#New Yorker Electronics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nkjemisin · 1 year ago

Note

You should try to go see public works Tempest in central park, it’s really incredible and reminded me of the city we became. It’s super insane and beautiful and wild and hard to describe, so even though it’s insane to ask someone to go stand in line all day to see a play based off a random tumblr message I really think you should!

Oooh, I haven't done the line for Shakespeare in the Park in years. Not sure I still have it in me, since it requires getting up at 3 or 4 am and spending hours fighting line-jumpers and so on. But I've been hearing good things about this year's Tempest so maybe I'll muster up the energy. Thanks for the recommendation!

Since you reminded me of it, here's a deleted scene/alternate opening I once wrote for THE WORLD WE MAKE. I decided on a different opening for the final version, obvs, but maybe you'll enjoy what might have been. Cutting because long.

He's just a man standing on a rooftop. The outfit he's wearing is bespoke, by a Harlem tailor who came in second on Project Runway's last season. The jacket is rich brown suede, fine-stitched, over olive-tan pants and a piqué shirt of deepest royal indigo, and he's wearing the hell out of it. If there were anyone around to see, they'd think he was a model, standing in the kind of casual-at-attention pose that only men in magazine photo shoots ever do, with one hand in a pocket and his gaze thoughtfully locked on the cityscape horizon. The model aesthetic is reinforced by the fact that he's got a lean, strong figure and the kind of racial ambiguity that Hollywood diversity advocates love: brown skin that's not too brown, lips full enough to be either natural or recent collagen injections, thick eyebrows that are as sculpted as his cheekbones, eyes with just enough epicanthic fold to qualify as "exotic" but not in like an ethnic way.

He's not a model. He's just Manhattan, human representative of New York's contributions to the fashion, media, and sex work industries. He's not even trying particularly hard to look good. He has simply stopped resisting what comes naturally.

But he's about to be late for work -- and while New York custom permits a degree of conspicuous tardiness as a social power move in certain situations, this particular job is too personally important to him for such games. So he steps up onto the low wall that surrounds the roof, and then he steps off.

It's fine. The building is twelve stories tall; anything over five stories is required to have an elevator per city ordinance. He's been practicing, too, so all he has to do is shut his eyes and imagine, and the city's power holds him aloft in midair as solidly as if he's stepping onto flooring. (He is; it's just flooring that exists in several other iterations of his universe.) Even with this, however, he makes sure to take a step or two forward before calmly turning away from the cityscape. People don't usually stare at the back of an elevator, after all -- and verisimilitude is key. "First floor, please," he murmurs. In earlier days of the city, building elevators were a complicated luxury that required trained staff to operate. In current days of the city, many elevators run on voice activation. At Manhattan's request, there is an electronic ping of acknowledgement, followed by a very faint echo of blended, long-vanished voices: "Watch the door, please, watch your hands, going down." Then he begins to descend. It's smooth, slow; this is only a mid-sized building, not modern or expensive enough to have an express elevator. Only the fact that he's descending through thin air makes it odd.

Just above the sidewalk his descent slows, letting him drift to a gentle halt. There are a few dozen people on the street in this moment, and some of them notice as he just stands there for a moment, letting the metaphysical aethers settle and the metaphorical elevator doors open. The ones who stare are tourists. New Yorkers generally don't react to strangeness, but they do notice it, if only to shake their heads and murmur "This fucking city," to themselves before moving on. Manhattan catches the eye of one of the starers, winks and smiles, then strides off down the street.

As he walks, he hums John Coltrane's "Central Park West" -- not for power this time, but simply because he's walking along Central Park West and likes the song. It's also a beautiful day. Here at the heart of the city it is clear that autumn encroaches: Central Park is across the street, dense with color-shifting trees. Their whispers speak to the part of Manhattan that was more, once, than just concrete and cars; the island has always been here, after all, crossroads for many peoples, and those millennia of commerce were enough to form the building blocks of the living entity that it is now. But mostly, he just likes that rustling sound, and the flickers of color and movement, and the faint whiff of chemical sugars forming and breaking down within the leaves. Something about that scent, and the wind's occasional brisk sharpness, speaks to him.

There is the lightest of touches upon the part of him that is more than a man. Just a ping, to get his attention. "You wanna focus, or you gonna just keep spacing out about the pretty pretty trees, Mr. I Was Bebop Before It Was Cool?"

They've all figured out that words work better than thoughts. They are one city, the six of them, and if they ever need to, they can function as a single brain and heart and will -- but doing that is as overwhelming as it is thrilling. New York isn't supposed to be any single thing, see; the distinct characters of its boroughs are part of its strength. More personally, Manny's probably never going to be super-comfortable with letting his fellow parts of the city into his head, because he's got enough going on in there already.

But he's right in reminding Manny to focus. "Just getting into the spirit," Manny replies, waiting for a gap in the traffic before trotting across the street. Then he vaults the low stone wall around the edge of the park. It's a twelve-foot drop beyond, but he manages it easily enough, landing in a crouch in a wooded thicket already carpeted in red and gold leaves. Doesn't even make his knees twinge. Nothing can hurt New York, in New York, except New York.

Well. And one other thing.

He moves forward at a brisk Midtown pace, pushing aside the branches of small trees as gently as he can so as not to damage them. He starts finding white tendrils almost immediately. Just small patches here and there: three wigglers on a broad, still-green sycamore leaf, one on the tree's gnarling roots nearby. A patch shaped like a handprint growing atop a hooded garbage can; that one's especially nasty, positioned as it is to infect anyone who actually tries to deposit their litter in the can instead of just tossing it somewhere. "Rude," Manny murmurs. He's getting rid of the patches as he passes them, just by touching the wood or ground or metal near each cluster and letting a little of "Central Park West" riff through his mind and down his arm and out through his fingers. Earworms can be handy. Good for killing other wormlike things.

(Not so long ago, it would have taken everything Manny had to get rid of these things. He had to replace all his credit cards after symbolically buying all the real estate around a particular rock in Inwood Park. Now, however, the city is whole -- and these tendrils, tenacious as they are, are tourists from another urban locale who've overstayed their welcome. It's easy to obliterate them, but it's more important to find the bus they came in on, and deal with that.)

"Red alert!" says Padmini -- Queens -- suddenly. She tugs on the shared part of their consciousness, projecting an image onto it that is stunning in its precision: a three-dimensional and topographical map, with a moving cursor at its center and a GPS coordinate meter in the bottom corner. Padmini abruptly zooms them in on the cursor, and then she presents them with a simplified view through her own eyes.

There, jolting slightly as Padmini runs, is their quarry. To most other people in Central Park, the young man who slips down a leaf-thick hill and then scrabbles his way over a tumbled, mossy pile of bedrock is just another cross-country runner, or maybe a parkour practitioner with a greater love of natural settings than most. He's a lanky Indian-looking guy, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt -- but through the lens of Padmini's vision, Manny sees the rest. The guy's got patches of white fronds all over him, and as he runs they waft back like long hair which just happens to be growing from his forearms and shins and ass. Manny's used to this, people who look like yeti crabs, however horrible it is. Far worse is the tendril which projects from the back of the young man's neck, thick and veined in a disturbingly umbilical way, forming a long white cord which twists up and out of sight amid the trees. It stretches up into the sky, Manny knows from three months' experience, attenuating until it disappears from human eyesight with distance -- but wending southward before it does. They all know where that cable terminates.

"Mike check," says Veneza, and Manny's mental eye shifts to her view. She's standing under one of the park's stone bridges, her vision bouncing a little as she crouches to stretch out her ankles. Getting ready to run. Manny feels her excitement as the tendril-covered man comes into view, jogging over a grassy hill covered in early-afternoon sunbathers. But who's he kidding? They all enjoy this. "That's it. Come to mamãe. Drive him like a li'l doggie on the range, Queeny McQueenyface."

"I can't believe you mixed like three metaphors in ten seconds," Padmini replies -- but she zigs left, across one of the roads of the park. Manny catches his breath as she veers into a bike lane, because Central Park bikers all think they're in the Tour de France, but in the same moment he feels her latch into the bikers' sense of hurry and entitlement, drawing their power into her legs. Her pace speeds up sharply, until she's nearly flying down a sloping sidewalk, veering now and again to move around walkers and a small crowd near a pretzel vendor.

"That's the Jersey in me. Metaphors are our pork roll."

"Your what?"

"Pork roll. Look it -- wait, shit, hang on."

