I'm a sucker for craftsmanship, especially woodworking or analog ingenuity, in this digital age. I spend all day on the computer but wish I was really creating with my hands.

Pre-War Guitars Co. is a company, really two guys named Wes Lambe and Ben Maschal, in my neck of the woods handcrafting acoustic guitars that match the sound and workmanship of the "Golden Age" of guitars, the 1930s and early 40s.. in other word, pre-war. Apparently the craftsmanship and materials used at that time were much better than after the war, and that has been evident from the sound of the guitars. I don't know much about guitar building or even really what quality guitars sound like(!), but this article in the Raleigh News & Observer does a pretty good job of telling the story:

Other luthiers have attempted to capture the qualities of vintage guitars. The C.F. Martin Co., for example, markets its “Authentic” series of reproductions, ranging from 1919 through 1939 models. While popular with some guitarists, others argue that Lambe and Maschal have succeeded in creating a product nearly indistinguishable from the icons of the 1930s at a fraction of the cost. Their guitars range from about $4,395 to $7,995 depending on the model, though a custom guitar made with special woods can cost up to $12,000.

“I think part of it is that they’re hand-making every part of every guitar,” says Rubber Room recording studio’s Jerry Brown, a collector of vintage pre-WWII guitars. “They’ve done exhaustive research into how the original ones were put together and the style in which they were built. I think they’ve figured out what nobody has figured out. ...

“When I played the first one, I thought, ‘Holy smokes! These guys have hit it over the fence on the first one.’ I wondered if the second or third would sound as good. But every one I’ve played has been astounding.”

Bonus: The article and video above both feature Andrew Marlin, of one of my favorite local bands, Mandolin Orange.

An article titled "The Deadly History Of This Delaware Bridge Is Terrifying But True" is definitely clickbait (and not very well written) but it actually provides an interesting history of a bridge I drove over many times, especially to and from summer jobs in southern Delaware.

The first span of the latest Indian River Inlet Bridge seemed to hold up for a bit, and Delaware added a second span in 1976. Traffic on the bridge was constantly heavy. The inlet was relentless, though, and the water scoured the bridge's supports wave after wave. This bridge would not be the brick house that the Big Bad Wolf could not break down.

By 1989, significant damage was noted and the bridge was declared "structurally deficient", with collapse possible after one more severe storm. Still, the bridge stayed in use. As traffic got heavier and heavier, over 14,000 travelers crossed each span every day.

If you grew up driving over this bridge, chances are you took several trips up and down each span, all while it was structurally deficient.

My dad, who was born and raised in the same area, has told me several times that the Indian River Inlet was a good example of man trying to reign in nature. Winds, waves, and tides have shifted this coastal landscape for millenia, how is a bridge to withstand that?

As for clickbait, this same article was posted to the same site in 2016 under the title, "This Breathtaking Bridge In Delaware Has An Unexpected And Dark History". Nice.

Writing on Literary Hub, Cara Hoffman reminisces about living and working in Athens in the days before the internet:

We wanted to disappear. Back then, disappearing was simple. There was one telephone in the lobby of the hotel, which couldn’t make international calls. There were no cell phones. There was no internet, no social media—no way to “check in.”

To keep in touch while traveling, we exchanged addresses of the places we anticipated we’d end up and made plans to meet at specific monuments or bars or stations at specific times. If we didn’t have maps (and we never did because they were an unnecessary expense) we got lost until we knew where we were. Athens was a sprawling, radiant, dangerous city. Learning to navigate it was one of the last acts of my adolescence.

It's a story of youthful adventures, but more than that it's a story of the return to the location on one's youthful adventures - and all the memory, nostalgia, and regret that comes with it.

The title of the piece is "Getting Lost Before the Internet" which implies a good deal more than the article explores. I travelled in Europe during the age of the internet, but before the age of the smartphone. You could still get lost pretty easily, since you didn't have access to a computer at all times. Part of the beauty of Venice, for example, was getting lost in its winding streets. Part of my itinerary was to just pick a place in a guidebook and go there, with little further research than what the book told.

I'm not sure how I would fare today - I missed a lot of interesting things because I did not know about them; I stayed in a lot of pretty awful places because no reviews were to be found. I was unencumbered with obligations of online communication. But I was also lonely. You may lose some of the beauty of travel with a computer in your pocket, but you may also gain quite a bit.

Ozymandias is a sonnet written by Percy Shelley, first published on January 11, 1818. It speaks of a magnificent stone statue depicting an ancient king who calls on those viewing it to stand in awe of his works. However, in the sonnet the statue has been destroyed and the works no longer remain. Here it is in full:

I've not read up on the historical context for the poem nor of Shelley, though I'm sure there is lots of analysis out there. However, the resonance today is striking. It's easy to read as an indictment of a once-great country or of a certain man, but it's also just as easy to read as a personal challenge to hubris and ego. As great as we think we are personally, nationally, or as a civilization, we are likely to end up no better off than old Ozymandias (and that's if we're lucky). We should make January 11, 2018, 200 years after its publishing, a day of remembrance.

The real power of this poem comes out in the reading: Bryan Cranston, in a promo for the TV show Breaking Bad, does a tremendous job. Incidentally, I've not watched Breaking Bad, but who knew Tim Whatley would go on to such things?

Addendum - Someone made an animation set to the same audio, but more illustrative of the sonnet's content, which is pretty cool: