evolv­ing Views of the U.S. (1967–1997)

Josh Jones is a free­lance writer, edi­tor, and musi­cian based in Wash­ing­ton, DC. Fol­low him @jdmagness

NASA Sends Image of the Mona Lisa to the Moon and Back

The same super-fast laser tech­nol­o­gy that sent clear images of Mars back to Earth just cleared anoth­er hur­dle clos­er to home by send­ing an image of the Mona Lisa to the sur­face of the moon and back again.

Sci­en­tists at NASA want­ed to know whether they could use laser puls­es to “com­mu­ni­cate” with the lunar sur­face using the same tool that tracks the posi­tion of the Lunar Recon­nais­sance Orbiter.

The team sent a dig­i­tized ver­sion of Leonardo’s famous­ly inscrutable sig­no­ra from the God­dard Space Cen­ter in Mary­land 240,000 miles up to a laser trans­mit­ter aboard the orbit­ing space­craft. Pix­els trav­eled one at a time and were adjust­ed for bright­ness by con­trolled delays in their arrival time. The team cor­rect­ed errors in the image using com­mon DVD and CD tech­niques.

Pret­ty much every­body knows what the Mona Lisa looks like, so maybe that’s why they picked her face, instead of, well, mine. Maybe NASA is hop­ing her name will be changed to Moona Lisa.

The Lunar Recon­nais­sance Orbiter (explained above) began its lunar orbit near­ly four years ago. Laser puls­es beam down to the moon and then bounce back to form images of the sur­face. Like those star­tling pic­tures of Mars, laser tech­nol­o­gy is help­ing devel­op a crys­tal clear topo­graph­i­cal map of the moon, includ­ing the tracks of two astro­nauts’ unsuc­cess­ful trek to the top of a crater and the site of a lost Russ­ian rover.

The Mona Lisa’s trip to the moon is impor­tant because the image was sent at the same time as laser puls­es that track the craft’s position—the first out­er space con­fer­ence call—and it sets the stage for future high-data trans­mis­sions between Earth and its satel­lite explor­ers.

via The Atlantic

Relat­ed Con­tent

NASA Presents “The Earth as Art” in a Free eBook and Free iPad App

Leonard Nimoy Nar­rates Short Film About NASA’s Dawn: A Voy­age to the Ori­gins of the Solar Sys­tem

NASA’s “Spot the Sta­tion” Will Text or Email You When the Space Sta­tion Pass­es Over Your Home

Kate Rix writes about dig­i­tal media and edu­ca­tion. Vis­it her at .

Lovers and Philosophers — Jean-Paul Sartre & Simone de Beauvoir Together in 1967

Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beau­voir. They were the intel­lec­tu­al pow­er cou­ple of the 20th cen­tu­ry. Some have called Sartre the father of Exis­ten­tial­ism. But per­haps it’s more accu­rate to call him the chief pop­u­lar­iz­er of the philo­soph­i­cal move­ment. And Simone de Beau­voir, she wrote The Sec­ond Sex, the sprawl­ing 1949 tome that laid the intel­lec­tu­al foun­da­tion for sec­ond-wave fem­i­nism that explod­ed dur­ing the 1960s.

The two philoso­phers first became an item in Octo­ber 1929, but it was nev­er a tra­di­tion­al rela­tion­ship. They nei­ther mar­ried nor shared the same liv­ing quar­ters, and they famous­ly had an open rela­tion­ship. But, as de Beau­voir said, “The com­rade­ship that weld­ed our lives togeth­er made a super­flu­ous mock­ery of any oth­er bond we might have forged for our­selves.”

They were a pow­er­ful cou­ple, writes Louis Menand in The New York­er, “with inde­pen­dent lives, who met in cafés, where they wrote their books and saw their friends at sep­a­rate tables… but who main­tained a kind of soul mar­riage.” What­ev­er your per­son­al views, you need to con­sid­er this: The rela­tion­ship worked for Sartre and de Beau­voir for 50 years.