Tendril man has seen Veneza and stopped, halfway down the grassy hill. It's eerie to Manny how still he is. After all the running and climbing he's done, he should be out of breath, shoulders heaving, dripping sweat, but he isn't. It's just like the other cases of this they've encountered in the past few weeks; they're running on something other than human power. These tendril-people aren't avatars, however; they're more like drones, sent forth by some other malevolent consciousness and endowed with supernatural power only temporarily, and for their task. And if they don't catch this poor guy before that power gets done using him -- Well. Manny picks up the pace.

Padmini skids to a halt. (A man nearby does a double-take, then nods in a grudgingly impressed way at her athleticism.) "Shit. He's going to bolt, isn't he?"

In lieu of any reply, they all see Tendril Man bolt. He jumps off the steeper side of the rocky hill -- a ten-foot drop; Manny really hopes the poor guy was in shape before he got drafted as a spectral conduit for a hostile extradimensional essence, or he's going to feel that in the morning. Then Tendril Man takes off, moving with truly impressive speed up a paved hill-path.

"FUCK," two of them think. (Manny doesn't curse, but he empathizes.) They all take off running too.

Tendril Man is running toward a big, round building at the top of the hill. Its vendor doors are shut and there are only a few people hanging around near it, but abruptly he zigs toward a big wooden gate labeled PERFORMER ENTRANCE -- and vaults it, with the ease of a master gymnast. Manny might be able to think of a way over it too, if he gives himself a minute; surely there is some quintessentially cityish concept, like elevators for tall buildings, that he can harness to grant himself the ability to jump like that. In the fluster of the moment, however, he can't think of anything. Gotta work on that, do better at having a "jumping" construct ready to go under duress.

In lieu of leaping, however, he manages to remember the grating sound of garbage trucks barrelling down the street at oh dark thirty in the morning, usually with wonky transmissions and brakes that screech loudly enough to set off car alarms. Manny's seen several of them scrape or bang into cars without bothering to stop -- and so he draws into himself the desperate need to hurry and finish a shift, the hulking size and diesel-fueled strength of the trucks, the cheerful pragmatism of the tough workers who chuck heavy bags and kick rats with unflappable equanimity. And as Manny runs at the gate, the world blurs a little and an eyewatering stench surrounds him, and he finds it almost impossible to care about collateral damage because he's got a job to do, come on, come on, let's go...

He remembers enough of himself to dip his shoulder a little as he hits the gate. It only looks like wood; underneath, there's plenty of metal, and he sees that the gate has an electronic number-lock. Probably pretty solid. But his supernaturally-powered shoulder smashes the gate wide open, actually cracking the whole frame in half, too, and part of the fence beyond it.

Oops. Well, he'll make a donation on the website, because now that he's through the gate he sees: THE DELACOURTE THEATER WELCOMES YOU TO SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK.

Tendril Guy is running down the steps of what Manny now sees is a huge open-air amphitheater. He leaps again, a pretty impressive standing jump onto the stage -- and then he stops abruptly. There's a set being deconstructed here; Shakespeare in the Park only runs during the summer months, so someone's in the middle of stripping gigantic rolls of fake grass off the stage floor. And now, from within a huge prop built to look like a small apartment building, the avatar of New York steps forth to confront their enemy.

He's calling himself "Neek," these days -- a phonetic pronunciation of the initials for New York City. He hasn't told them his real name. Manny's not sure it matters anyway; doesn't Manny, of all people, understand that they are no longer who they were? The knowledge and joy and danger of eight million people has found its focus in Neek, and like any of their fellow great cities, this makes him strange. São Paulo was the same, whenever Manny had time and peace enough to study him: a young-old man who radiated urbane cynicism and eerie wisdom all at once. Hong Kong too. Maybe this is the difference between those who represent boroughs or neighborhoods, and those who are whole cities in themselves.

Or maybe it's just Neek. "Yo, man, take a breath," he says to Tendril Guy, as he slouches out of shadow. "Touch some, uh, astroturf. You keep letting that shit run you, won't be anything of you left."

Tendril Guy immediately turns to run, but by this point Manny has reached the other side of the stage. Veneza is in the ampitheater, trotting toward them from the other direction, and from somewhere backstage they can hear Padmini cursing and shoving something heavy aside, because apparently backstage is a mess amid the set breakdown. Unless Tendril Guy can fly -- and Manny puts nothing past the Woman in White -- then he's got nowhere left to run.

It's a dangerous time, though. In the past, whenever they've cornered one of her minions... Tendril Guy backs up, looks around, starts to get tense. Manny tries to think up a construct, and finds himself looking around. At the stage.

Neek's gaze flicks to him, and the little smile on his face widens.

"Two cities," he declares suddenly, spreading his arms wide and raising his voice. The Delacourte's acoustics are perfect, of course, designed to facilitate an outdoors theatrical performance. "Both alike in dignity! In fair Manhattan where we lay our scene."

Of course the theater absorbs this slightly-fudged homage, echoes it, amplifies it, and sends back a reverberation of energy: the faint murmurs and anticipation of a crowd, a lilt of music from a nonexistent orchestra. For just a fleeting moment Manny can almost see the suggestion of bodies in the amphitheater seats, shadowy heads that turn to each other or crane their necks or flip through Playbills. Ready to be enraptured.

Manny finds himself grinning -- but then he panics a little as Neek raises his eyebrows pointedly, because Manny doesn't have any Shakespeare memorized. But Broadway is only a few dozen blocks away; maybe he can use that instead? He sifts quickly through the grab-bag of random quotes in his head. Can't think of an actual line from an actual play, but it's a direct reference, so he clears his throat awkwardly and sings: "They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. There might be city magic in the air."

Stage lights, multihued but mostly white, appear above the seats. The lights aren't real. Manny can see most of the lighting equipment disassembled and stacked up to one side of the stage. Tendril Guy flinches suddenly and violently, staggering back. Steam rises as Tendril Guy raises his arms defensively, the tendrils on him whipping and hissing wildly as the city's light begins to burn them away.

They have to keep it going. Veneza giggles and runs down the steps, leaping to a crouch as if she's acting out some play or another, and sings, "Now is the time to seize the day! Answer the call and don't delay! New York can be righted, boroughs united; let us seize the day!" In response, loose cables curled on one side of the stage suddenly come to life, whipping around Tendril Guy's legs to keep him from running again.

One of the doors on the prop building slams open dramatically. Beyond it they can see Padmini pushing aside a rack of clothing that persistently keeps trying to roll toward her. She manages it, stumbles out, and glowers around at all of them. Veneza gestures frantically for her to take up the thread; Neek spreads his hands too in the universal sign of Come on, hurry up. Finally, with a little growl, Padmini snaps, "Oh, fine. 'Immigrants: We get the job done!'" This doesn't seem to have any effect at first, but then Padmini shoves a large, heavy-looking wooden desk out of the way with ease; she's much stronger, now. Enough to get this job done.

As performances go, it's all terrible. Slapdash, random, corny; Manny won't be surprised if in the morning they all receive a clipped-out review from a theater magazine that exists only in some alternate reality, panning all of them for defiling the stage. But as a construct, drawing on the power of three boroughs and the delight of a thousand audiences, from the Delacourte to the Fringe Festival and back, it's exactly what they need.

Then, his voice muffled by his own extradimensional growths, Manny hears Tendril Guy -- or maybe the guy within the pelt of tendrils -- try to speak. "A-all the w-world..." he murmurs, his voice thick, too deep, flanged in a way that sounds like bad special effects. He's steaming all over, now. Ah, and at last Manny sees the tendrils burning away, peeling off and curling into nothingness. As he lowers his arms, Manny sees that he's sweaty-faced and visibly exhausted... but he is smiling. He turns to face the whispering, flickering audience, and all at once Manny can feel him. Tendril Guy is part of New York, again -- and he knows it, and some part of his soul rejoices with the knowledge. Probably helps that the guy is a former theater kid himself; Manny can feel that, now that the Enemy's influence has been broken. Neek grins at Manny; he can feel it, too.

So then Neek goes over to Tendril Guy, leans close, and blows on the now-shriveled cord attached to the back of his neck. It snaps free as if Neek's breathed fire onto it, uttering a faint creel of inhuman pain -- and then the cord is snatched away upwards, into the darkening evening sky. Manny catches a fleeting hint of sinuous movement against the clouds, southward, and then it is gone.

