Adil Najam in All Things Pakistan:
An absolutely fascinating documentary from Dawn TV on the Karachi music scene from the 1960s into the 1970s. About a Karachi that is no more. A Karachi where Duke Ellington and Quincy Jones fly in to play.
Parts 2, 3, and 4 here. [Thanks to Sadi Raza.]
Carl Zimmer in his excellent blog, The Loom:
If blogs could have mascots, the Loom’s would be the Emerald Cockroach Wasp (Ampulex compressa). Back in 2006, I first wrote about the grisly sophistication of this insect, which turns cockroaches into zombie hosts to be devoured by their offspring. Since then I’ve blogged from time to time about new research on this parasite’s parasite. Last year I sang the praises of the Emerald Cockroach Wasp on the NPR show Radiolab, and, to my surprise, brought some peace of mind to a very scared kid.
Scientists still don’t understand the wasp very well, though, and so I decided last night to see if anyone had discovered something new about it recently. It turns out Ram Gal and Frederic Libersat, two scientists at Ben Gurion University in Israel, just published a paper in which they reveal one of the secrets to zombification. In effect, they identified the seat of the cockroach soul.
Before I describe the new results, let me just refresh your memory about what the Emerald Cockroach Wasp actually does.
Like many parasites, the Emerald Cockroach Wasp manipulates its host’s behavior for its own benefit. As I explain in Parasite Rex, parasites make their hosts do lots of different things (get them into the body of their next host, act as a bodyguard, or build them a shelter to name a few examples). The Emerald Cockroach Wasp needs a live, tame cockroach to feed its babies.
When the female wasp is ready to lay her eggs, she seeks out a cockroach. Landing on the prospective host, she delivers two precise stings.
More here.
Ezra Pound never made it easy. He was a poet who cared little about public success and not at all about money: he dedicated his life to art with the rapturous abandon of a bacchant. Pound saw himself as forging ahead on the path poets had pursued since the preclassical bards, toward deeper wisdom and a more perfect expression, in pursuit of the beautiful. In the years since his death, this perennial vision of an enlightened Republic of Letters, one of humankind’s greatest intellectual accomplishments, has quietly gone the way of falconry and intaglio carving. So impenetrable and taxing do Pound’s poems appear to most modern readers that the soaring ambition of his work has been eclipsed by the neatly plotted narrative of his life.
Everybody knows the story. Pound launched the Imagist movement, epitomized by that hardy perennial of poetry anthologies, “In a Station of the Metro” (in full: “The apparition of these faces in the crowd;/Petals on a wet, black bough”), and then played a decisive role in shaping T. S. Eliot’s epochal masterpiece The Waste Land. He devoted the rest of his life to composing The Cantos, a vast, unreadable epic left unfinished at his death in 1972. The story ends badly: he went off the rails during the war years, embracing fascism and anti-Semitism in broadcasts for Mussolini that got him arrested for treason, and was eventually committed to a mental hospital.
As conventional wisdom goes, the standard skinny on Pound is no worse than most. True to the genre it lacks nuance, emphasizing controversy over substance, but it isn’t actually wrong about anything—except the work. Pound’s Imagist poetry was revolutionary but by no means the best even of his early compositions, and The Cantos are called unreadable by the same people who call Tristram Shandy and Ulysses unreadable, those who haven’t read them. Many of the cantos are as deeply felt and exquisitely rendered as any verse in English. No poet has ever been so influential, so controversial, and so little read.
Walter Benjamin, or rather, the now-beloved figura of Benjamin—shuffling, myopic, mustachioed, fat, unhealthy, small round glasses glinting like flashlights—was largely unattractive in his own lifetime. Introducing Benjamin, a precis of his life and work in comic-book form, spends an inordinate amount of time demonstrating that Benjamin had no positive libido—and that, in fact, women just could not under any circumstances find him attractive. How strange is it now, then, to read in the Guardian that “as a teenager,” the novelist Nicole Krauss “had a crush on the German philosopher.” How odd to reflect upon the growth and consolidation of a veritable Benjamin industry in the sixty-five years since his death, an industry that extends well beyond the academy, to art-pop songs like Laurie Anderson's “The Dream Before (For Walter Benjamin),” and Jay Parini's embarrassingly unreadable “novel of ideas” Benjamin's Crossing. A movie must surely be on the way: can I start by suggesting Tim Robbins as Benjamin?
