Anzac: a word of humble origin

It’s Anzac day today on both sides of the Tasman, a day of remembrance that strikes to the heart of national sentiment in Australia and New Zealand.

Anzac beach, Gallipoli.  Hampton, W A, fl 1915 :Photograph album relating to World War I. Ref: 1/2-168790-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. http://natlib.govt.nz/records/22796036

Anzac beach, Gallipoli. Hampton, W A, fl 1915 :Photograph album relating to World War I. Ref: 1/2-168790-F. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand. http://natlib.govt.nz/records/22796036

All of which belies the humble origins of the term.

Anzac began as a straight-forward acronym, a simple description of the combined Australian and New Zealand Army Corps formed under Lieutenant-General William Birdwood in Egypt in early December 1914.  They were a lash-up. The two formations had been on their way to Britain, via the Mediterranean, to join the fighting on the Western Front. When war broke out with Turkey, they were dumped in Egypt as a hedge against possible Turkish intrusion from Palestine.

That acronym gained enduring life when it was turned into a rubber stamp, “A.&N.Z.A.C.”, by two staff sergeants, A. T. Little and Millington, to frank incoming mail. Apparently this was in use by early January 1915, and the Corps became known by the acronym – which was more euphonious than the alternative ‘NZAAC’.

The Gallipoli operation was proposed a little later, using the ANZAC Corps largely because they happened to be in Egypt at the time. Birdwood’s staff – ensconced in the Shepheard’s Hotel, Cairo – began casting around for a formal military code name for the unit. After several false starts came up with the idea of using ‘ANZAC’.

Exactly how that happened, though, has been a matter of versions – the documentation varies, underscoring the difficulties of pursuing historical detail down to its ‘quantum uncertainty’ level. Depending on which account you believe, the idea was either proposed by Lieutenant A. T. White, or somebody else on Birdwood’s staff. In 1936, Little wrote to the RSA newsletter claiming that he had the idea and put it to White. But Little’s account seems to conflate this moment and the stamp-making idea, months earlier.

My photo of soldiers' graves at Tyne Cot, 2004.

My photo of soldiers’ graves at Tyne Cot, 2004.

It remains one of those awkward issues flowing from inadequate and contradictory source documentation. But the fact that we don’t know the exact conversation in that room in the Shepheard’s Hotel doesn’t reduce the fact that ANZAC as a military code name emerged from those people and that room – one way or another – and that Birdwood liked it. So ANZAC became the code name for the force.

The acronym soon became a word, starting with ‘Anzac Cove’ as a nickname for the bay south of Ari Burnu where the Australians and Kiwis landed on 25 April. It was embodied in the “Anzac Book”, written later in 1915 by the Anzacs at Gallipoli. The name was perpetuated in 1916 when the two main Australian and New Zealand formations on the Western Front, in France and Belgium, became 1 Anzac and 2 Anzac Corps.

By this time it was also in common usage as a word back in Australia and New Zealand – not just as the nickname for the oatmeal biscuits being sent to the men at the front, but also to identify the memorial services that began, almost spontaneously, on the first anniversary of the landings.

By 1920 the term was well ensconced, a neologism to conjure with on both sides of the Tasman – as, indeed, it still is today.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

 

 

Gallipoli ghost mystery solved

A couple of days ago, New Zealand’s online news site Stuff published a photo by one of their photographers taken at dusk, in a cemetery on Gallipoli.

It’s a haunting image – apparently literally. Someone’s sitting on a seat in the distance, and beside them – in just one frame – is the apparent shadow, half-obscured by a flower which the shadow matches in dimension and shape, of a ghostly soldier. I can’t show you the photo, but I can refer you to it – here:

http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/last-post-first-light/9969629/Gallipoli-ghost-captured-at-soldiers-cemetery

My take? Well, the spectral image could be someone from New Zealand’s tight and viciously exclusive military-historical in-crowd, at Gallipoli on a junket that, like their salaries, I’m funding through my taxes. But realistically it’s more likely to be that with a 2.5 second exposure you’ll get visual artefacts around the flowers on a CCD sensor – and that’s pretty much what the photo shows. No mystery there.

My photo of soldiers' graves at Tyne Cot, Flanders.

My photo of sokdiers’ graves at Tyne Cot cemetery, near Ypres.