Tendril Guy, who is now just Some Guy, beams at Neek. Then he steps back and lifts a finger. "All the world's a stage," he says again -- clearly this time, in a pleasant baritone, projecting with the ease of long practice. "And all the men and women merely players! They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."

He does the whole monologue then, perfectly. Not that Manny would know if he got it right -- but the Delacourte does, and as Manny glances out at their whispery audience, he sees smiles, hears soft "ahs" and giggles of approval with every precisely-enunciated line. As Some Guy finishes, applause breaks out, echoing with unreality but loud and enthusiastic. The artist formerly known as Tendril Guy beams in delight and extends his hands for Manny and Neek to take. They do. Padmini, her pique fading now that she's no longer fighting furniture, shakes her head and takes Neek's hand; Veneza giggles and runs up the steps to take Manny's. The applause goes on as, uh, Theater Guy leads them in first one bow, and then another. Someone in the audience whistles. Someone else yells "Encore!" It's intoxicating. They bow a third time. As at last the applause fades and the lights start to go dark... Theater Guy collapses, between them.

"Oh, no," Veneza says, her delight vanishing. "Please, not again -- "

"He's fine," Manny says, crouching by Theater Guy, though he checks Theater Guy's neck-pulse and breathing just to be sure. It's there, though the guy's skin is clammy with sweat.

"Close," Neek says. He's looking up at the sky, after the ugly cable that had been attached to the guy's neck.

It's only the second time that they've successfully rescued one of these agents of the Woman in White, sent forth from her bastion in Staten Island to... well, Manny's not exactly sure what their purpose is. Are they superspreaders meant to reinfect the city, and thus help her regain the foothold that she lost three months before? Are they drones of a sort, reconnoitering enemy territory? Either way, the result is always the same, if Manny and his fellow avatars don't catch the tendril-bearer and cleanse them in time: the person burns out and dies, all of their strength used up by the alien intelligence that has worn them like a puppet.

Not this time, though. "Let's get him outside," Manny says, grunting as he pulls Theater Guy up. "Easier for an ambulance to get to him out there."

"But what about after?" Padmini asks. She comes over to help him wrestle the guy into a sitting position, so that Manny can pull him into a fireman's carry. "Uff, he's heavy! But if somebody calls his family and they take him back to Staten Island, will she just take him over again? What if she's mad at him for getting caught by us?"

"It's fine," Neek says. He's still turned away from them, facing southward. There is an odd note in his voice, however, which makes Manny frown at his back. Neek sounds... distracted. "Most of the folks on Staten are fine. The ones who commute here lose their little wigglers when they step off the ferry, unless they've got one of those bigger cable-things attached to them. Grow 'em back on the after-work ride. They don't even notice."

"Remember what it was like when she was all over the city," Manny adds. "All those people she... infected. She used them if she needed them and ignored them otherwise. They became part of her, but they didn't seem to mean anything to her, any more than..." He shakes his head, to the degree that he can with Theater Guy on his shoulders. "Individual hairs on a person's head. How often do we notice when we lose one, or when it grows back?"

"We shouldn't let him go back at all," Padmini says, scowling. "We know she's doing something to all those people. He's safer here!"

Neek focuses enough to turn and eye her over his shoulder. His tone is mild and his expression neutral, but his words have a sharp point. "You gonna spring for an apartment for him somewhere? Let him go crash with ya auntie and the fam?"

"No, but -- "

"I know a good spot under the Williamsburg." Neek's relentless. "Probably still good even with all the cleanup and construction since the bridge broke. Warm on cold nights, hard to see so the kids and assholes don't fuck with you. We could dump him there."

Padmini sets her jaw. "Fine. Point made. But Staten Islanders are still people, and we should try to help them."

Veneza, who was peering into the orchestra pit in fascination, turns back to them, plainly uneasy at the tension she's picking up. "We are. But I mean, Pads... that's not really our job."

Now they all fall into an uncomfortable silence, because sometimes the truth is hard. And the truth is that the avatar of Staten Island is not here with them today because she has rejected them, and thrown her people to the interdimensional wolves by doing so. They are all of them New York... but they are not Staten Island, not anymore. Theater Guy's ultimate fate isn't theirs to make.

"Ay yo fuck that bird," Neek says, scowling at Veneza, who blinks in surprise. "Her and Squigglebitch tried to kill us, remember? Tried to eat you. Let Staten Island die."

Padmini stares at him. "Wait. What? Let a whole borough die? Are you crazy?"

"Fuck them." Neek gestures sharply, southward. "Everyone on Staten Island. Buncha racist redneck Republican dumbasses, nobody needs them. They're the reason she's still here, hanging over this city like a fucking guillotine. I'm tired of stressing about this shit! Let her flyover country ass die with the rest of them nobody-nothing sons of bitches."

Manny flinches, despite himself. That's beyond harsh. And something about this little rant feels... off. He's known Neek for all of three months, but in that time Neek has been a quiet and low-key leader of their group, unusually even-keeled for the personification of a city known for its aggression. Are you okay? rises to Manny's lips, but he refrains from saying it, aware that it could sound patronizing. He's wondering it, though.

All at once different lights snap on within the theater -- not stage lights, but all the rest. Padmini frowns at this. "Hey, we don't need these anymore. Which one of you -- "

Abruptly a piercing electronic alarm sounds throughout the theater, and the lights all turn a startling, awful red.

"What the shit?" Neek says. He blinks as if dazed, turning to stare up at the lights -- and then he stiffens. "Manny. You doing that?"

Manny can barely hear him over the noise. "No, why would I? Can't you stop it?" Neek is New York. He has better control over the city's power than any of them... but all of a sudden, the city feels strange. Sluggish and reluctant, when Manny gently urges it to shut off the alarm. It's responsive, but unreliable and slow in a way Manny's never noticed before.

And to Manny's surprise, Neek takes a step back, his very posture radiating unease. "I... can't. Nothing's happening. What the fuck." He shakes his head.

"Yo, uh, we should go," Veneza says, bouncing nervously on the balls of her feet. "If that's a break-in alarm -- I mean, we did break in, but -- "

The Delacourte sits the middle of Central Park, in one of the city's toniest neighborhoods, and is the site of one of its most popular attractions. "Out," Manny snaps, when it becomes clear that Neek has been so thrown by the situation that he's not reacting quickly enough. "Now."

Veneza's already moving, running to the edge of the stage. Manny follows her as quickly as he can with Theater Guy, and Padmini grabs Neek, dragging him along when he doesn't move fast enough. "Cover your faces!" she cries -- and, yeah, if the city's magic suddenly isn't helping them anymore, that's a good idea. But Manny can't, unless he wants to drop Theater Guy, who's been through enough.

There are people milling around in front of the Delacourte, mostly looky-loos reacting to the continuous beeeeeeep of the alarm, but Manny sees how many of them have smartphones in hand. It can't be helped. He crouches and carefully sets Theater Guy on a patch of soft grass, and catches the eye of an older lady who is staring at all of them. "Call 911," he says, with as much urgency as he can. They can't stop people from filming them fleeing the scene of an apparent break-in, but maybe the sight of someone in distress will distract most of the onlookers. "This man is hurt and needs an ambulance. I don't know what happened to him, he just collapsed."

The lady gasps and starts punching at her phone. Veneza grabs Manny, tugging so he'll leave Theater Guy there on the ground. He doesn't want to. If the cops arrive first, there's a strong chance they'll arrest Theater Guy for the break-in. If he could just make sure the paramedics arrive first, and that the cops think the alarm is just a mechanical error... He touches the ground next to his knee and reaches into it, groping for the feel of city power --

He finds echoes of old audience frustration and annoyed staff and prematurely shutdown vendor services... but these energies will not move in response to his will. What's there feels different from all the other times he's ever used city power -- clotted, somehow.

"Dude," Veneza says, giving him a hard yank. They can hear sirens outside the park, coming closer. "Come on, man, I ain't doing Rikers for you!"

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Manny lets Veneza pull him away. They book it for Central Park West again, zigging southward first since there are woods and rock hills in that direction that can obscure their route for anyone trying to put them on TMZ.

In their wake, the Delacourte's alarm blares until sirens drown it out.

TWWM Deleted Scene 1 by N. K. Jemisin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

#the world we make #the great cities #deleted scene #answered asks

107 notes · View notes

mariacallous · 2 months ago

Text

Adams, a former police captain, is at least the second New York mayor to be criminally charged while still in office, and is the first official in his administration to be charged as a result of multiple pending investigations that have ensnared the New York Police Department and the city’s top schools’ official.

