“Hamilton was brilliant, but he was also kind of a dumbass and a bit of a slut. Thomas Jefferson (of all people) publicly shamed him for tomcatting around with married women, and Hamilton was so bombastically obnoxious that Aaron Burr actually killed him for it.”

I’m comforted by immersing myself in a past reality and remembering that catastrophes recede into the past. No matter how bad things get and no matter how awful people are, eventually new leaders and schools of thought usurp the spotlight. Often these replacements are deeply flawed, but somewhere along the way we’ll find beauty, kindness, renewal, maybe even redemption.

So history can be an antidote to trying times, a reminder that life does indeed cycle and that today’s villains will likely come to unpleasant ends. But it doesn’t end there. Even when my depression is deeply personal or — worse yet — that creeping ennui that seems to have no definitive source, I look to my old friend the bookshelf.

History is not my comfort blanket because I want to compare my own problems to the truly disadvantaged. No depressed person wants to be told “Buck up, at least you’re not a starving child in Africa” or “Buck up, at least you’re not barefoot in the snow and dying of dysentery at Valley Forge.” I don’t necessarily read history to remind myself that I have it better than other people. I read history to remind myself of two important points.

First, to remember that everyone makes mistakes. And these mistakes don’t always negate a person’s accomplishments. I’ll use Alexander Hamilton as an example because everyone seems to know who he is these days. Hamilton was brilliant, but he was also kind of a dumbass and a bit of a slut. Thomas Jefferson (of all people) publicly shamed him for tomcatting around with married women, and Hamilton was so bombastically obnoxious that Aaron Burr actually killed him for it.

So was Alexander Hamilton a slutty idiot? No, he was a bastard (literally) from a shamed and impoverished family who managed to vault himself to fame and fortune through his own brilliance and tenaciousness, and who basically invented the US economic system. (Some might view this as a negative, but there’s no denying that Hamilton’s machinations stabilized the new country and positioned the United States as a future world power.)

So next time you’re thinking, “Wow, everyone thinks I’m an obnoxious dumbass,” or “Wow, I’m being slut-shamed,” or “No one ever gives me due credit for my brilliance,” or “I’m way more qualified to be president than this douchebag,” find your solace in Alexander Hamilton, an excellent reminder that life and legacy have dramatic ups and downs. In the current Hamilton mania it’s easy to forget, but ten years ago half of America had forgotten who Hamilton was. The U.S. Treasury was considering removing him from the $10 bill. Then Lin-Manuel Miranda happened to read and get inspired by Ron Chernow’s bestselling hagiography. So no matter how bad your situation looks today, it’s totally possible that Lin-Manuel Miranda might someday write a musical about your accomplishments. You too might garner posthumous glory! Hey, whatever it takes to get out of bed in the morning.

Now, you may be thinking, “This does not help me because I’m not an economic mastermind with a glittering intellect and there’s no way I’m going to improve my shitty economic situation by marrying into one of New York’s ruling families.” Fair enough. But even if other people’s brilliance depresses you, history may still afford comfort. In addition to imagining my future hagiography, I read history because it reminds me that I am, indeed, insignificant. That the anguish I’m feeling is insignificant, a tiny grain of darkness in the great shifting mosaic of history.

Just as the kingdom of Palmyra rose and fell, just as Van Gogh cycled from brilliance to madness, just as my ancestor Wolfert Gerritse Van Kouwenhoven cheated the Indians out of a vast swathe of Long Island, just as disgrace obscured Aaron Burr’s heroism, just as Italian immigrants dreamed the American Dream while laboring in airless tenement sweatshops, just as settlers moved restlessly west…My life is a tiny cycle, one curlicue in a terrible yet beautiful pattern. I read history for the same reason I stare at the stars.

History reminds me that I am nothing, but also part of the infinite.

The post Hamilton and the Link Between Inspiration and Insignificance appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

Indian Motorcycle: America’s First Motorcycle Company

Holmstrom takes us through Indians entire sordid life. Birth, life, death, resurrection – it’s all detailed here alongside every model the company released and each engine or technical improvement. This is no rose-colored tinting of the past however. Holmstrom casts a critical and wholly independent view of Indian Motorcycle’s history, calling out mistakes and missteps as he sees them. All this is paired with beautiful modern and delightfully vintage photography and advertisements that give the words real life.

As a coffee table book, it’s a delight to thumb through and read snippets of history. As a historical record of the company and its products through the decades, I doubt it could rivaled by a textbook. If you have a deep passion for Indian Motorcycles or for biking history, Indian Motorcycle: America’s First Motorcycle Company is a must have.

The post This Book Is An Indian Motorcycle Bible appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

To help inspire you, here’s a few of our favorite limericks from around the world:

There once was a girl Selina,
who wanted to be a ballerina.
She went on her toes,
and broke her nose.
Then she became cleaner.

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There once was an artist named Saint,
Who swallowed some samples of paint.
All shades of the spectrum
Flowed out of his rectum
With a colourful lack of restraint.

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A silly young man from Clyde
In a funeral procession was spied
When asked, “Who is dead?”
He giggled and said,
“I don’t know; I just came for the ride.

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A wonderful bird is the pelican;
His beak can hold more than his belican.
He can hold in his beak
Enough food for a week,
Though I’m damned if I know how the helican!

The post How to Write a Limerick appeared first on FactoryTwoFour.

This history of supporting envelope pushers started with themselves as the company introduced innovation after innovation to catapult to the upper echelon of Swiss watchmaking. First came the Oscillating Pinion (whatever the hell that is) in 1886, then quickly followed up with the first automotive/aviation timer in 1911, and 1916 saw a breakthrough in accuracy with the first handheld timer capable of measuring 1/100 of a second .This last development especially paved the way for Heuer’s entry into the worlds of upper-echelon sport and contest.

While the technological firsts kept coming, TAG Heuer quickly gained a reputation for who whore them as much as why. John Glenn wore a Heuer into space during NASAs first manned orbital mission (they were beaten to space by a Russian watch, but no one knows quite which one. So win by default?). Both Obama and Mitt Romney wore one (each, they didn’t trade the same one back and forth or anything) during the ’12 campaign. And of course, they still sell the watch worn by Steve McQueen in his movie Le Mans (they even named it after him after the incredible interest received).

If you’re shopping for your first TAG Heuer and looking to keep your bank account intact, the aforementioned Monaco ($3,900) is a great place to start. But we recomment you venture off the well-beaten and expected path and check out the Aquaracer ($2,600). With echos of Rolex’s classic Submariner, the Aquaracer is a subdued and classy timepiece that will remain in fashion long enough for you to pass on to great-grandchildren. Finally, for a little racing pedigree go with the Formula 1 Calibre 16 ($2,800) and wear it proud like Lewis Hamilton. Granted, two and half grand ain’t cheap for a timepiece, but there’s always vintage finds that can get you into a swiss watch for a discount (although not much of one…). However you get into a Heuer, you’ll be wearing a hard-won pedigree and joining a long list of discerning wearers. We can’t ask much more than that of our watches…

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