Such widespread reverence has been essential to the growth of Benjamin studies; but it has also served as a barrier to actual understanding and use of his thought. Franco Moretti, for one, leveled a bitter disparagement at academics for treating Benjamin as “the sancta sanctorum” of literary criticism, a pure soul from whose gloomy pen issued the true plash of ideas, protected from the reproof and constant reconsideration one expects from critics. Susan Sontag's “Under the Sign of Saturn,” (originally published in the New York Review of Books, with Sontag's characteristic vatic humorlessness, as “The Last Intellectual”) is symptomatic of this unreserved Benjamin adoration. She begins by lovingly—too lovingly, perhaps—describing photographic portraits of the man, how “the downward look through his glasses—the soft, day-dreamer's gaze of the myopic—seems to float off to the lower left of the photograph.” She goes on to discuss Benjamin's melancholia and saturnine disposition, glancingly using Benjamin's own highly interesting work on melancholy and German Baroque allegory to produce wan axioms and declarations: “precisely because the melancholy character is haunted by death, it is melancholics who best know how to read the world”; “only because the past is dead is one able to read it.” The presentation of Benjamin's ideas on allegory, collecting, and city life point continuously back to Benjamin the pudgy myopic. Using what is clearly an “erotics” of reading and not a hermeneutics, Sontag winds up arguing, however inadvertently, on behalf of the photographs, the image, the figure of Benjamin—as if to say: only because he is dead is one able to make love to him.
I never knew Toni Avegael. She was born in Antwerp in February 1926 and lived there most of her life. We were related: she was my father’s first cousin. I well remember her older sister Lily: a tall, sad lady whom my parents and I used to visit in a little house somewhere in northwest London. We have long since lost touch, which is a pity.
I am reminded of the Avegael sisters (there was a middle girl, Bella) whenever I ask myself—or am asked—what it means to be Jewish. There is no general-purpose answer to this question: it is always a matter of what it means to be Jewish for me—something quite distinct from what it means for my fellow Jews. To outsiders, such concerns are mysterious. A Protestant who does not believe in the Scriptures, a Catholic who abjures the authority of the Pope in Rome, or a Muslim for whom Muhammad is not the Prophet: these are incoherent categories. But a Jew who rejects the authority of the rabbis is still Jewish (even if only by the rabbis’ own matrilineal definition): who is to tell him otherwise?
I reject the authority of the rabbis—all of them (and for this I have rabbinical authority on my side). I participate in no Jewish community life, nor do I practice Jewish rituals. I don’t make a point of socializing with Jews in particular—and for the most part I haven’t married them. I am not a “lapsed” Jew, having never conformed to requirements in the first place. I don’t “love Israel” (either in the modern sense or in the original generic meaning of loving the Jewish people), and I don’t care if the sentiment is reciprocated. But whenever anyone asks me whether or not I am Jewish, I unhesitatingly respond in the affirmative and would be ashamed to do otherwise.
The ostensible paradox of this condition is clearer to me since coming to New York: the curiosities of Jewish identity are more salient here.
From Salon:
People have been worrying about the world’s pending overpopulation for more than two centuries. Robert Thomas Malthus sounded the alarm in 1797 with “An Essay on the Principles of the Population,” which predicted mass starvation and went on to influence the likes of Charles Darwin and Margaret Sanger. Paul Ehrlich’s 1968 book, “The Population Bomb,” forecast a similar fate; if the population kept rising unchecked, Earth’s resources would buckle. Many of today’s environmental thinkers, such as broadcaster (and “Planet Earth” narrator) David Attenborough, have called for drastic measures to limit the planet’s population before it’s too late.
But according to the veteran environmental writer Fred Pearce, they’re all wrong. In his latest book, “The Coming Population Crash: And Our Planet's Surprising Future,” Pearce argues that the world’s population is peaking. In the next century, we’re heading not for exponential growth, but a slow, steady decline. This, he claims, has the potential to massively change both our society and our planet: Children will become a rare sight, patriarchal thinking will fall by the wayside, and middle-aged culture will replace our predominant youth culture. Furthermore, Pearce explains, the population bust could be the end of our environmental woes. Fewer people making better choices about consumption could lead to a greener, healthier planet.
More here.
Who is She?