It was previously known the Manhattan U.S. Attorney’s Office was investigating Adams for potentially conspiring with the government of Turkey to funnel illegal donations into that campaign.

The New York Times on Monday reported that prosecutors had submitted grand jury subpoenas to City Hall, Adams, and his campaign in July demanding information related to five other countries: Israel, China, Qatar, South Korea, and Uzbekistan.

Adams issued a defiant statement Wednesday night after news of the indictment broke.

“I always knew that If I stood my ground for New Yorkers that I would be a target — and a target I became,” he said.

“If I am charged, I am innocent and I will fight this with every ounce of my strength and spirit,” said Adams, who after working in the Police Department served as a state senator and Brooklyn Borough president.

In a video statement later, Adams said, “I will request an immediate trial, so New Yorkers will know the truth.”

...

There are multiple federal investigations into Adams and people affiliated with him and his administration.

On Tuesday, city Schools Chancellor David Banks told Adams he expected to retire at the end of 2024.

Banks’ surprise announcement came weeks after federal authorities seized electronic devices belonging to him, his brother, Deputy Mayor Phil Banks, and his fiancee, Deputy Mayor Sheena Wright.

Another Banks brother, Terence, is being investigated by the Manhattan U.S. Attorney’s Office in connection with the allocation of city contacts worth millions of dollars to the companies who received them after hiring Terence Banks’ consulting firm.

The same federal prosecutors’ office is investigating whether James Caban, the twin brother of former New York Police Commissioner Edward Caban, exploited his ties to his brother and the NYPD to benefit his nightclub security business.

Edward Caban resigned as police commissioner on Sept. 12, a week after his own phone was seized by federal investigators.

Three days after Edward Caban resigned, Adam’s mayoral counsel and chief legal advisor Lisa Zornberg resigned, saying she had “concluded that I can no longer serve in my position.”

Last Friday, federal investigators executed search warrants at the homes of Thomas Donlon, the acting NYPD commissioner.

Donlon, who is a former top FBI counterterrorism official in New York, said this week that the investigators “took materials that came into my possession approximately 20 years ago and are unrelated to my work with the New York City Police Department.”

11 notes · View notes

beardedmrbean · 2 months ago

Text

NEW YORK (Reuters) - New York First Deputy Mayor Sheena Wright became at least the seventh senior official in Mayor Eric Adams' administration to resign as multiple federal corruption investigations have engulfed City Hall in recent weeks, local media reported on Tuesday.

Wright's resignation was expected to be announced later on Tuesday, according to the New York Times and other local media, citing unnamed people familiar with the matter.

Her departure comes nearly two weeks after Adams was indicted on charges of accepting bribes and illegal donations to his election campaigns from foreign nationals, including Turkish citizens. Adams, a former New York City police captain, has pleaded not guilty to the charges and has repeatedly denied any wrongdoing.

He is the first New York City mayor to face criminal charges while in office in more than 150 years. Adams has since rebuffed a chorus of calls that he resign before his four-year term ends next year, even as many of his closest allies have stepped down from the jobs to which he appointed them. A poll released last week by the Marist Institute for Public Opinion found that 69 percent of adult New Yorkers wanted Adams to step down.

Last month, federal investigators raided the home Wright shares with her husband, David Banks, the city's schools chancellor, and seized their electronic devices.

Banks has also announced his resignation, as has his brother, Philip Banks, the deputy mayor for public safety. Edward Caban resigned as the city's police commissioner last month after investigators seized his phone and other devices. Wright, Caban and the Banks brothers have not been charged with crimes.

A spokesperson for the mayor's office did not respond to requests for comment.

Federal prosecutors from the U.S. attorney's offices in Manhattan and Brooklyn are pursuing at least four separate criminal investigations into corruption in the city's administration, including the one in which the mayor was indicted.

Also on Tuesday, U.S. Attorney Damian Williams in Manhattan announced the indictment of Mohamed Bahi on charges of witness tampering and destroying evidence in connection with the prosecutors' investigation of illegal donations to the Adams campaign.

Bahi resigned from his role as Adams' liaison to the Turkish community on Monday, The City news outlet reported. He could not immediately be reached for comment.

#nunyas news

9 notes · View notes

mihlkis · 3 months ago

Note

I realize this won't work for band AU but one idea I've always loved that might work for Minkyu is doing mukbangs or eating contests and gradually working up capacity for bigger and bigger meals, then potentially getting to the point that might be tempted to vore as a challenge or if a fan begged them to. It's still like a huge lift for them to attempt but they succeed. Could always be on or off camera.

!! Minkyu wouldn't do this, but I have someone else who might!

I have a different OC (Felix Ignacio Correa Ruiz) who goes by Nacho. He's Puerto Rican and lives in Brooklyn with his roommate, Renata Ghazali (© voreyeurism). He's a good guy, popular, and a well-regarded employee at a third-party electronics repair shop—but he's a notorious big eater, and privately has a stuffing fetish.

He's friendly with a lot of mom-and-pop shops and street food vendors, but banned from a lot of all-you-can-eat buffets because he can put food away to a ridiculous degree. Eating challenges are like a hobby for him.

And then he also moonlights as a criminal mukbang livestreamer ahahaha. His schtick is breaking into rich people's homes and eating all the contents of their fridge in one go before leaving. He's just built a little different and can put more food away than most, and he's immune to food poisoning. You can see him here:

Can't be an average New Yorker without a roommate, and Renata is his—she's not quite a conventional friend, and they both have their own social circles, but they're kind of�� undiscussed, platonic life partners? Where it's not like they agreed to live together forever, but they can't imagine not doing so. They're a good match, because they both have outlandish appetites (him for food, her for sex) ahaha

In his main story, he unknowingly got bitten by a werewolf at a Halloween party, and upon transforming, he vored and killed her… But it's okay, because long story short, she comes back from the dead as a succubus and all is well! They continue their normal Brooklyn lives, just as supernatural creatures now, help.

It was a traumatic experience for both of them though, so now they have like… traumagenic consensual vore kink, ahahaha. And though Nacho isn't bloodthirsty/violent and wouldn't be comfortable killing people just for his own pleasure, if circumstances happen and a loved one needs a body cleaned up, or if he runs into a real bad person in the middle of the night, well.

But rounding back to your question vaguely, I do imagine that viewers/fans might give Nacho challenges while he's doing his break-in mukbang streams, and I imagine there could be at least one instance where he ends up voring on camera as a werewolf if, on the way back, he runs into a violent criminal of some kind. (I imagine the streams seem so outlandish that a lot of people think it's fake and the police wouldn't take it seriously ahaha)

#nacho.ref #Felix “Nacho” Correa Ruiz #mihlkis.oc #Renata Ghazali #voreyeurism.oc #Anonymous

10 notes · View notes

mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

Booklist on "Red Team Blues"

I've published more than 20 books, and I still get nervous in the few months leading up to a new book's release. It's one thing for my agent, my editor and my wife to like one of my novels - but what about the rest of the world? Will the book soar, or bomb? I've had books do both, and the latter is No Fun. Scarifying, even.

My next novel is Red Team Blues, which Tor Books and Head of Zeus will publish on April 25. It is a significant departure for me in many ways: it's a heist novel about cryptocurrency, grifters and crime bosses, the first book in a trilogy that runs in reverse chronological order (!):

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9781250865847/red-team-blues

The hero of RTB is Marty Hench, a forensic accountant and digital pioneer. Marty got his start when he discovered spreadsheets as an MIT undergrad. He got so deep into the world of Visicalc and Lotus 1-2-3 that he dropped out of university, moved to Silicon Valley, and pitted his ability to find money with spreadsheets against people who use spreadsheets to hide money.

RTB opens with Marty on the verge of retirement, when he is roped in for one last job - a favor to a friend who has built a new cryptocurrency that is in danger of imploding thanks to some stolen keys. If Marty can recover the keys, his customary 25% commission will come out to more than a quarter of a billion dollars. How could he say no?

I wrote this book in a white-hot fury of the sort that I underwent in 2006, when I wrote Little Brother in eight weeks flat. Red Team Blues took six weeks. It's good. I sent it to my Patrick Nielsen Hayden, my editor. The next day, I got this email:

That.

Was.

A! Fucking! Ride! Whoa!

That night, I rolled over in bed to find my wife wide awake at 2AM, staring at her phone. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Finishing your book," she said. "I had to find out how it ended."

