A chart from Econimist.com shows the street price of coca from Columbia ($2 a gram) to New Zealand ($714.30 a gram).

These disturbing and torturing images of Barbie are freaking me out. Not that I ever liked what the dolls were suppose to represent.

Jazz singer Lena Horne will be 90 in two days. Happy birthday, Love!

Check out Keith Jarrett’s improvisation and conversation with Marian McPartland on Piano Jazz session.

I could see myself using a Washlet, a remarkable toilet seat, in favor of the ass-cutting paper. Like the Washlet 101 instructor said, “You just sit down; do what you came to do; and then reach for the remote.”

After spinning eighteen tracks on T.I. vs. T.I.P., the only thang that appeals to me is T.I.’s southern intonation. He also has a marvelous flow, but he rhymes too soft. At times, the big, booming beats dominate his voice. Lyrically, he is more of a flow virtuoso than a storyteller. Without personality, the album fails to hold listeners’ attention even though he got big help from other rappers including Jay-Z, Young Jeezy, Eminem, and Busta Rhymes.

NPR‘s Jazz Profiles pays tribute to the Prince of Darkness:

Miles Davis was the personification of restless spirit, always pushing himself and his music into uncharted territory. He was an innovative lightning rod for musicians from all genres — particularly the brightest young players. Davis created some of the 20th century’s most challenging and influential music.

Great stuff!

From the Masters of Painting (via Tim).

With Robert Krampf’s experiment videos. Here’s a demo of heating a balloon without popping.

The opening paragraph of John Heilemann’s tedious “Steve Jobs in a Box” reads:

He saunters out onstage, and the first thing you think is, man, Steve Jobs looks old. The second thing you think is, no, not old: He finally looks his age. Well into his forties, Jobs appeared to have pulled off some kind of unholy Dorian Gray maneuver. But now, at 52, his hair is seriously thinning, his frame frail-seeming, his gait halting and labored. His striking facial features—the aquiline nose, the razor-gash dimples—are speckled with ash-gray stubble. A caricaturist would draw him as a hybrid of Andre Agassi and Salman Rushdie. The senescence on display is jarring, but it’s also fitting. After three decades as Silicon Valley’s regnant enfant terrible, Jobs has suddenly, improbably, morphed into its presiding éminence grise [emphasis is mine].

iGod, say what?