Despite their celebri­ty, we’ve rarely come across footage of the two philoso­phers togeth­er. So we’re bring­ing you this — a rare clip from a 1967 doc­u­men­tary filmed at Sartre’s Mont­par­nasse high-rise apart­ment, over­look­ing the ceme­tery where the two philoso­phers were even­tu­al­ly buried. Some­what fit­ting­ly, we see the two intel­lec­tu­als, but nev­er in the same frame. You can pur­chase the com­plete film for edu­ca­tion­al use here.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Jean-Paul Sartre Breaks Down the Bad Faith of Intel­lec­tu­als

Jean-Paul Sartre Writes a Script for John Huston’s Film on Freud (1958)

Sartre, Hei­deg­ger, Niet­zsche: Three Philoso­phers in Three Hours

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“Moon Hoax Not”: Short Film Explains Why It Was Impossible to Fake the Moon Landing

S.G. Collins does­n’t trust the Unit­ed States gov­ern­ment. They “lie all the time, about all kinds of things,” he insists, “and if they haven’t lied to you today, maybe they haven’t had cof­fee yet.” Like some of those who express a sim­i­lar dis­trust, he claims he has no way to ver­i­fy that NASA land­ed on the moon in 1969. But unlike most of that sub­set, he does­n’t think the gov­ern­ment could have pulled off a con­vinc­ing hoax about it. In oth­er words, Amer­i­ca “did have the tech­ni­cal abil­i­ty, not to men­tion the req­ui­site mad­ness, to send three guys to the moon and back. They did not have the tech­nol­o­gy to fake it on video.” Calm­ly, method­i­cal­ly, with a dead­pan wit, Collins uses the thir­teen min­utes of Moon Hoax Not to explain exact­ly why, as improb­a­ble as the real moon land­ing sounds, a fake moon land­ing would have been down­right impos­si­ble.

“The lat­er you were born,” Collins says, “the more all-pow­er­ful movie mag­ic seems.” Hol­ly­wood could now fake dozens of moon land­ings every day, but they did­n’t always have that abil­i­ty. Mar­shal­ing knowl­edge accrued over thir­ty years as a pho­tog­ra­ph­er, he address­es each of the points that moon-land­ing con­spir­a­cy the­o­rists com­mon­ly cite as visu­al evi­dence of the sup­posed fraud. He also brings to bear facts from the his­to­ry of video tech­nol­o­gy, such as 1969’s com­plete lack of the high-speed video cam­eras, need­ed to shoot the sort of slow motion nec­es­sary to cre­ate the illu­sion of low grav­i­ty. And what if they’d shot the entire Apol­lo 11 tele­cast on film instead? Collins also knows, and names, exact­ly the prob­lems even the most ambi­tious, tech­no­log­i­cal­ly advanced char­la­tans would have encoun­tered, even—as in moon-land­ing hoax mock­u­men­tary Dark Side of the Moon—with Stan­ley Kubrick on their side.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Dark Side of the Moon: A Mock­u­men­tary on Stan­ley Kubrick and the Moon Land­ing Hoax

Michio Kaku Schools Takes on Moon Land­ing-Con­spir­a­cy Believ­er on His Sci­ence Fan­tas­tic Pod­cast

The Moon Dis­as­ter That Wasn’t: Nixon’s Speech In Case Apol­lo 11 Failed to Return

Col­in Mar­shall hosts and pro­duces Note­book on Cities and Cul­ture and writes essays on lit­er­a­ture, film, cities, Asia, and aes­thet­ics. He’s at work on a book about Los Ange­les, A Los Ange­les Primer. Fol­low him on Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Gimme Shelter: Watch the Classic Documentary of the Rolling Stones’ Disastrous Concert at Altamont

It’s often remem­bered as the day the Six­ties died. On Decem­ber 6, 1969, the Rolling Stones and a group of West Coast bands put on a free con­cert at the Alta­mont Race­way near San Fran­cis­co. The con­cert was billed as “Wood­stock West,” but instead of being anoth­er gath­er­ing of peace, love and music, it was more like a bad trip.

The event was hasti­ly put togeth­er by the Stones to cel­e­brate the end of their Amer­i­can tour, their first with gui­tarist Mick Tay­lor. The stage at the venue was unusu­al­ly low and was sit­u­at­ed at the bot­tom of a hill. To keep the audi­ence of 300,000 peo­ple from engulf­ing the stage, some­one had the bright idea of enlist­ing the Hells Angels motor­cy­cle gang to form a secu­ri­ty cor­don around the stage in exchange for (essen­tial­ly) all the beer they could drink.