I loved writing this book, and after I finished it, I found that Marty Hench was still living in my mind. How could I keep writing about him, though? Red Team Blues is his final adventure. Then, one day, it hit me: now that I knew how Marty's career ended, I could write about how it started.

I could write prequels - as many as I chose - retelling the storied career of Martin Hench, the scambusting forensic accountant of Silicon Valley. I pitched my editor on two prequels - one a midcareer adventure, the other his origin story - and my editor bought 'em. For the first time in decades, in dozens of books, I'm writing a trilogy.

It's nearly done. I finished the second book, "The Bezzle" - about private prisons and financial corruption - late last year. I'm 80%+ through the final one, "Picks and Shovels," AKA Marty's origin story, a caper involving an early eighties PC-selling pyramid scheme run by a Mormon bishop, a Catholic priest and an orthodox rabbi, who run their affinity scam through a company called "Three Wise Men Computers."

But for all that I love these books, love writing these books, I am still nervous. Butterflies-in-stomach. I got some reassurance in December, when the New Yorker's Chris Byrd said some extraordinarily kind things about RTB when he profiled me:

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-new-yorker-interview/cory-doctorow-wants-you-to-know-what-computers-can-and-cant-do

Despite that, though, I continued to have vicious pangs of self-doubt, imposter syndrome, superstitious dread, haunting memories of the mentors and writers I admired as a young man whose careers were snatched away by changing industry trends, market shifts, or just a bad beat. I love this book. Would other people? I'm not a crime writer. Ugh.

Then, this week, my publicist Laura Etzkorn at Tor sent me the first trade review for RTB, Booklist's starred notice, by David Pitt:

Well, talk about timely. In the wake of the late-2022 collapse of cryptocurrency comes this novel about a forensic accountant who’s hired to work a case involving electronic theft of cryptocurrency. The guy’s name is Martin Hench; he’s in his late sixties, with decades of experience, and he thinks he’s seen it all. Until now. Doctorow, author of such novels as The Rapture of the Nerds (2012) Homeland (2013), and Pirate Cinema (2012), is a leading force in cyberpunk fiction, and here he mixes cyberpunk with traditional private eye motifs (if Martin Hench feels a bit like Philip Marlowe or even Jim Rockford, that’s probably not a coincidence).

Doctorow's novels are always feasts for the imagination and the intellect, and this one is no exception: it’s jam-packed with cutting-edge ideas about cybersecurity and crypto, and its near-future world is lovingly detailed and completely believable. Another winner from an sf wizard who has always proved himself adept at blending genres for both adults and teens.

To quote a certain editor of my acquaintance:

That.

Was.

A! Fucking! Ride!

Whoa!

Maybe this writing thing is gonna work out after all.

ETA: Well, this is pretty great. Shortly after I hit publish on this, Library Journal published its review of Red Team Blues, by Andrea Dyba:

Cyber detective, forensic accountant—whatever his title, 67-year-old Marty Hench is one of those rare people who tries to prevent financial crimes. He’s spent his whole career as a member of the Red Team, as an attacker, one who always has the advantage. Now ready for retirement, he’s living it up in California and trying to decide what he wants to do when he grows up when he’s hired by an old friend. Danny Lazer, the founder of the new crypto titan Trustlesscoin, needs Marty to recover stolen cryptographic keys and prevent the type of financial crisis that people lose their lives over. Marty delves into the shady underside of the private equity world, where he’s caught between warring international crime syndicates. The sincere and intelligent writing has a noir feel to it, enhanced by Marty’s dry humor. There’s a sense of satisfaction as this unassuming retired man dishes out comeuppance.

VERDICT This absorbing and ruthless cyberpunk thriller from Doctorow (Attack Surface) tackles modern concerns involving cryptocurrency, security, and the daunting omnipotence of technology. Great for fans of Charles Stross.

https://www.libraryjournal.com/review/red-team-blues-1794647

[Image ID: Will Stahle's cover for the Tor Books edition of 'Red Team Blues.']

#pluralistic #red team blues #marty hench #science fiction #detective fiction #crime fiction #cryptocurrency #crypto means cryptography #crypto #heists #security #infosec

75 notes · View notes

doctorstrangereview · 1 month ago

Text

Strange Tales #156

Cover Date: May 1967 On-Sale Date: February 12, 1967

As promised last issue, Umar walks the Earth! Unfortunately, Doc gets the cover this month and it's used to partially spoil the surprise. The splash page helps this along by telling us about a new menace, Zom. Ms. Severin does do a good job of having Umar go through New York City like The White Witch through London.

Umar has arrived on Earth. And she has dressed for the occasion! The Sister of Dormammu has enhanced her ensemble with a lovely cloak. Edged in gold, it's white on the outside and red inside. The Masterworks remastering makes it a lovely plum. In addition to Umar's splash page catwalk, we get some inane banter from The Ancient One and Doc. The Ancient One has banished Doc to somewhere else, while Doc acknowledges it. Thank you Doctor Obvious!

Umar certainly makes a dramatic entrance near Times Square. It's the sixties so no Big Sony or Big Panasonic or the many, many giant electronic signs yet.

She may have tried being a bit more choosey about her landing zone. She isn't too keen on being ogled by the New Yorkers around her.

It's been awhile since I've read C.S. Lewis, but I think The White Witch committed similar atrocities when she first popped into London. Now, did Umar just murder everyone or did they pop up again somewhere else. We never find out.

Meanwhile, The Ancient One is summoning Doc back to our reality. He doesn't look nearly as hot as he did last issue. In a nice nod to continuity, Doc is even bound in the same energy bands as last issue.

Last issue we had the most dreaded spell, now we encounter the most fearsome mystic object. The old dude has sent Doc to free Zom from a funky amphora. He gives Doc a lecture on how the cure for Umar may be worse than the disease.

Meanwhile, we switch back to camera two and look in on Earth. Wong shows up for a couple of powers to sense and dread Umar's approach. He is greatly relieved, however, that Doc isn't around to berate him. Umar arrives at the Sanctum Santorum and does something that has all the Maffia construction companies shaking in their boots. She demolishes the Sanctum with a wave of her hand!

While Ms. Severin has done a wonderful job rendering Umar, her vision of the Sanctum is decidedly unspectacular. It looks like nearly an other building in the area. Also, the Sanctum is supposed to be a corner building.

Having accomplished her first act of destruction, Umar plans more naughtiness. But gets distracted by her hatred for Doc.

As Doc is away procuring antique amphorae, Umar sets her sights on the next best thing, The Ancient One. She proves what a nasty bitch she can be!

While a mountain blowing up in The Ancient One's face is tragic, the even more horrible consequence is messing with the TVs, phones and lights of the normies.

It's amusing that The Ancient One can survive a mountain exploding right under him and he still calls himself feeble.

Swinging back to Doc, he's broken the amphora. Surprisingly, no little old lady has come around a corner screaming "you broke it, you bought it." We do get our first look (excluding the spoiler cover) at Zom.

Ms. Severin gives us a nice dramatic pose for Doc that will inspire similar poses for years to come! Thanks, Marie. It almost makes up for how utterly ridiculous Zom looks.

Doc attempts to control Zom. Zom is uncontrollable. He's such a badass that it was Eternity himself who locked him away. Doc realizes that The Ancient One may be right and this is a huge boo-boo.

Looking back to The Ancient One, he's like "Screw you Umar! I'll face you where and when I want!"

This where turns out to be Stonehenge and Umar invokes her magical Lyft spell to join him quickly. We learn that Stonehenge is where the old dude and Dormie faced off before. He has a sense of nostalgia. Or humor. Probably the former.

The Ancient One and Umar start to duke it out and he holds his own for a few minutes. Suddenly, Doc shows up and has a surprise in tow. Zom, whose head clearly looks like a penis, says hi to Umar. Umar is not happy about this. She attempts to fend him off, but, even bound, Zom brushes off everything she throws at him. Finally, Umar is like "Eff this! I'm going home! You won't see me again!" That last part is a lie. Umar returns a bunch of times. Remind me to tell you about the time, 55 years hence, she gets busy with Tiboro!

That takes care of Umar. Now Doc and his old buddy have a bigger problem.

Thus ends our first encounter with Umar. She isn't really defeated so much as scared away. It would have been more if her battle with Zom was a bit longer and she got knocked around a bit. Overall we get lots of nice imagery throughout the issue. The story moves along well and is well paced, neither lagging or rushed anywhere. Ms. Severin's terrible design for Zom is inexcusable. I think it's the inspiration for the terrible Rawhead Rex movie from 1986. Overall it's a satisfying conclusion to the Umar arc and gives us a good cliffhanger for the next arc. We're going even more cosmic in the next few issues!