Who is the goddess of yours?
…..Who is she?
Pure fantasy, I wager.
Is she not clear to you?
…..No she is not.
Clearer than day is she
…..clearer than night.
Not clear to me.
Day in night is she
…..night in day.
I see her not.
Look inside yourself!
Difficult…
Then look at her frost
covering the grass.
by Gabriel Rosenstock
From The New York Times:
The world of science has two Sean Carrolls. One is an evolutionary biologist. The other is a cosmologist and theoretical physicist, an expert on time and the early moments of the universe. As it happened, the physicist stopped by the offices of The New York Times on a recent March morning. Dr. Carroll, a 43-year-old research professor at the California Institute of Technology, had come to New York for an appearance on “The Colbert Report.” He was in town promoting his meditation on the physics of time, a trade book with the clever title “From Eternity to Here.”
Q. WHEN YOU GO TO A COCKTAIL PARTY, DO YOU TELL PEOPLE THAT YOU ARE A PHYSICIST? SOME PHYSICISTS WON’T.
A. I do! But I know what you’re talking about. Whenever you say you’re a physicist, there’s a certain fraction of people who immediately go, “Oh, I hated physics in high school.” That’s because of the terrible influence of high school physics. Because of it, most people think physics is all about inclined planes and force-vector diagrams. One of the tragedies of our educational system is that we’ve taken this incredibly interesting subject — how the universe works — and made it boring.
Q. LEON LEDERMAN, THE NOBEL PRIZE PHYSICIST, HAS PROPOSED THAT WE REFORM HIGH SCHOOL SCIENCE BY REQUIRING PHYSICS IN THE SOPHOMORE AND NOT THE SENIOR YEAR. WILL THAT HELP — OR IS IT REARRANGING DECK CHAIRS ON THE TITANIC?
A. I don’t think it’s the right solution. What we need to do is find a new way to teach the spirit of physics. What we do now is water down what professional physicists do and make it into this dry puzzle-solving thing with little pictures of pulleys and things like that. We ought to teach kids more about the Big Bang and entropy and particles. Every high school graduate should know that everything in the universe is made of a handful of particles. That’s not a hard thing to know. But that’s not what’s emphasized. Yes, there is a quantitative aspect to science that should not be denied, but it can be in the service of interesting rather than boring problems. Ten years after high school, most students are not going to solve a problem with pulleys and levers. But they still might want to know about the expansion of the universe and about cool things in atomic physics and lasers — which they’ll find interesting and fun.
More here.
John Dickerson in Slate:
Risk has taken a beating recently, thanks to the financial crisis. Risk is supposed to be about choice and consequence. You take a chance and you win or you lose. But then banks and insurance companies found ways to pervert this. They devised ever more esoteric ways to pass risk on to others, so there was, in fact, no risk to them at all. In this distortion, insurance techniques, created to limit risk, exposed millions to it. The laws of probability, originally devised to solve a moral dilemma—how to equitably distribute winnings in a game of chance—wound up inequitably distributing losses to people who didn't even know they were at the table. The architects of these gambles left their jobs with enormous bonuses, and companies that helped cripple the financial system were repaid by the government bailout. They took a chance, and lost—but they still won.
In this series, I seek to reclaim risk. I want to remind myself—and you—of the buoyant, thrilling side of risk, and I will do it by telling the stories of people who embrace risk and who live with the fear, exhilaration, and ambiguity it creates without shirking. People engaged in every kind of human endeavor say that taking risks is the key to fulfillment and success. It is at the heart of our biggest thrills and proudest achievements. Ask someone when she felt most alive and she'll tell you a story about a risk she took. President Barack Obama talked about this in his inaugural address. “Greatness is never a given. It must be earned. Our journey has never been one of short cuts or settling for less. It has not been the path for the faint-hearted—for those who prefer leisure over work, or seek only the pleasures of riches and fame. Rather, it has been the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things.”
This series presents the stories of those people.
More here.
Lewis Grossberger in True/Slant:
6:30 AM: Obama awakened by clock radio tuned to NPR’s popular morning drive-time show, Kronsky the Bomb Thrower and His Anarcho-Syndicalist Zoo. “You know what would be fun?” Kronsky quips. “Getting the workers to seize the means of production and execute the blood-sucking capitalist bosses!” “If only,” mutters Obama.