As the con­cert descend­ed into chaos, the Hells Angels beat peo­ple with pool cues and motor­cy­cle chains. A gui­tarist and singer for the Jef­fer­son Air­plane, Mar­ty Balin, was knocked uncon­scious. When a man in the audi­ence bran­dished a pis­tol dur­ing an alter­ca­tion while the Stones were onstage, he was stabbed and beat­en to death by mem­bers of the gang.

The whole sor­ry episode is cap­tured in Gimme Shel­ter, the clas­sic doc­u­men­tary by the broth­ers Albert and David Maysles and Char­lotte Zwerin. The film was released in 1970 and can be seen above in its entire­ty. Gimme Shel­ter con­tains ele­ments of a typ­i­cal rock and roll doc­u­men­tary, with footage of the Stones on the road and play­ing a con­cert at Madi­son Square Gar­den in New York. But the main focus is Alta­mont. The Maysles broth­ers hired a large team of cam­era­men for the event, includ­ing film­mak­er Robert Elf­strom, Mag­num pho­tog­ra­ph­er Elliott Erwitt and a young George Lucas.

Gimme Shel­ter is a fas­ci­nat­ing record of the Six­ties coun­ter­cul­ture as it was falling apart. The last third of the pic­ture is painful to watch but dif­fi­cult to turn away from. The hubris and naiveté of the time are cap­tured in a scene before the event, when Mick Jag­ger tells a group of reporters what Alta­mont is all about: “It’s cre­at­ing a sort of micro­cos­mic soci­ety, which sets an exam­ple to the rest of Amer­i­ca as to how one can behave in large gath­er­ings.”

Relat­ed Con­tent

The Rolling Stones Jam With Their Idol, Mud­dy Waters

The Rolling Stones at 50: Mick, Kei­th, Char­lie & Ron­nie Revis­it Their Favorite Songs

Pope John Paul II Takes Batting Practice in California, 1987

Pope John Paul II had a mixed lega­cy. Some good, some bad. But what­ev­er your take on him, you have to give him this — the Pon­tiff could swing a good bat. Vis­it­ing Cal­i­for­nia in 1987, the 67 year-old Pope head­ed to the bat­ting cages and start­ed lin­ing sin­gles and dou­bles, maybe even a few triples. As the video pro­ceeds, we dis­cov­er that the switch-hit­ting Pope had pre­vi­ous­ly honed his bat­ting skills in the Vat­i­can Soft­ball League. The clip con­cludes with the gra­cious hosts giv­ing the Pope the roy­al treat­ment, treat­ing him to a nice 1980s-style ener­gy drink in a sty­ro­foam cup. Pret­ty posh. h/t Metafil­ter

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Walter Lewin, the Original Star of Open Education, Returns with a Brand New Physics MOOC

It seems like not a week goes by with­out The New York Times writ­ing a gush­ing pro­file about Cours­era. It’s hard to believe, but back dur­ing anoth­er day, there was anoth­er dar­ling of the open edu­ca­tion move­ment. And his name was Wal­ter Lewin. In a 2007 pro­file, the same New York Times called him “an inter­na­tion­al Inter­net guru” and high­light­ed his wild­ly pop­u­lar physics cours­es record­ed at MIT. Those cours­es — find them in our col­lec­tion of Free Online Physics Cours­es, part of our col­lec­tion of 825 Free Online Cours­es — were wide­ly dis­trib­uted through YouTube and iTunes. Now the MOOCs have come along, and Lewin isn’t let­ting him­self get swept to the side. On Feb­ru­ary 18, Lewin and his MIT col­leagues will launch a new course on edX called Elec­tric­i­ty and Mag­net­ism. Draw­ing on Lewin’s famous lec­ture series, Elec­tric­i­ty and Mag­net­ism will run 17 weeks, requir­ing stu­dents to put in about 9–12 hours per week. You can reserve your free seat in the course today and watch Lewin do what he does best.

If physics isn’t your thing, you can find oth­er MOOCs get­ting start­ed lat­er this month, or in Feb­ru­ary.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Best Lines of Wal­ter Lewin, MIT Physics Prof & Web Star

Michio Kaku Explains the Physics Behind Absolute­ly Every­thing

Physics: Free Cours­es

 

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