Am I alone in thinking that the opening pages were inspired by the The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe?

#doctor strange #doctor strange reviews #strange tales #stephen strange #ancient one #umar #zom #wong

5 notes · View notes

thursdayisbetterthanfriday · 8 months ago

Text

Simulations of Cybernetic Meadows - Recreating Life

Part 1 - History of Technology

The New Yorker recently put out a great article, covering the modern day conversations we're having about how "lifelike" AI systems are:

It's a great article, which covers a lot of modern discourse around the last 25 years around how we've attempted to make "lifelike" machines. In an age of incredible speed and velocity in progress, we often forget how things have ended up this way. If you look, it turns out the quest for lifelike machines has been going on for a lot longer than people might suppose.

1st Century Antiquity - Age of Inquiry - The Mortal Hephaestus:

When people think of lifelike robots, they often jump to the robots of the 20th century. The past, however, is deep and full of secrets for those who know where to look.

youtube

Hero of Alexandria was a master craftsman, and mathematician, famous for one of the world's first steam engines, and Heron's formula for calculating the area of a triangle. He also created some of the first known humanoid automata.

This video is slightly misleading, as it shows a combination of his efforts, and that of another, but Hero himself was able to create moving automata that used weights as potential energy to drive wheeled devices around a room. The Herakleidon Museum does also have videos recreating his original mechanism.

The Greeks were, in particular, prolific in their creation of automata which mimicked life.

18th Century - Artisanal Age - Dreams of Automata

The writer is a mechanical automaton, created in 1770, by the aritst Pierre Jacquet-Droz. It is a marvel of early engineering, using a series of what are called "cams" to direct a machine in the shape of a child to write sentences.

It combines the mechanical aspects of writing, with the aesthetic appearance of a child, in order to create a work of art. It is also one of the first programmable machines, using a series of replacable letters to change what words are written.

youtube

But machines with lifelike qualities are not just limited to human motions. Master British automata makers John Joseph Merlin and John Cox created an astoundingly lifelike rendition of a swan in 1773, which preened its feathers, and caught fish from a pond.

youtube

Both of these devices were driven by the creation of advanced clockwork, and machining technologies. As with today's semiconductor revolution, clockwork started off the size of rooms until it was progressively miniaturized into the palm of your hand.

While the 18th century artisans and mechanists were able to create wondrous mechanical motions, they were not truly able to replicate the mechanics of "thinking". The writer is one of the few examples of programmatic "thinking", but cannot independently operate.

20th Century - The Cybernetic Age - Adaptation and Evolution:

The advent of thermodynamics, and the rise of electronics, led to new means by which to create "living machines". In the 20th century, it also led to differing approaches to simulating life, such as cybernetics and expert systems. Walter Grey's tortoise robots are a great example of the cybernetic attempts to create complex behaviours by using simple rules in the form of both a light and touch sensor.

This robotic tortoise was able to exhibit very lifelike behaviours and reach goals without explicit instructed programming, such as with The Writer automaton.

This is a key "adaptation" and evolution from the concept of an automaton. Whereas automatons had simulated the mechanics of life though motion and muscle, robots such as the tortoise started to simulate the mechanics of thought through electronic wiring and circuitry.

The rise of the integrated circuit, and transistor, has been key to allowing modern automata/robots to reach advanced levels of ability unthinkable in pre-modern times.

Shakey represents another branch of 20th century robotics, the expert system, led by ideas similar to the 19th century automata, but updated exponentially. By using several sensors, Shakey was able to navigate around rooms and create internal representations of the rooms it was in, in order to perform objectives.

21st Century - Age of Artificial Neural Networks - Memory and Thought:

Similar to the age of automata, we have entered another age of biomimicry, this time using Artificial Neural Networks. Instead of attempting to replicate the mechanics of actions, we are instead attempting to replicate the organic mechanics of thought. One of the key ideas behind life is that it is self-sustaining - it operates all on its own. 18th/19th century automata weren't able to do this and 20th century automata/robotics did to a certain extent, but were often still viewed as machines with function.

youtube

Sony's AIBO represents a more "lifelike" kind of design - where the entire system is driven by "curiosity" rather than by specific instruction. While it posseses some subroutines, similar to its 20th century counterparts, it surpasses them in how it can also adaptively learn new behaviours to better suit its surroundings, both in practical settings (finding its way around) and social settings (recognising people, and interacting with them in a socially "successful" way). The fields of reinforcement learning and artificial neural networks allow for complex behaviours to be simulated for the first time. Sony's AIBO is an excellent example of this in practice, with the robotic dog able to learn through positive reinforcement verbally, or via tactile methods, to promote certain behaviours.

It can even use computer vision capabilities to recognise specific users on sight, as well as allowing it to create its own internal model of the world around it. Much like the 18th to 19th century automata, AIBO also attempts to replicate the actions of life itself, with its design, and actions, replicating that of a puppy or small dog. Unlike the automatons of old, however, the use of tactile, vision and sound sensors allow its form to play some function in its operation aside from aesthetics.

Cybernetic Meadows - The Future?

As we endow robotics systems with ever greater ability, how will we interact with them in the future, and how lifelike will they truly become? Humanity has always, in some form or another, sought to replicate life itself through the medium of art and engineering. Only in time will we see the results.

#robotic #robot #robotics #automata #automaton #ai #ai research #ai development #ai developers #history of science #cybernetic #cybernetics #Youtube

3 notes · View notes

wallcrawld · 1 year ago

Text

MUSE'S INVENTORY. [ original meme from @treasurechestrpmemes. ]

rules: list what your muse carries in their pockets or bags in their everyday life. ( optional: explain their significance .) repost, don’t reblog.

POCKETS.

mets keychain — having grown up going to baseball games every year with his uncle ben, pete is a lifelong mets fan. he keeps all of his keys on a mets keychain which may or may not have a spider-man charm on it as well

earbuds — peter still has the earbuds with a cord attached, he likes the security of having them actually be attached to something as he struggles to trust bluetooth ones to stay in his big ears

gum wrappers/straw wrappers/assorted trash - as an official member of the online group 'new yorkers against littering', peter usually has some kind of small piece of trash stuffed into his pockets that he told himself he'd throw away when he saw a trash can and then promptly forgot about

student i.d. — for empire state university ( ESU ). it's used to get into labs/buildings after hours

wallet — thin leather brown wallet. he keeps an old photo of him, may, and ben in it. never enough cash in it. he has an "official spider-man fan club member" card hidden deep within it

daily bugle key fob — programmed it himself. after getting tired of having to get someone let him into the upstairs offices of the building every single time he wanted to drop photos off ( because jonah refused to give him one as he "wasn't a full-time employee" ), peter made one. he got some grief for it but it became pretty evident real quick that it was saving everyone a lot of hassle

bobby pins — with great power comes great responsibility and sometimes, a great need to get through a locked door without breaking it down. he's picked up the skill of how to lock pick after years of watching thieves and with a little bit of advice from none other than black cat. these have been a point of contention in his romantic relationships when discovered as, traditionally, there doesn't appear to be a reason for him to need them. he's used the explanation that they work great to unscrew the panels of his camera when he's without any real tools, which is true, just not the full truth

spider-tracers — a must-have for patrol. small electronic tracers in the shape of a spider that peter can use to track objects, people, or anything else

BAG.

peter has a backpack problem and by that i mean that he can not hold onto a backpack for very long. he goes through them frequently as they often get dropped and left in various places around the city, nowhere to be found when he goes back for them. he does, however, tend to go for the same style. it's almost always a medium-sized dusty red backpack and every time, without fail, it ends up scratched and a little busted. he keeps little pins and stickers on it, some pertaining to his interests ( science puns + star wars references ) while others are for causes that he supports. if he's on patrol and not wearing his backpack, he'll usually make himself one out of webbing.