To me, though, the image underscores the importance of remembrance. A century ago, young men from across the world died – they died in strange lands, they died often without being found. They were casualties of what happened when the dark side of human nature was given form by the power of industry – warfare on an unprecedented scale, warfare industrialised, warfare given hideous intensity by the ingenuity of nineteenth century invention.

The world we know and love today would not exist, as it does, without the sacrifices of these young men; and they exist today not because there are ghosts, but because we remember them.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

 

 

The science behind this year’s blood moons

Well, the first ‘blood moon’ of 2014’s come and gone. I missed it – the night sky where I live was socked in with 10/10 overcast at an altitude of about 200 metres.

US Navy photo of a total lunar eclipse in 2004, by Photographer's Mate 2nd Class Scott Taylor. Public domain, via Wikipedia.

US Navy photo of a total lunar eclipse in 2004, by Photographer’s Mate 2nd Class Scott Taylor. Public domain, via Wikipedia.

Still, I’ll have another chance on 8 October. And another on 4 April 2015. And a fourth on 28 September that year.

Although unusual, it’s not a unique occurrence to have four eclipses in quick succession. Technically they’re known as a tetrad.

The reason why eclipses are a bit erratic is interesting. A lunar eclipse is simple enough – the Moon passes through the shadow of the Earth. The reason lunar eclipses don’t happen every 27 days, as the Moon orbits the Earth, is because the Moon doesn’t always pass through the shadow when it’s ‘behind’ the Earth relative to the sun. It would if everything was lined up flat on the same plane – but it isn’t.

In fact, the Moon’s orbit is tilted relative to the ecliptic – the plane in which Earth and Sun orbit. The tilt varies between 4.99 and 5.30 degrees. The two points at which the orbit intersects the ecliptic are known as ‘nodes’, and they move around the Moon’s orbital path – technically, ‘precess’ – at a rate of  19.3549° annually.

For an eclipse to occur, the node (‘ascending’ or ‘descending’) has to coincide with the point where the Moon would pass through Earth’s shadow (which is on the ecliptic). That happens every 173.3 days. An eclipse is possible at that time, though again, the orbital mechanics don’t always mesh exactly.  There are more factors than just ecliptic and orbital angle. Earth’s shadow has a dense part (umbra) and a less dense part (penumbra). Sometimes there is only a partial eclipse. Sometimes it’s total.

Colour photo of the Moon taken by the Galileo probe in 1990 - a view we never see from Earth. The - uh - 'dark side' is to the left, fully illuminated. NASA, JPL, public domain.

Colour photo of the Moon taken by the Galileo probe in 1990 – a view we never see from Earth. The – uh – ‘dark side’ is to the left, fully illuminated. NASA, JPL, public domain.

The interlocking mechanisms of orbital mechanics – the way Earth, Sun and Moon all move in a complex dance of planes, angles and distances – means we end up with circumstance where strings of lunar eclipses – like the current tetrad – cluster. Between 1600 and 1900, for instance, there were no tetrads. But this coming century, there will be 8 of them.

So why red? The answer is one of the reasons why science is so cool. If you were standing on the Moon during a lunar eclipse, you’d see the Earth as a dark circle rimmed with fire – the light of every sunset and sunrise happening on Earth, all at once.

It’s red because of Rayleigh scattering – the way that the atmosphere scatters particular frequencies of light. I won’t repeat the explanation here – check out my earlier post.  Suffice to say, when sunlight passes through a horizontal thickness of atmosphere, the red wavelengths are what emerge – and those red light wavelengths refract into the shadow of Earth, lighting the Moon in blood-red hues.

So when you see a ‘blood moon’, what you’re actually seeing is the reflected light of every sunrise and sunset on Earth, all at once.

And that, my friends, is the really neat thing about those eclipses. Harbingers of doom? To me it’s cool science, on so many levels.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

 

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Two interesting but possibly silly factoids about Star Wars

A while back Peter Mayhew – the 7’6” guy inside Chewbacca’s costume in the original Star Wars – released a lot of ‘behind the scenes’ stills from the production.

They’ve got a period look – the movie was shot in the age of disco, flares and vinyl-topped cars. But it’s kind of cool to think Star Wars still has the power to capture our imaginations despite its stylistic origins in the decade taste forgot. Which leads me to a couple of factoids:

'That's no moon'. Wait - yes it is. It's Mimas, orbiting Saturn.