7:30 AM: on way to Oval Office, Obama ducks into private chapel, slipping off shoes and prostrating self while facing Mecca. He chants high-pitched, ululating prayer to Allah in foreign tongue then before leaving, bows before busts of Marx, Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Hitler and Saul Alinsky.
7:40 AM: Rahm Emanuel enters Oval Office, gives Obama secret Illuminati handshake, says, “Good morning, Comrade President. The Iranian ambassador is here to discuss his scheme to undermine America’s security.” Obama says, “Show him right in.”
9:05 AM: Snack of sweetened camel milk served with dates, figs, pita and hummus. Then Iranian ambassador exits White House through secret tunnel so Fox News won’t see him.
9:30 AM: House Speaker Pelosi arrives to plot strategy for government takeover of lucrative garbage-collection industry. Obama gives her large suitcase full of cash for bribing Congressmen.
10 AM: Editors of New York Times, Washington Post, New Yorker arrive to receive weekly instructions.
11 AM: Daily intelligence briefing by CIA and Pentagon officials on activities of America’s enemies. Bored, Obama does crossword puzzle, then dozes off.
Noon: Lunch with leaders of world gay conspiracy, who lobby Obama to appoint a transsexual to Supreme Court.
More here. [Thanks to Tom Bissell.]
Ken Auletta in The New Yorker:
Traditionally, publishers have sold books to stores, with the wholesale price for hardcovers set at fifty per cent of the cover price. Authors are paid royalties at a rate of about fifteen per cent of the cover price. On a twenty-six-dollar book, the publisher receives thirteen dollars, out of which it pays all the costs of making the book. The author gets $3.90 in royalties. Bookstores return about forty per cent of the hardcovers they buy; this accounts for $5.20 per book. Another $3 goes to overhead costs and the price of producing and shipping the book—leaving, in the best case, about a dollar of profit per book.
Though this situation is less than ideal, it has persisted, more or less unchanged, for decades. E-books called the whole system into question. If there was no physical book, what would determine the price? Most publishers agreed, with some uncertainty, to give authors a royalty of twenty-five per cent, and began a long series of negotiations with Amazon over pricing. For months before Sargent’s visit, the publishers had talked about imposing an “agency model” for e-books. Under such a model, the publisher would be considered the seller, and an online vender like Amazon would act as an “agent,” in exchange for a thirty-per-cent fee. Yet none of the publishers seemed to think that they could act alone, and if they presented a unified demand to Amazon they risked being charged with price-fixing and collusion.
More here.
The Taimyr Tlängit
Justin E. H. Smith
[Click on the numbers to read the earlier installations in the Imaginary Tribes series: #1, #2, #3, #4, #5, and #6.]
She could also be horrifyingly cold, like when we moved down to Evansville to get away from the frat houses and the dumpy townies. She had just been promoted to regional director of Planned Parenthood for all of Southwestern Indiana, and I had only eight years left before moving to half-time teaching at Oahu, so we agreed that I'd be the one to make the hour commute, and we'd find the nice big house of our dreams in that modest metropolis on the Ohio River. We looked at some enormous Victorians across the river in Henderson, but Joan spent the whole day cringing. “I didn't work this hard just to get an address in Kentucky,” she exclaimed that evening as we strolled through the 'Fiesta' section of Tarzan and Cheetah's Global Grocery. Just like that.
Now here I am alone, Ken thought as he flipped through the latest issue of Jet, bought on a whim late last night during an antacid run to CVS, in our modest-sized but respectable brick two-story in Evansville. What did she mean, 'worked so hard'? Was she in it for the money? Was my castle built on the rotting bones of a million dead fetuses? Half of it, maybe. We always went fifty-fifty on everything. I paid half with my anthropologist's salary, and she paid half with her family-planner's salary. It's not much of a castle anyway, and family-planning is about a lot more than abortions. It's about education.
Kris Kotarski
I saw Andrzej Wajda's Katyń when visiting Warsaw a couple of months after the premiere on September 17, 2007. I went to the cinema with my 79-year-old grandparents, my 51-year-old aunt, and my younger cousins, aged 23 and 25 at the time. We left the cinema, and sat down at a nearby cafe. I broke the silence first.
“So, what do you think?”
Editor's Note: In the spirit of The New Yorker's popular caption contest, we will be presenting original cartoons done for 3QD by the very talented Robert Pichler. Unlike The New Yorker, we are not running a real contest, but just for fun, we encourage you to suggest captions in the comments area.
by Bilal Tanweer
HOSHRUBA—The Land & the Tilism (Book One)
By Muhammad Husain Jah
Translated with Introduction and Notes by Musharraf Ali Farooqi
516 pages, Urdu Project
ISBN: 978-0978069551
Price: US $25
[This tale] has consumed whole generations of readers before you. And like all great tales, it is still hungry—ravenous, in fact—for more. You may not return from this campaign. Or come back so hardened you may never look at stories in quite the same way again.
It might seem an exaggeration, but here are the facts: this yarn was spun by two generations of storytellers and it is spread over eight thousand pages in its original Urdu language. At the height of its popularity in North India, it attracted legions of followers all the way from the aristocratic class down to the ordinary folk of the bazaar. In other words: this is a bloody carnival of a book, and everyone is invited.
Reading it, you immediately think of Borges’ remark on The Thousand and One Nights: “one feels like getting lost in [it], one knows entering that book one can forget one’s own poor human fate; one can enter a world, a world made of archetypal figures but also of individuals.”
That sums it up, really. Except, during the course of this narrative, our poor fate is in the hands of five tricksters, who are the heroes of the tale: they are spies, assassins, chameleons, and commandoes all rolled into one and their tricks usually involve elaborate plots to overcome the astounding magic of enemy sorcerers. But they aren’t your regular Bond-style smart guys; they are much flatter – types, as Borges puts it. And that’s how the narrative also goes: focused entirely on action and rooted firmly in absolute notions of good and evil, beauty and ugliness, love and loyalty, it lacks every nuance of psychology or empathy with the ‘other’ that you may think of. It is a tumbling, rollicking war machine that lusts after the triumph of good and will settle for nothing less than a thorough devastation of evil that is the enchanted Land of Hoshruba and its ruler, Emperor Sorcerer Afrasiyab.
Pharaoh Khufu intends to secure his riches beyond the grave, and into the afterlife. He captures the greatest architect known in his kingdom, and forces him – through a threat to his entire people – to build him an impenetrable tomb: a Pyramid no thief can plunder. The architect sets to work, knowing that upon completion of the tomb he himself will be sealed inside with the dead Pharaoh. How is it possible to build the most secret catacomb, a labyrinth impossible to breach, without passing on its secret through the workers who build it?
How do we pass on a message in a world with impenetrable borders? And in turn, how do we determine its secure transmission? The codes we devise become useless at certain horizons: if the slave cannot speak, he cannot exchange; if a being from another land does not know our language, it cannot understand us; if a message is encrypted, one must also pass on the method to crack it.
Sometimes the codes we devise to enslave, become apparatus in their own demise.
The tongue-less slave is still a liability in a literate society; in turn, a literate slave is a still liability in a digitised society. At every stage in the development of communication technologies human subjects have been relinquished power of one kind, only for a power of another kind to evolve and liberate them once again. The human body is the central locality for all information exchange. Even today, with our writing technologies, our radios, computers and nano-particles, it is the human form that dictates all particulars of scale and substance. What matters now is not the tongue – an organ reduced of its power by hieroglyphics and alphabets – yet in order to silence, corrupt regimes and over-zealous governments still effectively mutilate their subjects. In the West, information monoliths such as Google and Wikipedia help us mediate the space between discrete, complex reams of data. It is as if, in the modern age, to spite its people all China needed to do was cut off the equivalent of their tongue, building up around them a labyrinthine firewall that determines their silence; that reduces their identities to the status of tongueless slaves.
Sometimes to properly conceal something, one must devise a better way to encode it.
David Sheppard is the author of On Some Faraway Beach: The Life and Times of Brian Eno, the first and only biography of rock music's foremost intellectual “non-musician,” producer and cultural theorist. The book covers Eno's early life growing up in England listening to early soul records, his formative period in art school, his entrance into the public eye as the synthesizer player with Roxy Music and his career's subsequent fragmentation across the cultural landscape, into the realms of visual art, ambient music, record production (for the likes of U2, David Bowie, Talking Heads and Coldplay), writing and futurology. Colin Marshall originally conducted this conversation on the public radio program and podcast The Marketplace of Ideas. [MP3] [iTunes link]
I've yet to come up with the pat sentence that actually answers that, as indeed has Brian. I mention in the intro to the book that he got so fed up with trying to answer that question at dinner parties, explaining this enormously complex dilettante artist, cultural theorist, etc., etc. job description that he instead just said he was an accountant, which made people go away very, very quickly.