camera — originally this is a canon ftb which is a 35mm film camera ! peter loves the look of film and the amount of control that comes with it but while it's great for photography in a slow, controlled environment, it doesn't quite get the job done when it comes to selling action shots of spidey. after saving up for months, he ends up splurging on a used nikon d500 which he cleans up so that it's in perfect condition. it sets his bank account back enough that he's pretty much on a "rice and beans only" diet for a hot minute but it's totally worth it

backup web shooters — if there's anything he's learned in his time hero-ing, it's that gear fails and breaks, usually when you need it most. he keeps an older, spare set of web shooters in his backpack at all times

spidey suit — if he's not wearing it, he's still got it with him. it's rare that peter goes anywhere without the spider-man suit as it's always when he least expects it that he needs it most

change of clothes — this one is only if he's actively on patrol. he'll stuff a change of clothes into his bag in the event that he needs to de-spidey quickly for any reason, usually this is just the clothes he was wearing over the suit before he changed

physics textbook + science journals — reading material ! peter's been subscribed to the american science journal for as long as he can remember, he's always got the latest issue on him. he keeps a textbook or two on him for uni work, forever trying to find the time to cram his homework into his schedule

steam deck — yet another item in the line of purchases that put him on a rice and beans only diet, peter eventually upgrades his psp to a steam deck which he'll play on patrol, in between crimes

handheld police scanner — can't fight crime if you don't know where the crime's at ! his phone is also programmed with an app that works in the same way, but it's always good to have a backup

snacks — a constantly rotating supply of chips, treats, and goodies for on the go. his diet is relatively terrible but if he wants to feel healthy he'll reach for the trail mix. sometimes he carries around canned food to donate or give away to displaced people in need of it.

tagged: @cybersbyte THANK YOU !! tagging: @proditeur, @vicioushope, @lapinecide, @aercnaut, @masteredlegacy, @magizat, @kryptonfuture, @crowshoots, @jadeslayed, and you !!

#🕸️ ･ﾟ* headcanon #🕸️ ･ﾟ* dash games #OH THIS WAS SOO GOOD SO FUN #if there's mistakes in this pls ignore them i kept coming back to this at random different times <3 #also made me realize that wow yeah !!! being spidey is actually so consuming to him

15 notes · View notes

brightlotusmoon · 7 months ago

Text

The era of the epic album:

As rock, folk, and country music grew in popularity so did the ambitions of its best practitioners to make impressive albums. In the mid-60s, after the artistic and commercial success of Bob Dylan’s Bringing It All Back Home, musicians began to respond to and compete with each other to make epic music. With Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys’ symphonic Pet Sounds, “pop” had entered the era of the album. By the late 60s, rock musicians who wanted to be thought of as bold, innovative, and artistic were concentrating on long-playing records, at a time when the singles market was hitting a plateau.

Just after the watershed year of 1967 – when stunning albums by The Beatles (Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band) and Jefferson Airplane (Surrealistic Pillow) were released – more and more bands jumped on the album bandwagon, realizing that the format gave them the space and time to create different and challenging sounds. The days of record labels wanting a constant production line of three-minute singles were disappearing. By 1968, singles were being outsold by albums for the first time, helped by the increase in production quality of high-fidelity stereo sound and the idea of the album as an artistic whole. The time spent making long-players changed from hours to weeks, or even months.

This also came at a time when journalism began to give rock music more considered attention. In February 1966, a student called Paul Williams launched the magazine Crawdaddy!, devoted to rock’n’roll music criticism. The masthead boasted that it was “the first magazine to take rock and roll seriously.” The following year, Rolling Stone was launched.

The birth of FM radio:

Another important turning point in the rise of the album had been a mid-60s edict from the Federal Communications Commission, which ruled that jointly owned AM and FM stations had to present different programming. Suddenly, the FM band opened up to rock records, aimed at listeners who were likely to be more mature than AM listeners. Some stations – including WOR-FM in New York – began allowing DJs to play long excerpts of albums. Stations across America were soon doing the same, and within a decade FM had overtaken AM in listenership in the US. It was also during this period that AOR (album-oriented radio) grew in popularity, with playlists built on rock albums.

This suited the rise of the concept album by serious progressive-rock musicians. Prog rock fans were mainly male and many felt that they were effectively aficionados of a new type of epic music, made by pioneers and artisans. The prog musicians believed they were trailblazers – in a time when rock music was evolving and improving. Carl Palmer, the drummer for Emerson, Lake & Palmer, said they were making “music that had more quality,” while Jon Anderson of Yes thought that the changing times marked the progression of rock into a “higher art form.” Perhaps this was the ultimate manifestation of “pop” becoming “rock.”

The avant-garde explosion:

Lyrics in many 70s albums were more ambitious than the pop songs of the 50s and 60s. Similes, metaphors, and allegory began to spring up, with Emerson, Lake & Palmer emboldened to use the allegory of a “weaponized armadillo” in one track. Rock bands, sparked perhaps by Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, seemed to be matching the avant-garde explosion in the bebop era: there was a belief in making albums more unified in theme but more disparate in sound.

In a June 2017 issue of The New Yorker, Kelefa Sanneh summed up the persistent popularity of this new genre by saying, “The prog-rock pioneers embraced extravagance: odd instruments and fantastical lyrics, complex compositions and abstruse concept albums, flashy solos and flashier live shows. Concert-goers could savor a new electronic keyboard called a Mellotron, a singer dressed as a bat-like alien commander, an allusion to a John Keats poem, and a philosophical allegory about humankind’s demise – all in a single song (“Watcher Of The Skies”) by Genesis.”

Genesis were one of the bands leading the way in terms of epic music...

#favorite music #epic music #music for my autism #music for writing

3 notes · View notes

freeworldallahmbaclass · 2 years ago

Text

Cleaning Riverside Drive water conservation act

Cleaning the garbage islands in River bank estimated $ 10 - $ 20 million dollar job of cleaning up Riverside drive water from that stink smell and the debris and garbage .

Bottles Straws Plastic bags Pipes Bandages Toys Pollution

And I propose The City of New York build the new ferry Riverboat for harbor crossing to New Jersey be placed on Riverside Drive it Save commuters time and money on transportation from and to New York City creation of Job opportunities , New architecture of communities in New York city restoration of environmentally depressed neighbors like the Grand Concourse neighborhood in the Bronx , New York City thus bringing more jobs to that neighborhood and creating economic vitality for all New Yorkers . New electric trains and platforms on the outside train on 149th street on Grand Concourse .

Pimp my ride TV Show Car dealership on river bank

Environmental impact report : Production and manufacturing factories on Riverbank Harlem Riverside drive bring if not millions of Jobs back to New Yorkers but definitely thousands of jobs back to the city of New York

Car museum

ESPN sports center Sports centurion museum celebrating 100 years and better of sports museum with pictures and memorabilia from baseball ⚾ 🏀 , basketball , soccer ⚽ , cricket , rugby , 🏈 football , NASCAR car racing , 🐴 Horse racing

And maybe the Olympics on Riverbank

Factory and car lot on Riverside Drive in Harlem , New York City

Factory : Products in manufacturing ( making the products ) Warehouse 1_ Post cereal Honey bunches of oats , Kelloggs corn flakes cereal Warehouse 2_ Car manufacturing Car parts Warehouse 3_ Bread factory Warehouse 4_ Electronics appliances factory Warehouse 5_ Boat 🚢 manufacturing facility Warehouse 6_ 👟 Sneaker factory Warehouse 7_ Railroad train track factory

7 notes · View notes

leviathangourmet · 1 year ago

Text

New Yorkers looking to escape the winter chill by driving to Daytona Beach, Florida, would use about 40 gallons of gasoline to traverse the 1,000 miles in a Chevrolet Impala.

Switch that gas guzzler out for an electron-eating EV and the equation changes. A Tesla Model S traveling the same distance would need power generated by about 2,500 cubic feet of natural gas, 286 pounds of coal or 33 minutes of blades spinning on a giant offshore wind turbine to make the same journey.

Gas Guzzlers to Electron Eaters

Electric vehicles have a wide range of fuel mileage options

As electric vehicles slowly become a bigger part of the global automobile fleet, questions about mileage and fuel efficiency are going to become more apposite. While there are multiple variables that can affect electric vehicle energy consumption, a Bloomberg NEF analysis illustrated some ballpark estimates to give drivers a better picture of what’s happening underneath the hood.

Coal

Taking that same 1,000-mile road trip in an electric vehicle that needs 33 kilowatt-hours of energy to travel 100 miles, like a Tesla Model S, would require about 286 pounds (130 kilograms) of coal to be burned at the local power plant. Modern coal plants only convert about 35 percent of the fuel’s energy into electricity, and about 10 percent of that electricity could be lost as it travels along power lines.