‘That’s no moon’. Wait – yes it is. It’s Mimas, orbiting Saturn.

1. Tattooine is a real place. Most of the movie was filmed at Pinewood (hence the surfeit of British seventies brat-packers in bit-parts) but Lucas filmed the desert sequences in Tunisia near a town that looks like the Star Wars version. The name of that town? Foum Tataouine. Though before you all go ‘squee, how cool is it that they found a town of the same name’, think about how movies are actually made.

Not only is Tataouine a real place – it was liberated from the Nazis in 1943 by New Zealanders. I’ve met some of the guys who were in on the drive. (Just to compound the trivia, Luigi Cozzi’s Italian spaghetti version of the Lucas epic, Star Crash (1978) was filmed in part at Bari, where the Kiwis landed later the same year).

 2. Darth Vader’s real accent. Darth Vader was played by British actor and weight-lifter Dave Prowse, but he lost his voice to James Earl Jones. Prowse is from the West Country – Sir Arthur C. Clarke, who was also West Country, spoke the same way. A soft, lilting accent that is one of England’s quintessential classics. But not, it seems, suitable for the movie’s chief villain.

Call it meta-entertainment. The story behind the adventure. Or something.

I can’t help thinking that the story behind the forthcoming Disney knock-offs won’t be anywhere near as interesting.

 Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

 

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Writing isn’t an automatic skill…but you can learn

There are three things people usually imagine they are better at than they actually are.

My Adler Gabrielle 25 - on which I typed maybe a million words in the 1980s.

My Adler Gabrielle 25 – on which I typed maybe a million words in the 1980s.

One of them is driving. We all think we can out-drive The Stig…don’t we? Another is writing. The third? Er…well, anyway, today I’m going to look at the idea that because someone did high school English, they can write.

A lot of that flows from the western supposition that a writer’s skill set is defined by expertise in subject matter. The writing itself? It’s an assumed skill. That was certainly the case when I was studying history at university, where everything was taught about the subject – and nothing about how to express it (which is at least half the challenge).

The fact that writing, itself, is a learned skill – just as in-depth and hard to master as history, or any of the sciences – doesn’t often surface. But it is.

The thing is that high school writing skill fully equips most of us to get by in the ordinary world – to write those postcards, those letters or emails, or whatever. But it’s at the start of the skill scale for professional writers. It’s ‘unconsciously incompetent’ – the first level. The point where people don’t know what they don’t know.

That’s why so many imagine they’re better than they actually are. ‘I learned to write, so I can just do it’.

My wife ran into this when she did a course, a while back, on writing childrens’ books – presented by one of New Zealand’s top kids’ book writers. Most of the aspiring writers there had just retired and envisaged themselves ‘becoming writers’ as their retirement career. They were full of questions about contracts and what size of advance to ask for.

No no, the presenter insisted. First you have to learn how to write.

Ripple of shock through the room. Nobody had thought of that. They could write…couldn’t they? Actually…no.

These people, you see, were at that ‘unconscious incompetence’ stage.

There are three steps after that – ‘conscious incompetence’, where the writer gets a handle on what they have yet to learn, then ‘conscious competence’, where they’ve learned it but need to think through every step. Then – finally – ‘unconscious competence’, where the skills have become part of your soul.

The distance from start to finish is about 10,000 hours or one million words. There are no short cuts.

But it’s do-able, and the rewards are tremendous. Not financially (trust me!) but certainly in terms of satisfaction.

I think so, anyway. You?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

 

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Science says we’re all doomed. Neatypoos.

We’re all doomed, apparently. A NASA-backed science study says so.

Artists impression of a GRB. Zhang Whoosley, NASA, public domain, via Wikipedia.

Apocalypse: if Earth’s hit by that white beam, we’re dead. D-E-A-D. Dead. Artists impression of a GRB. Zhang Whoosley, NASA, public domain, via Wikipedia.

That’s more credible than stupid ideas about Mayan calendar dates (the world ended on 21 December 2012…didn’t it?) or the teachings of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn (world’s end in 2010), or the deranged spoutings of former French pharmacist, Michel de Nostradame (1984 or 1997, depending on how you read it). I could go on…

We don’t have to look far to realise why this happens. Human fear of apocalypse seems universal – and as old as humanity. Stories flow through mythology. It’s cross-cultural; most societies seem to fear sudden destruction of all they know.

Certainly it’s rife today. We have the irrational doom-sayers – the ones who think it’ll happen tomorrow, without warning, let’s say courtesy of four ‘blood moons’ (that’s this year, apparently). Or we have the rational ones, who use mathematics to show that current civilisation is teetering on the edge.

That’s where the NASA-backed study comes in. Drawing on ancient Rome and the Mayan experience – when an apparently robust society suddenly collapsed – they’ve concluded that modern global civilisation is on the same course. The causes, apparently, are to do with iniquitous income distribution and climbing resource usage.

The idea’s not new; Jared Diamond pointed out, in Collapse, that humanity has a habit of exploiting environments to the ragged edge, then destroying them.

Eta Carinae. NASA, public domain. Click to enlarge.

Eta Carinae. NASA, public domain. Click to enlarge.

Couple that with meta-stable systems (systems that look stable, but actually sit in an easily disturbed equilibrium) and you have a recipe for trouble. A lot of the socially mediated systems we create do this, and that, in essence, is the current problem. Apparently. But I wonder.

It seems to me there are two sides to this. First, there’s our apparent common fear, as a species, that doom lies just around the corner. We all seem to think that way – the ‘apocalypse’ keys directly into our psyches in ways that other ideas don’t. Look at the popularity, today, of post-apocalyptic stories. It’s not just built into Western cultural philosophy. Indeed, it seems to be hard-wired into us.

That thinking gives credence to studies like the NASA one. It also cultivates idiot scare-mongering about mystery rogue planets. But where did this sort of thinking come from?

I have my suspicions.

The irony of all the scaremongering silliness is that from the science perspective we are staring down the barrel of a very real apocalypse in the form of another Carrington Event. But it never hits the popular doom radar.

The other issue is the credibility of the argument that we are, in fact, on course for doom by our own mis-doings or constructions. Longer term, I think we are. It’s obvious; humanity can’t keep on expanding without limit, exploiting resources and polluting the planet forever. We have to find another strategy. But I think we’ve already seen this one coming.

However, as for the idea of a catastrophic collapse – the abrupt demise of the social, political and economic systems on which western (and, of course ‘developing’) civilisation pivots? Somehow, I doubt it’s on the cards. Mostly.

Is belief in the apocalypse hard-wired into the human condition? How did that hard-wiring happen? And how can we think reasonably – dare I say ‘rationally’ – about it when we’re apparently hard-wired not to?

Your thoughts?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014 

Coming up: Apocalypses galore, writing tips, and more…

All the good Trek stuff was invented by Robert A Heinlein

OK, so ‘Captain James Tiberius Kirk’ got pinged on Monday for drink-driving, here in New Zealand.

supernovaWell, not actually Kirk, he’s fictional. I mean Chris Pine, who plays him in the movie re-boot. According to the reports, Pine was stopped in Methven (of all places), after a wrap party for a movie he’s been shooting here. It’s made major news internationally.

To me the media frenzy underscored the way Star Trek has been entwined into modern culture. In fifty-odd years since the original Shatner-Nimoy-Kelley series it’s gone from fan fodder to mainstream entertainment.

For me the real appeal of Trek has always been Roddenberry’s optimistic vision for society. This really was futuristic. But there’s also been a lot of focus on its supposed anticipation of today’s tech – everything from automatic doors to cellphones. That’s less compelling. The auto-door and cellphone also hit TV at the same time in Get Smart, underscoring the fact that Trek tech was of its time. Much of its gee-whizz stuff actually drew from prevailing mid-twentieth century visions, all of which missed the bulk of the information age revolution and focussed on mega-rockets and star drives. The best of the Trek stuff, as far as I can tell, came from Robert Anson Heinlein – an American literary great. He was also an engineer, and it showed.

Eta Carinae. NASA, public domain. Click to enlarge.

Eta Carinae. NASA, public domain. Why is it in this post? Just because. Click to enlarge.

1. Medical beds
McCoy’s sick bay was the epitome of high-tech in 1965, complete with medical beds that monitored patient vital signs. We have them today thanks to doctors inspired by Trek. However, Heinlein described one nearly a decade earlier in Have Spacesuit, Will Travel (1958).

