Journal articles on the topic 'Jackpot (Dog)'

AbstractBurgess-Jackson (1998) argues that the duties we have to our companion animals are similar to the duties we have to our children. Specifically, he argues that a person who takes custody of either a nonhuman animal or a child elevates the moral status of the child or animal, endowing each with rights neither had before. These rights obligate that person to provide for the well being of the creature—animal or child—in question. This paper offers two arguments against this position. First, a creature's rights rest solely on the creature's intrinsic properties. Thus, the person taking custody of a creature does not endow the creature with new rights. Rather, the custodian assumes the responsibilities associated with ensuring that the creature's rights are protected and preserved. Second, our children possess intrinsic properties and, hence, rights—most important, the right to life—that our pets lack. This difference undermines the analogy on which Burgess-Jackson's argument depends. Our pets are not like our children, as Burgess-Jackson claims. Instead, they are more akin to our slaves.

In Kate Atkinson's ecofeminist crime novel Started Early, Took My Dog, the (semi-)retired investigators Jackson Brodie and Tracy Waterhouse at once collude with and wish to change exploitative capitalist patriarchal society. Trafficking epitomises its crime: the domination and exploitation of human and nonhuman animal others. Ecofeminism urges us to reconsider our complicity and embrace the vision of an interspecies community rooted in the motherly ethics of care. When confronted with a trafficked dog and female child, respectively, the tough Jackson and Tracy wish to transform into the maternal investigator of ecofeminist revision and create a caring (interspecies) family. But behind their maternal appearances lurks the noir perpetrator who mirrors his or her society's crimes. I argue that Atkinson uses the noir convention of the hard-boiled investigator shifting between identities – here borrowed from a sub-generic variant – to explore ordinary men and women's entrapment in contemporary society in the conflict between complicity and care. Through manipulation of point of view, we the readers are in fact implicated in this conflict as well.

A 1 yr old male castrated Yorkshire terrier was referred after ingesting magnets. Dehydration, fever, tachycardia, and abdominal pain were noted on physical examination. Abdominal radiographs revealed two radiopaque foreign objects in close proximity to each other with decreased abdominal detail. Surgical exploration identified magnets adhered together in the omentum with perforations present in the transverse colon and stomach. The perforations were closed and a Jackson-Pratt continuous suction drain was placed. Septic peritonitis secondary to intestinal perforation from magnet ingestion was successfully treated with a combination of surgery and a closed suction drain.

This essay looks at the historical significance of three APS classic papers that are freely available online: Hammel HT, Hardy JD, and Fusco MM. Thermoregulatory responses to hypothalamic cooling in unanesthetized dogs. Am J Physiol 198: 481—486, 1960 ( http://ajplegacy.physiology.org/cgi/reprint/198/3/481 ). Hammel HT, Jackson DC, Stolwijk JAJ, Hardy JD, and Strømme SB. Temperature regulation by hypothalamic proportional control with an adjustable set point. J Appl Physiol 18: 1146—1154, 1963 ( http://jap.physiology.org/cgi/reprint/18/6/1146 ). Hellstrøm B and Hammel HT. Some characteristics of temperature regulation in the unanesthetized dog. Am J Physiol 213: 547—556, 1967 ( http://ajplegacy.physiology.org/cgi/reprint/213/2/547 ).

This essay looks at the historical significance of three APS classic papers that are freely available online: Hammel HT, Hardy JD, and Fusco MM. Thermoregulatory responses to hypothalamic cooling in unanesthetized dogs. Am J Physiol 198: 481-486, 1960 ( http://ajplegacy.physiology.org/cgi/reprint/198/3/481 ). Hammel HT, Jackson DC, Stolwijk JAJ, Hardy JD, and Strømme SB. Temperature regulation by hypothalamic proportional control with an adjustable set point. J Appl Physiol 18: 1146-1154, 1963 ( http://jap.physiology.org/cgi/reprint/18/6/1146 ). Hellstrøm B and Hammel HT. Some characteristics of temperature regulation in the unanesthetized dog. Am J Physiol 213: 547-556, 1967 ( http://ajplegacy.physiology.org/cgi/reprint/213/2/547 ).

To the Editor.— Acute toxicity may complicate the ingestion of US pennies minted since October 1982. In December 1984, an 11-lb dog died from multisystem failure attributed to markedly elevated serum and tissue levels following the ingestion of two such coins (The Arizona Daily Star, Dec 4, 1984, pp 1-2). The mostly copper alloy one-cent piece was replaced in 1982 by one with a zinc core and a thin copper jacket. Although the copper is relatively inert, a break in the copper casing in an acid environment or prolonged acid exposure of an intact coin will cause dissolution and absorption of the zinc (The Arizona Daily Star, Dec 4, 1984, pp 1-2).

Adopting the name Canis dingo for the Dingo to explicitly denote a species-level taxon separate from other canids was suggested by Crowther et al. (2014) as a means to eliminate taxonomic instability and contention. However, Jackson et al. (2017), using standard taxonomic and nomenclatural approaches and principles, called instead for continued use of the nomen C. familiaris for all domestic dogs and their derivatives, including the Dingo. (This name, C. familiaris, is applied to all dogs that derive from the domesticated version of the Gray Wolf, Canis lupus, based on nomenclatural convention.) The primary reasons for this call by Jackson et al. (2017) were: (1) a lack of evidence to show that recognizing multiple species amongst the dog, including the Dingo and New Guinea Singing Dog, was necessary taxonomically, and (2) the principle of nomenclatural priority (the name familiaris Linnaeus, 1758, antedates dingo Meyer, 1793). Overwhelming current evidence from archaeology and genomics indicates that the Dingo is of recent origin in Australia and shares immediate ancestry with other domestic dogs as evidenced by patterns of genetic and morphological variation. Accordingly, for Smith et al. (2019) to recognise Canis dingo as a distinct species, the onus was on them to overturn current interpretations of available archaeological, genomic, and morphological datasets and instead show that Dingoes have a deeply divergent evolutionary history that distinguishes them from other named forms of Canis (including C. lupus and its domesticated version, C. familiaris). A recent paper by Koepfli et al. (2015) demonstrates exactly how this can be done in a compelling way within the genus Canis—by demonstrating deep evolutionary divergence between taxa, on the order of hundreds of thousands of years, using data from multiple genetic systems. Smith et al. (2019) have not done this; instead they have misrepresented the content and conclusions of Jackson et al. (2017), and contributed extraneous arguments that are not relevant to taxonomic decisions. Here we dissect Smith et al. (2019), identifying misrepresentations, to show that ecological, behavioural and morphological evidence is insufficient to recognise Dingoes as a separate species from other domestic dogs. We reiterate: the correct binomial name for the taxon derived from Gray Wolves (C. lupus) by passive and active domestication, including Dingoes and other domestic dogs, is Canis familiaris. We are strongly sympathetic to arguments about the historical, ecological, cultural, or other significance of the Dingo, but these are issues that will have to be considered outside of the more narrow scope of taxonomy and nomenclature.

Using a gastric barostat to measure gastric tone, we previously demonstrated that nutrient perfusion into the intestine induces gastric relaxation. To investigate the pathway of this enterogastric reflex we surgically isolated the vagi either in a cervical skin tunnel (3 dogs) or within an implanted supradiaphragmatic cooling jacket (3 dogs). In the conscious fasted dogs, cervical or supradiaphragmatic vagal blockade by cooling (5 degrees C X 10 min) induced a reversible gastric relaxation. Bethanechol (0.2 mg X kg-1 X h-1 iv) alone or in combination with adrenergic blockers (phentolamine 1.5 mg X kg-1 X h-1 + propranolol 0.3 mg X kg-1 X h-1) suppressed the cooling-induced relaxation but did not abolish gastric relaxation induced by intestinal nutrient perfusion (Osmolite, 3.1 ml/min). At this point, vagal cooling, either cervical or supradiaphragmatic, reversibly blocked the nutrient-induced gastric relaxation: gastric tone significantly increased driven by the cholinergic background and reverted after vagal rewarming to the previous relaxed state. We conclude that intestinal nutrients induce gastric relaxation by a nonadrenergic noncholinergic mechanism. This reflex is mediated by fibers contained in the vagus nerves at both cervical and supradiaphragmatic levels.

During the last decade jacket-frames have emerged as the main kind of substructure for bottom-mounted offshore wind farms in intermediate water depths. With the offshore wind industry moving towards deeper waters, the predominance of jacket-frames is expected to increase in future years. Multipurpose platforms combining wind and wave energy are proposed as an innovative solution to enhance the sustainability of offshore wind energy. In this research, a multipurpose platform is investigated with a novel feature in its oscillating water column (OWC) wave energy converter—a variable geometry skirt. A comprehensive physical modelling campaign was carried out using a 1:50 scale model. The performance of the OWC and its interaction with the wave field were investigated under four different skirt aperture angles. It was found that the skirt aperture angle plays a significant role in the capture-width ratio and the pneumatic mean power of the OWC. The best performance was obtained with a skirt aperture angle of 140 deg. More generally, these results prove that the variable-geometry skirt is a promising innovation for hybrid wave-wind systems mounted on jacket-frame substructures.

AbstractWe performed a study during our Trauma Week when patients who were referred from the accident department with fractures were reviewed in our fracture clinic. During our Trauma Week, Mister Thomas, Consultant Orthopaedic and Trauma Surgeon or Surgeon Lieutenant Commander McLean, Specialist Registrar in Orthopaedic and Trauma Surgery reviewed a total of 93 patients in fracture clinic. All patients were given an anonymous questionnaire regarding their perceptions of their attending clinician, 77 were completed. Forty-nine questionnaires regarding Surgeon Lieutenant Commander McLean and 28 regarding Mister Thomas were available for analysis. During the Trauma Week all patients were seen in the same location in identical cubicles by either of the two clinicians, consultations were typically brief lasting about five minutes. Throughout the week the clinicians, one military and one civilian, wore differing attire. The military uniform comprised Royal Navy number four action working dress. The civilian attire comprised ‘dog-robbers’ (jacket, shirt with tie and smart trousers). The hypothesis tested was that the use of military uniform might alter patients’ perceptions of their attending clinician. Our results appear to demonstrate that the attire of the attending clinician does not adversely influence patients’ perceptions of their attending clinician.

Neurosurgery is predicated on the knowledge of the structure-function relationship of the brain. When the topic is broached in its historiography, it begins with Fritch and Hitzig's report on the localization of motor function in the cortex of the dog and skips rapidly to Wilder Penfield's homunculus. In that gap are found the origins of modern neurosurgery in 3 papers published by Jean-Martin Charcot and Albert Pitres between 1877 and 1879 in which they describe the somatotopic organization of the human motor cortex and draw the first human brain map. Their findings, obtained through the clinicopathological method, gave relevance to David Ferrier's observations in animals. Their work was extensively cited, and their illustrations reproduced by Ferrier in his landmark lecture to the Royal College of Physicians in 1878. It was known to William Macewen, who used localization to guide him in resecting intracranial mass lesions, and to William Osler and John Hughlings Jackson, who were early advocates of intracranial surgery. This paper describes Charcot and Pitres' discovery of the cortical origin of human voluntary movement and its somatotopic organization, and their influence on 19th-century intracranial surgery. It fills a gap in the historiography of cerebral localization and neurosurgery.

The perplexing and tantalizing disease of rapid eye movement (REM) sleep behavior disorder (RBD) is characterized by peculiar, potentially dangerous behavior during REM sleep. It was described both in animals and humans. RBD in mammals was first described by Jouvet and Delorme in 1965, based on an experimental model induced by lesion in pontine region of cats [1]. In 1972, Passouant et al. described sleep with eye movements and persistent tonic muscle activity induced by tricyclic antidepressant medication [2], and Tachibana et al., in 1975, the preservation of muscle tone during REM sleep in the acute psychosis induced by alcohol and meprobamate abuse [3]. However, the first formal description of RBD in humans as new parasomnia was made by Schenck et al in 1986 [4-7]. Subsequently, in 1990, the International Classification of Sleep Disorders definitely recognized RBD as new parasomnia [8]. To our knowledge, arts and literature do not mention RBD. Except for the quotation, made by Schenck et al [6] in 2002, of Don Quixote de la Mancha whose behavior in sleep strongly suggested that Miguel de Servantes actually described RBD, no other artistic work has portrayed this disorder. Only recently we become aware of the cinematic presentation of RBD which by decades precedes the first scientific description. The first presentation of RBD on film was made prior to the era of advanced electroencephalography and polysomnography, and even before the discovery of REM sleep by Aserinsky and Kleitman in 1953. [9]. The artistic and intuitive presentation of RBD was produced in Technicolor in a famous film "Cinderella" created by Walt Disney in 1950, some 35 years prior to its original publication in the journal "Sleep" [2]. Since there is an earlier version of the film initially produced in 1920, presumably containing this similar scene, we can only speculate that the first cinematic presentation of RBD might precede its scientific debut by 65 years. In a scene in a barn, clumsy and goofy dog Bruno is, as dogs usually do, lying on a mat deeply asleep and obviously dreaming of his enemy cat Lucifer. This is clearly implied by a preceding scene showing Lucifer being extremely frightened while observing the dreaming dog in action. The cat Lucifer is instantly aware that the dog is chasing him in a dream and is horrified (Pictures 1-3). In a film sequence lasting only 16 seconds, we see Cinderella being aware that Bruno is firmly asleep, apparently having a terrible dream. While lying on the ground with total absence of any muscle atonia, the dog Bruno chases the cat Lucifer in his dream. He is running and barking, and when in his dream he catches Lucifer, he tries to devour the cat. Cinderella tries to wake him up by calling his name twice, first gently and then more vigorously, as she becomes aware of the content of Lucifer?s dream and his intention. The dog is deeply asleep and does not awake in spite of being exposed to sunlight through the opening door of the barn, and called by name by Cinderella (Pictures 4-14). For such a behavior he is reprimanded by Cinderella who definitely recognized the content of his dream (Pictures 15-36). Immediately upon awakening, Bruno shows his good natured temper and amiable character (Pictures 37-40). The film shows that the producer (Walt Disney) and film directors (Wilfred Jackson, Clyde Geronimi and Hamilton Luske) were obviously aware that a dog might enact the content of a dream. It also implies that their observation from day-to-day (better to say night-to-night) life of the dream enactment is not a rare phenomenon, and that it deserves to be shown in the film. These authors were also aware that dogs having RBD were good-natured during wakefulness and that only in dreams they showed unrestrained aggression; while awake, dog Bruno was only an opponent or enemy to the cat Lucifer, but in dreams the animosity grew to aggression. Disney noticed this peculiar kind of sleep behavior and most probably was aware of its frequency and importance, and certainly not knowing it is a disease, he used it to color his cartoon character making it more likable to the observer. Since the film was nominated for Best Score, Best Song and Best Sound, it not only reflected the artistic and observational abilities of the producer, but also his sense of the importance of the phenomenon, awareness of its frequency and presence in animals. The onlooker is tempted to speculate that Disney, while obviously having been aware of such a behavior in animals, might also have knowledge of its presence in humans. Even more, since Disney?s films frequently present different sleep disturbances (e.g., obstructive sleep apnea (OSA) in dwarfs, hypersomnolence in the dwarf Sleepy, or jactatio capitis nocturna in the dwarf Dopey in film "The Snow White"), it seems plausible that he first observed RBD in man, and then artistically transferred it to his cartoon animal characters. Since the whole incident took place during the day, we assume that Bruno, apart from suffering from RBD, had another sleep disorder causing daytime REM intrusions (possibly narcolepsy and probably not OSA, as is frequent in Disney?s films, since there is no excessive daytime sleepiness). The odd thing about RBD is that it may easily, as it probably did for centuries, go as peculiar behavior in sleep ? rather than disease. While Lucifer was presented as sober and prudent cat, Bruno was clumsy and forgetful dog. We will refrain from speculating that dog?s clumsy nature could be the consequence of the CNS involvement by neuro-degenerative disease (i.e., synucleinopathy). Although we are aware that, in interpreting this episode we assumed to be at least as imaginative as the cartoon films of Walt Disney are, the fact remains that the artistic film presentation of RBD precedes its scientific description by at least 35 years.

Dogecoin is a crypto asset created by programmers Jackson Palmer and Billy Markus in 2013 which later as luckycoin fork which is now defunct. For information, a cryptocurrency fork is a tweak to the source code of the blockhain protocol in generating protocols or coins. But it turns out that Dogecoin is only used as a joke currency where when Palmer in 2015 stated his goal in building Dogecoin was not to make money or at first using the dog mascot Shiba Inu as meme coins or jokes (Chohan, 2017). Although considered meme coins, in January 2021 Dogecoin has achieved popularity which It’s an 800% increase (Zack Voell, 2021). However, the world of cryptocurrencies is full of unpredictable especially related to fluctuations in crypto prices. The purpose of this research is to confirm the forecast of degecoin volatility and price after the economic recovery of the Covid 19 pandemic. Quantitative and descriptive analysis using the ARIMA and GARCH time series models to predict a price sequentially are the analytical tools used in this study (Rahman & Wulandari, 2022). The data used is secondary data taken from https://www.investing.com/. This research uses secondary data to determine the volatility and prediction of the Dogecoin price. The result of this study is that Dogecoin shows volatility and for price trend predictions tend to experience an uptrend. Keywords: Dogecoin, Volatility, Covid-19 Pandemic.

First impressions matter when buying a book; they are less important when chasing up a reference in a library or following a reading list to a book shop. C.T. Hsia on Chinese Literature is a serious tome which looks like a biography – a bust portrait of the octogenarian author smiles out of a stark black and white dust jacket, and the playful title leaves ambiguous whether it is C. T. Hsia or his thoughts we are buying. One of the delights of reputation and seniority is the publication of a lifetime's collected essays. This produces a gift to the reader which takes its rightful place as a history of criticism as well as literary criticism, gathering 16 essays published between 1962 (in The China Quarterly) and 1990, a volume for celebration. As undergraduates of modern Chinese literature, we used to groan when C. T. Hsia appeared on reading lists, as much because the works containing the essays were dog-eared, smelly old volumes, as for their polemicism. Publication in a smart, single volume presents easy access and allows the essays to be contemplated for their merit and range. Since C. T. Hsia has been considered, as Patrick Hanan writes, “without question the most influential critic of Chinese fiction since the 1960s,” his essays remain important reading matter.

Limited to nonvaporizing spray cases, this work discusses the transport of charged droplets within a cylinder of a motored axisymmetric model electrosprayed direct injection spark ignition (eDISI) engine with electrified walls. The concept engine investigated here is assumed to operate with an electrostatic atomizer previously studied for application in fuel burners [Yule et al., 1994, Fuel, 74(7), pp. 1094–1103]. A split/multiple injection strategy is employed in which three pulses of 5mg each are made at crank angles of 80, 150 and 300 deg ATDC of the intake, which fall within the intervals for stable combustion of either early or late injection modes of operation of DISI engines [Jackson et al., 1997, SAE Paper No. 970543]. The direct Simulation Monte Carlo (DSMC) approach embodied in an in-house CFD research code is used to simulate the discrete phase flow with the electrical charge distribution for different instants within the computational cells being computed by simple addition of the droplet charges residing in particular cells at particular instants of time. It is shown in the half engine cycle investigated that the use of charged sprays in eDISI engines may help to reduce the in-cylinder wall-wetting phenomenon. In addition, pockets of highest electrical charge are found to populate the region near the spark plug by 345 deg CA, which may be a path for improved combustion efficiency.

Since The Lord of the Rings was adapted by Peter Jackson into trilogy film in 2001-03, it has astounded its critics and gratified its fans and students. Many critical journals or graduation papers have also talked about this massive novel. After doing a lot of reading concerning these reviews, it’s clear that most of them analyze this work using psychoanalytical criticism; myth and archetypal criticism; cultural studies, and recently ecocriticism. Among these theories, psychoanalytic interpretation mainly focuses on Freud’s key ideas, namely the id; ego; and superego. According to Freud’s theory that: “Psychoanalytic literary criticism is not simply about interpreting a text’s protagonists. It also seeks to relate the text to the mind of its author.”(Berg, 2003, p.84). In this circumstance, this paper will probably dig some new insights by using this theory. The paper will follow the protagonist’s inner mind through employing Freud’s some key ideas, such as repression and projection. Based upon psychoanalytic analysis of the protagonists, this paper tries to argue that the three Hobbits can acquire happiness as long as they deal properly with the relationship between themselves and the society. In other words, common people can also push the wheel of history as long as they code well with themselves and the society.

Frey, Urs, Bela Suki, Richard Kraemer, and Andrew C. Jackson. Human respiratory input impedance between 32 and 800 Hz, measured by interrupter technique and forced oscillations. J. Appl. Physiol. 82(3): 1018–1023, 1997.—Respiratory input impedance (Zin) over a wide range of frequencies ( f) has been shown to be useful in determining airway resistance (Raw) and tissue resistance in dogs or airway wall properties in human adults. Zin measurements are noninvasive and, therefore, potentially useful in investigation of airway mechanics in infants. However, accurate measurements of Zin at these f values with the use of forced oscillatory techniques (FOT) in infants are difficult because of their relatively high Raw and large compliance of the face mask. If pseudorandom noise pressure oscillations generated by a loudspeaker are applied at the airway opening (FOT), the power of the resulting flow decreases inversely with f because of capacitive shunting into the volume of the gas in the speaker chamber and in the face mask. We studied whether high-frequency respiratory Zin can be measured by using rapid flow interruption [high-speed interrupter technique (HIT)], in which we expect the flow amplitude in the respiratory system to be higher than in the FOT. We compared Zin measured by HIT with Zin measured by FOT in a dried dog lung and in five healthy adult subjects. The impedance was calculated from two pressure signals measured between the mouth and the HIT valve. The impedance could be assessed from 32 to 800 Hz. Its real part at low f as well as the f and amplitude of the first and second acoustic resonance, measured by FOT and by HIT, were not significantly different. The power spectrum of oscillatory flow when the HIT was used showed amplitudes that were at least 100 times greater than those when FOT was used, increasing at f > 400 Hz. In conclusion, the HIT enables the measurement of high-frequency Zin data ranging from 32 to 800 Hz with particularly high flow amplitudes and, therefore, possibly better signal-to-noise ratio. This is particularly important in systems with high Raw, e.g., in infants, when measurements have to be performed through a face mask.

In this work, sub-kilowatt, compact thulium-doped fiber laser systems, operating at a wavelength of 1940 nm, have been presented. The continuous-wave laser power generated out of a single oscillator was 90 W with a slope efficiency of 56.7%. Applying a master oscillator – power amplifier configuration, an output power of 120.5 W with a slope efficiency of 58.2% was demonstrated. These are the first results of the works aimed at developing kW-class “eye-safe” laser systems in Poland. Full Text: PDF ReferencesZ. Liu, et al., "Implementing termination analysis on quantum programming", Sci. China Inf. Sci. 62, 41301 (2019) CrossRef S. D. Jackson, A. Sabella, D.G Lancaster, "Application and Development of High-Power and Highly Efficient Silica-Based Fiber Lasers Operating at 2 μm", IEEE J. Sel. Top. Quantum Electron. 13, 567, (2007). CrossRef E. Russell, N. Kavanagh, K. Shortiss, and F. C. G. Gunning, "Development of thulium-doped fibre amplifiers for the 2μm waveband", Proc. SPIE 10683, 106832Q (2018) CrossRef P. Peterka, B. Faure, W. Blanc, M. Karásek, and B. Dussardier, "Theoretical modelling of S-band thulium-doped silica fibre amplifiers", Opt. Quantum Electron. 36, 201 (2004) CrossRef M. Eichhorn, "Pulsed 2 μm fiber lasers for direct and pumping applications in defence and security", Proc. SPIE 7836, 78360B (2010). CrossRef O. Traxer and E. X. Keller, "Thulium fiber laser: the new player for kidney stone treatment? A comparison with Holmium:YAG laser", World J. Urol. 2019 Feb 6. doi: 10.1007/s00345-019-02654-5 CrossRef S. Das, "Optical parametric oscillator: status of tunable radiation in mid-IR to IR spectral range based on ZnGeP2 crystal pumped by solid state lasers", Opt. Quant. Electron. 51, 70 (2019) CrossRef M. Michalska, P. Hlubina, and J. Swiderski, "Mid-infrared Supercontinuum Generation to ∼4.7 μm in a ZBLAN Fiber Pumped by an Optical Parametric Generator", IEEE Photon. J 9, 3200207 (2017) CrossRef https://www.ipgphotonics.com DirectLink M.D. Burns, P. C. Shardlow, P. Barua, T. L. Jefferson-Brain, J. K. Sahu, and W. A.Clarkson, "47 W continuous-wave 1726 nm thulium fiber laser core-pumped by an erbium fiber laser", Opt. Lett. 44, 5230 (2019) CrossRef S.D. Jackson, "Cross relaxation and energy transfer upconversion processes relevant to the functioning of 2 μm Tm3+-doped silica fibre lasers", Opt. Commun. 230, 197 (2004). CrossRef X. Wang, P. Zhou, X. Wang, H. Xiao, and L. Si, "102 W monolithic single frequency Tm-doped fiber MOPA", Opt. Express 21, 32386 (2013) CrossRef K. Yin, R. Zhu, B. Zhang, G. Liu, P. Zhou, and J. Hou, "300 W-level, wavelength-widely-tunable, all-fiber integrated thulium-doped fiber laser", Opt. Express 24, 11085 (2016) CrossRef G. D. Goodno, L. D. Book, and J. E. Rothenberg, "600-W, single-mode, single-frequency thulium fibre laser amplifier", Proc. SPIE 7195, 71950Y (2009). CrossRef T. Ehrenreich, R. Leveille, I. Majid, K. Tankala, G. Rines, and P. Moulton, "1-kW, all-glass Tm: fiber laser", Proc. SPIE 7580, 1 (2010) DirectLink M. Michalska et al., "Highly stable, efficient Tm-doped fiber laser—a potential scalpel for low invasive surgery", Laser Phys. Lett. 13, 115101 (2016). CrossRef

Streaming potential in rocks is the electrical potential developing when an ionic fluid flows through the pores of rocks. The zeta potential is a key parameter of streaming potential and it depends on many parameters such as the mineral composition of rocks, fluid properties, temperature etc. Therefore, the zeta potential is different for various rocks and liquids. In this work, streaming potential measurements are performed for five rock samples saturated with six different monovalent electrolytes. From streaming potential coefficients, the zeta potential is deduced. The experimental results are then explained by a theoretical model. From the model, the surface site density for different rocks and the binding constant for different cations are found and they are in good agreement with those reported in literature. The result also shows that (1) the surface site density of Bentheim sandstone mostly composed of silica is the largest of five rock samples; (2) the binding constant is almost the same for a given cation but it increases in the order KMe(Na+) < KMe(K+) < KMe(Cs+) for a given rock.References Corwin R. F., Hoovert D.B., 1979. The self-potential method in geothermal exploration. Geophysics 44, 226-245. Dove P.M., Rimstidt J.D., 1994. Silica-Water Interactions. Reviews in Mineralogy and Geochemistry 29, 259-308. Glover P.W.J., Walker E., Jackson M., 2012. Streaming-potential coefficient of reservoir rock: A theoretical model. Geophysics, 77, D17-D43. Ishido T. and Mizutani H., 1981. Experimental and theoretical basis of electrokinetic phenomena in rock-water systems and its applications to geophysics. Journal of Geophysical Research, 86, 1763-1775. Jackson M., Butler A., Vinogradov J., 2012. Measurements of spontaneous potential in chalk with application to aquifer characterization in the southern UK: Quarterly Journal of Engineering Geology & Hydrogeology, 45, 457-471. Jouniaux L. and T. Ishido, 2012. International Journal of Geophysics. Article ID 286107, 16p. Doi:10.1155/2012/286107. Kim S.S., Kim H.S., Kim S.G., Kim W.S., 2004. Effect of electrolyte additives on sol-precipitated nano silica particles. Ceramics International 30, 171-175. Kirby B.J. and Hasselbrink E.F., 2004. Zeta potential of microfluidic substrates: 1. Theory, experimental techniques, and effects on separations. Electrophoresis, 25, 187-202. Kosmulski M., and Dahlsten D., 2006. High ionic strength electrokinetics of clay minerals. Colloids and Surfaces, A: Physicocemical and Engineering Aspects, 291, 212-218. Lide D.R., 2009, Handbook of chemistry and physics, 90th edition: CRC Press. Luong Duy Thanh, 2014. Electrokinetics in porous media, Ph.D. Thesis, University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Luong Duy Thanh and Sprik R., 2016a. Zeta potential in porous rocks in contact with monovalent and divalent electrolyte aqueous solutions, Geophysics, 81, D303-D314. Luong Duy Thanh and Sprik R., 2016b. Permeability dependence of streaming potential coefficient in porous media. Geophysical Prospecting, 64, 714-725. Luong Duy Thanh and Sprik R., 2016c. Laboratory Measurement of Microstructure Parameters of Porous Rocks. VNU Journal of Science: Mathematics-Physics 32, 22-33. Mizutani H., Ishido T., Yokokura T., Ohnishi S., 1976. Electrokinetic phenomena associated with earthquakes. Geophysical Research Letters, 3, 365-368. Ogilvy A.A., Ayed M.A., Bogoslovsky V.A., 1969. Geophysical studies of water leakage from reservoirs. Geophysical Prospecting, 17, 36-62. Onsager L., 1931. Reciprocal relations in irreversible processes. I. Physical Review, 37, 405-426. Revil A. and Glover P.W.J., 1997. Theory of ionic-surface electrical conduction in porous media. Physical Review B, 55, 1757-1773. Scales P.J., 1990. Electrokinetics of the muscovite mica-aqueous solution interface. Langmuir, 6, 582-589. Behrens S.H. and Grier D.G., 2001. The charge of glass and silica surfaces. The Journal of Chemical Physics, 115, 6716-6721. Stern O., 1924. Zurtheorieder electrolytischendoppelschist. Z. Elektrochem, 30, 508-516. Tchistiakov A.A., 2000. Physico-chemical aspects of clay migration and injectivity decrease of geothermal clastic reservoirs: Proceedings World Geothermal Congress, 3087-3095. Wurmstich B., Morgan F.D., 1994. Modeling of streaming potential responses caused by oil well pumping. Geophysics, 59, 46-56.