Even with all those losses, the electric vehicle road trip is still better for the climate than driving a gasoline-powered car. Burning that much coal would release about 310 kilograms of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, compared with 350 kilograms by the 40 gallons of gasoline. Even though coal tends to emit more pollutants than oil for the amount of energy it generates, the efficiency of the electric vehicle, which recharges its battery with every brake, more than makes up the difference.

Natural Gas

A natural gas power plant producing the same amount of electricity would need to burn about 2,500 cubic feet of the fuel, enough to fill a small apartment in Hong Kong or a master bedroom in Dallas. Gas plants are more efficient than coal, typically converting about half the fuel’s energy into electricity. It’s also much cleaner, emitting just 170 kilograms of carbon dioxide for the 1,000-mile journey.

Solar

When it comes to charging electric vehicles with solar power, size matters. A typical 10-kilowatt rooftop array would need about seven days to create enough electricity for a 1,000-mile journey, as clouds and darkness mean it only operates at about 20 percent of its capacity on an average day.

Scale up to a photovoltaic power station, though, and it would take a matter of minutes, not days. At a modest-sized solar field like the 25-megawatt DeSoto Next Generation Solar Center in Florida, the average daily output would produce enough electricity for a 1,000-mile drive in less than four minutes.

Wind

Wind is a similar story, with different sizes of turbines producing different amounts of electricity. Take the Vestas V90-2.0 MW, an 80-meter tall behemoth that can be found swirling on the plains of West Texas, among other locations. Just one of these turbines, and wind farms are usually planted with dozens of them, produces enough electricity in a day to power a 1,000-mile trip every 33 minutes.

Calculating carbon emissions from wind and solar is a bit trickier. Neither emit any carbon dioxide in the course of producing electricity on a daily basis. But unless they’re paired with adequate energy storage -- and most existing renewable generation isn’t -- carbon-emitting generation has to make up for them whenever the sun isn’t shining or the wind isn’t blowing.

#electric cars #green energy #energy crisis #article

2 notes · View notes

midnightsaboteur · 2 years ago

Text

Open Starter

Daniel Walden - 42 years old, bisexual, political consultant

For a native New Yorker, the sweltering heat of Cairo proved to be a bridge too far. Even with the AC on full, his mattress on the floor and not a stitch of clothing upon his form, Daniel Walden couldn’t find peace nor rest. After trying to close his eyes for what must’ve been the thousandth time in pursuit of sleep, Daniel groaned loudly as it evaded him once more. With a thin layer of sweat adorning his nude body and the thin, cotton bedsheet tangled around his waist and legs, he couldn’t even find comfort in how he sat or lay amongst the heat.

Defeated, Daniel sat up and cursed, the swear word ringing distinctly through the hotel suite. He ran a hand through his matted hair and then sighed again, a second curse following as frustration soared through him, the swear accompanied by a frustration slam of Daniel’s palm against the wooden floor. Accepting such defeat, Daniel lifted himself up and untangled the useless sheet from his form, leaving him naked as he stalked across the suite to the kitchen so he could make himself a bourbon on the rocks.

He was halfway through making the alcoholic reprieve when Daniel heard the electronic whirring of the suite lock, the sound making him pause and look across the suite to the door. His modesty was covered by the counter before him, though his thoughts were more upon who it was as the door as it opened to reveal the other. At their presence, Daniel quirked a brow but nonetheless said “Drink? I can’t fucking sleep, and if you can’t either then we may as well get the good stuff down us.”

#indie smut rp #indie smut starter #indie kink rp #open rp starter #open smut starter #open starter #starter: daniel walden #/open to mutuals or non!#/connection can be anything so surprise me #can be an established pair btw e.g. a partner returning to the room #or a stranger etc

2 notes · View notes

zoela23 · 2 years ago

Text

This week we read the first chapter of Daniel J. Solove’s book, The Future of Reputation. The first chapter starts with the story of a young woman in South Korea. Her dog pooped on a train and she didn’t clean up after it. A fellow passenger took her photo. The photo ended up on the internet and in no time at all everyone knew her name. The bullying and shaming got so intense she dropped out of school. Solove uses this story to demonstrate how the internet allows people to spread information that they may have no right to spread and the damages unique to spreading it on the internet.

The internet gives people the ability to express their freedom of speech to a wider audience. Many have discussed the difficulties of preventing people from shaming people on an electronic platform without interfering with their freedoms. Solove points this out himself. He mentioned that due to the internet people aren’t free of past mistakes. All anyone needs to do to find out past missteps, dumb teenagehood decisions, or mistakes made in the heat of the moment is enter a name in the google search bar. This situation reminds me of a quote, “My right to swing my arms ends at your nose,” U.S. Supreme Court justice Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr.. We have the right to freedom of speech so long as we aren’t hurting anyone. Being harassed to the point that you have to leave your education definitely counts as harm.

The story at the beginning of The Future of Reputation and “It Takes a Village to Find a Phone”, an article that we read at the beginning of the semester, have similar events. Someone with time and resources spreads the story of the wrongs committed by a young woman on the internet. Some people view these stories as the same, justice received through public shaming, but they are different. The New York girl in “It Takes a Village to Find a Phone” refused to return a 300 dollar phone the Korean girl for The Future of Reputation merely failed to pick up after her dog. This girl responded to the corrections of her behavior by telling others to mind their own business. Other sources on the event back in 2005 indicate that she didn’t respond until after another person yelled at her. The New Yorker, on the other hand, devolved into insults immediately and then threats.

In the case in “It Takes a Village to Find a Phone” they weren’t just trying to shame the girl into returning property that didn’t belong to her. They also made an effort to shame the police into taking action. The police had been contacted on the matter but they refused to do anything. People shared advice to force the hands of the New York Police Department and put pressure on the department to act. In The Future of Reputation the only person they wanted to affect had been the girl in question. No one made an effort to take legal action, they went straight to vigilante justice.

It would be difficult to turn around a story spreading on the internet of this nature. Containing a story would be difficult. Discrediting the person spreading the information would make a good first step. Someone with a false story circulating the internet should post a correction. Of course it is likely that the public would not believe the story, if the story even reaches everyone the fake one did. If the stories are correct the person should publicly admit they were wrong and privately apologize to the wronged party. I would suggest stating your intention to apologize publicly but not making your apology public. Many people view public apologies as fake and insecure.

A person might manage to repair some of the damage done but the stain would remain. The victim could prove their innocence, the source could tell people they posted something wrong, but people could see the damaging information without the correction. Once information is out there there’s no way to get rid of it.

At this moment I think the best way to avoid damage to your reputation is to avoid posting any personal information that can be used to identify yourself. That would include school, age, any photographs featuring your face, any mention of your hometown, and other things. If you behave in a way that people would try to shame you on the internet it would be more difficult for people to identify you if you keep the information available to the public sparse. If you are behaving in a manner that could get you shamed in online spaces that will be tied to the accounts you behaved that way on. The best way to avoid total destruction of your online reputation would be to keep your accounts completely separate. If you unknowingly cross a norm and you can’t interact with others the way you once did then at least you have other social media accounts unaffected by this.

Even keeping anonymous online doesn’t guarantee one action won’t follow you across the internet. Most people have heard the term doxing nowadays. Doxing is when someone reveals identifying information on a person, typically on the internet. Before the internet, newspapers used to publish the names of KKK members so they couldn’t hide behind their anonymity to hurt people of color. Now people can use it to harass people they don’t agree with. In the process of doxing people revealed personal information that can be used to connect an anonymous user with a real life person. Often it’s not limited to one account, but every account a person uses.

On the internet it can be easy to find yourself in a negative light. Only one person needs to see a questionable post and bring the moral flaw to the attention of many. I have had a post that I was concerned would reflect negatively on me. I don’t post on social media frequently but I have a personal tumblr account. On this account I post short stories and respond to prompts other tumblr users have posted. One day I responded to a prompt that involved a natural disaster. Around this time Turkey was recovering from a severe earthquake, like the one in the prompt. It did not end up casting me in a negative light because few people actually see my account but that concern still existed.

Many people forsake privacy on the internet. In an environment that retains every bit of information that is very concerning. People can connect you with choices you made when you were ignorant or young. If someone sees someone else mess up in public then they move on or offer help. After the incident the person can move on and no one has to know they did whatever got them noticed in public. If someone records the incident and posts it online then it just takes one person going “hey, that’s so-and-so” for it to get attached to their name. Legislation on privacy on the internet needs to be reviewed, but for now we should approach situations with empathy.

1 note · View note