2. Communicators (cellphones).
The Trek communicator was a radio. No cell networks on alien planets – your signal’s got to punch through to the Enterprise in its 200-mile orbit (I’m glad I don’t have to hold a kilowatt transmitter to my ear). However, these days they’re widely taken to be ‘cellphones’. Setting aside Buck Henry’s ‘shoe phone’ in Get Smart, the first description of an actual cellphone, in everyday use, was in Heinlein’s 1948 novel Space Cadet.

3. Tribbles
My favourite Trek episode is David Gerrold’s ‘Trouble with Tribbles’. Proof that Shatner, McCoy and Nimoy were really a comedy trio with Nimoy as the ‘straight man’ (he can also be very funny, check out ‘The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins‘. But I digress.) In ‘Tribbles’, a space station gets over-run with cute ‘cat’ creatures that reproduce asexually if you feed them. The creature – and plot - so precisely followed Heinlein’s ‘flat cat’ from Space Family Stone (1952) (aka ‘The Rolling Stones’) that the producers apparently asked Heinlein for permission. Heinlein himself, incidentally, apparently drew inspiration for his 1952 tale from a 1905 story by Ellis Parker Butler called ‘Pigs is Pigs‘.

4. Starfleet
This is influenced by Heinlein’s ‘Space Patrol’ from Space Cadet. Explicitly – Roddenberry said so. Again, Heinlein had an antecedent  - Space Cadet was basically ‘US Naval Academy In Space’. (As an aside, he precisely described the physics of space-walking in this book – 17 years before NASA had to re-discover the principles).

Needless to say, Trek wasn’t the only SF tech Heinlein did first. Remember Star Gate? Go read Heinlein’s Tunnel in the Sky (1955). What about Dr Who‘s TARDIS, that can go anywhere in time and space? Try Heinlein’s Have Spacesuit, Will Travel (1958). And the idea that your star-drive also makes a dandy weapon – a key schtik in Larry Niven’s ‘Known Space’ series? That was a throw-away line in Heinlein’s Time for the Stars (1956).

All of which points to one thing – Heinlein was a very great writer, by any measure – and a great engineer and thinker.

Indeed, some of us encounter his ideas every night, in our own homes, whether we’re reading one of his books or not. Guess who devised (and eventually patented) the modern waterbed?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Coming up: More science, more writing tips, more fun.

More fun with Kiwi slang

Decades ago, when I was ‘flatting’, one of my flatmates (roomies) was American – direct from Brattleboro, Vermont, in fact – and took huge delight in making jokes about the differences between American English and New Zild slang.

Needless to say the Kiwi contingent of the flat (apartment) joined with great glee. Phrases like ‘can I borrow a rubber’ (eraser) suddenly became hilarious. And some Kiwi terms are pretty funny anyway when you think about them. Here’s a sample:

Sweet as. Not actually a complement about someone’s bottom. It’s a contraction of ‘Sweet as a nut’, meaning ‘it’s good’ or ‘I’m happy with that’.
Up the duff. Scatological, inherited from Britain. Means ‘pregnant’.
Hottie. A hot water bottle, used to pre-warm a bed in pre-electric blanket days.
Having a quiet one. Drinking only one or two bottles of beer instead of the usual 48.
Eh. Filler word used to end a phrase, similar to the Canadian ‘Eh’, but in origins probably a borrow word from Te Reo Maori.
She’ll be right. ‘I’m happy with that’.
Yeah, right. Means the previous statement was sarcastic and meant the opposite. Focus of a major beer advertising campaign.

English is such a funny language sometimes. Do you have any quirky terms you’d like to share?

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Coming up: Writing tips, geekery, humour and more. Watch this space.

Six degrees of Bacon. Maybe.

A few weeks back I happened to mention Thunderbirds to a friend of mine.

A photo I took of the Corgi Thunderbird 2 model I've had since forever... And it's not tilt-shift. This is what happens on a focal length of 190mm at f 5.6, natural light with exposure time of 1/100.

A photo I took of the Corgi Thunderbird 2 model I’ve had since forever… And it’s not tilt-shift. This is what happens on a focal length of 190mm at f 5.6, natural light with exposure time of 1/100.