NORTHERN IRELAND FROM THE AIR. Edited by R. Common, Belfast : Queen's University Geography Department, 1964. 104 pp., 44 plates, 1 folding map. 10 × 8 ins. 25s.THE CANALS OF THE NORTH OF IRELAND, by W. A. McCutcheon. Dawlish : David and Charles, and London : Macdonald and Co., 1965. 180 pp. 8 1/2 × 5 1/4 in. 36s.ULSTER AND OTHER IRISH MAPS c.1600. Edited by G. A. Hayes‐McCoy. Dublin : Irish Manuscripts Commission, 1964. 13 × 19 in. xv + 36 pp., 23. plates. £ 6.SOILS OF COUNTY WEXFORD. Edited by P. Ryan and M. J. Gardiner. Prepared and published by An Foras Talúntais (The Agricultural Institute), Dublin 1964. 171 pp. and three fold‐in maps. 30s.THE GEOGRAPHY OF SOIL, by Brian T. Bunting. London : Hutchinson's University Library, 1965. pp. 213. 14 figs. 12 tables. 7 1/2 × 5 in. 15s.THE HISTORY OF THE STUDY OF LANDFORMS. Vol. I : GEOMORPHOLOGY BEFORE DAVIS. Richard J. Chorley, Anthony J. Dunn and Robert P. Beckinsale. London : Methuen, 1964. 678 pp. 84s.A DICTIONARY OF GEOGRAPHY, by F. J. Monkhouse. London : Edward. Arnold Ltd., 1965. 344 pp. 8 1/2 × 5 1/2 in. 35s.LA REGION DE L'OUEST, by Pierre Flatrès. Collection ‘France de Demain ‘. Paris : Presses Universitaires de France, 1964. 31s. 6d.THE BRITISH ISLES : A SYSTEMATIC GEOGRAPHY. Edited by J. Wreford Watson and J. B. Sissons. Edinburgh : Thomas Nelson, 1964. 452 pp. 45s.SCANDINAVIAN LANDS, by Roy Millward. London : Macmillan, 1964. Pp. 448. 9 × 6 in. 45s.MERSEYSIDE, by R. Kay Gresswell and R. Lawton. British Landscapes Through Maps, No. 6. The Geographical Association, Sheffield, 1964. 36 pp. + 16 plates. 7 1/2 × 9 1/2 in. 5s.WALKING IN WICKLOW, by J. B. Malone. Dublin : Helicon Ltd., 1964. 172 pp. 7 × 4 #fr1/2> in. 7s.GREYSTONES 1864–1964. A parish centenary, 1964. 23 pp. 8 #fr1/4> × 5 1/2 in. 2s. 6d. Obtainable from the A.P.C.K., 37 Dawson Street, Dublin 2.DINNSEANCHAS. Vol. I, No. I. June 1964. An Cumann Logainmneacha, Baile Atha Cliath. Pp. 24. 5s.JOURNAL OF THE ASSOCIATION OF GEOGRAPHY TEACHERS OF IRELAND. Vol. I, Dublin. 1964.MAP READING FOR THE INTERMEDIATE CERTIFICATE, by Michael J. Turner. A. Folens : Dublin. 1964. 92 pp.MAP OF CORK CITY, 1: 15,000. Dublin : Ordnance Survey Office, 1964. 32 × 24 in. On paper, flat, 4s., or folded and covered, 5s.IRELAND, by T. W. Freeman. London : Methuen & Co. Ltd. Third edition, 1965. 5 1/2 × 8 #fr1/2> in. Pp. xx + 560. 65s.THE PLANNING AND FUTURE DEVELOPMENT OF THE DUBLIN REGION. PRELIMINARY REPORT. By Myles Wright. Dublin : Stationery Office, 1965. Pp.55. 8 ins. × 11 3/4 ins. 10s 6d.LIMERICK REGIONAL PLAN. Interim Report on the Limerick—Shannon— Ennis District by Nathaniel Litchfield. The Stationery Office, Dublin 1965. 8 × 12 ins. ; Pp. 83 ; 10s. 6d.ANTRIM NEW TOWN. Outline Plan. Belfast : H. M. Stationery Office, 1965. 10 1/2 × 8 1/2 in. 15s.HEPORT OF THE DEPUTY KEEPER OF THE RECORDS 1954–1959. Belfast : Her Majesty's Stationery Office. Cmd. 490. 138 pp. 10s.ECONOMIC GEOGRAPHY, by Ronald Hope. London : George Philip and Son Ltd., 4th edition, 1965. pp. 296. 15s. 6d.CLIMATE, SOILS AND VEGETATION, by D. C. Money. London : University Tutorial Press, 1965. pp. 272. 18s.TECHNIQUES IN GEOMORPHOLOGY, by Cuchlaine A. M. King. 9 × 5 1/2 in. 342 pp. London : Edward Arnold (Publishers) Ltd., 1966. 40s.BRITISH GEOMORPHOLOGICAL RESEARCH GROUP PUBLICATIONS :— 1. RATES OF EROSION AND WEATHERING IN THE BRITISH ISLES. Occasional Publication No. 2, 1965. Pp. 46. 13 × 8 in. 7s. 6d.2. DEGLACIATION. Occasional Publication No. 3, 1966. Pp. 37. 13 × 8 in. 7s.RECHERCHES DE GÉOMORPHOLOGIE EN ÉCOSSE DU NORD‐OUEST. By A. Godard. Publication de la Faculté des Lettres de l'Université de Strasbourg, 1965. 701 pp. 482 reís.ARTHUR'S SEAT: A HISTORY OF EDINBURGH'S VOLCANO, by G. P. Black. Edinburgh & London : Oliver & Boyd, 1966. 226 pp. 7 1/2 × 5 in. 35s.OFFSHORE GEOGRAPHY OF NORTHWESTERN EUROPE. The Political and Economic Problems of Delimitation and Control, by Lewis M. Alexander. London : Murray, 1966. 35s.GEOGRAPHICAL PIVOTS OF HISTORY. An Inaugural Lecture, by W. Kirk. Leicester University Press, 1965. 6s.THE GEOGRAPHY OF FRONTIERS AND BOUNDARIES, by J. R. V. Prescott. London : Hutchinson, 1965. 15s.THE READER'S DIGEST COMPLETE ATLAS OF THE BRITISH ISLES.. London : Reader's Digest Assoc., 1965. 230 pp. 15 1/4 × 10 1/2 in. £5. 10. 0.ULSTER DIALECTS. AN INTRODUCTORY SYMPOSIUM. Edited by G. B. Adams, Belfast : Ulster Folk Museum, 1964. 201 pp. 9 1/2 × 6 1/2 in. 20s.ULSTER FOLKLIFE, Volume 11. Belfast: The Ulster Folk Museum, 1965. Pp. 139. 9 1/2 × 7 in. 15s.GEOGRAPHICAL ABSTRACTS published and edited by K. M. Clayton, F. M Yates, F. E. Hamilton and C. Board.Obtainable from Geo. Abstracts, Dept. of Geography, London School of Economics, Aldwych, London, W.C.2. Subscription rates as below.THE CLIMATE OF LONDON. T. J. Chandler. London : Hutchinson and Co., 1965. 292 pp., 86 figs., 93 tables. 70/‐.MONSOON LANDS, Part I, by R. T. Cobb and L. J. M. Coleby. London : University Tutorial Press Ltd., 1966, constituting Book Six (Part 1 ) of the Advanced Level Geography Series. 303 pp. 8 1/4 × 5 1/4 in. 20s.PREHISTORIC AND EARLY CHRISTIAN IRELAND. A GUIDE, by Estyn Evans. London : B. T. Batsford Ltd., 1966. xii + 241 pp. 45s.A REGIONAL GEOGRAPHY OF IRELAND, by G. Fahy. Dublin : Browne and Nolan Ltd. No date. 238 pp. 12s.THE CANALS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND, by V. T. H. and D. R. Delany. Newton Abbot : David and Charles, 1966. 260 pp. + 20 plates. 8 1/2 × 5 1/2 in. 50s.THE COURSE OF IRISH HISTORY. Edited by T. W. Moody and F. X. Martin. Cork : The Mercier Press. 1967. 404 pp. 5 3/4 × 7 3/4 ins. Paperback, 21s. Hard cover, 40s.NORTH MUNSTER STUDIES. Edited by E. Rynne. Limerick : The Thomond Archaeological Society, 1967. 535 pp. 63s.SOILS OF COUNTY LIMERICK, by T. F. Finch and Pierce Ryan. Dublin: An Foras Talúntais, 1966. 199 pp. and four fold‐in maps. 9 1/2 × 7 1/4 in. 30s.THE FORESTS OF IRELAND. Edited by H. M. Fitzpatrick. Dublin : Society of Irish Foresters. No date. 153 pp. 9 3/4 × 7 1/4 in. 30s.PLANNING FOR AMENITY AND TOURISM. Specimen Development Plan Manual 2–3, Donegal. Dublin : An Foras Forbartha (The National Institute for Physical Planning and Construction Research), 1966. 110 pp. 8 × 11 in. 12s. 6d.NEW DIMENSIONS IN REGIONAL PLANNING. A CASE STUDY OF IRELAND, by Jeremiah Newman. Dublin : An Foras Forbartha, 1967. 128 pp. 8 1/2 × 6 in. 25s.TRAFFIC PLANNING FOR SMALLER TOWNS. Dublin : An Foras Forbartha (The National Institute for Regional Planning and Construction Research), 1966. 35 pp. 8 1/4 × 10 3/4 in. No price.LATE AND POST‐GLACIAL SHORELINES AND ICE LIMITS IN ARGYLL AND NORTH‐EAST ULSTER, by F. M. Synge and N. Stephens. Institute of British Geographers Transactions No. 59, 1966, pp. 101–125.QUATERNARY CHANGES OF SEA‐LEVEL IN IRELAND, by A. R. Orme. Institute of British Geographers Transactions No. 39, 1966, pp. 127–140.LIMESTONE PAVEMENTS (with special reference to Western Ireland), by Paul W. Williams. Institute of British Geographers Transactions No. 40, 1966, pp. 155–172. 50s. for 198 pages.IRISH SPELEOLOGY. Volume I, No. 2, 1966. Pp. 18. 10 × 8 in. 5s., free to members of the Irish Speleological Association.THE GEOGRAPHER'S CRAFT, by T. W. Freeman. Manchester University Press, 1967. pp.204. 8 1/4 × 5 in. 25s.GEOGRAPHY AS HUMAN ECOLOGY. Edited by S. R. Eyre and G. R. J. Jones. London : Edward Arnold Ltd., 1966. 308 pp. 45s.LOCATIONAL ANALYSIS IN HUMAN GEOGRAPHY, by Peter Haggett. London : Edward Arnold (Publishers) Ltd., 1965. 339 pp. 9 × 5 1/2 in. 40s.AGRICULTURAL GEOGRAPHY, by Leslie Symons. London : G. Bell and Sons, Ltd., 1967. 283 pp. 8 1/2 × 5 1/2 ins. 30s.THE GEOLOGY OF SCOTLAND, edited by Gordon Y. Craig. Edinburgh and London : Oliver & Boyd, 1965. Pp. 556. 9 3/4 × 7 1/2 in. 105s.MORPHOLOGY OF THE EARTH, by Lester C. King. Edinburgh : Oliver and Boyd, 2nd ed., 1967. 726 pp. 9 1/2 × 7 in. £5. 5. 0.INTERNATIONAL YEARBOOK OF CARTOGRAPHY, V, 1965. Edited by Eduard Imhof. London : George Philip and Son Ltd., 1965. 222 pp. + 9 plates. 9 3/4 × 6 1/2 in. 47s. 6d.IRISH FOLK WAYS, by E. Estyn Evans. London : Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1967. 324 pp. 16s.A HISTORY OF MEDIEVAL IRELAND, by A.J.Otway‐Ruthven. London: Ernest Benn Limited. New York : Barnes and Noble Inc., 1968. xv + 454 pp. 70s.IRISH AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTION, ITS VOLUME AND STRUCTURE, by Raymond D. Crotty. Cork University Press, 1966. 384 pp. 42s.PLANNING IN IRELAND. Edited by F. Rogerson and P. O hUiginn. Dublin : The Irish Branch of the Town Planning Institute and An Foras Forbartha, 1907. 199 pp.THE SHELL GUIDE TO IRELAND, by Lord Killanin and Michael V. Duignan. London : Ebury Press and George Rainbird (distributed by Michael Joseph) : 2nd edition, 1967. 512 pp. 50s.THE CLIMATE OF NORTH MUNSTER, by P. K. Rohan. Dublin : Department of Transport and Power, Meteorological Service, 1968. 72 pp. 10s. 6d.SOILS OF COUNTY CARLOW, by M.J. Conry and Pierce Ryan. Dublin : An Foras Talúntais, 1967. 204 pp. and four fold‐in maps. 30s.MOURNE COUNTRY, by E. Estyn Evans. Dundalk : Dundalgan Press (W. Tempest) Ltd., 2nd ed., 1967. 244 pp. 63s.THE DUBLIN REGION. Advisory Plan and Final Report, by Myles Wright. Dublin : The Stationery Office, 1967. Part One, pp. 64. 20s. Part Two, pp. 224. 80s.BELFAST : THE ORIGIN AND GROWTH OF AN INDUSTRIAL CITY. Edited by J. C. Beckett and R. E. Glasscock. London : The British Broadcasting Corporation, 1967. 204 pp. 25s.REPORT ON SKIBBEREEN SOCIAL SURVEY, by John Jackson. Dublin : Human Sciences Committee of the Irish National Productivity Committee, 1967. 63 pp. 12s. 6d.AN OUTLINE PLAN FOR GALWAY CITY, by Breandan S. MacAodha. Dublin : Scepter Publishers Ltd., 1966. 15 pp.COASTAL PASSENGER STEAMERS AND INLAND NAVIGATIONS IN THE SOUTH OF IRELAND, by D.B. McNeill. Belfast : The Transport Museum (Transport Handbook No. 6), 1965 (issued in 1967). 44 pp. (text) + 12 pp. (plates). 3s. 6d.CANALIANA, the annual bulletin of Robertstown Muintir na Tire. Robertstown, Co. Kildare : Muintir na Tire, n.d. (issued in 1967). 60 pp. 2s. 6d.CONACRE IN IRELAND, by Breandan S. MacAodha (Social Sciences Research Centre, Galway). Dublin : Scepter Publishers Ltd., 1967, 15 pp. No price.PROCESSES OF COASTAL DEVELOPMENT, by V.P. Zenkovich, edited by J.A. Steers, translated by D.G. Fry. 738 pp. Edinburgh and London : Oliver and Boyd, 1967. £12. 12s.CONGRESS PROCEEDINGS. 20th International Geographical Congress. Edited by J. Wreford Watson. London : Nelson, 1967. 401 pp. 70s.REGIONAL GEOGRAPHY, by Roger Minshull. London : Hutchinson University Library, 1967. 168 pp. 10s. 6d.ATMOSPHERE, WEATHER AND CLIMATE, by R.G. Barry and R.J. Chorley. London : University Paperback, Methuen, 1967. 25s.THE EVOLUTION OF SCOTLAND'S SCENERY, by J.B. Sissons. Edinburgh and London : Oliver and Boyd, 1967. 259 pp. 63s.WEST WICKLOW. BACKGROUND FOR DEVELOPMENT, by F.H.A. Aalen, D.A. Gillmor and P.W. Williams. Dublin : Geography Department, Trinity College, 1966. 323 pp. Unpublished : copy available in the Society's Library.

Crum, Shutta. Mine! Illus. Patrice Barton. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2011. Print. The dust jacket notes for Mine! tells us that it is about “two very young children and an adorable dog navigating the trials and triumphs of sharing.” In keeping with this theme, apart from a single “Woof?” barked by the dog, the only text is the word “mine” repeated ten times. However, when the pictures are left to tell the story, the text is really superfluous. Artist Patrice Barton has captured the chaos that happens when you put a baby, a toddler, a pile of toys, a dog, and a dog dish full of water all together in the same space without parental interference. The result is soaked children, water and wet toys thrown everywhere, and of course, a dripping dog. Children will love trying to find where all the different toys have gone from picture to picture. While the images are done in soft pastels, rather than the bright and bold colours we might expect to find in books for very young children, they are nonetheless engaging. Throughout, Barton manages to communicate movement in the images. Swoosh lines follow flying feet, jiggle lines show us the baby’s unsteady movement, and dashed lines show us where the balls or toys have flown or bounced. Over the course of the chaos, there is a delightful four page sequence where the baby stands up, totters across two pages and, overleaf, takes a flying leap, flattening the toddler, and sending the wet toys flying everywhere. That, of course, is the point where the adults reappear and begin picking up wet children and clothing. Because of all the wet and wild action in the book, the theme of sharing, or rather, not sharing, gets lost. So as a book with a message, Mine! does not work particularly well. However, both children and parents will enjoy the entertaining picture story. Recommendation: 3 stars out of 4 Reviewer: Sandy Campbell Sandy is a Health Sciences Librarian at the University of Alberta, who has written hundreds of book reviews across many disciplines. Sandy thinks that sharing books with children is one of the greatest gifts anyone can give.

The J. M. Snow site (41CE8) is an ancestral Caddo habitation site and probable small cemetery in the Pineywoods of East Texas. According to Jackson, the site had two habitation areas along the bank of an old channel of the Neches River, each some 300 m from an area where the landowner found 8-10 ceramic vessels from one or more burials that had eroded into a ravine. A Bullard Brushed jar was purchased from the landowner. One of the habitation areas had a well-preserved midden deposit about 4.6-7.6 m in diameter and ca. 46-76 cm in thickness. University of Texas (UT) excavations in September 1933 concentrated on this midden deposit. The work recovered burned clay, mussel shells, ash, bone awls (n=2), perforated mussel shells, bone beads (n=2), lithic scrapers, deer antler tools, and deer, dog, raccoon, turtle, turkey, fish, rabbit, and squirrel bone refuse, as well as ceramic pipe sherds and many ceramic vessel sherds.

SummaryA wide variety of CreERT2 driver lines are available for genetic manipulation of adult‐born neurons in the mouse brain. These tools have been instrumental in studying fate potential, migration, circuit integration, and morphology of the stem cells supporting lifelong neurogenesis. Despite a wealth of tools, genetic manipulation of adult‐born neurons for circuit and behavioral studies has been limited by poor specificity of many driver lines targeting early progenitor cells and by the inaccessibility of lines selective for later stages of neuronal maturation. We sought to address these limitations by creating a new CreERT2 driver line targeted to the endogenous mouse doublecortin locus as a marker of fate‐specified neuroblasts and immature neurons. Our new model places a T2A‐CreERT2 cassette immediately downstream of the Dcx coding sequence on the X chromosome, allowing expression of both Dcx and CreERT2 proteins in the endogenous spatiotemporal pattern for this gene. We demonstrate that the new mouse line drives expression of a Cre‐dependent reporter throughout the brain in neonatal mice and in known neurogenic niches of adult animals. The line has been deposited with the Jackson Laboratory and should provide an accessible tool for studies targeting fate‐restricted neuronal precursors.

AbstractThe purpose of this report was to describe the emergency management and subsequent surgical treatment of a 6‐year‐old, entire, male Epagneul Breton referred for septic uroperitoneum of 5 days duration. Clinical stabilisation was achieved by the insertion of a percutaneous small‐bore wire‐guided chest tube as an abdominal drain in association with conventional medical treatment. The small‐bore wire‐guided chest tube was inserted percutaneously into the abdomen, under ultrasound guidance, using a modified Seldinger technique. It was connected to a closed active collection system, and successfully drained the peritoneal urinary effusion. The medical treatment associated with the application of the small‐bore wire‐guided chest tube contributed to the patient's stabilisation, which was reached within 5 hours from arrival, allowing for an exploratory laparotomy with repair of the bladder laceration. The small‐bore wire‐guided chest tube was replaced during surgery by a Jackson–Pratt drain, which remained in place for 4 days postoperatively. The dog has completely recovered, and no complications were recorded.

Isoelectric focusing followed by immunoblotting is a method routinely used in human medicine to assess the presence of oligoclonal bands (OCBs) in cerebrospinal fluid (CSF) and serum. The detection of OCBs is a valuable diagnostic test, especially important in patients with the suspicion of multiple sclerosis (MS), in which at least two OCBs are found in the CSF not present in paired serum samples in up to 95% of patients. So far, presence of OCBs in CSF and serum of dogs has only been investigated in a small cohort of dogs diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy and healthy dogs. The main objective of the current study was to describe the method used for OCB detection and compare two different canine anti-IgG antibodies: a canine rabbit-anti-IgG antibody (Jackson ImmunoResearch) vs. a canine goat-anti-IgG antibody (Bio-Rad). The method was performed according to the instructions of the commercial kit used. The canine goat-anti-IgG antibody showed a better performance than the canine rabbit-anti-IgG antibody. The availability of the technique of OCB detection in the dog paves the way for further studies, especially in the field of inflammatory diseases of the canine central nervous system, and comparison between specific human and canine diseases.

Inglis, Kate. If I were a Zombie. Illustrated by Eric Orchard. Nimbus Publishing, 2016.This book is a collection of poems written and illustrated by Canadians. Each poem introduces the reader to a new creature or monster with a picture that looks drawn by a child. The poems detail how the creature or monsters would behave through the mind of a child. Some examples of the monsters or creatures in this book are a giant, vampire, alien, goblin, mermaid and a zombie. The rhythmic prose of each stanza adds to the playful nature of each creature.The illustrations in this book are bright and vibrant with bold colours such as green, brown and blue. They are consistent and an integral part of the picture book, providing visual support for the text. The illustrator’s use of line and alternating black and white text, add to the mysteriousness of these creatures.I immediately picked up this book because of the captivating jacket design with the large, inviting title and quirky zombie picture. Yet the jacket design, both the cover and the teaser, misled me to believe that the book would be about zombies. Rather, the theme of the book revolves around a child’s imagination and what they would do if they were a certain creature or monster. The content of the book would be very enjoyable as a read aloud for a younger child, yet some text may be not easily understood by children of any age unfamiliar with our North American culture with words used such as kayak, Frisbee or cauldron.Recommended: 3 out of 4 starsReviewer: Tina VossTina is an elementary school teacher currently pursuing a Master’s degree in Education. When she is not reading any book she can get her hands on, she is walking her dog Phill.

Hepatic drug metabolism is a major route of drug elimination, and it is mediated by multiple DDG. Varied expression and activity of DDG leads to inter‐individual variability in drug response. Results from previous studies comparing conventional and germ‐free mice showed that the presence of gut microbiota is associated with the differential hepatic DDG expression. The purpose of this study was to examine whether structural differences in gut microbiota lead to altered DDG expression in the liver. Male C57BL/6 mice from two different vendors [Jackson Laboratory (JAX) and Taconic Laboratory (TAC)] were cohoused with mice from the same or the other vendor for 4 weeks, creating the following 4 groups (n=6–7/group): JAX, TAC, coJAX (JAX mice cohoused with TAC), and coTAC (TAC mice cohoused with JAX). Mice were sacrificed and RNAs were extracted from the liver tissues. RNA sequencing was performed (n=3 mice/group), followed by bioinformatics analysis of 225 DDG. Principle component analysis of RNA‐sequencing data revealed that overall expression profiles of DDG were distinct in JAX mice while those for the other groups were similar to each other. A similar pattern was observed in results from previous gut microbiome analysis (i.e., 16S rRNA sequencing of fecal samples collected from the same group of mice), suggesting that the differential expression of DDG may be due to structural differences in gut microbiota. To identify DDG whose expression is influenced by gut microbiota, the RNA‐sequencing results of 225 DDG were further examined in livers from the 4 groups of mice. Preliminary statistical analysis revealed that 30 genes (14 phase I; 12 phase II; and 4 transporters) showed significantly different expression between JAX and TAC. The majority (i.e., 27) of these 30 genes showed no difference between coJAX and coTAC, suggesting that expression of these genes may be determined by differential gut microbiota. To further verify the RNA‐sequencing results, quantitative real‐time PCR was performed (n=6–7/group) for 9 genes that were selected based on biological significance and previously reported effects of gut microbiota on their expression. Among them, Cyp4a10 and Cyp4a14 showed 6.0‐ and 33.8‐fold higher expression in JAX, respectively, and Fmo5 showed 1.4‐fold lower expression in JAX. Our study suggests that structural differences in gut microbiota may underlie differential expression of DDG in the liver, potentially contributing to the inter‐individual variability in drug response.Support or Funding InformationThis study was supported by Chicago Biomedical Consortium.

This paper deals with vaporization heat transfer in a small diameter closed two-phase thermosyphon with a long evaporator and a short condenser, filled with water as operating fluid. The internal diameter of the evaporator is equal to 6.4 mm and the length-to-diameter ratio at the evaporator is equal to 166. A similar geometry is commonly used in vacuumed tube solar collectors. In the present investigation, the input power to the evaporator is provided by means of an electrical resistance wire wrapped around the external wall of the tube, while a water jacket is built at the condenser to reject the heat. The performance of the thermosyphon is described by using the wall temperature and the overall thermal resistance for different operating conditions: input power at the evaporator, cooling water temperature at the condenser, and inclination of the thermosyphon (30 deg, 60 deg, and 90 deg tilt angle to the horizontal plane). The present experimental data cover a range of heat flux between 1700 and 8000 W/m2 and saturation temperature between 28 °C and 72 °C. The vaporization heat transfer coefficients are compared with some correlations for closed two-phase thermosyphons displaying large disagreement. A new correlation is presented, which accurately predicts the present experimental values and other data by independent labs taken in closed two-phase thermosyphons, varying geometry and operating fluid (water, R134a, and ethanol).

The T. M. Joslin site (41VN3) is a multi-component prehistoric site that was investigated by the University of Texas (UT) in September 1940 as Works Progress Administration (WPA) Project No. 15409. The excavations began immediately after the UT WPA crew had finished work at the nearby Yarbrough site (41VN6). The site is on a sandy knoll on Caney Creek, a northward-flowing tributary of the Sabine River in the Post Oak Savannah of East Texas. Supervised by William A. Duffen of UT, a crew of 16 local laborers excavated a 100 x 100 ft. block (30.5 x 30.5 m) on the knoll between September 12-30, 1940. The local labor began their excavations with shovels at the southern end of the block, and moved north at the completion of each 10 ft. row, working from the completed vertical face of the previous row. The archaeological deposits were described by Duffen as a shallow midden overlying a red clay subsoil; the subsoil was reached between 1.0-1.3 ft. bs (ca. 30-41 cm bs) and the upper plow zone extended from 0-13 cm bs. No cultural features were identified in the WPA excavations, but a very large Canton Incised jar was reconstructed from a large sherd concentration encountered at ca. 25 cm bs. A. T. Jackson, who had first visited the site in the Spring of 1930, before he began to work at UT, had discovered in a “test hole” portions of a large ceramic bowl (36 cm in diameter) and a large water bottle, presumably from a Caddo burial feature, but he did not further explore the feature. About 15 m away he found remnants of a dog burial. It is not known where these finds were in relationship to the WPA excavations.

Within the range of pressure from 9 to 28 MPa, mass flux from 600 to 1500 kg/m2s, heat flux at inside wall from 200 to 600 kW/m2, and wall temperature up to 650 °C, experiments were conducted to research the forced convection heat transfer of water in an inclined upward tube with an inclination angle of 20 deg and an inner diameter of 26 mm. According to the experimental data, the effects of pressure and heat flux on heat transfer of water were analyzed in detail. In the subcritical pressure region, it was found that heat transfer characteristics of water are not uniform along the circumference of the inclined tube. Temperature of the top is always higher than that of the bottom, which can be attributed to the buoyancy effect in the inclined tube. In the supercritical pressure region, natural convection makes the low-density hot fluid gather at the top of the inclined tube; hence, heat transfer condition is deteriorated and wall temperature is increased. Furthermore, the criterions of Petukhov and Jackson were selected to judge the buoyancy effect in the inclined upward tube. The result seems acceptable but these criterions should be further improved to get a better applicability for an inclined tube.

Ventrella, Kim. Bone Hollow. Scholastic Press, 2019. Gabe isn’t sure what happens after he falls off a roof during a storm trying to rescue Miss Cleo’s prize chicken. And he isn’t sure why, when he wakes up in Miss Cleo’s room, no one will speak to him and everyone is crying. But it eventually becomes unignorable: Gabe died in that storm. Well, he almost died. Kim Ventrella’s second novel Bone Hollow, aimed at middle-grade readers, follows Gabe and his loyal dog Ollie as Gabe tries to figure out what happened to him, and what he’s supposed to do now that he’s dead. After some meanderings between the woods outside his town and the town itself, Gabe meets Wynne, a mysterious girl who shows him her home, the titular Bone Hollow. At the core of the book, Bone Hollow is a misty but cozy refuge from a world Gabe doesn’t fit into anymore. Gabe is searching for a new place to fit in, and Wynne is urgently searching for someone to take her place. Bone Hollow is a novel that takes its time, dwelling on sensory details that are alternately lush (like Miss Cleo’s sweet-and-savory biscuits) and grotesque (like Ollie’s propensity to lick every bit of Gabe he can find, including inside the wound that killed him). It’s not quite an adventure story, as there is no villain to defeat or ally to rescue. It’s not really a meditation on death; that theme is pervasive, but frequently interrupted. It’s not a gross-out or horror story, as plot threads that move in those directions—e.g., a creepy mortuary owner, and a hollow man with a bird inside his mouth—are abandoned as soon as they are begun. It’s a mix of all these things, in a way that defies expectations. Bone Hollow suffers somewhat from slow pacing and an unclear plot motivation. The climactic choice that Gabe must eventually make is barely foreshadowed before the halfway mark (although it is spoiled on the book’s dust jacket). Besides this momentous decision, his other movements through the story seem more orchestrated than agential: even after the tornado blows out, Gabe is buffeted around by childhood bullies, scared adults, ghosts, and speeding cars. He reacts to these events with grit, bravery, and no small amount of stubbornness, but he is, predominantly, reacting. Readers who are looking for an atmospheric, creepy, but ultimately reassuring story about loss, change, and finding one’s purpose may appreciate Ventrella’s blend of comforting and unsettling prose. Gabe’s voice is individual, funny, and charmingly Southern—you can tell he’s upset when he starts saying “gosh darn it!”—and his friendships with both his dog and Wynne are carefully traced. Squeamish readers might not appreciate the mild gore—mostly off-screen—and others might simply be put off by the focus on death and dying among humans and animals alike. For those who relish a more morbid take, this book might be a welcome addition. Recommended: 3 out of 4 starsReviewer: Amanda Daignault Amanda Daignault is a PhD Candidate in the Department of English and Film Studies at the University of Alberta. She studies contemporary children's middle-grade fantasy novels, using methods of book history and bibliography to figure out where all those giant trilogies came from and what they're doing.

Maclear, Kyo. The Good Little Book. Illustrated by Marion Arbona. Tundra Books, 2015.In this work, Maclear uses allegorical techniques to expand on compelling themes. Her protagonist is unnamed; he is “the boy,” every boy who loves to read. The Good Little Book is every book that captivates a reader. Its author is unnamed. Its characters are not delineated. Only a captioned illustration, one of Arbona’s many colorful offerings, provides clues to the book’s plot and impact:“It carried him to the deep sea and steered him towards a faraway land. It dazzled him and stumped him and made him laugh and gasp. He read it through. Then he turned back to the beginning and read it again.”[pp.11-12]Humour is a feature of the work; Maclear likes to play with words--literary words. The Good Little Book resides with others, one of which has won the “Called a Cat” medal. We are informed, however, that “The good little book…had no shiny medals…it didn’t even own a proper jacket.” [p.3]The protagonist’s compulsion to read and reread his good little book introduces the first theme: books transport us to imagined worlds. When the book is lost, then rediscovered, a secondary theme emerges: books are to be shared.Text and illustration lead the reader to surmise that “the boy” is school-aged, a child physically mature enough to walk his dog while riding a skateboard. He is, of course, an avid and independent reader. Tormented by the loss of his book, he is old enough to hunt for it on his own, to scour crowded and heavily trafficked streets, to search the public library. Initially, he appears to have an age appropriate appreciation of the book’s capacity to occupy his mind, to move his thoughts.“The book the boy thought couldn’t do anything did many things.” [p.11] “It did become a loyal companion, there to see him to sleep and distract him when he had to “think things over.””[p.13].To this point, the boy’s relationship with the book seems in keeping with the primary theme: book as intellectual transport. Suddenly, his thought processes revert to those of a much younger child.“The boy worried. How would such a good and quiet book survive? What would it do if it found itself at the edge of the unknown? Or among frightful enemies?...the book did not have skills that would help it in the dangerous wild….”[pp.19-20 ]The story becomes even more anthropomorphic when the book is discovered by various creatures:“A squirrel thought it might be a thriller. A sparrow thought it might be a romance. A raccoon thought it might be a sandwich.” [p.29 ]These developments raise a question: “Who is the intended reader?” A child who has completed grade three would generally have both the ability and the maturity to read the book and to appreciate its messages. This reader might, initially, identify with the protagonist’s dilemma. But would this same youngster identify with thinking that becomes, in the lexicon of child psychologists, animistic? One can readily imagine a nine-year-old reader’s sudden dismissal of the work as, “…a little kid’s book.” One can also imagine that a preschooler would listen with rapt attention to the anthropomorphic sections, but zone out during the development of the book’s themes. Finally, it may be that only librarians, booksellers, and children’s literature specialists would appreciate the humour. In sum, maintaining a clear vision of the intended reader or listener is a requisite in any kind of storytelling; The Good Little Book falls short in this regard.Recommended: 3 out of 4 stars Reviewer: Leslie AitkenLeslie Aitken’s long career in librarianship involved selection of children’s literature for school, public, special, and university collections. She is a former Curriculum Librarian at the University of Alberta.

The Coming of Coffee Before World War II, Australians followed British tradition and largely drank tea. When coffee challenged the tea drinking habit in post-war Australia, the tea industry fought back using the most up-to-date marketing techniques imported from America. The shift to coffee drinking in post-war Australia is, therefore, explored through a focus on both the challenges faced by the tea industry and how that industry tackled the trend towards coffee. By focusing on the Australian Tea Council’s marketing campaign promoting tea as a fashionable drink and preferable to coffee, this article explores Australia’s cultural shift from tea drinking to coffee drinking. This complex and multi-layered transition, often simply explained by post-war migration, provides an opportunity to investigate other causal aspects of this shift. In doing so, it draws on oral histories—including of central figures working in the tea and coffee industries—as well as reports in newspapers and popular magazines, during this period of culinary transition. Australians always drank coffee but it was expensive, difficult and inconsistent to brew, and was regarded as a drink “for the better class of person” (P. Bennett). At the start of World War II, Australia was second only to Britain in terms of its tea consumption and maintaining Australia’s supply of tea was a significant issue for the government (NAA, “Agency Notes”). To guarantee a steady supply, tea was rationed, as were many other staples. Between 1941 and 1955, the tea supply was under government control with the Commonwealth-appointed Tea Control Board responsible for its purchase and distribution nationwide (Adams, “From Instant” 16). The influence of the USA on Australia’s shift from tea-drinking has been underplayed in narratives of the origins of Australia’s coffee culture, but the presence of American servicemen, either stationed in Australia or passing through during the war in the Pacific, had a considerable impact on what Australians ate and drank. In 2007, the late John Button noted that:It is when the countries share a cause that the two peoples have got to know each other best. Between 1942 and 1945, when Australia’s population was seven million, one million US service personnel came to Australia. They were made welcome, and strange things happened. American sporting results and recipes were published in the newspapers; ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ was played at the start of theatre and concert performances. Australians were introduced to the hot dog; Americans, reluctantly, to the dim sim. 10 or 15 years after the war, there were stories of New York cab drivers who knew Australia well and spoke warmly of their wartime visits. For years, letters between Australia and the US went back and forth between pen friends […] following up friendships developed during the war. Supplying the daily ration of coffee to American servicemen was another concern for the Australian government as Australia had insufficient roasting capacity to supply this coffee—and so three roasting machines were shipped to Australia to help meet this new demand (NAA, MP5/45 a). To ensure a steady supply, coffee too came under the control of the Tea Controller and the Tea Control Board became the Tea and Coffee Control Board. At this time, civilians became more aware of coffee as newspapers raised its profile and Australian families invited American servicemen in their homes. Differences in food preferences between American servicemen and Australians were noticed, with coffee the most notable of these. The Argus reported that: “The main point of issue in these rival culinary fancies is the longstanding question of coffee” (“Yanks Differ” 8). It concluded that Australians and Americans ate the same foods, only prepared in different ways, but the most significant difference between them was the American “preference for coffee” (8). When Australian families invited hosted servicemen in their homes, housewives needed advice on how to make prepare coffee, and were told:One of the golden rules for hostesses entertaining American troops should be not to serve them coffee unless they know how to make it in the American fashion [...] To make coffee in the proper American fashion requires a special kind of percolating. Good results may be obtained by making coffee with strong freshly ground beans and the coffee should be served black with cream to be added if required (“Coffee for Americans” 5). Australian civilians also read reports of coffee, rather than tea, being served to Australian servicemen overseas, and the following report in The Argus in 1942 shows: “At Milne Bay 100 gallons of coffee were served to the men after pictures had been shown each night. Coffee was not the only comfort to be supplied. There were also chocolate, tobacco, toothpaste, and other articles appreciated by the troops” (“Untitled” 5). Due largely to tea rationing and the presence of American servicemen, Australia’s coffee consumption increased to 500 grams per person per annum between 1941 and 1944, but it also continued to rise in the immediate post-war period when the troops had departed (ABS). In May 1947, the Tea (and Coffee) Controller reported an increased consumption of 54 per cent in the two years after the war ended (NAA, MP5/45 b). Tea Loses Its Way Australian tea company and coffee roaster, Bushells, had an excellent roast and ground coffee—Bushells Pure Coffee—according to Bill Bennett who worked for the company from 1948 to 1950 (B. Bennett). It was sold freshly roasted in screw-top jars that could be re-used for storage in the kitchen or pantry. In 1945, in a series of cartoon-style advertisements, Bushells showed consumers how easy it was to make coffee using this ground beans, but the most significant challenge to tea’s dominance came not with this form of coffee, but in 1948 with the introduction of Nestlé instant coffee. Susie Khamis argues that “of all the coffee brands that vied for Australians’ attention, Nestlé was by far the most salient, by virtue of its frequency, timeliness and resonance” (218). With Nestlé instant coffee, “you use just the quantity you need for each cup and there are no grounds or sediment. Nescafé made perfect full-flavoured coffee in a matter of seconds” (Canberra Times). Figure 1. Advertisement for Nestlé Coffee. The Canberra Times 5 Aug. 1949: 2. Figure 2. Advertisement for Bushells Coffee. The Argus 22 Aug. 1945: 11. Instant coffee, as well as being relatively cheap, solved the “problem” of its brewing and was marketed as convenient, economical, and consistent. It also was introduced at a time when the price of tea was increasing and the American lifestyle had great appeal to Australians. Khamis argues that the discovery of instant coffee “spoke to changes in Australia’s lifestyle options”, noting that the “tea habit was tied to Australia’s development as a far-flung colonial outpost, a daily reminder that many still looked to London as the nation’s cultural capital; the growing appeal of instant coffee reflected a widening and more nuanced cultural palate” (218). Instant coffee, modernity, America, and glamour became thus entwined in a period when Australia’s cultural identity “was informed less by the staid conservatism of Britain than the heady flux of the new world glamour” (Khamis 219). In the 1950s, Australians were seduced by espresso coffee presented to them in imaginatively laid out coffee lounges featuring ultra modern décor and streamlined fittings. Customers were reportedly “seduced by the novelty of the impressive-looking espresso machines, all shining chrome and knobs and pressure gauges” (Australasian Confectioner and Restaurant Journal 61). At its best, espresso coffee is a sublime drink with a rich thick body and a strong flavour. It is a pleasure to look at and has about it an air of European sophistication. These early coffee lounges were the precursors of the change from American-style percolated coffee (Adams, “Barista” vi). According to the Australasian Confectioner and Restaurant Journal, in 1956 espresso coffee was changing the way people drank coffee “on the continent, in London and in other parts of the world,” which means that as well as starting a new trend in Australia, this new way of brewing coffee was making coffee even more popular elsewhere (61). The Connoisseurship of Coffee Despite the popularities of cafés, the Australian consumer needed to be educated to become a connoisseur, and this instruction was provided in magazine and newspaper articles. Rene Dalgleish, writing for Australian Home Beautiful in 1964, took “a look around the shops” to report on “a growing range of glamorous and complicated equipment designed for the once-simple job of brewing a cup of tea, or more particularly, coffee” (21). Although she included teapots, her main focus was coffee brewing equipment—what it looked like and how it worked. She also discussed how to best appreciate coffee, and described a range of home grinding and brewing coffee equipment from Turkish to percolation and vacuum coffee makers. As there was only one way of making tea, Dalgleish pays little attention to its method of brewing (21) and concludes the piece by referring only to coffee: “There are two kinds of coffee drinkers—those who drink it because it is a drink and coffee lovers. The sincere coffee lover is one who usually knows about coffee and at the drop of a hat will talk with passionate enthusiasm on the only way to make real coffee” (21). In its first issue in 1966, Australasian Gourmet Magazine reflected on the increased consumption and appreciation of coffee in a five-page feature. “More and more people are serving fine coffee in their homes,” it stated, “while coffee lounges and espresso bars are attracting the public in the city, suburbs and country towns” (Repin and Dressler 36). The article also noted that there was growing interest in the history and production of coffee as well as roasting, blending, grinding, and correct preparation methods. In the same year, The Australian Women’s Weekly acknowledged a growing interest in both brewing, and cooking with, coffee in a lift-out recipe booklet titled “Cooking with Coffee.” This, according to the Weekly, presented “directions that tell you how to make excellent coffee by seven different methods” as well as “a variety of wonderful recipes for cakes, biscuits, desserts, confectionary and drinks, all with the rich flavor of coffee” (AWW). By 1969, the topic was so well established that Keith Dunstan could write an article lampooning coffee snobbery in Australian Gourmet Magazine. He describes his brother’s attention to detail when brewing coffee and his disdain for the general public who were all drinking what he called “muck”. Coffee to the “coffee-olics” like his brother was, Dunstan suggested, like wine to the gourmand (5). In the early 1960s, trouble was brewing in the tea business. Tea imports were not keeping pace with population growth and, in 1963, the Tea Bureau conducted a national survey into the habits of Australian tea drinkers (McMullen). This found that although tea was the most popular beverage at the breakfast table for all socio-economic groups, 30 per cent of Australian housewives did not realise that tea was cheaper than coffee. 52 per cent of coffee consumed was instant and one reason given for coffee drinking between meals was that it was easier to make one cup (Broadcasting and Television “Tea Gains”). Marketing Tea against a Turning Tide Coffee enjoyed an advantage that tea was unlikely to ever have, as the margin between raw bean and landed product was much wider than tea. Tea was also traditionally subject to price-cutting by grocery chains who used it as a loss leader “to bring the housewife into the store” (Broadcasting and Television “Tea Battles”) and, with such a fine profit margin, the individual tea packer had little to allocate for marketing expenses. In response, a group of tea merchants, traders and members of tea growing countries formed The Tea Council of Australia in 1963 to pool their marketing funds to collectively market their product. With more funds, the Council hoped to achieve what individual companies could not (Adams “From Instant” 1-19). The chairman of the Tea Council, Mr. G. McMullan, noted that tea was “competing in the supermarkets with all beverages that are sold […]. All the beverages are backed by expensive marketing campaigns. And this is the market that tea must continue to hold its share” (McMullen 6). The Tea Council employed the services of Jackson Wain and Company for its marketing and public relations campaign. Australian social historian Warren Fahey worked for the company in the 1960s and described it in an interview. He recalled: Jackson Wain was quite a big advertising agency. Like a lot of these big agencies of the time it was Australian owned by Barry Wain and John Jackson. Jackson Wain employed some illustrious creative directors at that time and its clients were indeed big: they had Qantas, Rothmans, the Tea Council, White Wings—which was a massive client—and Sunbeam. And they are just some of the ones they had. Over the following eleven years, the Tea Council sought innovative ways to identify target markets and promote tea drinking. Much of this marketing was directed at women. Since women were responsible for most of the household shopping, and housewives were consuming “incidental” beverages during the day (that is, not with meals), a series of advertisements were placed in women’s magazines. Showing how tea could be enjoyed at work, play, in the home, and while shopping, these kick-started the Tea Council’s advertising campaign in 1964. Fahey remembers that: tea was seen as old-fashioned so they started to talk about different aspects of drinking tea. I remember the images of several campaigns that came through Jackson Wain of the Tea Board. The Women’s Weekly ones were a montage of images where they were trying to convince people that tea was refreshing […] invigorating […] [and] friendly. Figure 3. Tea Council Advertisement. The Australian Women’s Weekly 29 Jan. 1964, 57. Radio was the Tea Council’s “cup of tea”. Transistor and portable radio arrived in Australia in the 1950s and this much listened to medium was especially suited to the Tea Council’s advertising (Tea Council Annual Report 1964). Radio advertising was relatively low-cost and the Council believed that people thought aurally and could picture their cup of tea as soon as they heard the word “tea”. Fahey explains that although radio was losing some ground to the newly introduced television, it was still the premier media, largely because it was personality driven. Many advertisers were still wary of television, as were the agencies. Radio advertisements, read live to air by the presenter, would tell the audience that it was time for a cuppa—“Right now is the right time to taste the lively taste of tea” (Tea Council Annual Report 1964)—and a jingle created for the advertisement completed the sequence. Fahey explained that agencies “were very much tuned into the fact even in those days that women were a dominant fact in the marketing of tea. Women were listening to radio at home while they were doing their work or entertaining their friends and those reminders to have a cup of tea would have been quite useful triggers in terms of the marketing”. The radio jingle, “The taste of tea makes a lively you” (Jackson Wain, “Tea Council”) aired 21,000 times on 85 radio stations throughout Australia in 1964 (Tea Council of Australia Annual Report). In these advertisements, tea was depicted as an interesting, exciting and modern beverage, suitable for consumption at home as outside it, and equally, if not more, refreshing than other beverages. People were also encouraged to use more tea when they brewed a pot by adding “one [spoonful] for the pot” (Jackson Wain, “Tea Council”). These advertisements were designed to appeal to both housewives and working women. For the thrifty housewife, they emphasised value for money in a catchy radio jingle that contained the phrase “and when you drink tea the second cup’s free” (Jackson Wain “Tea Council”). For the fashionable, tea could be consumed with ice and lemon in the American fashion, and glamorous fashion designer Prue Acton and model Liz Holmes both gave their voices to tea in a series of radio advertisements (Tea Council of Australia, “Annual Reports”). This was supported with a number of other initiatives. With the number of coffee lounges increasing in cities, the Tea Council devised a poster “Tea is Served Here” that was issued to all cafes that served tea. This was strategically placed to remind people to order the beverage. Other print tea advertisements targeted young women in the workforce as well as women taking time out for a hot drink while shopping. Figure 4. “Tea Is Served Here.” Tea Council of Australia. Coll. of Andy Mac. Photo: Andy Mac. White Wings Bake-off The cookery competition known as the White Wings Bake-Off was a significant event for many housewives during this period, and the Tea Council capitalised on it. Run by the Australian Dairy Board and White Wings, a popular Australian flour milling company, the Bake-Off became a “national institution […] and tangible proof of the great and growing interest in good food and cooking in Australia” (Wilson). Starting in 1963, this competition sought original recipes from home cooks who used White Wings flour and dairy produce. Winners were feted with a gala event, national publicity and generous prizes presented by international food experts and celebrity chefs such as Graham Kerr. Prizes in 1968 were awarded at a banquet at the Southern Cross Hotel and the grand champion won A$4,750 and a Metters’ cooking range. Section winners received A$750 and the stove. In 1968, the average weekly wage in Australia was A$45 and the average weekly spend on food was $3.60, which makes these significant prizes (Talkfinancenet). In a 1963 television advertisement for White Wings, the camera pans across a table laden with cakes and scones. It is accompanied by the jingle, “White Wings is the Bake Off flour—silk sifted, silk sifted” (Jackson Wain, “Bake-Off”). Prominent on the table is a teapot and cup. Fahey noted the close “simpatico” relationship between White Wings and the Tea Council:especially when it came down to […] the White Wings Bake Off [...]. Tea always featured prominently because of the fact that people were still in those days baking once a week [...] having that home baking along side a cup of tea and a teapot was something that both sides were trying to capitalise on. Conclusion Despite these efforts, throughout the 1960s tea consumption continued to fall and coffee to rise. By 1969, the consumption of coffee was over a kilogram per person per annum and tea had fallen to just over two kilograms per person per year (ABS). In 1973, due to internal disputes and a continued decline in tea sales, the Tea Council disbanded. As Australians increasingly associated coffee with glamour, convenience, and gourmet connoisseurship, these trajectories continued until coffee overtook tea in 1979 (Khamis 230) and, by the 1990s, coffee consumption was double that of tea. Australia’s cultural shift from tea drinking to coffee drinking—easily, but too simplistically, explained by post-war migration—is in itself a complex and multi layered transition, but the response and marketing campaign by the Tea Council provides an opportunity to investigate other factors at play during this time of change. Fahey sums the situation up appropriately and I will conclude with his remarks: “Advertising is never going to change the world. It can certainly persuade a market place or a large percentage of a market place to do something but one has to take into account there were so many other social reasons why people switched over to coffee.” References Adams, Jillian. Barista: A Guide to Espresso Coffee. Frenchs Forest NSW: Pearson Education Australia, 2006. -----. “From Instant Coffee to Italian Espresso: How the Cuppa Lost its Way.” Masters Thesis in Oral History and Historical Memory. Melbourne: Monash University, 2009. Advertisement for Bushells Coffee. The Argus 22 Aug. (1945): 11. Australian Bureau of Statistics [ABS]. “4307.0 Apparent Consumption of Tea and Coffee, Australia 1969-1970.” Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Australasian Confectioner and Restaurant Journal. “Espresso Comes to Town.” Australian Confectioner and Restaurant Journal Feb. (1956): 61. Bennett, Bill. Interview. 22 Jun. 2007. Bennett, Peter. Interview. 10 Mar. 2010. Broadcasting and Television. “Tea Gains 98% Market Acceptance.” Broadcasting and Television 6 Jun. (1963): 16. -----. “Tea Battles Big Coffee Budgets.” Broadcasting and Television News 14 Oct. (1965): 16. Button, John. “America’s Australia: Instructions for a Generation.” The Monthly Feb. (2007) 28 Mar. 2012 ‹http://www.themonthly.com.au/monthly-essays-john-button-americas-australia-instructions-generation-456›. Canberra Times, The. Advertisement for Nestle Coffee. The Canberra Times 5 Aug. (1949): 2. “Coffee for Americans.” The Argus 20 Apr. (1942): 5.Dalgleish, Rene. “Better Tea and Coffee.” Australian Home Beautiful Jun. (1964): 21–5. Dunstan, Keith. “The Making of a Coffee-olic.” The Australian Gourmet Magazine Sep./Oct. (1969): 5. Fahey, Warren. Interview. 19 Aug. 2010. Howard, Leila. ‘Cooking with Coffee.” The Australian Women’s Weekly 6 Jul. (1966): 1–15. Jackson Wain. “The Bake-off Flour!” TV Commercial, 30 secs. Australia: Fontana Films for Jackson Wain, 1963. 1 Feb. 2012 ‹www.youtube.com/watch?v=1X50sCwbUnw›. -----. “Tea Council of Australia.” TV commercials, 30 secs. National Film and Sound Archive, 1964–1966. Khamis, Susie. “ It Only Takes a Jiffy to Make.” Food Culture and Society 12.2 (2009): 218–33. McMullen, G. F. The Tea Council of Australia Annual Report. Sydney, 1969. National Archives of Australia [NAA]. Agency Notes CP629/1. “History of the Tea Control and Tea Importation Board, January 1942–December 1956.” -----. Series MP5/45 a. Minutes of the Tea Control Board. 17 Aug. 1942. -----. Series MP5/45 b. Minutes of the Tea Control Board. 29 May 1947. Repin, J. D., and H. Dressler. “The Story of Coffee.” Australian Gourmet Magazine 1.1 (1966): 36–40. Talkfinance.net. “Cost of Living: Today vs. 1960.” 1 May 2012 ‹http://www.talkfinance.net/f32/cost-living-today-vs-1960-a-3941› Tea Council of Australia. Annual Reports Tea Council of Australia 1964–1973. ----- Advertisement. The Australian Women’s Weekly 3 Jul. (1968): 22.“Untitled.” The Argus 20 Apr. (1942): 5. Wilson, Trevor. The Best of the Bake-Off. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1969.“Yanks and Aussies Differ on ‘Eats’.” The Argus 4 Jul. (1942): 8.

Introduction It is very common for children’s films to adapt, rework, or otherwise re-imagine existing cultural material. Such re-imaginings are potential candidates for fidelity criticism: a mode of analysis whereby an adaptation is judged according to its degree of faithfulness to the source text. Indeed, it is interesting that while fidelity criticism is now considered outdated and problematic by adaptation theorists (see Stam; Leitch; and Whelehan) the issue of fidelity has tended to linger in the discussions that form around material adapted for children. In particular, it is often assumed that the re-imagining of cultural material for children will involve a process of “dumbing down” that strips the original text of its complexity so that it is more easily consumed by young audiences (see Semenza; Kellogg; Hastings; and Napolitano). This is especially the case when children’s films draw from texts—or genres—that are specifically associated with an adult readership. This paper explores such an interplay between children’s and adult’s culture with reference to the re-imagining of the horror genre in children’s animated film. Recent years have seen an inrush of animated films that play with horror tropes, conventions, and characters. These include Frankenweenie (2012), ParaNorman (2012), Hotel Transylvania (2012), Igor (2008), Monsters Inc. (2001), Monster House (2006), and Monsters vs Aliens (2009). Often diminishingly referred to as “kiddie horror” or “goth lite”, this re-imagining of the horror genre is connected to broader shifts in children’s culture, literature, and media. Anna Jackson, Karen Coats, and Roderick McGillis, for instance, have written about the mainstreaming of the Gothic in children’s literature after centuries of “suppression” (2); a glance at the titles in a children’s book store, they tell us, may suggest that “fear or the pretence of fear has become a dominant mode of enjoyment in literature for young people” (1). At the same time, as Lisa Hopkins has pointed out, media products with dark, supernatural, or Gothic elements are increasingly being marketed to children, either directly or through product tie-ins such as toys or branded food items (116-17). The re-imagining of horror for children demands our attention for a number of reasons. First, it raises questions about the commercialisation and repackaging of material that has traditionally been considered “high culture”, particularly when the films in question are seen to pilfer from sites of the literary Gothic such as Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818) or Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897). The classic horror films of the 1930s such as James Whale’s Frankenstein (1931) also have their own canonical status within the genre, and are objects of reverence for horror fans and film scholars alike. Moreover, aficionados of the genre have been known to object vehemently to any perceived simplification or dumbing down of horror conventions in order to address a non-horror audience. As Lisa Bode has demonstrated, such objections were articulated in many reviews of the film Twilight, in which the repackaging and simplifying of vampire mythology was seen to pander to a female, teenage or “tween” audience (710-11). Second, the re-imagining of horror for children raises questions about whether the genre is an appropriate source of pleasure and entertainment for young audiences. Horror has traditionally been understood as problematic and damaging even for adult viewers: Mark Jancovich, for instance, writes of the long-standing assumption that horror “is moronic, sick and worrying; that any person who derives pleasure from the genre is moronic, sick and potentially dangerous” and that both the genre and its fans are “deviant” (18). Consequently, discussions about the relationship between children and horror have tended to emphasise regulation, restriction, censorship, effect, and “the dangers of imitative violence” (Buckingham 95). As Paul Wells observes, there is a “consistent concern […] that horror films are harmful to children, but clearly these films are not made for children, and the responsibility for who views them lies with adult authority figures who determine how and when horror films are seen” (24). Previous academic work on the child as horror viewer has tended to focus on children as consumers of horror material designed for adults. Joanne Cantor’s extensive work in this area has indicated that fright reactions to horror media are commonly reported and can be long-lived (Cantor; and Cantor and Oliver). Elsewhere, the work of Sarah Smith (45-76) and David Buckingham (95-138) has indicated that children, like adults, can gain certain pleasures from the genre; it has also indicated that children can be quite media savvy when viewing horror, and can operate effectively as self-censors. However, little work has yet been conducted on whether (and how) the horror genre might be transformed for child viewers. With this in mind, I explore here the re-imagining of horror in two children’s animated films: Frankenweenie and ParaNorman. I will consider the way horror tropes, narratives, conventions, and characters have been reshaped in each film with a child’s perspective in mind. This, I argue, does not make them simplified texts or unsuitable objects of pleasure for adults; instead, the films demonstrate that the act of re-imagining horror for children calls into question long-held assumptions about pleasure, taste, and the boundaries between “adult” and “child”. Frankenweenie and ParaNorman: Rewriting the Myth of Childhood Innocence Frankenweenie is a stop-motion animation written by John August and directed by Tim Burton, based on a live-action short film made by Burton in 1984. As its name suggests, Frankenweenie re-imagines Shelley’s Frankenstein by transforming the relationship between creator and monster into that between child and pet. Burton’s Victor Frankenstein is a young boy living in a small American town, a creative loner who enjoys making monster movies. When his beloved dog Sparky is killed in a car accident, young Victor—like his predecessor in Shelley’s novel—is driven by the awfulness of this encounter with death to discover the “mysteries of creation” (Shelley 38): he digs up Sparky’s body, drags the corpse back to the family home, and reanimates him in the attic. This coming-to-life sequence is both a re-imagining of the famous animation scene in Whale’s film Frankenstein and a tender expression of the love between a boy and his dog. The re-imagined creation scene therefore becomes a site of negotiation between adult and child audiences: adult viewers familiar with Whale’s adaptation and its sense of electric spectacle are invited to rethink this scene from a child’s perspective, while child viewers are given access to a key moment from the horror canon. While this blurring of the lines between child and adult is a common theme in Burton’s work—many of his films exist in a liminal space where a certain childlike sensibility mingles with a more adult-centric dark humour—Frankenweenie is unique in that it actively re-imagines as “childlike” a film and/or work of literature that was previously populated by adult characters and associated with adult audiences. ParaNorman is the second major film from the animation studio Laika Entertainment. Following in the footsteps of the earlier Laika film Coraline (2009)—and paving the way for the studio’s 2014 release, Boxtrolls—ParaNorman features stop-motion animation, twisted storylines, and the exploration of dark themes and spaces by child characters. The film tells the story of Norman, an eleven year old boy who can see and communicate with the dead. This gift marks him as an outcast in the small town of Blithe Hollow, which has built its identity on the historic trial and hanging of an “evil” child witch. Norman must grapple with the town’s troubled past and calm the spirit of the vengeful witch; along the way, he and an odd assortment of children battle zombies and townsfolk alike, the latter appearing more monstrous than the former as the film progresses. Although ParaNorman does not position itself as an adaptation of a specific horror text, as does Frankenweenie, it shares with Burton’s film a playful intertextuality whereby references are constantly made to iconic films in the horror genre (including Halloween [1978], Friday the 13th [1980], and Day of the Dead [1985]). Both films were released in 2012 to critical acclaim. Interestingly, though, film critics seemed to disagree over who these texts were actually “for.” Some reviewers described the films as children’s texts, and warned that adults would likely find them “tame and compromised” (Scott), “toothless” (McCarthy) or “sentimental” (Bradshaw). These comments carry connotations of simplification: the suggestion is that the conventions and tropes of the horror genre have been weakened (or even contaminated) by the association with child audiences, and that consequently adults cannot (or should not) take pleasure in the films. Other reviewers of ParaNorman and Frankenweenie suggested that adults were more likely to enjoy the films than children (O’Connell; Berardinelli; and Wolgamott). Often, this suggestion came together with a warning about scary or dark content: the films were deemed to be too frightening for young children, and this exclusion of the child audience allowed the reviewer to acknowledge his or her own enjoyment of and investment in the film (and the potential enjoyment of other adult viewers). Lou Lumenick, for instance, peppers his review of ParaNorman with language that indicates his own pleasure (“probably the year’s most visually dazzling movie so far”; the climax is “too good to spoil”; the humour is “deliciously twisted”), while warning that children as old as eight should not be taken to see the film. Similarly, Christy Lemire warns that certain elements of Frankenweenie are scary and that “this is not really a movie for little kids”; she goes on to add that this scariness “is precisely what makes ‘Frankenweenie’ such a consistent wonder to watch for the rest of us” (emphasis added). In both these cases a line is drawn between child and adult viewers, and arguably it is the film’s straying into the illicit area of horror from the confines of a children’s text that renders it an object of pleasure for the adult viewer. The thrill of being scared is also interpreted here as a specifically adult pleasure. This need on the part of critics to establish boundaries between child and adult viewerships is interesting given that the films themselves strive to incorporate children (as characters and as viewers) into the horror space. In particular, both films work hard to dismantle the myths of childhood innocence—and associated ideas about pleasure and taste—that have previously seen children excluded from the culture of the horror film. Both the young protagonists, for instance, are depicted as media-literate consumers or makers of horror material. Victor is initially seen exhibiting one of his home-made monster movies to his bemused parents, and we first encounter Norman watching a zombie film with his (dead) grandmother; clearly a consummate horror viewer, Norman decodes the film for Grandma, explaining that the zombie is eating the woman’s head because, “that’s what they do.” In this way, the myth of childhood innocence is rewritten: the child’s mature engagement with the horror genre gives him agency, which is linked to his active position in the narrative (both Norman and Victor literally save their towns from destruction); the parents, meanwhile, are reduced to babbling stereotypes who worry that their sons will “turn out weird” (Frankenweenie) or wonder why they “can’t be like other kids” (ParaNorman). The films also rewrite the myth of childhood innocence by depicting Victor and Norman as children with dark, difficult lives. Importantly, each boy has encountered death and, for each, his parents have failed to effectively guide him through the experience. In Frankenweenie Victor is grief-stricken when Sparky dies, yet his parents can offer little more than platitudes to quell the pain of loss. “When you lose someone you love they never really leave you,” Victor’s mother intones, “they just move into a special place in your heart,” to which Victor replies “I don’t want him in my heart—I want him here with me!” The death of Norman’s grandmother is similarly dismissed by his mother in ParaNorman. “I know you and Grandma were very close,” she says, “but we all have to move on. Grandma’s in a better place now.” Norman objects: “No she’s not, she’s in the living room!” In both scenes, the literal-minded but intelligent child seems to understand death, loss, and grief while the parents are unable to speak about these “mature” concepts in a meaningful way. The films are also reminders that a child’s first experience of death can come very young, and often occurs via the loss of an elderly relative or a beloved pet. Death, Play, and the Monster In both films, therefore, the audience is invited to think about death. Consequently, there is a sense in each film that while the violent and sexual content of most horror texts has been stripped away, the dark centre of the horror genre remains. As Paul Wells reminds us, horror “is predominantly concerned with the fear of death, the multiple ways in which it can occur, and the untimely nature of its occurrence” (10). Certainly, the horror texts which Frankenweenie and ParaNorman re-imagine are specifically concerned with death and mortality. The various adaptations of Frankenstein that are referenced in Frankenweenie and the zombie films to which ParaNorman pays homage all deploy “the monster” as a figure who defies easy categorisation as living or dead. The othering of this figure in the traditional horror narrative allows him/her/it to both subvert and confirm cultural ideas about life, death, and human status: for monsters, as Elaine Graham notes, have long been deployed in popular culture as figures who “mark the fault-lines” and also “signal the fragility” of boundary structures, including the boundary between human and not human, and that between life and death (12). Frankenweenie’s Sparky, as an iteration of the Frankenstein monster, clearly fits this description: he is neither living nor dead, and his monstrosity emerges not from any act of violence or from physical deformity (he remains, throughout the film, a cute and lovable dog, albeit with bolts fixed to his neck) but from his boundary-crossing status. However, while most versions of the Frankenstein monster are deliberately positioned to confront ideas about the human/machine boundary and to perform notions of the posthuman, such concerns are sidelined in Frankenweenie. Instead, the emphasis is on concerns that are likely to resonate with children: Sparky is a reminder of the human preoccupation with death, loss, and the question of why (or whether, or when) we should abide by the laws of nature. Arguably, this indicates a re-imagining of the Frankenstein tale not only for child audiences but from a child’s perspective. In ParaNorman, similarly, the zombie–often read as an articulation of adult anxieties about war, apocalypse, terrorism, and the deterioration of social order (Platts 551-55)—is re-used and re-imagined in a childlike way. From a child’s perspective, the zombie may represent the horrific truth of mortality and/or the troublesome desire to live forever that emerges once this truth has been confronted. More specifically, the notion of dealing meaningfully with the past and of honouring rather than silencing the dead is a strong thematic undercurrent in ParaNorman, and in this sense the zombies are important figures who dramatise the connections between past and present. While this past/present connection is explored on many levels in ParaNorman—including the level of a town grappling with its dark history—it is Norman and his grandmother who take centre stage: the boundary-crossing figure of the zombie is re-realised here in terms of a negotiation with a presence that is now absent (the elderly relative who has died but is still remembered). Indeed, the zombies in this film are an implicit rebuke to Norman’s mother and her command that Norman “move on” after his grandmother’s death. The dead are still present, this film playfully reminds us, and therefore “moving on” is an overly simplistic and somewhat disrespectful response (especially when imposed on children by adult authority figures.) If the horror narrative is built around the notion that “normality is threatened by the Monster”, as Robin Wood has famously suggested, ParaNorman and Frankenweenie re-imagine this narrative of subversion from a child’s perspective (31). Both films open up a space within which the child is permitted to negotiate with the destabilising figure of the monster; the normality that is “threatened” here is the adult notion of the finality of death and, relatedly, the assumption that death is not a suitable subject for children to think or talk about. Breaking down such understandings, Frankenweenie and ParaNorman strive not so much to play with death (a phrase that implies a certain callousness, a problematic disregard for human life) but to explore death through the darkness of play. This is beautifully imaged in a scene from ParaNorman in which Norman and his friend Neil play with the ghost of Neil’s recently deceased dog. “We’re going to play with a dead dog in the garden,” Neil enthusiastically announces to his brother, “and we’re not even going to have to dig him up first!” Somewhat similarly, film critic Richard Corliss notes in his review of Frankenweenie that the film’s “message to the young” is that “children should play with dead things.” Through this intersection between “death” and “play”, both films propose a particularly child-like (although not necessarily child-ish) way of negotiating horror’s dark territory. Conclusion Animated film has always been an ambiguous space in terms of age, pleasure, and viewership. As film critic Margaret Pomeranz has observed, “there is this perception that if it’s an animated film then you can take the little littlies” (Pomeranz and Stratton). Animation itself is often a signifier of safety, fun, nostalgia, and childishness; it is a means of addressing families and young audiences. Yet at the same time, the fantastic and transformative aspects of animation can be powerful tools for telling stories that are dark, surprising, or somehow subversive. It is therefore interesting that the trend towards re-imagining horror for children that this paper has identified is unfolding within the animated space. It is beyond the scope of this paper to fully consider what animation as a medium brings to this re-imagining process. However, it is worth noting that the distinctive stop-motion style used in both films works to position them as alternatives to Disney products (for although Frankenweenie was released under the Disney banner, it is visually distinct from most of Disney’s animated ventures). The majority of Disney films are adaptations or re-imaginings of some sort, yet these re-imaginings look to fairytales or children’s literature for their source material. In contrast, as this paper has demonstrated, Frankenweenie and ParaNorman open up a space for boundary play: they give children access to tropes, narratives, and characters that are specifically associated with adult viewers, and they invite adults to see these tropes, narratives, and characters from a child’s perspective. Ultimately, it is difficult to determine the success of this re-imagining process: what, indeed, does a successful re-imagining of horror for children look like, and who might be permitted to take pleasure from it? 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Staples of early United States Internet meme culture were sold via digital auctions for cryptocurrency (except one, which was sold for cash) throughout 2021. Through these transactions, Internet memes, or “the linguistic, image, audio, and video texts created, circulated, and transformed by countless cultural participants across vast networks and collectives” (Milner 1), were “minted” as non-fungible tokens—a marker within cryptocurrency economy that denotes the level of originality or irreplaceability of an (often digital) artifact (Wired). Early 2021 saw Internet memes (memes, hereafter) and non-fungible tokens (NFTs, hereafter) articulated to one another when a series of trades ignited a “buying frenzy”. In February 2021, the original animation file of the Nyan Cat meme (a rendering of a flying cat with a Pop-Tart body) was sold for 300 Ethereum, or US$600,000 (Griffith; Kay); in April 2021, the original photo file of the Disaster Girl meme (an image of a smiling child in front of a burning home) sold for 180 ETH, or nearly US$500,000 (BBC News); in May 2021, the original video file of the viral YouTube video “Charlie Bit My Finger” (wherein an infant bites the finger of their older sibling with glee) was sold for US$760,999, but no cryptocurrency was exchanged for this auction (Evans); in June 2021, the original image of the Shiba Inu who became Doge (image of a dog looking contemplative, often with text around the dog’s face) was sold for a record-breaking (for memes) 1,696.9 ETH, or US$4 million (Rosenblatt). Other notable memes were sold around this time, such as Bad Luck Brian (an unflattering school picture of a teenager who became synonymous with embarrassing social situations), Overly Attached Girlfriend (wide-eyed teenager who was portrayed as obsessive over their significant other), and Success Kid (an infant clenching their fist with a sense of achievement), but for lower prices (Wired; Dash; Gallagher). All the memes sold during this frenzy feature either animals or white individuals, and none of the creators or subjects of the original files are Black. That said, mainstream Internet culture, specifically within the United States, is predicated upon the Othering and exploitation of Black cultural production (Brock 97, 124; Benjamin). The fungible constitution of US Black culture is replete within digital cultures, from contemporary discussions of digital blackface in white use of memes featuring Black folks to express emotion (J.L. Green; Jackson, “Digital Blackface”, White Negroes) and/or using imagery featuring Black folks without permission (J.L. Green; Nakamura; Matamoros-Fernández). The advent of meme-based NFTs, however, offers new areas of inquiry into the triangulation of race, fungibility, and US digital cultures. I approach this cultural phenomenon with two general queries: What cultural and racial legacies of non/fungibility are present in the dynamics of memes becoming NFTs? What are the implications in digital media and US culture? Fungibility and Black Cultural Production As this issue explores, fungibility is a quality of interchangeable, performing persons or objects, but a turn to US Afro-pessimism illustrates how fungibility is a central quality to racialisation. (Continental African scholars coined Afro-pessimism, and its original formulation was markedly different from the US counterpart, which emerged with little to no engagement with the existing African canon. Afropessimism 1.0, as Greg Thomas names it, focusses on the postcolonial economic conditions across the continent. Importantly, there is an undergirding optimism, “the urge to positive social change”, to the inquiries into the poverty, colonial extractivism, and more; Amrah qtd. in Thomas 283; Rieff; de B’béri and Louw.) Fungibility, in US-borne Afro-pessimist literature, is used to describe (1) a major tenet of slavery wherein Black bodies are treated as interchangeable objects rather than human actors, and (2) how the afterlife of slavery continues to structure everyday experiences for Black folks (Bilge; Hartman; Wilderson, III et al.). US Afro-pessimism argues that slavery instantiated an ontological structure that articulates humanity as irreconcilable with Blackness and further articulates whiteness as for what (or whom) the Black body performs and labours (Bilge; Douglass et al.; Wilderson, III and Soong). Within the US, the fungibility of the Black body means it is always already vulnerable to and violable by “the whims of the [non-Black] world” (Wilderson, III 56; see also: Hartman; Lindsey). Indeed, Wilderson, building off Hartman, asserts, “the violence-induced fungibility of Blackness allows for its appropriation by White psyches as ‘property of enjoyment’” (89). The fungibility of Blackness aides in white “transpos[ition of Black] cultural gestures, the stuff of symbolic intervention onto another worldly good, a commodity of style” (Wilderson, III 56). This expropriation of Black digital “imaginative labour” by US white mainstream culture is part and parcel to Internet practices (Iloh; Lockett; Jackson). bell hooks argues white US mainstream culture treats Black cultural production as the “spice, [the] seasoning that can liven up the dull dish that is mainstream white culture” (21). By the same token, US white mainstream culture “desire[s] … sustained ‘labor’ … of a dark Other” that seeks to contiunously exploit fungible Black production (31). The constitutive fungibility of Blackness enriches, even if just affectively, the non-fungibility of whiteness; this parasitic relationship has extended to digital culture, with white actors extracting Black meme culture. Internet memes, until the advent of NFTs, did not necessarily provide monetary gain for the creators or original owners. For example, the creator of the iconic phrase “on fleek”, Kayla Newman (aka Peaches Monroee) is regularly discussed when considering the exploitation of Black digital culture (Parham; Maguire; Hazlehurst). The term came from a Vine of Newman hyping herself up in the front-facing camera of her smartphone—“We in this bitch! Finna get crunk. Eyebrows on fleek. Da fuq”—and quickly went viral. Maguire’s insightful analysis of Newman’s viral fame underscores the exploitation and appropriation of Black girl cultural production within the US. Maguire turns toward the legal intricacies of copyright and property as Newman sought ownership of her iconic phrase; however, Vats’s work on the legal rhetorics of intellectual property note its racial exclusivity in the US. (Moreton-Robinson traces similar white supremacist ownership within Australian contexts.) Meaning, only white actors benefit from such legal rhetorics. These forbearances point to the larger cultural legacies of fungibility that alienate Black bodies from their cultural production. US Black digital culture is alienated from the individuals who perform the imaginative labour that benefits and enriches whiteness (Wilderson, III; hooks). The legacies of mass enslavement fundamentally structured the capital and libidinal economies of US culture (Wilderson, III et al.; Spillers; Brock), therefore it stands to reason, like other forms of hegemonic ideologies, that such structuring logics of anti-Blackness are foundational to digital US culture (Benjamin; Brock; Towns; Matamoros-Fernández). Iloh, Williams, and Michele Jackson separately argue that the foundation of mainstream US Internet culture is indebted to the labour of Black users. However, as Brock argues, US Internet culture is a medium by which whiteness marks itself as the default even though Black labour, individuals, and culture are regularly exploited to perpetuate white engagement. Jackson specifically notes that the white performance of US Black culture “financially, artistically, socially, and intellectually” rewards white and other non-Black actors for demonstrating their understanding of Black cultural productions (Jackson, White Negroes 5; see also: hooks; Nakamura). Black individuals are not (fairly) compensated for this labour, even as white individuals gain clout. Newman’s term “on fleek” became a staple of US Vine and broader Internet culture, spawning a hashtag (#EyebrowsOnFleek) and being featured in multiple brand commercials (Maguire). Newman notes that she did not consider trademarking the term because she did not realise how quickly it would spread, allowing corporations and other actors to capitalise on her term free of charge (Hazlehurst; Maguire). Usage of the term became a signpost of the in-crowd within US millennial popular culture (Maguire). However, when Newman later launched a hair extensions company utilising her phrase (On Fleek Hair Extensions), she was resoundingly criticised. During a GoFundMe campaign to jumpstart the business, white digital actors accused Newman of milking her fame (Parham; Hazlehurst; Maguire). Mainstream digital actors forbade Newman’s ownership of her own labour after exploiting her creation throughout its popularity, marking her imaginative labour as fungible. These cultural dynamics exemplify of how anti-Blackness proliferates US digital culture, marking Black cultural labour as fungible and as the (shared) property of white actors. Whiteness regularly dichotomises itself against Blackness, needing the denigration and de-humanisation of Blackness to constitute whiteness’s perceived racial superiority (Wilderson, III et al.; Hartman; Thomas). Since Blackness has been constituted as fungible, alienating the labouring bodies from their production, whiteness (implicitly) constitutes itself as non-fungible. Thus, under this paradigm, white actors, their bodies, and their (property’s) cultural production are constituted as non-fungible, as the foil to fungible Blackness. Of course, anti-Blackness uses fungibility as a means of enriching whiteness, first evidenced by the logics of the Atlantic Slave Trade and extending throughout contemporary US culture. Newman’s iconic “on fleek” was easily detached from her (removing product from labourer) for the benefit of celebrities and companies. I argue that NFTs further these logics; as the next section explores, non-fungible tokens capacitate white monetisation of Black cultural labour. Non-Fungibility and Non-Black Cultural Agency The sale of meme-based NFTs offers a modern illustration of the fungibility of Black cultural production. Importantly, every seller of meme-based NFTs has been non-Black, with most being white or white-passing. NFTs, thus, seemingly give non-Black actors the agency to “reclaim” meme imagery via monetisation. Contemporary US meme culture is directly created by, influenced by, and appropriated from US Black (digital) culture (Jackson, White Negroes; Iloh; Brock; J.L. Green; Nakamura). Black cultural actors used memes largely as a space to share the joys and pains of Black US life (Brock); however, the connectivity of the Internet offered avenues for extraction and appropriation by non-Black actors (Iloh; Nakamura; J.L. Green; Matamoros-Fernández). Meme-based NFTs extend these anti-Black logics by monetising the cultural impact of certain memes. Specifically, memes are considered valuable only when minted as an NFT, which seeks to transform the fungible by a non-fungible agent. This section turns to the tensions between non-Black cultural agency over Black cultural influence within US Internet culture, using the Disaster Girl meme as an illustration. Memes, because of their participatory nature, require a certain level of fungibility to perpetuate circulation (Milner; Moreno-Almeida; Shifman). While certain digital actors proffer the original textual (e.g. #UKnowUrBlackWhen, a popular hashtag for Black users sharing experiences specific to US Black culture), graphic (e.g. Fail/Win, a popular meme genre for posting images of everyday chores tagged as Fail or Win), and/or contextual (e.g. Pepper Spray Cop, a meme genre where a police officer is pepper spraying protestors is photoshopped into different scenes) facets of a meme, these same characteristics must be manipulable for the meme to flourish (Parham; Jenkins; Huntington). Further, original creators must have an alienable relation to their cultural production, a “letting go” of the meme, so it may become part of broader cultural milieu, ever-evolving (Shifman; Jenkins). Minting memes into NFTs, however, reverses and obfuscates this cultural and imaginative labour by minting the original image. The sale of the Disaster Girl meme photograph as an NFT exhibits this erasure. The meme orginates from a photo Dave Roth took of his daughter, Zoë Roth, at a 2005 control-burn of a home in their neighbourhood (Fazio; Staff). D. Roth eventually submitted the image of his white, brown-haired daughter slyly smiling as the house burns in the background to a handful of photo contests, winning them (ibid.). The image was published online in 2008 and quickly circulated among social media platforms. Memes emerged as Internet users remixed the original image, either with text or by photoshopping Z. Roth into new disasters, thus dubbing her Disaster Girl (Green, Refinery). Since, Z. Roth’s four-year-old self has been “endlessly repurposed as a vital part of meme canon” (Fazio). Gesturing to the fungibility of meme culture, Z. Roth said she “love[s] seeing them because [she]’d never make any of them [her]self” (qtd in Fazio), meaning she (and her father) had willingly alienated themselves from the meme imagery. The agency to willingly turn over cultural production is solely attributable to non-Black bodies within the logics of fungible Blackness. Z. Roth’s non-participation did not prevent her from monetising the original meme, however. On 17 April 2021, Z. Roth sold the original photo file of the Disaster Girl meme (Fazio). Roth notes the creation and selling of an NFT is “the only thing memes can do to take control” (qtd. in Fazio). To exhibit agency of minting an NFT, Z. Roth collapses memes’ identities into the original image rather than the participation, remix, and becoming that meme culture involves. Memes, by nature, require the repeated and continual labour of digital public actors to continue circulating (Shifman; Milner; Jenkins). The stronger the meme’s circulatory impact, the more cultural heft it carries. However, the Roth family could only ever sell the original image. The minting of an NFT, for Z. Roth, “was a way for her to take control over a situation that she has felt powerless over since elementary school” (Fazio). Here, Z. Roth is further exerting non-Black agency to wilfully reclaim the previously fungible object. Ironically, the very thing Z. Roth is wanting to exert control over is what gives value to the meme in the first place. The virality and longevity of the Disaster Girl meme is its value, but given the fungibility of meme culture, this labour is easily obfuscated. As noted, memes must exhibit a certain level of fungibility to regenerate throughout digital cultures in various iterations; memes also require the fungible Black cultural production, especially within the US. Brock argues the capacity to laugh through pain or chaos is a characteristic of US Black humour and foundational to contemporary US meme humour. The Disaster Girl meme exemplifies the influences of US Black cultural humour both in the comedic frame—smiling in the face of disaster—and the composition of image—looking directly into the camera as if to break the fourth wall (Outley et al.; Brock). These facets influence the affectivity of the Disaster Girl image, or its capacity to move audiences to add their own remix to the meme. Remix is not only an inherently Black practice (Navas et al.), but it is also the lifeblood of meme culture and Internet culture more broadly. Iloh, Jackson, and Williams separately argue the proliferation of Black digital culture in the US means much of what enters mainstream US culture was shaped by Black users. Therefore, Black imaginative labour is an absent presence at the heart of Disaster Girl (or any) meme’s popularity—the popularity that made it valuable as an NFT. Minting the original image as a meme-based NFT consumes the labour of digital public actors to realise a value for the image owner. According to Cervenak, “NFTs can be seen as a tool for creators to be made whole for the work they put in” creating the original image (qtd. in Notopoulos). However, in memes the “work [being] put in”, the imaginative labour generating the memes, is that of various digital public actors. Neither the digital public actors, specifically Black public actors, nor the US Black cultural production and labour are recognised within the NFT economy. The reversion of memes back to the original image attempts to erase the Black cultural labour that generated the meme’s value. The work of digital public actors must be seen as both interchangeable and working in the service of the original “owner” of meme imagery to facilitate the trade of meme-based NFTs. Unlike Newman, Z. Roth was lauded for the monetisation of her meme-fame. Indeed, Newman’s imaginative labour needed to be obfuscated for the appropriation of “on fleek” by non-Black US culture. Z. Roth did very little labour in the invention and circulation of the Disaster Girl meme; however, her agency within anti-Black US culture created the conditions of possibility for her minting of the NFT. The dynamics of NFTs, Black US cultural labour, and anti-Blackness allow for the simultaneous obfuscation and appropriation of fungible meme-culture. Just as enslavement alienated Black bodies from the profits of their labour, NFTs similarly erase Black cultural production from the monetary benefit; NFTs (further) digitise these paradigms of anti-Blackness in US digital culture. Conclusion This essay has just barely chipped the surface on the articulations of race, fungibility, and NFTs. The arguments contained within demonstrate the legacies of fungible Blackness, which US Afro-pessimism links to the structuring logics of the Atlantic Slave Trade, and their manifestation in contemporary digital culture, specifically via meme-based NFTs. First, the essay traced the needed alienation and appropriation of Black cultural labour within US culture. Translating these practices to meme culture, the essay argues the minting of meme-based NFTs is a non-fungible agency only available to non-Black actors. There remains much to be explored, especially regarding equitable cultural practices. 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Cars crest the rise behind the truck stop and drop cones of light over the highway. Ryan dunks his head under a tap. He rubs red dust from his pores and tries to drink some water, but it slides down his throat like a length of wire.His older brother Josh fills their drink bottles. “Wanna get some chips or something?”Ryan shakes his head. He’s sick of watching Josh’s pulpy tongue poke his broken tooth. Their dad never left visible marks before—Ryan used to wish for a cut or bruise, so someone at school could see it. He shivers and clutches his coat tight. Josh says, “We got money.”Ryan wonders how Josh stole it. He didn’t know there was anything to steal. He stares back down the road.“Fine, fuck, I’ll get—”Ryan nudges him and he looks over his shoulder. A square silhouette approaches. The brothers stand back as a two-storey house pulls up in front of them, strapped to the back of a truck. The house is cut in half, patched with pale afterimages of furniture and light fittings. A door slams and a tattooed man with a white wedge of beard climbs out of the cabin. He stretches and heads for the toilets. Josh sidles up to the house and runs his hands along the straight, fresh edge of the floorboards. Sawdust settles onto his hoodie. He laughs and hurls his bag into one of the rooms. “Shit yeah. You coming?” Ryan hesitates. He remembers the time Josh’s Torana—a windowless wreck, used for drifting in paddocks and chasing kangaroos—broke down at the back of their property. Ryan and their dad towed Josh in the four-wheel drive while he sat in the Torana, steering with his knees. He started swinging wide, bouncing the back of the car off tree trunks, until he overshot and hit an old gum headfirst. The cable snapped, jerking the four-wheel drive to a halt. Ryan’s head smacked against the dash. Josh emerged from the smoking Torana with a bloody nose, laughing hysterically—thumping the bonnet and laughing hysterically—even after his dad came over and hit him on the back of the head. Through a window in the far wall they watch the driver eat a sausage roll. Ryan follows Josh upstairs and they stand on the edge of the second floor, where the distorted acoustics amplify the traffic sounds. From this angle, the outback barely conceals the curvature of the earth. The moon is a globe of bone amongst the clouds, a ball and socket. Ryan thinks they’re in a kid’s bedroom; a mural on the far wall depicts the bottom of the ocean and a tinted window spreads faded colours on the floor. He tries to imagine the room with all its walls in place. The brothers hide in a back room when they hear the driver's footsteps. The driver slides a torch over the house and light filters through the floorboards in front of them. They press themselves against the wall. Ryan starts shivering again and Josh elbows him in the ribs. The truck eases onto the road and the house groans, its unsupported floorboards dipping and lifting like piano keys. Signs and lights flick past. The brothers creep downstairs, struggling to stay upright on the vibrating staircase. Josh opens two tins of baked beans. A string of cold sauce as thick as an artery spills down Ryan’s neck. They place the empty tins on the floor and bet on which one will roll off the edge first. Josh wins. He grabs Ryan’s head and rubs his knuckles into it. Josh runs into the bathroom, which juts out over the edge of the trailer. Ryan hangs back in the doorway. Instead of a toilet Josh finds a small circle cut out of the floor. He steadies himself and pisses in it. Ryan sprints into the other room and pisses out the window. They laugh and piss until a horn blares behind them. Ryan ducks. Urine splatters on the sill. He scrabbles with his pants. He’s pissed on someone’s windscreen. The horn’s still going. Headlights hit the trees beside him. Josh comes in from the toilet and Ryan grabs him and pulls him to the ground. A four-wheel drive appears beside them. There’s barely enough room on the road; the truck swerves away and a branch scrapes along the roof of the house. The passengers hang out the windows, screaming abuse. Josh stumbles onto his feet and gives them the finger. Someone hurls an empty coke can and it lands on the second floor. Then the car is gone and only the wind remains, filling the house with the whining roar of a depressurised aircraft. The trees are a smear of static. Josh smacks Ryan on the back of the head. Ryan swings instinctively. Josh deflects his fist and knocks him to the floor and Ryan’s head hits the skirting board. Something crumbles. Ryan presses his thumb into Josh’s black eye and Josh twists his arm behind his back. When they were kids Josh pinned Ryan in this position and shoved gravel into his mouth. Ryan remembers the stones scratching his teeth, the bloody mud he spat out. Josh lets him up and Ryan scrambles into the corner, sick with sudden panic. He kicks his bag away. Josh wipes his mouth and laughs. He crouches down and stares at the spot where Ryan’s head hit the wall. One of the panels has collapsed inwards. Josh snorts. “Look what your fucking head did!” He pulls out the panel and tosses it onto the road. He shines his torch into the space behind it, brushes away the cobwebs and extracts a cheap gold box. “Well, well, well,” he mutters. He sets it on the ground and dusts the lid off. He tries to pry it open it but it’s locked. Ryan looks over. Josh grips the box in both hands and pulls. For a moment his top teeth dig into his lip and then the box bursts open, scattering pieces of silver. Ryan reaches out his hand, expecting jewellery, but he jerks it back when he finds a razor near his foot. The floor is littered with needles and knives. Josh picks up a brown glass bottle and squints at the label. “Iodine.” They stare at the blades in silence. A sand bank slides past as steadily as a sine wave. Josh carves the word FUCK into the floor with a scalpel. Ryan cringes but doesn’t dare warn him about diseases. On long-distance drives Ryan often stares out the window and imagines his vision is a laser-beam, cutting cleanly through cities, forests, passers-by. Now he pictures a wrecking ball swinging into the darkness and colliding with a run-down rollercoaster. He imagines the ball smashing through the tangle of struts and tracks; wrapping around and around a corkscrew section like a yoyo; sending a train of carriages hurtling through the remains of a loop. A few hours later the house passes through a town surrounded by silos and steel windmills. The brothers retreat to the mural room. Streetlights slide on and off them: orange, black, orange, black, orange, black. Josh waves at the people on the balcony of the pub. In a slouched house over a hardware store Ryan glimpses, through half-closed curtains, a topless woman sitting on the edge of a bed, combing her hair. He tries to make out the name of the town on the shopfronts. Josh lights a joint, indifferent. Ryan slides his torch over the door frame, which is marked with the family’s heights. The vibrations blur the words, but he makes out the name “Molly” at eye level. He wonders if this is her room. He stares at the underwater scene and remembers reading somewhere that squids lay eggs via a funnel under their eyes, so their offspring emerge like hard, heavy tears. Josh offers the joint to Ryan, who snatches it and takes a shallow drag. Josh brushes dandruff off his sleeves. Ryan drops the joint when a siren starts to wail: they scramble to their feet and run over to the back window, fearing the police, but the road’s empty. Josh looks up and shouts, “Smoke detector!” Ryan starts waving his jacket to clear the smoke, but Josh just rips the detector from the ceiling and hurls it into a dam beside the road. Once the houses thin out the brothers climb back downstairs and unroll their sleeping bags. Ryan uses his pack as a pillow but Josh’s is still full of tins. Dark branches clasp the stars. Ryan gets up and tugs at his penis in the toilet, watching the bitumen slide under the hole like a belt sander. He tries to remember the scene above the hardware store—the line of tea lights on the windowsill, the mosquito net over the bed, the woman’s small, pale breasts—but his mind keeps replaying the image of a young girl pressing a razor into her thigh. They're woken a few hours later by footsteps. Ryan opens his eyes. Josh is already on his feet. “What the hell is that?” The ceiling creaks again and Josh picks up the torch and the scalpel. “I'm gonna take a look.” They creep upstairs. The hall is empty. Something shuffles in one of the rooms and slams against the wall. Josh whispers, “There ain’t no doors on that side of the hall. The fucking door's in the other half of the house.' He grabs the end of the wall and leans out, struggling to see around it. The wind blasts him back and he cups his hands over his black eye. He pushes the torch into Ryan’s chest. “Go. You go.” Ryan tries to turn away but Josh blocks him and says, “Don’t be a dickhead. Just see what’s over there.” The dark, crinkled skin around his eye shines with tears. “Fuck’s sake, my eye’s killing me. I can’t go.” He pushes Ryan again. With his free hand Ryan feels for the frame behind the plaster. He swings his leg around the wall, plants his foot on the other side, presses his chest against the end of the wall and edges into the other room. It’s empty. Sliding doors in the far wall conceal a walk-in wardrobe. A door on the right leads to an en suite. His foot crunches on the coke can and he kicks it onto the road. He pushes the bathroom door open and the torch beam slides over the tiles. He glimpses movement behind him in the mirror, but it’s only the trees. The tiles remind him of the killing floor on their chicken farm. When he and Josh were little their dad just cut the chickens’ heads off with an axe and let them run around spurting blood out of their necks, but a few years ago he got new machinery installed. Now the chickens were strung up by their feet on an overhead conveyor belt that carried them to a trough filled with electrified water, which killed them as soon as their heads hit it. He walks back into the bedroom and stares at the sliding doors. “Oi hurry up!” Josh shouts from the hall. “Fuck you.” “Fuck you, dickhead!” Ryan pushes a sliding door open and shines his torch in. A man crouches in the darkness, gripping a bottle of colourless liquid in both hands. His clothes are stuffed with newspapers; his beard clings to his chin like clotted blood caked together. He stares at Ryan and shouts, “Bastards! Leave me alone ya bastards! Get outta here! Get out!” He hurls the bottle and it smacks into Ryan’s shoulder. The bottle smashes on the floor; shards of glass cascade onto the highway. The man stumbles out of the wardrobe, lunging at Ryan, grabbing at his jacket. Ryan reaches around the wall and Josh pulls him over. The man slams his fists rhythmically, like pistons, into the other side of the wall. They scramble downstairs and Ryan takes off his jacket and waves it over the edge, screaming to get the driver’s attention. He looks up and sees the man shouting at him, tears streaming sideways across his face. Josh pulls Ryan back but he struggles free. Ryan crouches near the edge and stares at the scrub racing past. There’s a hill ahead and the truck’s slowing down. Josh sees what he’s thinking and calls him an idiot, but he’s already leaning forwards, judging the distance, waiting for the driver to downshift. Josh grabs him by the collar and hisses something but he doesn’t listen and pulls away and jumps. His head smacks solidly against a root and his arm twists under his torso, grinding into the gravel. He lies on his back and spits out black dust. Blood dribbles out of his arm. When the house reaches the top of the hill something flies out and bounces along the side of the road. Ryan gets to his feet and limps towards it. He searches through the bushes and finds his bag with half the tins in it. The roof of the house disappears over the top of the hill and he imagines Josh reaching his destination, perhaps a few hours after dawn, on a small hill out in the bush somewhere, where the morning light is as sallow as blood plasma and the other half of the house is already waiting.

My father killed the boar when he was 16. He’d dreamed of killing the boar for some time. My father’s brother had killed a boar when he was only fifteen. My father’s brother was five years older than him. Like most big brothers, he treated his little brother with intolerant contempt. He’d been saying for months that my father would never kill a boar. He was too weak. He was a girl. He was useless. And, just the day before, he told him he was so worthless he better finish the fence on the bottom paddock before dusk or he could expect a kicking. The family farm was gradually being cleared from the bush and the fencing slow and arduous. My father finished the fence. My father was very good with his hands and in truth a much better fencer than his brother, which didn’t help matters between them. That night my father didn’t go to sleep in the room he shared with his brother. Instead he went out into the bush past the bottom paddock, where the boars roamed, his rifle strapped over his shoulder and a knife in his ankle scabbard. The cleared ground was rough and uneven, a broken landscape created by the eruptions and outpourings of the volcanoes Ruapehu, Ngauruhoe and Tongariro. In the bush, the terrain was even rougher, jagged rises and deep gullies, all ripe with the verdant vegetation flourishing on the rich volcanic soil. My father found himself a niche in a cliff on the edge of the bush above a small clearing near the creek. He huddled there in his woollen coat and dungarees and waited. He’d brought the dogs with him and they drove the boar out of the bush and into the clearing among the tree ferns just before dawn. By then my father was hunched on a rock, out of the way. The dogs worried the boar. They grabbed its tail, snapped at its balls, sank their teeth into its legs. The boar fought back. It lashed at them with its tusks. It caught one and tossed it into a tree fern, the dog yelping from the pain of its ripped rib cage. The boar roared, stomping and rooting. The dogs continued to circle. My father had waited all night in the cold, his rifle loaded and the safety catch off. My father was a very good shot. Better than his brother. That was why his parents had splurged on his birthday gift and bought him a .303 rifle. His brother had a .22, but he couldn’t shoot pigeons or ducks. My father, though, could use his brother’s gun to bring down a brace of ducks. Another reason his brother treated him like a piece of dirt. But out in the bush he couldn’t shoot the boar for fear of killing one of the dogs. He slipped the catch on and laid the gun down beside him. He took a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He waited until the boar was facing away from him, dogs in front and behind it. He jumped from the rock, and kicked the boar’s right hind leg out. The boar went down. My father threw himself on its back and plunged the knife in between the shoulders. Deep, to cut the spine and throat. The boar squealed, thrashed and subsided. My father thrust himself upright, knife still in blood-soaked hand, and stood away from the boar. The boar rolled over, the dogs still nipping at it. My father used the knife again, slashing deep across the boar’s throat. It screamed and lunged at him with head and tusks. He leapt away, falling over one of the dogs. The boar didn’t die straight away. It thrashed about on the ground, snorting and sighing at first, then whimpering as blood gushed out, steamed on the cold ground and coagulated in the crushed ferns. Eventually it was just panting, and slowly at that. Finally it was dead. My father shooed the dogs away. He cut off the boar’s balls and pizzle and tossed them to the dogs. He slit the boar from arse to belly and began the process of removing its warm innards, first working with the bladder to attempt to keep its contents from having too much contact with his game. His hands reached right inside to disentangle the intestines. His shirt and jacket were soaked with its blood. His hands were greasy with blood and shit. He washed himself as best as he could in the freezing water of the creek. He manoeuvred the boar so that it was half sitting on the ground then he lowered himself down and backed between the boar’s front legs, his head under its chin. Taking the weight of the beast on his shoulders, he slowly stood and began to trudge out of the bush and through the rough paddocks towards his family home on the top of the rise. The dogs kept him company for a bit, but the lure of home was too much for them and they took off up the hill in a barking frenzy. All except the one that had been tossed by the boar. It slunk at his heels, blood on its flank where the tusk had ripped through. His father and brother were waiting for him on the veranda. His brother glared and yelled at him because he had missed the morning milking of the cows, but his father told him to take the boar to the meat shack. This was behind the house. It was a rough weatherboard structure on the cool, south-side. It was secure against dogs and vermin and big enough to hang several carcases. A sheep and legs of ham were already there. The shack had a smooth stone floor with drainage channels grooved into it. My father laid the boar on the floor of the shack. He cut the hock of each hind leg just behind the tendon to make a space for the gambrel hook. He inserted the hook then used the hoist in the shack to raise the boar up to the rail that ran down the centre of the room and from which the meat hung. My father then began to skin the boar, stripping back the black bristled outer flesh as much as possible in one piece. Once it was scrubbed of the bristles and tanned, the skin would be soft and supple, suitable for a purse or for covering a saddle. He washed the carcass. Later, when the day’s farm work was over, the whole family would work on preparing and preserving the boar. His mother had already fired up the copper to boil water for the cleaning and salting. Lastly, he sawed off the boar’s head. He placed it on the butcher’s block in the shack and worked at the tusks. On this big beast the tusks were almost five inches long, curved and very sharp. They were much larger than the tusks from his brother’s boar. Once he had the tusks out of the boar’s mouth, he stripped of all but his underpants and washed himself as best as he could at the tap of the water tank at the back of the house. The water was icy and there was a stiff breeze from the snow on the mountains. It was still winter. But my father hardly noticed. He was still warm from the blood of the boar and the sight of his brother’s face when he had seen the size of it. Two months later, he took the tusks into the town of Taumaranui. He sought advice from the jeweller in the main street, who had made a speciality of working with tusks. The jeweller was known all over the King Country. The jeweller talked about how the tusks might be mounted. He suggested a band of gold, edges engraved with delicate leaves, to join the tusks base to base, so that the points formed a semicircle. Just below the points, he suggested two gold bands joined with a delicate gold chain, from which the tusks could be hung. And that is what my father agreed to. The jeweller took one month then my father claimed his tusks and took them home to mount on his bedroom wall, where his brother was forced to see them every day. My father signed up for the Air Force when he was 18. He wanted to fly away from his brother and the cows and the fencing and digging the rocks out of the paddock and that is exactly what he did. He learned to fly, something he’d dreamed of doing, same as he had dreamed of killing a boar. My father was a great dreamer. He left the tusks at home with his mother. She took them out of the bedroom them and placed them on the wall of the family room to remind her of him. His brother would turn them back to front. My father sent home photographs of himself: one from Cairo with him in tropical gear, sparkling eyes and a jaunty smile under his new moustache; another from Waddingham in his Sergeant pilot’s uniform standing with his crew in front of their Lancaster as it is loaded with bombs; a last one from an unknown place but he is wearing his Flying Officer’s uniform for he had been promoted and there are ribbons on his chest, too, but his eyes do not shine and he does not smile. As they arrived from the other side of the world in the slow mail his mother placed these photographs on the sideboard in the family room under my father’s tusks. In a mood after the Sunday roast his brother would turn them face down, saying my father wouldn’t be coming back so why did he have to be reminded of him. But he did come back, which even his brother had to acknowledge. He was 23. He was a shell of the boy who had killed the boar. He had been gutted by the war, though he showed no outward signs of the mutilation. It was all within, deep within, embedded in him like tusks in the jaw of a boar. My father began studying to be a veterinarian when he was 25. As part of his repatriation package, he was paid to study at the University of Sydney. He took the tusks down from his mother’s wall and packed them into one of the suitcases he and my mother took with them on the flying boat to Sydney. The tusks hung on the wall of the semi in Enmore they lived in for the five years he studied. Then after he had graduated they went back across the Tasman and my father began his work with animals. The animals received his ministrations with passive indifference and helped resolve the horror in his head, an unremitting memory of the perilous flights under attack across black skies and terrain, the fires unleashed by the phosphorous bombs released from his plane’s bomb bay let alone the destruction from other ordnance, the morning briefings after what was left of the squadron had returned and he learned which of his mates was no longer. He drank a bit. Maybe too much, but nobody ever sat down with him and talk about what he had been through. He had some medals and his old flying jacket and it was expected that he just get on with life. Which he did, overall. Once my parents were back in New Zealand, he set up practice in Waikato, with dairy cattle his most frequent patients. The Waikato district lies to the north of the King Country where my father had killed the boar. His family were not so far away, but he didn’t visit them that often. His brother was running things down there. His brother held vets in contempt and made that clear on the rare occasions my father did visit. Then his father, my grandfather, died. The farm went to his older brother as was the custom of those times. His widowed mother moved up to Auckland, so my father had no reason to visit the farm or his brother any more. Maybe it was only a matter of moving away from his brother but he lost and found himself in Australia. Maybe it was also the fact that a few years after he had made the move, the phone rang one night and he found he was talking to his brother’s wife. His brother had shot himself down in the bottom paddock that morning. It seems my father’s brother was never a very good farmer. From that time on my father mellowed, relaxed and began to enjoy himself. The tusks, though, were always on his bedside table, reminding him of that night he spent out in the bush and killed the boar. My father died three weeks before he was to turn 80. His death was long and painful to those of us who had to watch it, though for him it was ameliorated by painkillers and palliative care given him. It was my job to arrange the details of his funeral. Since his death was no surprise, all of his family, his three sons and his two daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters and his great grand children as well, had already gathered to say goodbye to him. But everybody was now under pressure to get back to jobs and other commitments. I spoke to the undertakers. They arranged the funeral the day following my father’s death in their own chapel. My mother wanted an open casket so my father had to be dressed in his best clothes. My mother and I selected the clothes and I took them to the undertakers. The next morning, before the ceremony, the undertakers called me and asked me to come to their rooms behind the chapel. They asked me to check that my father looked as much as we wanted him to look. He lay in the coffin, only his head and hands showing, the rest of him expertly trussed and dressed for this last display. His hair was neatly brushed and there was a bristle or two of whiskers on his cheek and chin. His eyes were closed and the skin on his face waxy, but cold from wherever he had been stored. I kissed him on his forehead. Then I placed the tusks on his chest, just under his neck and over the tie and jacket my mother had decided he should wear. My father was ready. I drove my mother down to the chapel just before 2 pm. She and I were the last people to be seated. We were both to sit in the front row. She walked straight up the aisle past the other mourners to my father’s coffin and she stood there for a moment looking at her husband of nearly sixty years. She stretched out her arm and stroked the tusks on his chest. Then she turned and I reached out and guided her to her seat. “He’ll like having them,” she whispered to me. Then we sang “There’s a hole in the bucket”. My father always liked that song. The crematorium was miles away. My father travelled there alone. Just as he had faced the boar. References De Hek, Danny. “Hunting regions—King Country: The home of wild pig hunting in New Zealand.” New Zealand’s Information Network 16 Aug. 2010 . Dick, Tim. “The boar wars.” WAtoday.com.au 13 Nov. 2008. 16 Aug. 2010 . Rushmer, Miles. “Bush surfing: That’s a New Zealand pig hunt.” ESPN Outdoors 28 Apr. 2005. 16 Aug. 2010 . Walrond, Carl. “Pig hunting.” Te Ara: The Encyclopaedia of New Zealand 1 Mar. 2009. 16 Aug. 2010 .

Introdução: Os anestésicos locais são substâncias químicas capazes de bloquear de forma reversível a transmissão de impulsos nervosos no local onde forem aplicados, sendo fundamentais no âmbito da Odontologia para controle da dor. Objetivo: Realizar revisão de literatura sobre os principais anestésicos locais utilizados na Odontologia. Metodologia: O estudo trata-se de uma revisão narrativa realizada entre os meses de janeiro e março de 2018. As bases de dados para a busca da literatura foram Scielo, Pubmed, Web of Science, Bireme. As palavras-chaves usadas foram “Anestésicos Locais”, “Mecanismos de Ação”, “Farmacologia”, “Odontologia”, “Relação Estrutura-atividade”, “Canais de Sódio”, presentes no DeCS. Discussão: A cocaína foi o primeiro composto a ser utilizado como anestésico local e foi a partir desta que os novos anestésicos foram desenvolvidos. Os anestésicos locais apresentam na sua estrutura molecular um anel aromático, uma cadeia intermediária e um grupo amina. Eles atuam sobre os neurônios e seu sítio de ação são os canais de sódio dependente de voltagem, aos quais se ligam reversivelmente, abolindo a excitabilidade neuronal. A classificação dos anestésicos locais é definida quanto à estrutura química e quanto à duração de ação, sendo os principais utilizados na Odontologia lidocaína, mepivacaína, articaína, prilocaína, cloridrato de bupivacaína. Conclusão: Conforme a literatura revisada, é necessário o conhecimento do cirurgião-dentista sobre as características farmacológicas individuais dos anestésicos locais e as sistêmicas do paciente para uma escolha correta, já que sua utilização é variável para cada usuário, e a manipulação inadequada desses fármacos pode levar a sérios riscos para a saúde do paciente.Descritores: Odontologia; Anestésicos locais; Farmacologia; Relação Estrutura-Atividade; Canais de Sódio; Mecanismos Moleculares de Ação Farmacológica.Almeida FM. Controle medicamentoso da dor. In: Estrela C. Dor odontogênica. São Paulo: Artes Médicas; 2001. p.243-61.Silva AP, Diniz AS, Araújo FA, Souza CC. Presença da queixa de dor em pacientes classificados segundo o protocolo de Manchester. Rev Enferm Centro Oeste Mineiro. 2013;3(1):507-17.Rang HP, Dale MM, Ritter JM, Flower RJ, Henderson G. Farmacologia. 8. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier; 2016.Paiva LCA, Cavalcanti AL. Anestésicos locais em odontologia: Uma revisão de literatura. UEPG Ci Biol Saúde. 2005; 11(2):35-42.Soares RG, Salles AA, Irala LED, Limongi O. Como escolher um adequado anestésico local para as diferentes situações na clínica odontológica diária? RSBO. 2006;3(1):35-40.Miller RD, Hondeghem LM. Anestésicos Locais. In: Katzung BG. Farmacologia básica e clínica. 10. ed. Rio de Janeiro: AMGH Editora; 2010. p.301-7.Becker D, Reeed K. Essentials of local anesthetic pharmacology. Anesth Prog. 2006;53(3):98-108.Alves RIL. Anestésicos locais [dissertação]. Porto, Portugal: Universidade Fernando Pessoa; 2013.Malamed SF. Manual de anestesia local. 6. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier; 2013.Ferreira AAA, Silva ID, Diniz RS, Guerra GCB. Anestésicos locais: revisando o mecanismo de ação molecular. Infarma. 2006;18(5/6):15-18.Anjos ED, Carvalho RWF. Complicações sistêmicas em anestesia local. In: Lubiana NB. Pro-Odonto Cirurgia. 2. ed. Porto Alegre: Artmed; 2007. p.143-78.Carvalho RWF, Pereira CU, Anjos ED, Laureano Filho JR, Vasconcelos BCE. Anestésicos locais: como escolher e prevenir complicações sistêmicas. Rev Port Estomatol Med Dent Cir Maxilofac. 2010;51(2):113-20.Teixeira RN. Anestesia local sem vasoconstritor versus com vasoconstritor [dissertação] Porto, Portugal: Faculdade de Ciências da Saúde, Universidade Fernando Pessoa; 2014.Carvalho B, Fritzen EL, Parodes AG, Santos RB, Gedoz L. O emprego dos anestésicos locais em Odontologia: revisão de literatura. Rev bras odontol. 2013;70(2):178-81.Santaella GM. Soluções anestésicas locais: uma revisão de literatura [monografia]: Florianópolis: Universidade Federal de Santa Catarina; 2011.Reis Jr A. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) e Karl Köller (1857-1944) e a descoberta da anestesia local. Rev Bras Anestesiol. 2009;59(2):244-57. Bobbio A. História Sinótica da Anestesia. São Paulo: Novel; 1969.Byck R. Freud e a Cocaína. Rio de Janeiro: Espaço e Tempo; 1989.Araújo DR, Paula E, Fraceto LF. Anestésicos locais: interação com membranas biológicas e com o canal de sódio voltagem-dependente. Quim Nova. 2008;31(7):1775-83.Catterall WA, Mackie K. Local anesthetics. In: Brunton LL, Lazo JS, Parker KL. Goodman and Gillman’s the pharmacologic basis of therapeutics. 11. ed. New York: McGraw Hill; 2006. p. 369-85.Carvalho JCA. Farmacologia dos anestésicos locais. Rev Bras Anestesiol. 1994;44(1):75-82.Faria FAC, Marzola C. Farmacologia dos anestésicos locais – considerações gerias. BCI. 2001;8(29):19-30.Bahl R. Local anestesia in dentistry. Anesth Prog. 2004;51(4):138-42.Udelsmann A, Dreyer E, Melo MS, Bonfim MR, Borsoi LFA, Oliveira TG. Lipídeos nas intoxicações por anestésicos locais. ABCD arq bras cir dig. 2012;25(3):169-72.Fozzard HA, Lee PJ, Lipkind JM. Mechanism of local anesthetic drug action on voltage-gated sodium channels. Curr Pharm Des. 2005;11(21):2671-86.Jackson T, Mclure HA. Pharmacology of local anesthetics. Ophthalmol Clin North Am. 2006;19(2):155-61.Schulman JM, Strichartz GR. Farmacologia dos Anestésicos Locais. In: Golan DE, Tashjian Jr AH, Armstrong EJ, Armstrong AW. Princípios de Farmacologia: a base fisiopatológica da farmacoterapia. 2. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Guanabara Koogan; 2009. p.131-145.Golan DE, Tashjian Jr AH, Armstrong EJ, Armstrong AW. Princípios de Farmacologia: a base fisiopatológica da farmacoterapia. 3. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Guanabara Koogan; 2014.Marieb EM, Hoehn K. Anatomia e Fisiologia. 3. ed. Porto Alegre: Artmed; 2009.Carvalho-De-Souza JL. Análise do efeito inibitório do eugenol sobre canais para Na+ ativados por voltagem em neurônios sensitivos [tese]. São Paulo: Instituto de Ciências Biomédicas – USP; 2009.Andrade ED. Terapêutica medicamentosa em odontologia. 3. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Artes Médicas; 2014.Parise GK, Ferranti KN, Grando CP. Sais anestésicos utilizados na odontologia: revisão de literatura. J Oral Investig. 2017;6(1):75-84.Gordh T. Lidocaine: the origino of a modern local anesthetic. Anesthesiology. 2010;113(6):1433-37.Peñarrocha M, Sanchis BJM, Martínez GJM. Anestesia local em odontologia. Rio de Janeiro: Guanabara Koogan; 2008.DEF. Dicionário de especialidades farmacêuticas 2016. 44. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Publicações Científicas; 2016.Vasconcelos RJH, Nogueira RVB, Leal AKR, Oliveira CTV, Bezerra JGB. Alterações sistêmicas decorrente do uso da lidocaína e prilocaína na prática odontológica. Rev cir traumatol buco-maxilo-fac. 2002;1(2):13-19.Montan MF, Cogo K, Bergamaschi CC, Volpato MC, Andrade ED. Mortalidade relacionada ao uso de anestésicos locais em odontologia. RGO. 2007;55(2):197-202.Gaffen AS, Haas DA. Survey of local anesthetic use by ontario dentists. J Can Dent Assoc. 2009;75(9):649.Souza LMA, Ramacciato JC, Motta RHL. Uso de Anestésicos locais em pacientes idosos. RGO. 2011;59:25-30.Yagiela JA, Dowd FJ, Johnson BS, Mariotti AJ, Neidle EA. Farmacologia e terapêutica para dentistas. 6. ed. Rio de Janeiro: Elsevier; 2011.Mojumdar EH, Lyubartsev AP. Molecular dynamics simulations of local anesthetic articaine in a lipid bilayer. Biophys Chem. 2010;153(1):27-35.Maniglia-Ferreira C, Almeida-Gomes F, Carvalho-Sousa B, Barbosa AV, Lins CC, Souza FD et al. Clinical evaluation of three anesthetics in endodontics. Acta Odontol Latinoam. 2009;22(1):21-6.Moore PA, Doll B, Delie RA, Hersh EV, Korostoff J, Johnson S et al. Hemostatic and anesthetic efficacy of 4% articaine HCL with 1:200,00 epinephrine and 4% articaine HCL with 1:100,000 epinephrine when administrated intraorally for periodontal surgery. J Periodontol. 2007;78(2):247-53.Santos CF, Modena KC, Giglio FP, Sakai VT, Calvo AM, Colombini BL et al. Epinephrine concentration (1,100,00 or 1,200,000) does not affect the clinical efficacy of 4% articaine forlower third molar removal: a double-blind, randomized, cross study. J Oral Maxillofac Surg. 2007;65(12):2445-52.Massaro F. Lipossomal bupivacaine: a long-acting local anesthetic for postsurgical analgesia. Focus On. 2012; 47:213-26.Dantas MVM, Gabrielli MAC, Hochuli VE. Effect of mepivacaine 2% with adrenaline 1:100.000 in blood pressure. Rev Odontol UNESP. 2008;37(3):223-27.

Photograph by Gonzalo Echeverria (2010)The Screen would light up. They would feel a thrill of satisfaction. But the colours had faded with age, the picture wobbled on the screen, the women were of another age; they would come out they would be sad. It was not the film they had dreamt of. It was not the total film each of them had inside himself, the perfect film they could have enjoyed forever and ever. The film they would have liked to make. Or, more secretly, no doubt, the film they would have liked to live. (Perec 57) Over the years that I have watched and thought about Jean-Luc Godard’s films I have been struck by the idea of him as an artist who works with the moving image and perhaps just as importantly the idea of cinema as an irresolvable series of problems. Most obviously this ‘problematic condition’ of Godard’s practice is evidenced in the series of crises and renunciations that pepper the historical trace of his work. A trace that is often characterised thus: criticism, the Nouvelle Vague, May 1968, the Dziga Vertov group, the adoption of video, the return to narrative form, etc. etc. Of all these events it is the rejection of both the dominant cinematic narrative form and its attendant models of production that so clearly indicated the depth and intensity of Godard’s doubt in the artistic viability of the institution of cinema. Historically and ideologically congruent with the events of May 1968, this turning away from tradition was foreshadowed by the closing titles of his 1967 opus Week End: fin de cinema (the end of cinema). Godard’s relentless application to the task of engaging a more discursive and politically informed mode of operation had implications not only for the films that were made in the wake of his disavowal of cinema but also for those that preceded it. In writing this paper it was my initial intention to selectively consider the vast oeuvre of the filmmaker as a type of conceptual project that has in some way been defined by the condition of doubt. While to certain degree I have followed this remit, I have found it necessary to focus on a small number of historically correspondent filmic instances to make my point. The sheer size and complexity of Godard’s output would effectively doom any other approach to deal in generalities. To this end I am interested in the ways that these films have embodied doubt as both an aesthetic and philosophical position. There is an enduring sense of contentiousness that surrounds both the work and perceived motives of the filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard that has never come at the cost of discourse. Through a period of activity that now stretches into its sixth decade Godard has shaped an oeuvre that is as stylistically diverse as it is theoretically challenging. This span of practice is noteworthy not only for its sheer length but for its enduring ability to polarise both audiences and critical opinion. Indeed these opposing critical positions are so well inscribed in our historical understanding of Godard’s practice that they function as a type of secondary narrative. It is a narrative that the artist himself has been more than happy to cultivate and at times even engage. One hardly needs to be reminded that Godard came to making films as a critic. He asserted in the pages of his former employer Cahiers du Cinema in 1962 that “As a critic, I thought of myself as a filmmaker. Today I still think of myself as a critic, and in a sense I am, more than ever before. Instead of writing criticism, I make a film, but the critical dimension is subsumed” (59). If Godard did at this point in time believe that the criticality of practice as a filmmaker was “subsumed”, the ensuing years would see a more overt sense of criticality emerge in his work. By 1968 he was to largely reject both traditional cinematic form and production models in a concerted effort to explore the possibilities of a revolutionary cinema. In the same interview the director went on to extol the virtues of the cine-literacy that to a large part defined the loose alignment of Nouvelle Vague directors (Chabrol, Godard, Rohmer, Rivette, Truffaut) referred to as the Cahiers group claiming that “We were the first directors to know that Griffiths exists” (Godard 60). It is a statement that is as persuasive as it is dramatic, foregrounding the hitherto obscured history of cinema while positioning the group firmly within its master narrative. However, given the benefit of hindsight one realises that perhaps the filmmaker’s motives were not as simple as historical posturing. For Godard what is at stake is not just the history of cinema but cinema itself. When he states that “We were thinking cinema and at a certain moment we felt the need to extend that thought” one is struck by how far and for how long he has continued to think about and through cinema. In spite of the hours of strict ideological orthodoxy that accompanied his most politically informed works of the late 1960s and early 1970s or the sustained sense of wilful obtuseness that permeates his most “difficult” work, there is a sense of commitment to extending “that thought” that is without peer. The name “Godard”, in the words of the late critic Serge Daney, “designates an auteur but it is also synonymous with a tenacious passion for that region of the world of images we call the cinema” (Daney 68). It is a passion that is both the crux of his practice as an artist and the source of a restless experimentation and interrogation of the moving image. For Godard the passion of cinema is one that verges on religiosity. This carries with it all the philosophical and spiritual implications that the term implies. Cinema functions here as a system of signs that at once allows us to make sense of and live in the world. But this is a faith for Godard that is nothing if not tested. From the radical formal experimentation of his first feature film À Bout de soufflé (Breathless) onwards Godard has sought to place the idea of cinema in doubt. In this sense doubt becomes a type of critical engine that at once informs the shape of individual works and animates the constantly shifting positions the artist has occupied. Serge Daney's characterisation of the Nouvelle Vague as possessed of a “lucidity tinged with nostalgia” (70) is especially pertinent in understanding the way in which doubt came to animate Godard’s practice across the 1960s and beyond. Daney’s contention that the movement was both essentially nostalgic and saturated with an acute awareness that the past could not be recreated, casts the cinema itself as type of irresolvable proposition. Across the dazzling arc of films (15 features in 8 years) that Godard produced prior to his renunciation of narrative cinematic form in 1967, one can trace an unravelling of faith. During this period we can consider Godard's work and its increasingly complex engagement with the political as being predicated by the condition of doubt. The idea of the cinema as an industrial and social force increasingly permeates this work. For Godard the cinema becomes a site of questioning and ultimately reinvention. In his 1963 short film Le Grand Escroc (The Great Rogue) a character asserts that “cinema is the most beautiful fraud in the world”. Indeed it is this sense of the paradoxical that shadows much of his work. The binary of beauty and fraud, like that of faith and doubt, calls forth a questioning of the cinema that stands to this day. It is of no small consequence that so many of Godard’s 1960s works contain scenes of people watching films within the confines of a movie theatre. For Godard and his Nouvelle Vague peers the sale de cinema was both the hallowed site of cinematic reception and the terrain of the everyday. It is perhaps not surprising then he chooses the movie theatre as a site to play out some of his most profound engagements with the cinema. Considered in relation to each other these scenes of cinematic viewing trace a narrative in which an undeniable affection for the cinema is undercut by both a sense of loss and doubt. Perhaps the most famous of Godard’s ‘viewing’ scenes is from the film Vivre Sa Vie (My Life to Live). Essentially a tale of existential trauma, the film follows the downward spiral of a young woman Nana (played by Anna Karina) into prostitution and then death at the hands of ruthless pimps. Championed (with qualifications) by Susan Sontag as a “perfect film” (207), it garnered just as many detractors, including famously the director Roberto Rosellini, for what was perceived to be its nihilistic content and overly stylised form. Seeking refuge in a cinema after being cast out from her apartment for non payment of rent the increasingly desperate Nana is shown engrossed in the starkly silent images of Carl Dreyer’s 1928 film La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc (The Passion of Joan of Arc). Godard cuts from the action of his film to quote at length from Dreyer’s classic, returning from the mute intensity of Maria Faloconetti’s portrayal of the condemned Joan of Arc to Karina’s enraptured face. As Falconetti’s tears swell and fall so do Karina’s, the emotional rawness of the performance on the screen mirrored and internalised by the doomed character of Nana. Nana’s identification with that of the screen heroine is at once total and immaculate as her own brutal death at the hands of men is foretold. There is an ominous silence to this sequence that serves not only to foreground the sheer visual intensity of what is being shown but also to separate it from the world outside this purely cinematic space. However, if we are to read this scene as a testament to the power of the cinematic we must also admit to the doubt that resides within it. Godard’s act of separation invites us to consider the scene not only as a meditation on the emotional and existential state of the character of Nana but also on the foreshortened possibilities of the cinema itself. As Godard’s shots mirror those of Dreyer we are presented with a consummate portrait of irrevocable loss. This is a complex system of imagery that places Dreyer’s faith against Godard’s doubt without care for the possibility of resolution. Of all Godard’s 1960s films that feature cinema spectatorship the sequence belonging to Masculin Féminin (Masculine Feminine) from 1966 is perhaps the most confounding and certainly the most digressive. A series of events largely driven by a single character’s inability or unwillingness to surrender to the projected image serve to frustrate, fracture and complexify the cinema-viewing experience. It is however, a viewing experience that articulates the depth of Godard’s doubt in the viability of the cinematic form. The sequence, like much of the film itself, centres on the trials of the character Paul played by Jean-Pierre Léaud. Locked in a struggle against the pop-cultural currents of the day and the attendant culture of consumption and appearances, Paul is positioned within the film as a somewhat conflicted and ultimately doomed romantic. His relationship with Madeleine played by real life yé-yé singer Chantal Goya is a source of constant anxiety. The world that he inhabits, however marginally, of nightclubs, pop records and publicity seems philosophically at odds with the classical music and literature that he avidly devours. If the cinema-viewing scene of Vivre Sa Vie is defined by the enraptured intensity of Anna Karina’s gaze, the corresponding scene in Masculin Féminin stands, at least initially, as the very model of distracted spectatorship. As the film in the theatre starts, Paul who has been squeezed out of his seat next to Madeleine by her jealous girlfriend, declares that he needs to go to the toilet. On entering the bathroom he is confronted by the sight of a pair of men locked in a passionate kiss. It is a strange and disarming turn of events that prompts his hastily composed graffiti response: down with the republic of cowards. For theorist Nicole Brenez the appearance of these male lovers “is practically a fantasmatic image evoked by the amorous situation that Paul is experiencing” (Brenez 174). This quasi-spectral appearance of embracing lovers and grafitti writing is echoed in the following sequence where Paul once again leaves the theatre, this time to fervently inform the largely indifferent theatre projectionist about the correct projection ratio of the film being shown. On his graffiti strewn journey back inside Paul encounters an embracing man and woman nestled in an outer corner of the theatre building. Silent and motionless the presence of this intertwined couple is at once unsettling and prescient providing “a background real for what is being projected inside on the screen” (Brenez 174). On returning to the theatre Paul asks Madeleine to fill him in on what he has missed to which she replies, “It is about a man and woman in a foreign city who…”. Shot in Stockholm to appease the Swedish co-producers that stipulated that part of the production be made in Sweden, the film within a film occupies a fine line between restrained formal artfulness and pornographic violence. What could have been a creatively stifling demand on the part of his financial backers was inverted by Godard to become a complex exploration of power relations played out through an unsettling sexual encounter. When questioned on set by a Swedish television reporter what the film was about the filmmaker curtly replied, “The film has a lot to do with sex and the Swedish are known for that” (Masculin Féminin). The film possesses a barely concealed undertow of violence. A drama of resistance and submission is played out within the confines of a starkly decorated apartment. The apartment itself is a zone in which language ceases to operate or at the least is reduced to its barest components. The man’s imploring grunts are met with the woman’s repeated reply of “no”. What seemingly begins as a homage to the contemporaneous work of Swedish director Ingmar Bergman quickly slides into a chronicle of coercion. As the final scene of seduction/debasement is played out on the screen the camera pulls away to reveal the captivated gazes of Madeleine and her friends. It finally rests on Paul who then shuts his eyes, unable to bear what is being shown on the screen. It is a moment of refusal that marks a turning away not only from this projected image but from cinema itself. A point made all the clearer by Paul’s voiceover that accompanies the scene: We went to the movies often. The screen would light up and we would feel a thrill. But Madeleine and I were usually disappointed. The images were dated and jumpy. Marilyn Monroe had aged badly. We felt sad. It wasn't the movie of our dreams. It wasn't that total film we carried inside ourselves. That film we would have liked to make. Or, more secretly, no doubt the film we wanted to live. (Masculin Féminin) There was a dogged relentlessness to Godard’s interrogation of the cinema through the very space of its display. 1963’s Le Mépris (Contempt) swapped the public movie theatre for the private screening room; a theatrette emblazoned with the words Il cinema é un’invenzione senza avvenire. The phrase, presented in a style that recalled Soviet revolutionary graphics, is an Italian translation of Louis Lumiere’s 1895 appraisal of his new creation: “The cinema is an invention without a future.” The words have an almost physical presence in the space providing a fatalistic backdrop to the ensuing scene of conflict and commerce. As an exercise in self reflexivity it at once serves to remind us that even at its inception the cinema was cast in doubt. In Le Mépris the pleasures of spectatorship are played against the commercial demands of the cinema as industry. Following a screening of rushes for a troubled production of Homer’s Odyssey a tempestuous exchange ensues between a hot-headed producer (Jeremy Prokosch played by Jack Palance) and a calmly philosophical director (Fritz Lang as himself). It is a scene that attests to Godard’s view of the cinema as an art form that is creatively compromised by its own modes of production. In a film that plays the disintegration of a relationship against the production of a movie and that features a cast of Germans, Italians and French it is of no small consequence that the movie producer is played by an American. An American who, when faced with a creative impasse, utters the phrase “when I hear the word culture I bring out my checkbook”. It is one of Godard’s most acerbic and doubt filled sequences pitting as he does the implied genius of Lang against the tantrum throwing demands of the rapacious movie producer. We are presented with a model of industrial relations that is both creatively stifling and practically unworkable. Certainly it was no coincidence that Le Mépris had the biggest budget ($1 million) that Godard has ever worked with. In Godard’s 1965 film Une Femme Mariée (A Married Woman), he would once again use the movie theatre as a location. The film, which dealt with the philosophical implications of an adulterous affair, is also notable for its examination of the Holocaust and that defining event’s relationship to personal and collective memory. Biographer Richard Brody has observed that, “Godard introduced the Auschwitz trial into The Married Woman (sic) as a way of inserting his view of another sort of forgetting that he suggested had taken hold of France—the conjoined failures of historical and personal memory that resulted from the world of mass media and the ideology of gratification” (Brody 196-7). Whatever the causes, there is a pervading sense of amnesia that surrounds the Holocaust in the film. In one exchange the character of Charlotte, the married woman in question, momentarily confuses Auschwitz with thalidomide going on to later exclaim that “the past isn’t fun”. But like the barely repressed memories of her past indiscretions, the Holocaust returns at the most unexpected juncture in the film. In what starts out as Godard’s most overt reference to the work of Alfred Hitchcock, Charlotte and her lover secretly meet under the cover of darkness in a movie theatre. Each arriving separately and kitted out in dark sunglasses, there is breezy energy to this clandestine rendezvous highly reminiscent of the work of the great director. It is a stylistic point that is underscored in the film by the inclusion of a full-frame shot of Hitchcock’s portrait in the theatre’s foyer. However, as the lovers embrace the curtain rises on Alain Resnais’s 1955 documentary Nuit et Brouillard (Night and Fog). The screen is filled with images of barbed wire as the voice of narrator Jean Cayrol informs the audience that “even a vacation village with a fair and a steeple can lead very simply to a concentration camp.” It is an incredibly shocking moment, in which the repressed returns to confirm that while memory “isn’t fun”, it is indeed necessary. An uncanny sense of recognition pervades the scene as the two lovers are faced with the horrendous evidence of a past that refuses to stay subsumed. The scene is all the more powerful for the seemingly casual manner it is relayed. There is no suspenseful unveiling or affected gauging of the viewers’ reactions. What is simply is. In this moment of recognition the Hitchcockian mood of the anticipation of an illicit rendezvous is supplanted by a numbness as swift as it is complete. Needless to say the couple make a swift retreat from the now forever compromised space of the theatre. Indeed this scene is one of the most complex and historically layered of any that Godard had produced up to this point in his career. By making overt reference to Hitchcock he intimates that the cinema itself is deeply implicated in this perceived crisis of memory. What begins as a homage to the work of one of the most valorised influences of the Nouvelle Vague ends as a doubt filled meditation on the shortcomings of a system of representation. The question stands: how do we remember through the cinema? In this regard the scene signposts a line of investigation that would become a defining obsession of Godard’s expansive Histoire(s) du cinéma, a project that was to occupy him throughout the 1990s. Across four chapters and four and half hours Histoire(s) du cinéma examines the inextricable relationship between the history of the twentieth century and the cinema. Comprised almost completely of filmic quotations, images and text, the work employs a video-based visual language that unremittingly layers image upon image to dissolve and realign the past. In the words of theorist Junji Hori “Godard's historiography in Histoire(s) du cinéma is based principally on the concept of montage in his idiosyncratic sense of the term” (336). In identifying montage as the key strategy in Histoire(s) du cinéma Hori implicates the cinema itself as central to both Godard’s process of retelling history and remembering it. However, it is a process of remembering that is essentially compromised. Just as the relationship of the cinema to the Holocaust is bought into question in Une Femme Mariée, so too it becomes a central concern of Histoire(s) du cinéma. It is Godard’s assertion “that the cinema failed to honour its ethical commitment to presenting the unthinkable barbarity of the Nazi extermination camps” (Temple 332). This was a failure that for Godard moved beyond the realm of doubt to represent “nothing less than the end of cinema” (Brody 512). In October 1976 the New Yorker magazine published a profile of Jean Luc Godard by Penelope Gilliatt a writer who shared the post of film critic at the magazine with Pauline Kael. The article was based on an interview that took place at Godard’s production studio in Grenoble Switzerland. It was notable for two things: Namely, the most succinct statement that Godard has made regarding the enduring sense of criticality that pervades his work: “A good film is a matter of questions properly put.” (74) And secondly, surely the shortest sentence ever written about the filmmaker: “Doubt stands.” (77)ReferencesÀ Bout de soufflé. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. 1960. DVD. Criterion, 2007. Brenez, Nicole. “The Forms of the Question.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Brody, Richard. Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life of Jean-Luc Godard. New York: Metropolitan Books / Henry Holt & Co., 2008. Daney, Serge. “The Godard Paradox.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Gilliat, Penelope. “The Urgent Whisper.” Jean-Luc Godard Interviews. Ed. David Sterritt. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1998. Godard, Jean-Luc. “Jean-Luc Godard: 'From Critic to Film-Maker': Godard in Interview (extracts). ('Entretien', Cahiers du Cinema 138, December 1962).” Cahiers du Cinéma: 1960-1968 New Wave, New Cinema, Reevaluating Hollywood. Ed. Jim Hillier. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1986. Histoires du Cinema. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. 1988-98. DVD, Artificial Eye, 2008. Hori, Junji. “Godard’s Two Histiographies.” For Ever Godard. Eds. Michael Temple, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt. London: Black Dog, 2004. Le Grand Escroc. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jean Seberg. Film. Ulysse Productions, 1963. Le Mépris. Dir. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jack Palance, Fritz Lang. 1964. DVD. Criterion, 2002. La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc. Dir. Carl Theodor Dreyer. Film. Janus films, 1928. MacCabe, Colin. Godard: A Portrait of the Artist at 70. London: Bloomsbury, 2003. Masculin Féminin. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Jean-Pierre Léaud. 1966. DVD. Criterion, 2005. Nuit et Brouillard. Dir Alain Resnais. Film. Janus Films, 1958. Perec, Georges. Things: A Story of the Sixties. Trans. David Bellos. London: Collins Harvill, 1990. (Originally published 1965.) Sontag, Susan. “Godard’s Vivre Sa Vie.” Against Interpretation and Other Essays. New York: Picador, 2001. Temple, Michael, James S. Williams, and Michael Witt, eds. For Ever Godard. London: Black Dog, 2004. Une Femme Mariée. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Macha Meril. 1964. DVD. Eureka, 2009. Vivre Sa Vie. Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. Perf. Anna Karina. 1962. DVD. Criterion, 2005. Week End, Dir. and writ. Jean Luc Godard. 1967. DVD. Distinction Series, 2005.

There was a moment just after September 11, 2001, that many commentators heralded the end of our celebrity obsessions and the emergence of a new sobriety in politics and culture. We had the mediated version of atonement when the famous presented their most serious sides for television specials in support of the families of the victims of the September 11 attacks. But within a matter of weeks the celebrity industry was back on its old track – salacious rumors about J-Lo and her movement through the entertainment industry A-List, further debates about the propriety of Michael Jackson’s behaviour, Demi Moore’s new love interest Ashton Kutcher – who is and was young enough to be her son and so on. The machine and industry that had been in place tested whether it could continue its dance with public intimacy and private turmoils of the rich and famed. Fame is both fickle and incredibly enduring. It relies on a public individual’s connection to an audience and how that persona can embody some form of affective investment (Marshall, Celebrity and Power). Audience’s loyalty can migrate, but the machinery of fame can produce new variations for newly minted moments of affection or even its opposite, intense dislike. What is enduring is the process. There is the manufacture of celebrities and stars that were produced with regularity by the old movie studios in the first half of the twentieth century that are now produced with astonishing levels of success through the current array of reality/game shows via television. Beyond these public variations, there is the will-to-fame that is expressed by the various webcam sites and weblogs where a new era of public narcissism is mutating with new media forms. This issue deals with fame; but it is not alone. The academy has embraced the study of celebrity and fame over the last decade and it has accelerated in recent years. Sport stardom (Andrews and Jackson), film stardom (Austin and Barker), literary celebrity (Moran; Glass), journalism and celebrity (Ponce de Leon; Marshall, “Intimately Intertwined”), the psychology of fame (Giles), and media and the celebrity (Turner; Marshall, Celebrity and Power) have appeared as full-fledged books with the regularity that echoes the celebrity system’s own production process. This burgeoning interest in fame cuts across disciplinary study in surprising ways. Chris Rojek’s discussion of religion and celebrity is but one interesting recent variation in the study of fame (Rojek). The interest in this issue has been impressive and, for an editor, at times overwhelming. Nonetheless, we have collected an intriguing array of articles to advance the study of fame and to engage with the way it reflects and refracts the complex crystalline structure of popular culture. Understanding fame demands a form of perceptive interdisciplinarity that our group of 18 authors has worked to achieve. Gerard Goggin and Christopher Newell’s article on how Christopher Reeve’s fame has transformed and disciplined international debates on disability to narrowly focus on the agenda of the “cure” serves as our feature article. The article paints a fascinating picture on the reconstruction of this particular dimension of the public sphere via the agency of a persona. Goggin and Newell’s writing is particularly valuable to understand the legacy of Reeve since his recent death and how it will continue to shape the concepts of disability for years if not decades to come. Dealing with Ziggy Stardust, the contrived fictional star that Bowie incarnated in the early 1970s, allows Suzanne Rintoul to work through how celebrity and fame provide a discursive narrative that can be the source for performance of the public self. Bowie plays with ironic distance that is understood as a debate about authenticity in a way that is implicitly understood as a trope of contemporary popular culture and the audience’s understanding of popular figures. William Tregonning explains that authenticity remains a central feature of how the famed – in popular music at the very least – refer to their identities. Via Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez and Christine Aguilera, the author weaves a reading of their moments of their publicly reported self-reflection that entreats their audiences to understand their desire to be seen as real and identical to their pre-famous identities despite/because of their heavily hyped and inauthentic pop presence. Jonathan Goldman’s reading of Charlie Chaplin provides one of the more fascinating intertextual readings of how the famed persona can be used and turned back towards the production of the film narrative and how it can be read by audiences. Goldman deftly reads the closing image of the film Modern Times as an epigraph that identifies how the extratextual of celebrity and persona flow back into informing the reading of an actor’s work. And all of this “work” is done quite consciously by Chaplin as his own persona – his “trademark” as tramp – can work as a powerful shorthand for his films. Gordon Fletcher provides an entry point to determine the extent and reach of fame through a study of the frequency with which different public figures’ names are used in Internet searches. Fletcher’s work presents “an index of fame” as these particular personalities intersect with the promotional culture’s intentions via releases and with specific events that have clear connections to public individuals. The Web serves as a way to map these cultural trends in a manner that was more difficult to undertake in the past. Reality television internationally has produced famous people with astounding regularity and three of our authors have tried to address the way in which television practices have articulated fame and celebritydom. Su Holmes’s inspection of reality television programmes explicates that the production of the celebrity is revealed as much as traditional notions of earning one’s acclaim through talent, hard work and understanding the industry. Tom Mole’s “hypertrophic celebrity” refers to the way that the entertainment industry via reality television has engaged in many more ways of promoting and cross-promoting individuals through a variety of technologies and “intertextual networks”. Ultimately, it is the formats that have been more successful and sustained than any individual star that is created and quickly disappears. Mole indicates that observing this element of celebrity culture reveals a great deal about the new machinations of sophistication of the entertainment industry. Douglas Fairchild’s study of Australian Idol dovetails into Mole’s insights. One of the lacunae of research in popular music, according to Fairchild, is the operation of public relations in musical cultural production. Fairchild draws on research that discusses how the “attention economy” wraps around contemporary cultural production through the techniques of publicity and public relations to deepen their significance and play in popular culture. The decline in recorded music – or its change to downloading – has demanded a refocusing of an industry to make particular individuals as entertainment stars that move between the media of television and music (and other cultural forms and venues if possible) and thereby produce a strong divertissement for the attention economy. Fame and infamy blur in David Schmid’s study of the collection of serial killer memorabilia online. Collectors are condemned for their fascination, but contemporary culture’s relationship to the fetish objects of infamy demands a more careful reading. Schmid relates the fascination with how central serial killers are to the celebrity system and “America” and become prominent idols for consumption – to paraphrase Leo Lowenthal. In three of our articles, artistic practices are investigated but from quite different perspectives. It seems almost de rigeur to have some mention of Andy Warhol in an issue devoted to fame. Michael Angelo Tata’s work moves laterally (which is always appropriate for Warhol…) along the surface of Warhol to debate his ruminations of the fabrication of the self through his fascination and play with the world of modeling. Davin Heckman explores the production of persona not through the extensions of fame provided by contemporary mass media, but rather through the intensive production of graffiti tags in Los Angeles by the irrepressible “Chaka”. Heckman’s study of fame makes us think how the enigmatic can be played out in a geographical space (contemporary Los Angeles) that is inundated with the production of other images of fame. Carrie LeBlanc’s analysis of the British celebrity-artist Damien Hirst attempts to tread the line between the value of the artist persona to the meaning of artistic practice and what we could now call – thanks to Fairchild’s article in this issue – the ‘attention economy’ that circulates around the meaning of the artist and art work. Celebrity is integral to the interpretation of Hirst and his working class persona is integral to his play in British media as much as the meaning of his shock-art. The Harry Potter phenomenon has produced a number of famed individuals, from its author to the actors associated with the three principal roles; but this fame presents an elaborate textual field that becomes the territory of fan fiction. Lelia Green and Carmen Guinery investigate the permutations of fame that envelope fan fiction and provide one of the motivations for fan fiction authors and the expansion of their influence among fan groups. Fame is a kind of moving signification system that draws on popular culture fragments and elements to buttress the centrality of its various personalities. Mohmin Rahman has posited that David Beckham’s fame in both photos in magazines and in descriptions of his body rely knowingly on queer iconography but only as a surface meaning system. Ultimately, Beckham after playing with the codes of queer must reassert the bedrock of his identity through heterosexuality; nonetheless, Rahman identifies the uses made of queer representations in displaying the male sporting hero in the most coded way. The last two articles deal with the politics of fame and its projections on to obvious personas. Paul Allatson writes a wonderful review of the existent but non-existent Elián Gonzalez and how the virtual Elián is deployed as a persona for all sorts of positions in the United States and Cuba for specific political ends. As much as Elián was converted and passed between countries, the virtual Elián becomes a vessel for the construction of a variety of political postures that can be framed in national desires and ethnic ambitions. Kevin Howley, drawing insights from the remarkable reincarnation of the legacy of Reagan through his death and funeral, provides an outline of how the myth of the famed president is maintained and actively fostered by a variety of groups. Embedded in the production of Reagan in death is his originary filmic persona, transplanted into the Teflon presidency and finally into a conservative politics of the future of the right. This collection on the concept of fame provides an intellectual gestalt of the some of the tropes that circulate around the production of public personalities. The ephemeral nature of fame means that it can be attached to and detached from individuals relatively easily. Fame is surface meaning that may correlate with deeper issues and more profound essences, but fundamentally fame is designed to be a play on the surface and to allow that surface pattern to circulate widely across a culture or, on occasion, transculturally. Fame moves readily and easily between the domains of the public and the private for public consumption. Reading the production of fame is a reading of popular culture itself as it is reproduced and expanded via its various forms of mediation. In this issue of M/C Journal, we can see the dispositifs of how public identities – the material instances of fame production – refract publics and popular desires. Dig into the various narratives of fame that these 16 articles present – they are both intellectually challenging and – in the wonderful tradition of M/C Journal – great reads as well. References Andrews, David, and Steven Jackson (eds.). Sport Stars: The Cultural Politics of the Sporting Celebrity. London: Routledge, 2001. Austin, Thomas and Martin Barker (eds.). Contemporary Hollywood Stardom. London: Edward Arnold, 2003. Glass, Loren. Authors Inc: Literary Celebrity in the Modern United States. New York: New York UP, 2004. Marshall, P. David. “Intimately Intertwined in the Most Public Way: Celebrity and Journalism.” Journalism: Critical Issues. Ed. Stuart Allen. Maidenhead, Berkshire, UK: McGraw-Hill/Open UP, 2005. 19-29 Marshall, P. David. Celebrity and Power: Fame in Contemporary Culture. U of Minnesota P, 1997. Moran, Joe. Star Authors: Literary Celebrity in America. Pluto Press, 2000. Ponce De Leon, Charles S. Self-Exposure: Human Interest Journalism and the Emergence of Celebrity in America, 1890-1940. Chapel Hill, N.C.: U of North Carolina P, 2002. Rojek, Chris. Celebrity. London: Reaktion, 2001. Turner, Graeme. Understanding Celebrity. London: Sage, 2004. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Marshall, P. David. "Fame's Perpetual Moment." M/C Journal 7.5 (2004). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/01-editorial.php>. APA Style Marshall, P. (Nov. 2004) "Fame's Perpetual Moment," M/C Journal, 7(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/01-editorial.php>.

Introduction: Bubbles and Sport The ephemeral materiality of bubbles – beautiful, spectacular, and distracting but ultimately fragile – when applied to protect or conserve in the interests of sport-media profit, creates conditions that exacerbate existing inequalities in sport and society. Bubbles are usually something to watch, admire, and chase after in their brief yet shiny lives. There is supposed to be, technically, nothing inside them other than one or more gasses, and yet we constantly refer to people and objects being inside bubbles. The metaphor of the bubble has been used to describe the life of celebrities, politicians in purpose-built capital cities like Canberra, and even leftist, environmentally activist urban dwellers. The metaphorical and material qualities of bubbles are aligned—they cannot be easily captured and are liable to change at any time. In this article we address the metaphorical sporting bubble, which is often evoked in describing life in professional sport. This is a vernacular term used to capture and condemn the conditions of life of elite sportspeople (usually men), most commonly after there has been a sport-related scandal, especially of a sexual nature (Rowe). It is frequently paired with connotatively loaded adjectives like pampered and indulged. The sporting bubble is rarely interrogated in academic literature, the concept largely being left to the media and moral entrepreneurs. It is represented as involving a highly privileged but also pressurised life for those who live inside it. A sporting bubble is a world constructed for its most prized inhabitants that enables them to be protected from insurgents and to set the terms of their encounters with others, especially sport fans and disciplinary agents of the state. The Covid-19 pandemic both reinforced and reconfigured the operational concept of the bubble, re-arranging tensions between safety (protecting athletes) and fragility (short careers, risks of injury, etc.) for those within, while safeguarding those without from bubble contagion. Privilege and Precarity Bubble-induced social isolation, critics argue, encourages a loss of perspective among those under its protection, an entitled disconnection from the usual rules and responsibilities of everyday life. For this reason, the denizens of the sporting bubble are seen as being at risk to themselves and, more troublingly, to those allowed temporarily to penetrate it, especially young women who are first exploited by and then ejected from it (Benedict). There are many well-documented cases of professional male athletes “behaving badly” and trying to rely on institutional status and various versions of the sporting bubble for shelter (Flood and Dyson; Reel and Crouch; Wade). In the age of mobile and social media, it is increasingly difficult to keep misbehaviour in-house, resulting in a slew of media stories about, for example, drunkenness and sexual misconduct, such as when then-Sydney Roosters co-captain Mitchell Pearce was suspended and fined in 2016 after being filmed trying to force an unwanted kiss on a woman and then simulating a lewd act with her dog while drunk. There is contestation between those who condemn such behaviour as aberrant and those who regard it as the conventional expression of youthful masculinity as part of the familiar “boys will be boys” dictum. The latter naturalise an inequitable gender order, frequently treating sportsmen as victims of predatory women, and ignoring asymmetries of power between men and women, especially in homosocial environments (Toffoletti). For those in the sporting bubble (predominantly elite sportsmen and highly paid executives, also mostly men, with an array of service staff of both sexes moving in and out of it), life is reflected for those being protected via an array of screens (small screens in homes and indoor places of entertainment, and even smaller screens on theirs and others’ phones, as well as huge screens at sport events). These male sport stars are paid handsomely to use their skill and strength to perform for the sporting codes, their every facial expression and bodily action watched by the media and relayed to audiences. This is often a precarious existence, the usually brief career of an athlete worker being dependent on health, luck, age, successful competition with rivals, networks, and club and coach preferences. There is a large, aspirational reserve army of athletes vying to play at the elite level, despite risks of injury and invasive, life-changing medical interventions. Responsibility for avoiding performance and image enhancing drugs (PIEDs) also weighs heavily on their shoulders (Connor). Professional sportspeople, in their more reflective moments, know that their time in the limelight will soon be up, meaning that getting a ticket to the sporting bubble, even for a short time, can make all the difference to their post-sport lives and those of their families. The most vulnerable of the small minority of participants in sport who make a good, short-term living from it are those for whom, in the absence of quality education and prior social status, it is their sole likely means of upward social mobility (Spaaij). Elite sport performers are surrounded by minders, doctors, fitness instructors, therapists, coaches, advisors and other service personnel, all supporting athletes to stay focussed on and maximise performance quality to satisfy co-present crowds, broadcasters, sponsors, sports bodies and mass media audiences. The shield offered by the sporting bubble supports the teleological win-at-all-costs mentality of professional sport. The stakes are high, with athlete and executive salaries, sponsorships and broadcasting deals entangled in a complex web of investments in keeping the “talent” pivotal to the “attention economy” (Davenport and Beck)—the players that provide the content for sale—in top form. Yet, the bubble cannot be entirely secured and poor behaviour or performance can have devastating effects, including permanent injury or disability, mental illness and loss of reputation (Rowe, “Scandals and Sport”). Given this fragile materiality of the sporting bubble, it is striking that, in response to the sudden shutdown following the economic and health crisis caused by the 2020 global pandemic, the leaders of professional sport decided to create more of them and seek to seal the metaphorical and material space with unprecedented efficiency. The outcome was a multi-sided tale of mobility, confinement, capital, labour, and the gendering of sport and society. The Covid-19 Gilded Cage Sociologists such as Zygmunt Bauman and John Urry have analysed the socio-politics of mobilities, whereby some people in the world, such as tourists, can traverse the globe at their leisure, while others remain fixed in geographical space because they lack the means to be mobile or, in contrast, are involuntarily displaced by war, so-called “ethnic cleansing”, famine, poverty or environmental degradation. The Covid-19 global pandemic re-framed these matters of mobilities (Rowe, “Subjecting Pandemic Sport”), with conventional moving around—between houses, businesses, cities, regions and countries—suddenly subjected to the imperative to be static and, in perniciously unreflective technocratic discourse, “socially distanced” (when what was actually meant was to be “physically distanced”). The late-twentieth century analysis of the “risk society” by Ulrich Beck, in which the mysterious consequences of humans’ predation on their environment are visited upon them with terrifying force, was dramatically realised with the coming of Covid-19. In another iteration of the metaphor, it burst the bubble of twenty-first century global sport. What we today call sport was formed through the process of sportisation (Maguire), whereby hyper-local, folk physical play was reconfigured as multi-spatial industrialised sport in modernity, becoming increasingly reliant on individual athletes and teams travelling across the landscape and well over the horizon. Co-present crowds were, in turn, overshadowed in the sport economy when sport events were taken to much larger, dispersed audiences via the media, especially in broadcast mode (Nicholson, Kerr, and Sherwood). This lucrative mediation of professional sport, though, came with an unforgiving obligation to generate an uninterrupted supply of spectacular live sport content. The pandemic closed down most sports events and those that did take place lacked the crucial participation of the co-present crowd to provide the requisite event atmosphere demanded by those viewers accustomed to a sense of occasion. Instead, they received a strange spectacle of sport performers operating in empty “cathedrals”, often with a “faked” crowd presence. The mediated sport spectacle under the pandemic involved cardboard cut-out and sex doll spectators, Zoom images of fans on large screens, and sampled sounds of the crowd recycled from sport video games. Confected co-presence produced simulacra of the “real” as Baudrillardian visions came to life. The sporting bubble had become even more remote. For elite sportspeople routinely isolated from the “common people”, the live sport encounter offered some sensory experience of the social – the sounds, sights and even smells of the crowd. Now the sporting bubble closed in on an already insulated and insular existence. It exposed the irony of the bubble as a sign of both privileged mobility and incarcerated athlete work, both refuge and prison. Its logic of contagion also turned a structure intended to protect those inside from those outside into, as already observed, a mechanism to manage the threat of insiders to outsiders. In Australia, as in many other countries, the populace was enjoined by governments and health authorities to help prevent the spread of Covid-19 through isolation and immobility. There were various exceptions, principally those classified as essential workers, a heterogeneous cohort ranging from supermarket shelf stackers to pharmacists. People in the cultural, leisure and sports industries, including musicians, actors, and athletes, were not counted among this crucial labour force. Indeed, the performing arts (including dance, theatre and music) were put on ice with quite devastating effects on the livelihoods and wellbeing of those involved. So, with all major sports shut down (the exception being horse racing, which received the benefit both of government subsidies and expanding online gambling revenue), sport organisations began to represent themselves as essential services that could help sustain collective mental and even spiritual wellbeing. This case was made most aggressively by Australian Rugby League Commission Chairman, Peter V’landys, in contending that “an Australia without rugby league is not Australia”. In similar vein, prominent sport and media figure Phil Gould insisted, when describing rugby league fans in Western Sydney’s Penrith, “they’re lost, because the football’s not on … . It holds their families together. People don’t understand that … . Their life begins in the second week of March, and it ends in October”. Despite misgivings about public safety and equality before the pandemic regime, sporting bubbles were allowed to form, re-form and circulate. The indefinite shutdown of the National Rugby League (NRL) on 23 March 2020 was followed after negotiation between multiple entities by its reopening on 28 May 2020. The competition included a team from another nation-state (the Warriors from Aotearoa/New Zealand) in creating an international sporting bubble on the Central Coast of New South Wales, separating them from their families and friends across the Tasman Sea. Appeals to the mental health of fans and the importance of the NRL to myths of “Australianness” notwithstanding, the league had not prudently maintained a financial reserve and so could not afford to shut down for long. Significant gambling revenue for leagues like the NRL and Australian Football League (AFL) also influenced the push to return to sport business as usual. Sport contests were needed in order to exploit the gambling opportunities – especially online and mobile – stimulated by home “confinement”. During the coronavirus lockdowns, Australians’ weekly spending on gambling went up by 142 per cent, and the NRL earned significantly more than usual from gambling revenue—potentially $10 million above forecasts for 2020. Despite the clear financial imperative at play, including heavy reliance on gambling, sporting bubble-making involved special licence. The state of Queensland, which had pursued a hard-line approach by closing its borders for most of those wishing to cross them for biographical landmark events like family funerals and even for medical treatment in border communities, became “the nation's sporting hub”. Queensland became the home of most teams of the men’s AFL (notably the women’s AFLW season having been cancelled) following a large Covid-19 second wave in Melbourne. The women’s National Netball League was based exclusively in Queensland. This state, which for the first time hosted the AFL Grand Final, deployed sport as a tool in both national sports tourism marketing and internal pre-election politics, sponsoring a documentary, The Sporting Bubble 2020, via its Tourism and Events arm. While Queensland became the larger bubble incorporating many other sporting bubbles, both the AFL and the NRL had versions of the “fly in, fly out” labour rhythms conventionally associated with the mining industry in remote and regional areas. In this instance, though, the bubble experience did not involve long stays in miners’ camps or even the one-night hotel stopovers familiar to the popular music and sport industries. Here, the bubble moved, usually by plane, to fulfil the requirements of a live sport “gig”, whereupon it was immediately returned to its more solid bubble hub or to domestic self-isolation. In the space created between disciplined expectation and deplored non-compliance, the sporting bubble inevitably became the scrutinised object and subject of scandal. Sporting Bubble Scandals While people with a very low risk of spreading Covid-19 (coming from areas with no active cases) were denied entry to Queensland for even the most serious of reasons (for example, the death of a child), images of AFL players and their families socialising and enjoying swimming at the Royal Pines Resort sporting bubble crossed our screens. Yet, despite their (players’, officials’ and families’) relative privilege and freedom of movement under the AFL Covid-Safe Plan, some players and others inside the bubble were involved in “scandals”. Most notable was the case of a drunken brawl outside a Gold Coast strip club which led to two Richmond players being “banished”, suspended for 10 matches, and the club fined $100,000. But it was not only players who breached Covid-19 bubble protocols: Collingwood coaches Nathan Buckley and Brenton Sanderson paid the $50,000 fine imposed on the club for playing tennis in Perth outside their bubble, while Richmond was fined $45,000 after Brooke Cotchin, wife of team captain Trent, posted an image to Instagram of a Gold Coast day spa that she had visited outside the “hub” (the institutionally preferred term for bubble). She was subsequently distressed after being trolled. Also of concern was the lack of physical distancing, and the range of people allowed into the sporting bubble, including babysitters, grandparents, and swimming coaches (for children). There were other cases of players being caught leaving the bubble to attend parties and sharing videos of their “antics” on social media. Biosecurity breaches of bubbles by players occurred relatively frequently, with stern words from both the AFL and NRL leaders (and their clubs) and fines accumulating in the thousands of dollars. Some people were also caught sneaking into bubbles, with Lekahni Pearce, the girlfriend of Swans player Elijah Taylor, stating that it was easy in Perth, “no security, I didn’t see a security guard” (in Barron, Stevens, and Zaczek) (a month later, outside the bubble, they had broken up and he pled guilty to unlawfully assaulting her; Ramsey). Flouting the rules, despite stern threats from government, did not lead to any bubble being popped. The sport-media machine powering sporting bubbles continued to run, the attendant emotional or health risks accepted in the name of national cultural therapy, while sponsorship, advertising and gambling revenue continued to accumulate mostly for the benefit of men. Gendering Sporting Bubbles Designed as biosecurity structures to maintain the supply of media-sport content, keep players and other vital cogs of the machine running smoothly, and to exclude Covid-19, sporting bubbles were, in their most advanced form, exclusive luxury camps that illuminated the elevated socio-cultural status of sportsmen. The ongoing inequalities between men’s and women’s sport in Australia and around the world were clearly in evidence, as well as the politics of gender whereby women are obliged to “care” and men are enabled to be “careless” – or at least to manage carefully their “duty of care”. In Australia, the only sport for women that continued during the height of the Covid-19 lockdown was netball, which operated in a bubble that was one of sacrifice rather than privilege. With minimum salaries of only $30,000 – significantly less than the lowest-paid “rookies” in the AFL – and some being mothers of small children and/or with professional jobs juggled alongside their netball careers, these elite sportswomen wanted to continue to play despite the personal inconvenience or cost (Pavlidis). Not one breach of the netballers out of the bubble was reported, indicating that they took their responsibilities with appropriate seriousness and, perhaps, were subjected to less scrutiny than the sportsmen accustomed to attracting front-page headlines. National Netball League (also known after its Queensland-based naming rights sponsor as Suncorp Super Netball) players could be regarded as fortunate to have the opportunity to be in a bubble and to participate in their competition. The NRL Women’s (NRLW) Premiership season was also completed, but only involved four teams subject to fly in, fly out and bubble arrangements, and being played in so-called curtain-raiser games for the NRL. As noted earlier, the AFLW season was truncated, despite all the prior training and sacrifice required of its players. Similarly, because of their resource advantages, the UK men’s and boy’s top six tiers of association football were allowed to continue during lockdown, compared to only two for women and girls. In the United States, inequalities between men’s and women’s sports were clearly demonstrated by the conditions afforded to those elite sportswomen inside the Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA) sport bubble in the IMG Academy in Florida. Players shared photos of rodent traps in their rooms, insect traps under their mattresses, inedible food and blocked plumbing in their bubble accommodation. These conditions were a far cry from the luxury usually afforded elite sportsmen, including in Florida’s Walt Disney World for the men’s NBA, and is just one of the many instances of how gendered inequality was both reproduced and exacerbated by Covid-19. Bursting the Bubble As we have seen, governments and corporate leaders in sport were able to create material and metaphorical bubbles during the Covid-19 lockdown in order to transmit stadium sport contests into home spaces. The rationale was the importance of sport to national identity, belonging and the routines and rhythms of life. But for whom? Many women, who still carry the major responsibilities of “care”, found that Covid-19 intensified the affective relations and gendered inequities of “home” as a leisure site (Fullagar and Pavlidis). Rates of domestic violence surged, and many women experienced significant anxiety and depression related to the stress of home confinement and home schooling. During the pandemic, women were also more likely to experience the stress and trauma of being first responders, witnessing virus-related sickness and death as the majority of nurses and care workers. They also bore the brunt of much of the economic and employment loss during this time. Also, as noted above, livelihoods in the arts and cultural sector did not receive the benefits of the “bubble”, despite having a comparable claim to sport in contributing significantly to societal wellbeing. This sector’s workforce is substantially female, although men dominate its senior roles. Despite these inequalities, after the late March to May hiatus, many elite male sportsmen – and some sportswomen - operated in a bubble. Moving in and out of them was not easy. Life inside could be mentally stressful (especially in long stays of up to 150 days in sports like cricket), and tabloid and social media troll punishment awaited those who were caught going “over the fence”. But, life in the sporting bubble was generally preferable to the daily realities of those afflicted by the trauma arising from forced home confinement, and for whom watching moving sports images was scant compensation for compulsory immobility. The ethical foundation of the sparkly, ephemeral fantasy of the sporting bubble is questionable when it is placed in the service of a voracious “media sports cultural complex” (Rowe, Global Media Sport) that consumes sport labour power and rolls back progress in gender relations as a default response to a global pandemic. Covid-19 dramatically highlighted social inequalities in many areas of life, including medical care, work, and sport. For the small minority of people involved in sport who are elite professionals, the only thing worse than being in a sporting bubble during the pandemic was not being in one, as being outside precluded their participation. Being inside the bubble was a privilege, albeit a dubious one. But, as in wider society, not all sporting bubbles are created equal. Some are more opulent than others, and the experiences of the supporting and the supported can be very different. The surface of the sporting bubble may be impermanent, but when its interior is opened up to scrutiny, it reveals some very durable structures of inequality. Bubbles are made to burst. They are, by nature, temporary, translucent structures created as spectacles. As a form of luminosity, bubbles “allow a thing or object to exist only as a flash, sparkle or shimmer” (Deleuze, 52). In echoing Deleuze, Angela McRobbie (54) argues that luminosity “softens and disguises the regulative dynamics of neoliberal society”. The sporting bubble was designed to discharge that function for those millions rendered immobile by home confinement legislation in Australia and around the world, who were having to deal with the associated trauma, risk and disadvantage. 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The story of Barbie is a tapestry woven with threads of cultural significance, societal shifts, and corporate narratives. It’s a tale that encapsulates the evolution of American post-war capitalism, mirroring the changing tides of social norms, aspirations, and identities. Barbie’s journey from Germany to Los Angeles, along the way becoming a global icon, is a testament to the power of Ruth Handler’s vision and Barbie’s marketing. Barbie embodies and reflects the rise of mass consumption and the early days of television advertising, where one doll could become a household name and shape the dreams of children worldwide. The controversies and criticisms surrounding Barbie – from promoting a ‘thin ideal’ to perpetuating gender and racial stereotypes – highlight the complexities of representation in popular culture. Yet, Barbie’s enduring message, “You can be anything”, continues to inspire and empower, even as it evolves to embrace a more inclusive and diverse portrayals of power, beauty, and potential. Barbie’s story is not just about a doll; it’s about the aspirations she represents, the societal changes she’s witnessed, and the ongoing conversation about her impact on gender roles, body image, and consumer culture. It’s a narrative that continues to unfold, as Barbie adapts to the times and remains a symbol of possibility. Barbie: A Popular Culture Icon “It is impossible to conceive of the toy industry as being anything other than dependent on a popular culture which shapes and structures the meanings carried by toys” (Fleming 40). The relationship between toys and popular culture is symbiotic. While popular culture influences the creation of toys, toys also contribute to the spread and longevity of cultural icons and narratives. Today, one of the most influential, popular, and contested toys of the twentieth century is Mattel’s Barbie doll. Her launch at the New York Toy Fair on 9 March 1959 by Mattel co-founder Ruth Handler was a game-changer in the toy industry. Her adult appearance, symbolised by her fashionable swimsuit and ponytail, was a bold move by Mattel. Despite the doubts from the toy industry which thought nobody would want to play with a doll that had breasts (Tamkin) and Mattel’s skepticism of its commercial success (Westenhouser 14), Barbie was a success, selling over 350,000 units in her first year, and she quickly became an iconic figure, paving the way for other male and female adult dolls. For the first time in mid-century America, Barbie meant children could play with a doll that looked like a woman, not a little girl or a baby. In a 1965 interview, Ruth Handler argued that American girls needed a doll with a “teen-age figure and a lot of glorious, imaginative, high-fashion clothes” (cited in Giacomin and Lubinski 3). In a 1993 interview, Handler said it was “important that Barbie allowed play situations that little girls could project themselves into … to imagine, pretend and to fantasize”. Hence Ruth Handler’s Barbie could be an “avatar for girls to project their dreams onto” (Southwell). Barbie hit the market with a “sassy ponytail, heavy eyeliner, a healthy dose of side-eye and a distinctly adult body” (Blackmore). Her arched eyebrows were matched with a coy sideways glance reflecting her sexual origins (Thong). Mattel did not reveal that Ruth Handler’s Barbie was inspired by a German novelty men’s toy, Bild Lilli, which Handler had purchased on a European holiday in 1955. Mattel fought several lawsuits and eventually secured the rights to Bild Lilli in 1964, which required the German maker of the Bild Lilli doll to not make her again. Barbie dolls, both blonde and brunette, changed little until 1967, when Mattel launch the ‘new’ Barbie doll which is the foundation for today’s Stereotypical Barbie. The same size as the original, thanks to Mattel engineer Jack Ryan she could twist and turn at the waist. Her facial features were softened, she had ‘real’ eyelashes’ and took on an ‘outdoor look’. The new 1967 version of Barbie originally retailed for US$3.00. Mattel, assuming consumers may not want to buy a new Barbie when they already had one, offered buyers the new Barbie at US$1.50 if they traded in their old 1950s Barbie. The television advertising campaign for the new Barbie featured Maureen McMormick (who would go on to play Marcia Brady in the TV series The Brady Bunch from 1969 to 1974). The original #1 Barbie today sells for over US$25,000 (Reinhard). The most expensive Barbie sold to date was a Stefano Canturi-designed Barbie that sold in 2010 for US$302,500 at Christies in New York (Clarendon). Barbie has been described as “the most successful doll in history”, “the most popular toy in history”, the “empress of fashion dolls” (Rogers 86), the “most famous doll in the world” (Ferorelli), the biggest-selling fashion doll in history (Green and Gellene), and is one if the world’s “most commercially successful toys” (Fleming 41). Barbie is both “idealistic and materialistic” and characterises an “American fantasy” (Tamkin). More so, she is a popular culture icon and “a unique indicator of women’s history” (Vander Bent). The inclusion of Barbie in America’s twentieth-century Time Capsule “cemented her status as a true American icon” (Ford), as did Andy Warhol when he iconised Barbie in his 1968 painting of her (Moore). During the 1950s and 1960s, Barbie’s name was licenced to over 100 companies; while a strategic move that expanded Barbie’s brand presence, it also provided Mattel with substantial royalty payments for decades. This approach helped solidify Barbie’s status as a cultural icon and enabled her to become a lucrative asset for Mattel (Rogers). Sixty-five years later, Barbie has 99% global brand awareness. In 2021, Mattel shipped more than 86 million Barbies globally, manufacturing 164 Barbies a minute (Tomkins). In 2022, Barbie generated gross sales of US$1.49 billion (Statista 2023). With this fiscal longevity and brand recognition, the success of the Barbie film is not surprising. The 2023 film, directed by Greta Gerwig and starring Australian Margot Robbie as Barbie and Canadian Ryan Gosling as Ken, as of March 2024 has a global box office revenue of US$1.45 billion, making it the 14th most successful movie of all time and the most successful movie directed by a woman (Statista 2024). Contested Barbie Despite her popularity, Barbie has been the subject of controversy. Original Barbie’s proportions have been criticised for promoting an unrealistic body image (Thong). Barbie’s appearance has received numerous critiques for “representing an unrealistic beauty standard through its former limited skin tone and hair combination” (Lopez). The original Barbie’s measurements, if scaled to life-size, would mean Barbie is unusually tall and has a slim figure, with a height of 5 feet 9 inches, a waist of just 18 inches, and hips of approximately 33 inches. Her bust would measure around 32 inches with an under-bust of 22 inches, and her shoulder width would be approximately 28 inches. Original Barbie’s legs, which are proportionally longer than an average human’s, would make up more than half her height (Thong). A 1996 Australian study scaled Barbie and Ken to adult sizes and compared this with the physical proportions of a range of women and men. They found that the likelihood of finding a man of comparable shape to Ken was 1 in 50. Barbie was more problematic. The chance of a woman being the same proportion as Barbie was 1 in 100,000 (Norton et al. 287). In 2011, The Huffington Post’s Galia Slayen built a life-sized Barbie based on Barbie’s body measurements for National Eating Disorder Awareness Week. Slayen concluded that “if Barbie was a real woman, she’d have to walk on all fours due to her proportions”. One report found that if Barbie’s measurements were those of a real woman her “bones would be so frail, it would be impossible for her to walk, and she would only have half a liver” (Golgowski). A 2006 study found that Barbie is a “possible cause” for young girls’ “body dissatisfaction”. In this study, 162 girls from age 5 to 8 were exposed to images of a thin doll (Barbie), a plus-size doll (US doll Emme, size 16), or no doll, and then completed assessments of body image. Girls exposed to Barbie reported “lower body esteem and greater desire for a thinner body shape than girls in the other exposure conditions”. The study concluded that “early exposure to dolls epitomizing an unrealistically thin body ideal may damage girls' body image, which would contribute to an increased risk of disordered eating and weight cycling” (Dittman and Halliwell 283). Another study in 2016 found that “exposure to Barbie” led to “higher thin-ideal internalization”, but found that Barbie had no “impact on body esteem or body dissatisfaction” (Rice et al. 142). In response to such criticism, Mattel slowly introduced a variety of Barbie dolls with more diverse body types, including tall, petite, and curvy models (Tamkin). These changes aim to reflect a broader range of beauty standards and promote a more positive body image. Barbie has always had to accommodate social norms. For this reason, Barbie always must have underpants, and has no nipples. One of the reasons why Ruth Handler’s husband Elliott (also a co-founder of Mattel) was initially against producing the Barbie doll was that she had breasts, reportedly saying mothers would not buy their daughters a doll with breasts (Gerber). Margot Robbie, on playing Barbie, told one news outlet that while Barbie is “sexualized”, she “should never be sexy” (Aguirre). Early prototypes of Barbie made in Japan in the 1950s sexualised her body, leaving her to look like a prostitute. In response, Mattel hired film make-up artist Bud Westmore to redo Barbie’s face and hair with a softer look. Mattel also removed the nipples from the prototypes (Gerber). Barbie’s body and fashion have always seemed to “replicate history and show what was what was happening at the time” (Mowbray), and they also reflect how the female body is continually surveilled. Feminists have had a long history of criticism of Barbie, particularly her projection of the thin ideal. At the 1970 New York Women’s Strike for Equality, feminists shouted “I am not a Barbie doll!” Such debates exemplify the role and impact of toys in shaping and reforming societal norms and expectations. Even the more recent debates regarding the 2023 Barbie film show that Barbie is still a “lightning rod for the messy, knotty contradictions of feminism, sexism, misogyny and body image” (Chappet). Decades of criticism about Barbie, her meaning and influence, have left some to ask “Is Barbie a feminist icon, or a doll which props up the patriarchy?” Of course, she’s both, because “like all real women, Barbie has always been expected to conform to impossible standards” (Chappet). Diversifying Barbie Over the decades Mattel has slowly changed Barbie’s body, including early versions of a black Barbie-like dolls in the 1960s and 1970s such as Francie, Christie, Julia, and Cara. However, it was not until 1980 that Mattel introduced the first black Barbie. African American fashion designer Kitty Black-Perkins, who worked for Mattel from 1971, was the principal designer for black Barbie, saying that “there was a need for the little Black girl to really have something she could play with that looked like her” (cited in Lafond). Black Barbie was marketed as She’s black! She’s beautiful! She’s dynamite! The following year, Asian Barbie was introduced. She was criticised for her nondescript country of origin and dressed in an “outfit that was a mishmash of Chinese, Korean and Japanese ethnic costumes” (Wong). More recently, the Asian Barbies were again criticised for portraying stereotypes, with a recent Asian Barbie dressed as a veterinarian caring for pandas, and Asian violinist Barbie with accompanying violin props, reflecting typical stereotypes of Asians in the US (Wong). In 2016, Mattel introduced a range of Barbie and Ken dolls with seven body types, including more curvy body shapes, 11 skin tones and 28 hairstyles (Siazon). In 2019, other Barbie body types appeared, with smaller busts, less defined waist, and more defined arms. The 2019 range also included Barbies with permanent physical disabilities, one using a wheelchair and one with a prosthetic leg (Siazon). Wheelchair Barbie comes with a wheelchair, and her body has 22 joints for body movement while sitting in the wheelchair. The Prosthetic Barbie comes with a prosthetic leg which can be removed, and was made in collaboration with Jordan Reeve, a 13-year-old disability activist born without a left forearm. In 2020, a No Hair Barbie and a Barbie with the skin condition vitiligo were introduced, and in 2022, Hearing Aid Barbie was also launched. In 2022 other changes were made to Barbie’s and Ken’s bodies, with bodies that became fuller figured and Kens with smaller chests and less masculine body shapes (Dolan). Down Syndrome Barbie was released in 2023, designed in collaboration with the US National Down Syndrome Society to ensure accurate representation. By 2024, Barbie dolls come in 35 skin tones, 97 hairstyles, and nine body types (Mattel 2024). Spanning hundreds of iterations, today the Barbie doll is no longer a homogenous, blond-haired, blue-eyed toy, but rather an evolving social phenomenon, adapting with the times and the markets Mattel expands into. With dolls of numerous ethnicities and body types, Barbie has also embraced inclusivity, catering to the plethora of different consumers across the world (Green and Gellene 1989). Career Barbie While not dismissing Barbie’s problematic place in feminist, gender and racial critiques, Barbie has always been a social influencer. Her early years were marked by a variety of makeovers and modernisations, as have recent changes to Barbie’s body, reflecting the changing social norms of the times. Stereotypical Barbie had her first major makeover in 1961, with her ponytail swapped for a short ‘Bubble Bob’ hairstyle inspired by Jackie Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe, reflecting women’s emerging social independence (Foreman). In the early 1970s, Barbie’s original demure face with averted eyes was replaced by a new one that “depicted confidence and a forward-facing gaze” (Vander Bent). Her “soft look” was a departure from the mature image of the original 1959 Barbie (Lafond). The ‘soft look’ on Malibu Barbie with her newly sculpted face featured an open smile for the first time, as well as sun-tanned, make-up free skin and sun-kissed blonde hair. The disappearance of Barbie’s coy, sideways glance and the introduction of forward-looking eyes was a development “welcomed by feminists” (Ford). Barbie’s early makeovers, along with her fashion and accessories, including her homes, cars, and pets, contributed to shaping her image as a fashionable and independent woman. Barbie’s various careers and roles have been used to promote ideas of female empowerment. From astronaut to presidential candidate, Barbie has broken barriers in traditionally male-dominated fields. However, the effectiveness of these efforts in promoting female empowerment is a topic of debate. The post-war period in America saw a significant shift in the pattern of living, with a move from urban areas to the suburbs. This was facilitated by a robust post-war economy, favourable government policies like the GI Bill, and increasing urbanisation. The GI Bill played a crucial role by providing low-interest home loans to veterans, making home ownership accessible to a large segment of the population. It was a significant transformation of the American lifestyle and shaped the country’s socio-economic landscape. It is in this context that Barbie’s first Dreamhouse was introduced in the early 1960s, with its mid-century modern décor, hi-fi stereo, and slim-line furniture. This was at a time when most American women could not get a mortgage. Barbie got her first car in 1962, a peach-colored Austin-Healey 3000 MKII convertible, followed short afterwards by a Porsche 911. She has also owned a pink Jaguar XJS, a pink Mustang, a red Ferrari, and a Corvette. Barbie’s car choices of luxurious convertibles spoke to Barbie’s social and economic success. In 1998, Barbie became a NASCAR driver and also signed up to race in a Ferrari in the Formula 1. Barbie’s ‘I Can Be Anything’ range from 2008 was designed to draw kids playing with the dolls toward ambitious careers; one of those careers was as a race car driver (Southwell). While Barbie’s first job as a baby-sitter was not as glamourous or well-paying as her most of her other over 250 careers, it does reflect the cultural landscape Barbie was living in in the 1960s. Babysitter Barbie (1963) featured Barbie wearing a long, pink-striped skirt with ‘babysitter’ emblasoned along the hem and thick-framed glasses. She came with a baby in a crib, a telephone, bottles of soda, and a book. The book was called How to Lose Weight and had only two words of advice, ‘Don’t Eat’. Even though there was a backlash to the extreme dieting advice, Mattel included the book in the 1965 Slumber Party Barbie. Barbie wore pink silk pajamas with a matching robe and came prepared for her sleepover with toiletries, a mirror, the controversial diet book, and a set of scales permanently set at 110 pounds (approx. 50kg), which caused further backlash (Ford). Barbie’s early careers were those either acceptable or accessible to women of the era, such as the Fashion Designer Barbie (1960), Flight Attendant Barbie (1961), and Nurse Barbie (1962). However, in 1965 Barbie went into space, two years after cosmonaut Valentina Tereshkova became the first woman in space, and four years before the American moon landing. Barbie’s career stagnated in the 1970s, and she spends the decade being sports Barbie, perhaps as a response to her unpopularity among vocal second wave feminists and reflecting the economic downturn of the era. America’s shift to the right in the 1980s saw in the introduction of the Yuppie, the young urban professional who lived in the city, had a high-powered career, and was consumption-driven. More women were entering the workforce than ever before. Barbie also entered the workforce, spending less time doing the passive leisure of her earlier self (Ford). It also signals the beginning of neoliberalism in America, and a shift to individualism and the rise of the free market ethos. In 1985, Day-to-Night Barbie was sold as the first CEO Barbie who “could go from running the boardroom in her pink power suit to a fun night out on the town”. For Mattel she “celebrated the workplace evolution of the era and showed girls they could have it all”. But despite Barbie’s early careers, the focus was on her "emphasized femininity”, meaning that while she was now a career woman, her appearance and demeanor did not reflect her job. Astronaut Barbie (1985) is a good example of Barbie’s ‘emphasised femininity’ in how career Barbies were designed and dressed. Astronaut Barbie is clearly reflecting the fashion and culture trends of the 1980s by going into space in a “shiny, hot pink spacesuit”, comes with a second space outfit, a shiny “peplum miniskirt worn over silver leggings and knee-high pink boots” (Bertschi), and her hair is too big to fit into the helmet. A dark-skinned US Astronaut Barbie was released in 1994, which coincided with the start of the Shuttle-Mir Program, a collaboration between the US and Russia which between 1994 and 1998 would see seven American astronauts spend almost 1,000 days living in orbit with Russian cosmonauts on the Mir space station. Throughout the 1990s, Barbie increasingly takes on careers more typically considered to be male careers. But again, her femininity in design, dressing and packaging takes precedence over her career. Police Officer Barbie (1993), for example, has no gun or handcuffs. Instead, she comes with a "glittery evening dress" to wear to the awards dance where she will get the "Best Police Officer Award for her courageous acts in the community”. Police Office Barbie is pictured on the box "lov[ing] to teach safety tips to children". Barbie thus “feminizes, even maternalises, law enforcement” (Rogers 14). In 1992, Teen Talk Barbie was released. She had a voice box programmed to speak four distinct phrases out of a possible 270. She sold for US$25, and Mattel produced 350,000, expecting its popularity. The phrases included ‘I Love Shopping’ and ‘Math class is tough’. The phrase ‘Math class is tough’ was seen by many as reinforcing harmful stereotypes about girls and math. The National Council of American Teachers of Maths objected, as did the American Association of University Women (NYT 1992). In response to criticisms of the gendered representations of Barbie’s careers, Mattel have more recently featured Barbie in science and technology fields including Paleontologist Barbie (1996 and 2012), Computer Engineer Barbie (2010), Robotics Engineer Barbie (2018), Astrophysicist Barbie (2019), Wildlife Conservationist Barbie, Entomologist Barbie (2019), and Polar Marine Biologist Barbie (all in collaboration with National Geographic), Robotics Engineer Barbie (2018), Zoologist Barbie (2021), and Renewable Energy Barbie (2022), which go some way to providing representations that at least encompass the ideal that ‘Girls Can Do Anything’. Barbie over her lifetime has also taken on swimming, track and field, and has been a gymnast. Barbie was an Olympic gold medallist in the 1970s, with Mattel releasing four Barbie Olympians between 1975 and 1976, arguably cashing in on the 1976 Montreal Olympics. Gold Medal Barbie Doll Skier was dressed in a red, white, and blue ski suit completed with her gold medal. Gold Medal Barbie Doll is an Olympic swimmer wearing a red, white, and blue tricot swimsuit, and again wears an Olympic gold medal around her neck. The doll was also produced as a Canadian Olympian wearing a red and white swimsuit. Gold Medal Barbie Skater looks like Barbie Malibu and is dressed in a long-sleeved, pleated dress in red, white, and blue. The outfit included white ice skates and her gold medal. Mattel also made a Gold Medal P.J. Gymnast Doll who vaulted and somersaulted in a leotard of red, white, and blue tricot. She had a warm-up jacket with white sleeves, red cuffs, white slippers, and a gold medal. Mattel, as part of a licencing agreement with the International Olympic Committee, produced a range of toys for the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. The collection of five Barbies represented the new sports added to the 2020 Olympics: baseball and softball, sport climbing, karate, skateboarding, and surfing. Each Barbie was dressed in a sport-specific uniform and had a gold medal. Barbie Olympic Games Tokyo 2020 Surfer, for example, was dressed in a pink wetsuit top, with an orange surfboard and a Tokyo 2020 jacket. For the 2022 Winter Olympics and Paralympics, Mattel released a new collection of Barbie dolls featuring among others a para-skiing Barbie who sits on adaptive skis and comes with a championship medal (Douglas). As part of Mattel’s 2023 Barbie Career of the Year doll, the Women in Sports Barbie range shows Barbie in leadership roles in the sports industry, as manager, coach, referee, and sport reporter. General Manager Barbie wears a blue-and-white pinstripe suit accessorised with her staff pass and a smartphone. Coach Barbie has a pink megaphone, playbook, and wears a two-piece pink jacket and athletic shorts. Referee Barbie wears a headset and has a whistle. Sports Reporter Barbie wears a purple, geometric-patterned dress and carries a pink tablet and microphone (Jones). Political Barbie Barbie has run for president in every election year since 1992. The first President Barbie came with an American-themed dress for an inaugural ball and a red suit for her duties in the Oval Office. In 2016, Barbie released an all-female presidential ticket campaign set with a president and vice-president doll. The 2000 President Barbie doll wore a blue pantsuit and featured a short bob cut, red lipstick pearl necklace, and a red gown to change into, “presumably for President Barbie’s inaugural ball” (Lafond). This followed the introduction of UNICEF Ambassador Barbie in 1989. She is packaged as a member of the United States Committee for UNICEF (United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund), which is mandated to provide humanitarian and development aid to children worldwide. Rather problematically, and again with a focus on her femininity rather than the importance of the organisation she represents, she wears a glittery white and blue full length ball gown with star patterning and a red sash. While some proceeds did go to the US Committee for UNICEF, the dressing and packaging featuring an American flag overshadows the career and its philanthropic message. The period signalled the end of the Cold War and was also the year the United States invaded Panama, resulting in a humanitarian disaster when US military forces attacked urban areas in order to overthrow the Noriega administration. Military Barbie Barbie has served in every US military branch (Sicard). Barbie joined the US army in 1989, wearing a female officer’s evening uniform, though with no sense of what she did. While it may be thought Barbie would increase female in interest in a military career, at the time more women were already enlisting that in any other period from the early 1970s to 2012 (Stillwell). Barbie rejoined the army for the 1990-1991 Gulf War, wearing a Desert Combat Uniform and the 101st Airborne "Screaming Eagle" patch, and serving as a medic. Barbie also joined the Air Force in 1990, three years before Jeannie Leavitt became the first female Air Force fighter pilot. Barbie wore a green flight suit and leather jacket, and gold-trimmed flight cap. She was a fighter pilot and in 1994, she joined the USAF aerial demonstration team, The Thunderbirds. Busy in the 1990s, she also enlisted in the US Navy wearing women's Navy whites. Marine Corps Barbie appeared in 1992, wearing service and conduct medals (Stillwell). All of Barbie’s uniforms were approved by the Pentagon (Military Women’s Memorial). The 2000 Paratrooper Barbie Special Edition was released with the packaging declaring “let’s make a support drop with first aid and food boxes”. She was dressed in undefined military attire which includes a helmet, dog tags, parachute, boots, and hairbrush. Barbie’s Influence In 2014, Barbie became a social media influencer with the launch of the @barbiestyle Instagram account, and in 2015, Barbie launched a vlog on YouTube to talk directly to girls about issues they face. The animated series features Barbie discussing a range of topics including depression, bullying, the health benefits of meditation, and how girls have a habit of apologising when they don’t have anything to be sorry about. The Official @Barbie YouTube channel has over eleven million global subscribers and 23 billion minutes of content watched, making Barbie the #1 girls’ brand on YouTube. Barbie apps average more than 7 million monthly active users and the Instagram count boasts over 2 million followers. The 2023 Barbie film really does attest to Barbie’s influence 70 years after her debut. Barbie, as this article has shown, is more than an influencer and more than a doll, if she ever really was only a doll. She is a popular culture icon, regardless of whether we love her or not. Barbie has sometimes been ahead of the game, and sometimes has been problematically represented, but she has always been influential. Her body, race, ability, careers, independence, and political aspirations have spoken different things to those who play with her. She is fiercely defended, strongly criticised, and shirks from neither. She is also liberating, empowering, straight, and queer. As the articles in this issue reflect, Barbie, it seems, really can be anything. Imagining and Interrogating Barbie in Popular Culture The feature article in this issue outlines how Australian Barbie fans in the 1960s expressed their creativity through the designing and making of their own wardrobes for the doll. Through examining articles from the Australian Women’s Weekly, Donna Lee Brien reveals this rich cultural engagement that was partly driven by thrift, and mostly by enjoyment. Eva Boesenberg examines the social and environmental effects of a plastic doll that is positioned as an ecological ambassador. While there is no doubt that climate change is one of our most pressing social issues, Boesenberg questions the motivations behind Barbie’s eco-crusade: is she an apt role-model to teach children the importance of environmental issues, or is this just a case of corporate greenwashing? Emma Caroll Hudson shifts the focus to entertainment, with an exploration of the marketing of the 2023 blockbuster film Barbie. Here she argues that the marketing campaign was highly successful, utilising a multi-faceted approach centred on fan participation. She highlights key components of the campaign to reveal valuable insights into how marketing can foster a cultural phenomenon. Revna Altiok’s article zooms in on the depiction of Ken in the 2023 film, revealing his characterisation to be that of a ‘manic pixie dream boy’ whose lack of identity propels him on a journey to self-discovery. This positioning, argues Altiok, pulls into focus social questions around gender dynamics and how progress can be truly achieved. Rachel Wang turns the spotlight to Asian identity within the Barbie world, revealing how from early iterations a vague ‘Oriental’ Barbie was accompanied by cultural stereotyping. Despite later, more nuanced interpretations of country-specific Asian dolls, problematic features remained embedded. This, Wang argues, positions Asian Barbies as the racial ‘other’. Kaela Joseph, Tanya Cook, and Alena Karkanias’s article examines how the 2023 Barbie film reflects different forms of fandom. Firstly, Joseph interrogates how the Kens’ patriarchal identity is expressed through acts of collective affirmational fandom. Here, individual fans legitimise their positions within the group by mastering and demonstrating their knowledge of popular culture phenomena. Joseph contrasts this with transformational fandom, which is based upon reimagining the source material to create new forms. The transformation of the titular character of the Barbie movie forms the basis of Eli S’s analysis. S examines how the metaphor of ‘unboxing’ the doll provides an avenue through which to understand Barbie’s metamorphosis from constrained doll to aware human as she journeys from the pink plastic Barbie Land to the Real World. Anna Temel turns her critical gaze to how the 2023 film attempts to reposition Barbie’s image away from gender stereotypes to a symbol of feminist empowerment. Director Greta Gerwig, Temel argues, critiques the ‘ideal woman’ and positions Barbie as a vehicle through which contemporary feminism and womanhood can be interrogated. Temel finds that this is not always successfully articulated in the depiction of Barbie in the film. The reading of the Barbie movie’s Barbie Land as an Asexual Utopia is the focus of Anna Maria Broussard’s article. Here Broussard draws the focus to the harmonious community of dolls who live without social expectations of sexuality. Barbie provides a popular culture reflection of the Asexual experience, expressed through Barbie’s rejection of a heteronormative relationship both in Barbie Land and the Real World. Completing this collection is Daisy McManaman’s article interrogating the multiple iterations of the doll’s embodied femininity. Incorporating an ethnographic study of the author’s relationship with the doll, McManaman uncovers that Barbie serves as a site of queer joy and a role model through which to enjoy and explore femininity and gender. These articles have been both intellectually stimulating to edit, and a joy. We hope you enjoy this collection that brings a new academic lens to the popular cultural phenomenon that is Barbie. References Aguirre, Abby. “Barbiemania! Margot Robbie Opens Up about the Movie Everyone’s Waiting For.” Vogue, 24 May 2023. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://www.vogue.com/article/margot-robbie-barbie-summer-cover-2023-interview>. Bertschi, Jenna. “Barbie: An Astronaut for the Ages.” Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum, 18 Jul. 2023. 11 Mar. 2024 <https://airandspace.si.edu/stories/editorial/barbie-astronaut-ages>. Blackmore, Erin. “Barbie’s Secret Sister Was a German Novelty Doll.” History.com, 14 Jul. 2023. 11 mar. 2024 <https://www.history.com/news/barbie-inspiration-bild-lilli>. Chappet, Marie-Claire. “Why Is Barbie So Controversial? How Ever-Changing Standards for Women Have Affected the Famous Doll.” Harpers Bazaar, 18 Jul. 2023. 11 Mar. 2024 <https://www.harpersbazaar.com/uk/culture/culture-news/a44516323/barbie-controversial-figure/>. Clarendon, Dan. “The Most Valuable Barbie Doll Auctioned for $302,500 — Which Others Carry Value?” Market Realist, 14 Apr. 2023. 15 Mar. 2o24 <https://marketrealist.com/fast-money/most-valuable-barbies/>. Dittman, Helga, and Emma Halliwell. “Does Barbie Make Girls Want to Be Thin? The Effect of Experimental Exposure to Images of Dolls on the Body Image of 5- to 8-Year Old Girls.” Developmental Psychology 42.2 (2006): 283-292. DOI: 10.1037/0012-1649.42.2.283. Dolan, Leah. “Barbie Unveils Its First-Ever Doll with Hearing Aids.” CNN, 11 May 2022. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://edition.cnn.com/style/article/barbie-hearing-aid-ken-vitiligo/index.html>. Douglas, Kelly. “Why the New Para Skiing Barbie Is Groundbreaking for Disability Representation.” The Mighty, 21 Oct. 2023. 25 Mar. 2024 <https://themighty.com/topic/disability/para-skiing-barbie-disability-representation/>. Ferorelli, Enrico. “Barbie Turns 21.” Life, Nov. 1979. 15 Mar. 2024 <https://chnm.gmu.edu/cyh/primary-sources/310.html>. Fleming, Dan. Powerplay: Toys as Popular Culture. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1996. Ford, Toni Marie. “The History of the Barbie Doll.” Culture Trip, 6 Oct. 2016. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://theculturetrip.com/north-america/usa/articles/the-history-of-the-barbie-doll>. Foreman, Katya. “The Changing Faces of Barbie.” BBC, 11 May 2016. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20160511-the-changing-faces-of-barbie>. Gerber, Ruth. Barbie and Ruth: The Story of the World's Most Famous Doll and the Woman Who Created Her. HarperCollins, 2009. Giacomin, Valeria, and Christina Lubinski. 2023. “Entrepreneurship as Emancipation: Ruth Handler and the Entrepreneurial Process ‘in Time’ and ‘over Time’, 1930s–1980s.” Business History Online. 20 Mar. 2024 <https://doi.org/10.1080/00076791.2023.2215193>. Golgowski, Nina. “Bones So Frail It Would Be Impossible to Walk and Room for Only Half a Liver: Shocking Research Reveals What Life Would Be Like If a REAL Woman Had Barbie's body.” Daily Mirror, 14 Apr. 2013. 19 Mar. 2024 <https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2308658/How-Barbies-body-size-look-real-life-Walking-fours-missing-half-liver-inches-intestine.html>. Green, Michelle, and Denise Gellene. “As a Tiny Plastic Star Turns 30, the Real Barbie and Ken Reflect on Life in the Shadow of the Dolls.” People, 6 Mar. 1989. 15 Mar. 2024 <https://people.com/archive/as-a-tiny-plastic-star-turns-30-the-real-barbie-and-ken-reflect-on-life-in-the-shadow-of-the-dolls-vol-31-no-9/>. Jones, Alexis. “Barbie's New 'Women in Sports' Dolls Are a Major Win For Athletes and Fans.” Popsugar, 9 Aug. 2023. 17 Mar. 2024 <https://www.popsugar.com/family/mattel-women-in-sports-barbie-49268194>. Lafond, Hannah. “How Barbies Have Changed over the Years.” The List, 7 Jul. 2023. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://www.thelist.com/1333916/barbies-changed-over-the-years/>. Lopez, Sandra. “10 Barbie Dolls Inspired by Real-Life Iconic Latinas.” Remezcla, 19 Jul. 2023. 20 Mar. 2024 <https://remezcla.com/lists/culture/barbie-dolls-inspired-by-real-life-iconic-latinas/>. Military Women’s Memorial. “Barbie Enlists.” 15 Mar. 2024 <https://womensmemorial.org/curators-corner/barbie-enlists/>. Moore, Hannah. “Why Warhol Painted Barbie.” BBC, 1 Oct. 2015. 15 Mar. 2024 <https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-34407991>. Mowbray, Nicole. “Dressing Barbie: Meet the Designer Who Created a Miniature Fashion Icon.” CNN, 14 Jul. 2023. 17 Mar. 2024 <https://edition.cnn.com/style/dressing-barbie-iconic-fashion-looks>. New York Times. “Mattel Says It Erred; Teen Talk Barbie Turns Silent on Math." 21 Oct. 1992. 20 Mar. 2024 <https://www.nytimes.com/1992/10/21/business/company-news-mattel-says-it-erred-teen-talk-barbie-turns-silent-on-math.html>. Norton, Kevin, et al. “Ken and Barbie at Life Size.” Sex Roles 34 (1996): 287-294. https://doi.org/10.1007/BF01544300. Reinhard, Abby. “Here's How Much Your Childhood Barbies Are Really Worth Now, New Data Shows.” Best Life, 14 Jul. 2023. 15 Mar. 2024 <https://bestlifeonline.com/how-much-are-barbies-worth-now-news/>. Rice, Karlie, et al. “Exposure to Barbie: Effects on Thin-Ideal Internalisation, Body Esteem, and Body Dissatisfaction among Young Girls.” Body Image 19 (2016): 142-149. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.bodyim.2016.09.005. Rogers, Mary, F. Barbie Culture. Sage, 1999. Siazon, Kevin John. “The New 2019 Barbie Fashionistas Are More Diverse than Ever.” Today’s Parents, 12 Feb. 2019. 19 Mar. 2024 <https://www.todaysparent.com/blogs/trending/the-new-2019-barbie-fashionistas-are-more-diverse-than-ever/>. Sicard. Sarah. “A Few Good Dolls: Barbie Has Served in Every Military Branch.” Military Times, 28 Jul. 2023. 15 Mar. 2024 <https://www.militarytimes.com/off-duty/military-culture/2023/07/27/a-few-good-dolls-barbie-has-served-in-every-military-branch/>. Slayen, Galia. “The Scary Reality of a Real-Life Barbie Doll.” Huffington Post, 8 Apr. 2011. 19 Mar. 2024 <https://www.huffpost.com/entry/the-scary-reality-of-a-re_b_845239>. Southwell, Haxel. “Plastic on Track: Barbie's History in Motorsport”. Road and Track, 21 Jul. 2023. 15 Mar. 2024 <https://www.roadandtrack.com/car-culture/a44588941/plastic-on-track-barbie-history-in-motorsport/>. Statista. “Gross Sales of Mattel's Barbie Brand Worldwide from 2012 to 2022.” 2023. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://www.statista.com/statistics/370361/gross-sales-of-mattel-s-barbie-brand/>. ———. “Highest-Grossing Movies of All Time as of 2024.” 2024. 31 May 2024 <https://www.statista.com/statistics/262926/box-office-revenue-of-the-most-successful-movies-of-all-time/>. Stillwell, Blake. “Barbie and Ken Went to War Long before the 'Barbie' Movie.” Military.com, 26 Jul. 2023. 15 Mar. 2024 <https://www.military.com/off-duty/movies/2023/07/26/barbie-and-ken-went-war-long-barbie-movie.html>. Tamkin, Emily. Cultural History of Barbie.” Smithsonian, 23 Jun. 2023. 17 Mar. 2024 <https://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/cultural-history-barbie-180982115/>. Thong, Hang. “Barbie’s Doll Dimensions.” OmniSize, 29 Nov. 2023. 19 Mar. 2024 <https://omnisizes.com/hobbies/barbie-doll/>. Vander Bent, Emily. “The Evolution of Barbie: A Marker for Women’s History.” Girl Museum, 12 Apr. 2021. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://www.girlmuseum.org/the-evolution-of-barbie-a-marker-for-womens-history/>. Westenhouser, Kitturah B. The Story of Barbie. Collector Books, 1994. Wong, Bryan. “Daniel Wu Slams Barbie Maker Mattel for Stereotyping Asians as ‘Panda Doctors’ and ‘Violinists.’” Today Online, 24 Jan. 2024. 16 Mar. 2024 <https://www.todayonline.com/8days/daniel-wu-slams-barbie-maker-mattel-stereotyping-asians-panda-doctors-and-violinists-2347786>.

Introduction Australia has embraced Barbie since the doll was launched at the Toy Fair in Melbourne in 1964, with Mattel Australia established in Melbourne in 1969. Barbie was initially sold in Australia with two different hairstyles and 36 separately boxed outfits. As in the US, the initial launch range was soon followed by a constant stream of additional outfits as well as Barbie’s boyfriend Ken and little sister Skipper, pets, and accessories including her dreamhouse and vehicles. Also released were variously themed Barbies (including those representing different careers and nationalities) and a seemingly ever-expanding group of friends (Gerber; Lord, Forever). These product releases were accompanied by marketing, promotion, and prominent placement in toy, department, and other stores that kept the Barbie line in clear sight of Australian consumers (Hosany) and in the forefront of toy sales for many decades (Burnett). This article focusses on a thread of subversion operating alongside the purchase of these Barbie dolls in Australia, when the phenomenon of handmade ‘do-it-yourself’ intersected with the dolls in the second half of the 1960s. Do-It-Yourself ‘Do-it-yourself’ (often expressed as DIY) has been defined as “anything that people did for themselves” (Gelber 283). The history of DIY has been researched in academic disciplines including sociology, cultural studies, musicology, architecture, marketing, and popular culture. This literature charts DIY practice across such domestic production as making clothes, furniture, and toys, growing food, and home improvements including renovating and even building entire houses (Carter; Fletcher) to more externally facing cultural production including music, art, and publications (Spencer). While DIY behaviour can be motivated by such factors as economic necessity or financial benefit, a lack of product availability or its perceived poor quality, and/or a desire for customisation, it can also be linked to the development of personal identity (Wolf and McQuitty; Williams, “A Lifestyle”; Williams, “Re-thinking”). While some mid-century considerations of DIY as a phenomenon were male-focussed (“Do-It”), women and girls were certainly also active at this time in home renovation, house building, and other projects (‘Arona’), as well as more traditionally gendered handicraft activities such as sewing and knitting. Fig. 1: Australian Home Beautiful magazine cover, November 1958, showing a woman physically engaged in home renovation activities. Australia has a long tradition of women crafting (by sewing, knitting, and crocheting, for instance) items of clothing for themselves and their families, as well as homewares such as waggas (utilitarian quilts made of salvaged or other inexpensive materials such as old blankets and grain sacks) and other quilts (Burke; Gero; Kingston; Thomas). This making was also prompted by a range of reasons, including economic or other necessity and/or the pursuit of creative pleasure, personal wellbeing, or political activism (Fletcher; Green; Lord, Vintage). It is unsurprising, then, that many have also turned their hands to making dolls’ clothes from scraps of fabrics, yarns, ribbons, and other domestic materials, as well as creating entire dolls’ houses complete with furniture and other domestic items (Benson). In the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, many Australian dolls themselves were handmade, with settlers and migrants importing European traditions of doll-making and clothing with them (Cramer). In the early twentieth century, mass-produced dolls and clothing became more available and accessible, however handmade dolls’ clothes continued to be made and circulated within families (Elvin and Elvin, The Art; Elvin and Elvin, The Australian). An article in the Weekly in 1933 contained instructions for making both cloth dolls and clothes for them (“Home-Made”), with many such articles to follow. While the 1960s saw increased consumer spending in Australia, this research reveals that this handmade, DIY ethos (at least in relation to dolls) continued through this decade, and afterwards (Carter; Wilson). This making is documented in artefacts in museum and private collections and instructions in women’s magazines, newspapers, and other printed materials including commercially produced patterns and kits. The investigation scans bestselling women’s magazine The Australian Women’s Weekly (the Weekly) and other Australian print media from the 1960s that are digitised in the National Library of Australia’s Trove database for evidence of interest in this practice. Do-It-Yourself Barbie Doll Patterns for Barbie clothes appeared in Australian women’s magazines almost immediately after the doll was for sale in Australia, including in the Weekly from 1965. The first feature included patterns for a series of quite elaborate outfits: a casual knitted jumpsuit with hooded jacket, a knitted three-piece suit of skirt, roll-necked jumper and jacket, a crocheted afternoon dress, tied with a ribbon belt and accessorised with a knitted coat and beret, and a crocheted full length evening gown and opera coat (“Glamorous”). A sense of providing the Weekly’s trusted guidance but also a reliance on makers’ individuality was prominent in this article. Although detailed instructions were provided in the feature above, for example, readers were also encouraged to experiment with yarns and decorative elements. Fig. 2: Crocheted and knitted ‘afternoon ensemble’ in “Glamorous Clothes for Teenage Dolls” feature in the Weekly, 1965. Another richly illustrated article published in 1965 focussed on creating high fashion wigs for Barbie at home. The text and photographs guided readers through the process of crafting five differently styled wigs from one synthetic hair piece: a “romantic, dreamy” Jean Shrimpton-style coiffure, deep-fringed Sassoon hairdo, layered urchin cut, low set evening bun, and pair of pigtails (Irvine, “How”). Again, makers were encouraged to express their creativity and individuality in decorating these hairstyles, with suggestions (but not directions) to personalise these styles using ribbons, tiny bows and artificial flowers, coloured pins, seed pearls, and other objects that might be to hand. Fig. 3: Detailed instructions for creating one of the wigs. Three Barbie dolls (identified as ‘teen dolls’ rather than by the brand) were featured on the cover of the Weekly on 5 January 1966, for a story about making dolls’ outfits from handkerchiefs (Irvine, “New”). This was framed as a “novel” way to use the excess of fancy hankies often received at Christmas, promising that the three ensembles could thriftily and cleverly be made from three handkerchiefs in a few hours. The instructions detail how to make a casual two-piece summer outfit accessorised with a headscarf, a smart town ensemble highlighted with flower motifs cut from broderie anglaise, and a lavish evening gown. Readers were assured this would be an engaging, “marvellous fun” as well as creative activity, as each maker needed to individually design each garment in terms of working with the individual features of the handkerchiefs they had, incorporating such elements as floral or other borders, lace edging, and overall patterns such as spots or checks (Irvine, “New”). The long-sleeved evening gown was quite an ambitious project. The gown was not only fashioned from a fine Irish linen, lace-bordered hankie, meaning some of the cutting and sewing required considerable finesse, but the neckline and hemline were then hand-beaded, as were a circlet of tiny pearls to be worn around the doll’s hair. Such delicacy was required for all outfits, with armholes and necklines for Barbie dolls very small, requiring considerable dexterity in cutting, sewing, and finishing. Fig. 4: Cover of The Australian Women’s Weekly of 5 January 1966 featuring three Barbie dolls. Only two issues later, the magazine ran another Barbie-focussed feature, this time about using oddments found around the home to make accessories for Barbie dolls. Again, the activity is promoted as thrifty and creative: “make teen doll outfits and accessories economically—all you need is imagination and a variety of household oddments” (“Turn”). Included in the full coloured article is a ‘hula’ costume made from a short length of green silk fringe and little artificial flowers sewn together, hats fashioned from a bottle top and silk flower decorated with scraps of lace and ribbon, a cardboard surfboard, aluminium foil and ice cream stick skis, and miniature ribbon-wound coat hangers. This article ended with an announcement commonly associated with calls for readers’ recipes: “what clever ideas have you got? … we will award £5 for every idea used” (“Turn”). This was a considerable prize, representing one-third of the average minimum weekly wage for full-time female workers in Australia in 1966 (ABS 320). Fig. 5: Brightly coloured illustrations making the Weekly’s “Turn Oddments into Gay Accessories”, 1966, a joyful read. This story was reinforced with a short ‘behind the scenes’ piece, which revealed the care and energy that went into its production. This reported that, when posing the ‘hulagirl’ on a fountain in Sydney’s Hyde Park, the doll fell in. While her skirt was rescued by drying in front of a fan, the dye from her lei ran and had to be scrubbed off the doll with abrasive sandsoap and the resulting stain then covered up with make-up. After the photographer built the set (inside this time), the shoot was finally completed (“The Doll”). A week later, the Weekly advertised a needlework kit for three new outfits: a beach ensemble of yellow bikini and sundress, red suit with checked blouse, and blue strapless evening gown. The garment components, with indicated gathering, seam, stitching, and cutting lines, were stamped onto a piece of fine cotton. The kit also included directions “simple enough for the young beginner seamstress” (“Teenage Doll’s”). Priced at 8/6 (85¢ in the new decimal currency introduced that year) including postage, this was a considerable saving when compared to the individual Mattel-branded clothing sets which were sold for sums ranging from 13/6 to 33/6 in 1964 (Burnett). Reader demand for these kits was so high that the supplier was overwhelmed and the magazine had to print an apology regarding delays in dispatching orders (“The Weekly”). Fig. 6: Cotton printed with garments to cut out and sew together and resulting outfits from the Weekly’s “Teenage Doll’s Wardrobe” feature, 1966. This was followed by another kit offer later in the year, this time explicitly promoted to both adult and “little girl” needleworkers. Comprising “cut out, ready to sew [material pieces] … and easy-to-follow step-by-step instructions”, this kit made an embroidered white party dress with matching slip and briefs, checked shorts and top set, and long lace and net trimmed taffeta bridesmaid dress and underclothes (“Three”). Again, at $1.60 for the kit (including postage), this was much more economical (and creative) than purchasing such outfits ready-made. Fig. 7: Party dress from “Three Lovely Outfits for Teenage Dolls” article in the Weekly, 1966. Making dolls’ clothes was an educationally sanctioned activity for girls in Australia, with needlecraft and other home economics subjects commonly taught in schools as a means of learning domestic and professionally transferable skills until the curriculum reforms of the 1970s onwards (Campbell; Cramer; Issacs). In Australia in the 1960s, Barbie dolls (and their clothing and furniture) were recommended for girls aged nine-years-old and older (Dyson), while older girls obviously also continued to interact with the dolls. A 1968 article in the Weekly, for example, praised a 13-year-old girl’s efforts in reinterpreting an adult dress pattern that had appeared in the magazine and sewing this for her Barbie (Dunstan; Forde). It was also suggested that the dolls could be used by girls who designed their own clothes but did not have a full-sized dressmaker’s model, with the advice to use a Barbie model to test a miniature of the design before making up a full-sized garment (“Buy”). Making Things for Barbie Dolls By 9 February 1966, the ‘using oddments’ contest had closed and the Weekly filled two pages with readers’ “resourceful” ideas (“Prizewinning”). These used such domestic bits and pieces as string, wire, cord, cotton reels, egg cartons, old socks, toothpicks, dried leaves, and sticky tape to create a range of Barbie accessories including a mob cap from a doily, hair rollers from cut drinking straws and rubber bands, and a suitcase from a plastic soap container with gold foil locks. A party dress and coat were fashioned from an out-of-date man’s tie and a piece of elastic. There was even a pipe cleaner dog and cardboard guitar. A month later, fifty more winning entries were published in a glossy, eight-page colour insert booklet. This included a range of clothing, accessories, and furniture which celebrated that “imagination and ingenuity, rather than dollars and cents” could equip a teen doll “for any occasion” (“50 Things”, 1). Alongside day, casual, and evening outfits, rainwear, underwear, jewellery, hats, sunglasses, footwear, a beauty case, hat boxes, and a shopping trolley and bags, readers submitted a skilfully fashioned record player with records in a stand as well as a barbeque crafted from tiny concrete blocks, sun lounge, and deckchairs. Miniature accessories included a hairdryer and lace tissue holder with tiny tissues and a skindiving set comprising mask, snorkel, and flippers. The wide variety of negligible-cost materials utilised and how these were fashioned for high effect is as interesting as the results are charming. Fig. 8: Cover of insert booklet of the entries of the 50 winners of the Weekly’s making things for Barbie from oddments competition, 1966. That women were eager to learn to make these miniature fashions and other items is evidenced by some Country Women’s Association groups holding handicraft classes on making clothes and accessories for Barbie dolls (“CWA”). That they were also eager to share the results with others is revealed in how competitions to dress teenage dolls in handmade outfits rapidly also became prominent features of Australian fetes, fairs, agricultural shows, club events, and other community fundraising activities in the 1960s (“Best”; “Bourke”; “Convent”; “Fierce”; “Frolic”; “Gala”; “Guide”; “Measles”; “Parish”; “Personal”; “Pet”; “Present”, “Purim”; “Successful”; “School Fair”; “School Fair Outstanding”; “School Fete”; “Weather”; Yennora”). Dressing Barbie joined other traditional categories such as those to dress baby, bride, national, and bed dolls (the last those dolls dressed in elaborate costumes designed as furniture decorations rather than toys). The teenage doll category at one primary school fete in rural New South Wales in 1967 was so popular that it attracted 50 entries, with many entries in this and other such competitions submitted by children (“Primary”). As the dolls became more prominent, the categories using them became more imaginative, with prizes for Barbie doll tea parties (“From”), for example. The category of dressing Barbie also became segmented with separate prizes for Barbie bride dolls, both sewn and knitted outfits (“Hobby and Pet”) and day, evening, and sports clothes (“Church”). There is no evidence from the sources surveyed that any of this making concentrated on producing career-focussed outfits for Barbie. Do-It-Yourself Ethos A do-it-yourself ethos was evident across the making discussed above. This refers to the possession of attitudes or philosophies that encourage undertaking activities or projects that involve relying on one’s own skills and resources rather than consuming mass-produced goods or using hired professionals or their services. This draws on, and develops, a sense of self-reliance and independence, and uses and enhances problem-solving skills. Creativity is central in terms of experimentation with new ideas, repurposing materials, or finding unconventional solutions to challenges. While DIY projects are often pursued independently and customised to personal preferences, makers also often collaboratively draw on, and share, expertise and resources (Wilson). It is important to note that the Weekly articles discussed above were not disguised advertorials for Barbie dolls or other Mattel products with, throughout the 1960s, the Barbies illustrated in the magazine referred to as ‘teen dolls’ or ‘teenage dolls’. However, despite this and the clear DIY ethos at work, women in Australia could, and did, make such Barbie-related items as commercial ventures. This included local artisanal dressmaking businesses that swiftly added made-to-measure Barbie doll clothes to their ranges (“Arcade”). Some enterprising women sold outfits and accessories they had made through various non-store venues including at home-based parties (“Hobbies”), in the same way as Tupperware products had been sold in Australia since 1961 (Truu). Other women sought sewing, knitting, or crocheting work specifically for Barbie doll clothes in the ‘Work wanted’ classified advertisements at this time (‘Dolls’). Conclusion This investigation has shown that the introduction of the Barbie doll unleashed more than consumer spending in Australia. Alongside purchases of the branded doll, clothes, and associated merchandise, Australians (mostly, but not exclusively, women and girls) utilised (and developed) their skills in sewing, knitting, crochet, and other crafts to make clothes for Barbie. They also displayed significant creativity and ingenuity in using domestic oddments and scraps to craft fashion accessories ranging from hats and bags to sunglasses as well as furniture and many of the other accoutrements of daily life in the second half of the 1960s in Australia. This making appears to have been prompted by a range of motivations including thrift and the real pleasures gained in crafting these miniature garments and objects. While the reception of these outfits and other items is not recorded in the publications sourced during this research, this scan of the Weekly and other publications revealed that children did love these dolls and value their wardrobes. In a description of the effects of a sudden, severe flood which affected her home south of Cairns in North Queensland, for instance, one woman described how amid the drama and terror, one little girl she knew packed up only “her teenage doll and its clothes” to take with her (Johnstone 9). The emotional connection felt to these dolls and handcrafted clothes and other objects is a rich area for research which is outside the scope of this article. Whether adult production was all ultimately intended to be gifted (or purchased) for children, or whether some was the work of early adult Barbie collectors, is also outside the scope of the research conducted for this project. As most of the evidence for this article was sourced from The Australian Women’s Weekly, a similarly close study of other magazines during the 1960s, and of whether any DIY clothing for Barbie also included career-focussed outfits, would add more information and nuance to these findings. This investigation has also concentrated on what happened in Australia during the second half of the 1960s, rather than in following decades. It has also not examined the DIY phenomenon of salvaging and refurbishing damaged Barbie dolls or otherwise altering and customising their appearance in the Australian context. These topics, as well as a full exploration of how women used Barbie dolls in their own commercial ventures, are all rich fields for further research both in terms of practice in Australia and how they were represented in popular and other media. Alongside the global outpouring of admiration for Barbie as a global icon and the success of the recent live action Barbie movie (Aguirre; Derrick), significant scholarship and other commentary have long criticised what Barbie has presented, and continues to present, to the world in terms of her body shape, race, activities, and career choices (Tulinski), as well as the pollution generated by the production and disposal of these dolls (“Feminist”; Pears). An additional line of what can be identified as resistance to the consumer-focussed commercialism of Barbie, in terms of making her clothes and accessories, seems to be connected to do-it-yourself culture. The exploration of handmade Barbie doll clothes and accessories in this article reveals, however, that what may at first appear to reflect a simple anti-commercial, frugal, ‘make do’ approach is more complex in terms of how it intersects with real people and their activities. 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