How did your own history with the enjoyment of Brian Eno's work begin? What was your introduction to him?
I came across him as a sort of callow youth, listening to punk rock records. He got all the mentions in the margins. I was aware of him in Roxy Music, but I was a bit too young for that, so it was a kind of ethereal presence initially. He got mentioned in dispatches by all sorts of people in punk rock. When I first got to hear his music, which in any serious capacity would have been about '78, what I heard sounded nothing like what I expected. I expected something far more severe and metallic.
Obviously I knew things like Low, the David Bowie record he'd worked on, and I'd never really associated his involvement in those records with the more calm and ethereal elements. Somehow I imagined him to be more Velvet Underground and less lift music — to be honest, when I first heard ambient music I, like many others, didn't fall immediately in love with it. I did think it was rather bland.
My initial reaction to Brian Eno was one of disappointment — one which quickly turned around. Something happened very shortly after that. I think it was just part of my growing up, actually. A light went on somehow, and it all suddenly made enormous sense. The more I investigated it, the more sense it made.
You mention this intro was in the late seventies, when Brian was in the process of inventing and releasing the first ambient albums. For those in the audience who might not know, how did Brian enter the public eye? What things was he first famous for?
His introduction to the masses would have been through playing synthesizers with Roxy Music, certainly in the U.K. This was this very strange pop group, even for a time of very strange pop groups. Bryan Ferry was the lead singer and Brian Eno was this guy, a self-confessed non-musician, who played synthesizers and actually played a lot of the instruments in the band, more traditional, guitars and so forth, and filtered them through his electronic effects. This was a revolutionary thing to be seen in pop music in 1972, which is when they struck. They went swiftly to the top of the British charts. I think they took a bit longer to penetrate America.
That would've been Eno's calling card to the world, but he was only actually with Roxy Music for two albums. By 1973, he was off on his own. He'd fallen out with Brian Eno — with, uh, Bryan Ferry, rather, the singer. Probably less confusing with two Brians in the band, for one thing, but they had a conflict of interest over where the band was going. Bryan Ferry, I think, was always looking to be a more orthodox pop star, and was moving in that direction. Eno comes from an art school background, and wanted to pursue music that reflected that more. Ultimately, that's when he struck out on his own. But it would've been Roxy Music that first awakened the world to Brian Eno.
Read more »
Text and Photos by Jill McDonough
The first time I saw her, May 2, 1999, I felt like I had just been plunked down from a future in which we’d been together for decades, and I had to convince her it was me. The first time I heard her name felt like the first time I effortlessly understood overheard conversation in another language. Josey. Of course. Now everything made sense.
I won her over by writing her a poem called “Ghazal for Josey.” Every month when I repay some MFA tuition I feel smug about what a bargain I got.
An open relationship, quickly closing: only nobody you know, only out of town, only one time, only on jury duty, only sequestered, forget it.
When we had been together for six weeks I went to my friend Sudha’s wedding and got drunk and called Josey saying I want you to marry me and I think we should have a big Indian wedding like Sudha’s.
We are neither of us Indian.
On one of our first dates we were in the glass-bricked tunnel of Back Bay Station, on the Orange Line in Boston. And she sang the “O Mio Babbino Caro” aria from Gianni Schicchi because she liked the acoustics there. Mother. Fucker. Strangers cried out Brava!
We got civilly united in Vermont, had all the clerks of North Hero in tears. Party A Name: Josephine Alice Packard. Party B Name: Jill Susann McDonough. Josey made the skirt I wore out of an antique kimono.
I am married to the most competent person I have ever met, good at everything she has ever tried including teaching me how to use a drill, a dremel, a table saw, a jigsaw, a circular saw, a miter box, a powder actuated nail gun, a nail gun, a pneumatic stapler, a putty knife, a trowel, plaster, spackle, grout, wood filler, window glazing, drywall screws, perforated washers, a Boston shaker, a julep strainer, a Hawthorne strainer, a Tap-Icer, and a Lewis bag.