‘Oh, Gerry,’ he said. ‘I did some work for him, back when I was in the UK.’

Makes that friend of mine one degree of separation from the late director, Gerry Anderson. Small world.

The actual game is linking actors in less than six steps, via movies they’ve been in, to Kevin Bacon. Another friend suggested calling them ‘rashers’, as in bacon but also Bacon. The game works in real life, too. For instance, two of my regular readers, each independently, are two ‘rashers’ from Neil Armstrong, and I bet there are connections other readers have that I don’t know about.

In New Zealand, we’re all meant to be two degrees apart by default, and one of our phone companies calls itself ‘Two Degrees’ for that reason. Actually it’s not true, it’s more like three or four, even within miniscule communities such as the New Zealand history field or writing. Personally, I’ve got fewer ‘rashers’ to Gerry Anderson.

Neil Armstrong in the LM, tired but elated after the first moon walk, 20 July 1969. Photo: NASA

Neil Armstrong in the LM, tired but elated after the first moon walk, 20 July 1969. Photo: NASA, public domain.

In any case, it’s difficult to test empirically. I’ve seen figures such as an actual ‘degree of separation’ between any two random people on the planet (let’s call it the ‘Bacon Number’) of 6.6. However, I suspect this is true only within similar cultures. That’s because ‘degrees of Bacon’ pivot on ‘connectors’. One individual opens up a network of others.

Trouble is, knowing that I am connected to another Joe Blow by 6.6 links – someone I don’t know, will never meet, and whose life is as ordinary as mine – isn’t all that interesting – which is why the game’s usually played by figuring out your chain ‘o links to somebody famous.  ‘I danced with a woman who danced with a man who danced with a woman who danced with the Prince of Wales’. Total strangers, in other words – by definition, nobody has direct connection beyond the first link. But it shows us how human society is linked, which is pretty interesting.

And it’s kinda fun. Can you link yourself to Kevin Bacon via people you can link to (however indirectly) who’ve appeared in movies? Here’s the tool http://oracleofbacon.org/

I can do it in five ‘rashers’. An immediate family member had an actress friend who starred in an early ’70s British horror movie with Christopher Lee, who was in Airport ’77 with John Kerry, who was in Frost/Nixon with…Kevin Bacon. For me the coolest part of this link is it puts me six degrees from everybody in Apollo 13, which was one awesome film.

You?

 Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Coming up: More writing tips, science geekery, humour and more. Watch this space.

Motoring magic from the wonder age of deco – part 2

The other Saturday I spent a few hours in downtown Napier, New Zealand, where the annual art-deco weekend was in full swing.

'Art Deco' car parade, Napier, February 2014.

‘Art Deco’ car parade, Napier, February 2014.

For a few days the town turns into party central, celebrating the rich and famous lifestyles of 1930s Hollywood. There’s a lot of cosplay. And  a lot of tourists. I overheard a couple of them – done up in period costume down to the cloche hats – chatting in German, something like: ‘Ich muss ganz ein Eis kaufe mir’. I don’t go in for the dress-ups, nor did I attend any of the set-piece events such as a 1930s picnic or the tours. It’s my home town after all. And I’ve (literally) written the book on it.

Crowds along the balcony of the 1932 Masonic Hotel, an early streamline building.

Crowds along the balcony of the 1932 Masonic Hotel, an early streamline building.

But I did make the point of going to see the vintage car parade. They spanned the gamut from the First World War through to the early 1940s. Few of them actually appeared on New Zealand roads at the time – the country imported mainly British. And none of them, I suspect, were in quite the sparkling order they are now. But that wasn’t the point …was it.

Quintessential modernism - streamline-age Cadillac convertible.

Quintessential modernism – streamline-age Cadillac convertible.

Passing the Buick...

Passing the Buick…

The art of deco.

The art of deco.

Parasols and sun.

Parasols were vital wear in 33 degree C heat (91 degrees F).

My camera really didn't capture just how much the cars glowed in the sun.

My camera really didn’t capture just how much the cars GLOWED in the sun.

Something tells me this is a 1936 Packard.

Something tells me this is a 1936 Packard Super 8.

Copyright © Matthew Wright 2014

Coming up: Writing tips, science, geekery…and more.